Deadman's Revenge (The Deadman Series Book 3) Read online

  Josh gazed down at Earl and said, “Hi Earl, what do you think?” The big man’s cheeks were flushed with bashful excitement. (He had never owned a new set of clothes before, much less gotten a shave from a real barber.)

  Earl studied the young man and replied, “Well, it looks like someone’s trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

  Josh’s face turned red with embarrassment and Earl decided to relent a bit. “I’m just kidding you, Josh. You look swell.”

  Josh sat down and his lips turned up in a pleased smile. “Thanks! I was hoping to do you proud, Earl!”

  Earl glanced around and was relieved to see that all the tables within hearing distance were unoccupied. Then he snapped, “Sit down, Josh.”

  Josh sat and Earl leaned forward. “Now, there are two things I need you to do. First—from now on you call me Mr. O’Donnell or Allen… when we are alone. That’s my name now and you need to remember it!”

  Josh stared at Earl with such puzzlement, his eyes almost crossed. “Okay, Earl… OW!”

  Dickson had just kicked Josh’s ankle under the table. “Oh, yeah, sorry… um, Evan!”

  Leaning forward again, Earl whispered, “You get my name right from now on, or I’ll cut you lose, I swear it!”

  Josh’s eyes grew damp and he said, “I will, sir… Evan, I promise!”

  Sitting back in his chair, Earl stared out the window, down the street. He saw the notary walk out of his tent with a straight-backed chair in one hand. Placing the chair directly under the off-kilter sign, Stapleton climbed up and removed the sign from two hooks that held it on the canvas. Then he grabbed the chair and disappeared back inside.

  Josh had followed Earl’s gaze and said, “Who’s that?”

  Earl glanced around the restaurant, and satisfied that no one could hear he answered, “That’s the man I want you to kill tonight.”

  Chapter 7

  Matthew—Tied in knots

  Matthew sat his horse on a rocky bluff and stared up at the foothills of the Blue Mountains in southern Washington State, fifty-five miles from Walla Walla State Penitentiary. He was weary to the bone and disgusted with himself. He had just wasted two precious weeks on a wild goose chase.

  No one knew better than him how crucial time was in chasing people and clues down in an active criminal investigation. So, chasing the one lead he had found was decent police work but the clue had led nowhere. He shook his head in frustration.

  Going to Seattle, once he had found the St. Patrick’s medal in Bandit’s teeth seemed the logical choice, especially since the Irish connection had screamed out-loud in his mind. After situating himself properly in his mountain cabin, he had boarded a train in Spokane and followed his tenuous lead into King County.

  That was where he came up short. It had been a long time since he chased the Donnellys across state while searching for his kidnapped niece and honestly, he didn’t know the names of half the minions who had once served Patrick Donnelly in his schemes. That was when he decided to pay the crooked politician, Martin LeVesque, a visit.

  Face flushing in remembered anger, Matthew gritted his teeth and spat on the ground. Even now, he cringed at how dismissive Lévesque’s lackeys had been when he asked for an audience with the city official. They had studied his Marshal’s star, and then stared at his dusty clothes in scorn before closing the doors to Lévesque’s inner sanctum with a resounding thump.

  Matthew had never gotten the “Bum’s Rush” before and his blood boiled with anger. After being dismissed, he marched quickly toward the closest hotel, washed and changed his clothes. Then he walked back to the county courthouse and settled in to wait for LeVesque to appear at the grand entrance but hours later, Matthew realized that there must be a back door to the building. Leaving his hiding place from behind a copse of trees, he moved through the twilight to the back of the large building.

  Sure enough, a road ran directly behind the courthouse where a normal-sized door hid under a small portico. Sometime within the last few hours, LeVesque had skedaddled, leaving Matthew fuming.

  The next morning he rode a buggy to the King County jailhouse. He had not made himself popular with the officers who worked there during his investigation into the scandalous prostitution ring, and Matthew expected a cool reception. Nevertheless, he swallowed his pride, stepped up to the counter and asked to speak to the sheriff.

  After an inordinate amount of time, Sheriff Adams appeared by the front desk. Matthew studied the man’s face and his shoulders slumped. He had inadvertently wreaked havoc in Adam’s police department during his search for Amelia and he could tell now that the sheriff was not in a forgiving mood.

  Matthew knew that there was a certain amount of graft in every sheriff’s office. It was the way of things. Police protection was highly sought and sometimes bought from east coast to west, and gifts given gladly in exchange for a police presence was not only acceptable but, sometimes, expected.

  That fact that Sheriff Wilcox had discovered a deep vein of corruption within the King County sheriff’s department was merely a by-product of his search for Amelia Winters, one that did not surprise him but had ultimately led to a total shake down of this man’s police force. No wonder Adams glared at him now.

  “Well,” the fat man grumbled. “Look at the bad penny.”

  Matthew stood up and held out his hand to shake. “Hello, Sheriff Adams. You look well.”

  Adams stared at Matthew’s hand and turned on his heel. “Follow me to my office,” he growled. Marshal Wilcox followed the sheriff down a long hallway and noted many veiled glances and grimaces of disgust from the lawmen that milled about the large room adjacent to the hallway. Sighing, he walked behind the fat man into a cluttered office.

  There were wanted posters pinned all over the walls and a calendar hung askew behind the desk. As he sat down on a chair in front of the desk, Matthew was amused to see a large campaign poster of Marty LeVesque on the far wall. An elaborate mustache and devil’s horns had been drawn over the man’s mug and the picture was pierced by barroom darts.

  Apparently, Adams was no more impressed by LeVesque than Matthew was, and he turned to the sheriff with a smile…which froze on his face the moment Adams opened his mouth.

  Pointing a blunt finger in Matthew’s face, Adams hissed, “I know why you’re here and I’ll give you what I can but, honestly, I can’t believe you had the nerve to set foot in this building!”

  Matthew studied the toes of his dirty boots. He really hadn’t wanted to come. His investigation had torn Adam’s division right down the middle and, for a while, Adams himself had come under scrutiny. Matthew had felt bad about that—really—but the King County sheriff’s office had needed a shakedown, in his opinion, and in the long-run, Adams had held up under fire.

  Still, now that he needed the man’s help, he could see why Adams might not feel obliged to render assistance. Staring at the floor, Matthew murmured, “Did you hear about what happened?”

  Adams studied the younger man’s face and, despite his anger, compassion took over. A deadman’s revenge (the term “deadman” referred to a heinous outlaw who was scheduled to hang for his crimes and the revenge on that man’s part usually directed toward the lawman who brought him down.) What had happened to Matthew Wilcox’s wife was every lawman’s nightmare… and Adams was not without a heart.

  Nodding, he answered, “Yes sir, I did hear about what happened and you have my heartfelt sympathies.”

  Matthew looked up. “I thank you but it’s not sympathy I need right now, its information!”

  Adams nodded and patted a dark brown parcel on his desk. “I know, Matthew. That’s why I had one of my men put this packet together for you. In here is everyone we know of who was in on that prostitution ring, and a few more, besides. There are wanted posters and prison rosters in here dating from 1892 until present day…from King County to Walla Walla.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair.

  “This is the best we can do, Marshal Wi
lcox. Now, if I was you, I would focus my search in yer own neighborhood, instead of causing me and mine any more grief than you already have. After all, the crime was committed right in yer own home!”

  Matthew’s green eyes grew wide and his face turned red. “I am aware of that, sir. I am equally convinced that there is a connection between this city’s Irish population and what happened to my… my—” his voice trailed off.

  Adams stood up. Looking down at the misery on the younger man’s face, he said, “I am deeply sorry for yer loss, Marshal. Retribution is a terrible fear for all law-enforcement officers. Still, I think you better go back and search your back forty. Whoever did that to your wife is probably running around loose in your own territory while you’re wasting time here in my town!”

  Hearing the heartfelt sympathy in Adam’s voice, Matthew quickly stood up and grabbed the thick folder, before his own emotions unmanned him. He thanked the old sheriff and made his leave. It was almost evening by the time he got back to his hotel room. He had stood for a moment, and stared at the new-fangled telephone in the hotel lobby and thought about calling Iris’ father or Dr. and Amelia Winters but he didn’t have the heart.

  Moving slowly up the staircase, Sheriff Wilcox felt like he was eighty years old, rather than forty. His feet felt like lead weights and his gizzard was tied up in a knot. Once he reached his room, Matthew fell onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling, remembering how he and Iris had made love so many years ago in this same hotel. For the first time since he had found his wife’s body, Matthew wept.

  Catching the train the next morning, Matthew made his way back to Spokane. Then he rode for the mountain cabin to fetch Trickster. After arranging for the dog to be shipped to Granville, he rode quickly back to Spokane. He found Lincoln munching oats in the city livery and led the horse onto a flat car on the next train to Walla Walla. Cursing himself for a fool, Matthew realized now that the state penitentiary was the first place he should have looked.

  Most of the worst criminals tried in Washington State eventually ended up in Walla Walla and, if nothing else, Matthew would be able to access the warden’s files and find out who had been released—and when.

  Now, as Matthew sat his horse and stared up at the misty foothills, he sighed in frustration. He could ride his horse back to Spokane and ask for the Marshal’s aid or he could head on home for a rest and go through the sheriff’s wanted posters for a clue. But first, he needed to peruse the release papers he had obtained from the prison warden.

  Seven prisoners had been released within the last three months. Two old men who had served at least twenty years, each, for murder were let go last May. Those two couldn’t have had anything to do Donnelly, and Matthew signed them off his mental list.

  He felt a thrill of dreadful excitement as he studied the next names on the list. Frank and Mary Owens… the murderous preacher and his psychotic wife had been incarcerated in Walla Walla for a while, until Mary was finally sent to a lunatic asylum. Apparently, Frank was released from custody this last June but had been found shot to death three days later, just outside his own property in Wenatchee.

  Four down… three to go, Matthew thought and then tightened his legs around Lincoln’s belly as the horse did a skittish little hop and laid his ears back with a snort. The horse’s flesh crawled and his tail rose up in the air.

  “Whoa, Lincoln… knock it off!” Matthew snapped, irritably. Usually his horse was as sensible as they came but he did not like to be kept waiting, and Matthew was forcing him to stand still.

  There were three more names on the list; a Negro woman who had been caught stealing, (Matthew placed that sheet under the others with a disgusted sneer) and one retarded man named Joshua Manning.

  Shaking his head, Matthew read up on the kid who was apparently the younger brother of a dead outlaw named Martin Manning. He was a simpleton whose only claim to fame was a friendship he had struck up with a dangerous Irish mobster named Earl Dickson.

  Spotting the word Irish, Matthew grabbed the next sheet of paper and eagerly perused the man’s likeness. Like most WANTED POSTERS, the facial features were blurred and practically indistinguishable from the faces on any other poster. The devil, though, was in the details.

  The black and white drawing showed a bony face and a long, pointy nose. The eyes were blue, apparently, and the man’s age thought to be forty-five or forty-six. The one distinguishing feature (and what lawmen looked for in Wanted Posters) was the noticeable gap of a missing right incisor.

  Matthew’s heart quickened and a smile etched his drawn features. He didn’t remember all the men he and his men had disabled that fateful night in Potter’s Field. It was too dark and foggy to distinguish his enemy’s features, and this likeness did not jog his memory. But still… it was a good start.

  He was just starting to put the folder back in his saddlebag when Lincoln suddenly screamed and reared up in the air. Matthew clutched the horn and stared about wildly. Before he had a chance to register what was frightening his horse, a freight train of long, tearing claws and the snarling, meaty breath of a mountain lion struck him from behind.

  Chapter 8

  Matthew and the Beasts

  The cougar hit Matthew so hard he flew from his saddle, rolling down slope ten feet away into a bed of rocky shale and sagebrush. He felt a line of fire across the back of his neck and knew that either a fang or a claw had marked the big cat’s passing. Luckily, the cougar was more interested in Lincoln than the human being who was lying in the weeds trying to regain the breath knocked out of him during the fall.

  Gasping, and trying to ignore the hot, red blood running down his neck, Matthew stared at the showdown taking place on the bluff above him. Most horses would have taken off running at the threat—a horses’ normal response to a live predator, but Lincoln was having none of it.

  Matthew saw the rage in his gelding’s eyes as he faced off against the cougar, which hissed madly and growled deep in its throat. Gathering its hindquarters to pounce, it subsided with a screech as Lincoln advanced with a whinny and kicked out with both front hooves, narrowly missing the cat’s head.

  Matthew, finally catching his breath, struggled to his feet and climbed up the small embankment to help his horse. At the same moment, the cat, rather than go backwards over the bluff, changed its strategy and cut to its right, running back up onto the ledge from which it came. Just as Matthew got to the horse and yanked his shotgun away from its scabbard, the cat pounced again, this time landing directly on top of Lincoln’s back.

  Matthew fell back with a cry of rage and Lincoln’s squeals of agony echoed throughout the canyon as the cat’s back claws dug into his hindquarters. The mountain lion crawled over the saddle, wrapped its front legs around the horse’s neck and bit into its crest as Lincoln screamed.

  Matthew knelt on the ground, took aim (as much as possible with the flurry of activity taking place in front of him), pulled one trigger on the hammerless double-barrel shotgun and aimed just over the cougar’s body. Hoping against hope that the buckshot had not killed Lincoln as well as the predator, Matthew stood up, placed his finger on the second trigger and watched as Lincoln let out a bellow of fear, hobbling away a few feet. The cougar fell straight down to the ground with a snarl.

  The gelding stood shaking and blowing hard with shock, as Matthew walked slowly toward the cougar. It was mortally wounded, but did not know it yet. It twisted around and around on the ground like a top, futilely trying to soothe the pain of its bloody wounds. It alternated between screaming out its rage and meowing, pitifully, like a kitten.

  Shaking his head, Matthew pulled the shotgun’s second trigger and shot the animal in the chest. The cat collapsed into a silent heap as both Matthew and his mount stood still, shuddering and panting into the silent, autumn afternoon.

  A few moments passed as Matthew’s heart slowed down and then he made his way on rubbery legs to Lincoln’s side. The horse nickered softly and turned his long, ugly face toward the s
heriff. Matthew assessed the damage and his heart sank. There were a number of bite marks and puncture wounds on his animal’s neck and terrible, deep scratches scored Lincoln’s rump and neck.

  The animal needed medicine and time to heal. He might be made to walk but would, most certainly, come up lame and maybe even die of shock if he wasn’t allowed to rest and recover. Even now, Lincoln made to lie down but Matthew pulled his head up by the reins and crooned, “Whoa, there boy. Let me put some medicine on those cuts before you try to sleep it off.”

  Lincoln snorted and tossed his head but Matthew was able to pull the saddle off his back and grab some supplies out of his medicine kit. Holding the horse steady with one hand, he rubbed medicinal ointment over the bloody scratches and poured a little bit of whiskey into the puncture holes on the animal’s crest and withers.

  The whole time, Lincoln jinked away from Matthew’s ministrations, so that horse and man moved about in a circle on the rocky ground. Finally, Lincoln stopped and placed his long muzzle in the crook of Matthew’s neck. The horse’s nostrils fluttered noisily as he caught the scent of blood and then he pulled his head back with a snort and trotted away a few feet, huffing nervously.

  Matthew let him go and felt at the wound on back of his neck. Now that the excitement was over, the pain from his wound began to register and Matthew winced as he untied the bandana on his neck. Feeling a little faint, the sheriff made his way to the saddle, fished the medicine kit out and sat on a large rock to assess the damage.

  Pulling a hand mirror from the kit, Matthew stared sideways at the blurry reflection in the glass. Sure enough, the cat had dug a claw into the back of Matthew’s neck in its mad leap. A bloody gash went from one side to the other and the sheriff could see bruises already forming under his skull. The bleeding had mostly stopped, except for the far right end where the animal’s claw dug in more deeply.