Deadman's Fury (The Deadman Series Book 2) Read online

  “Watch out, boys, and hold up your stars so they can see them,” Matthew said. Roy and Abner both unsnapped their holsters and laid ready hands on their pistols. All of them knew that surprising a criminal in his lair was a dangerous proposition. Even regular, law-abiding folk did not take kindly to trespassers and held the right to protect their holdings with whatever force they deemed necessary.

  The men rode to the front of the house and sat their horses, well out of rifle range. All three of them held their badges up in the air and Matthew shouted, “Hello! I would like a word with Mr. Owens.”

  “What do you want?” a man’s voice called out.

  Thinking quickly, and remembering a story he once heard about a sheriff who played a trick in order to bag a train-robber, he answered, “Mr. Owens. My name is Matthew Wilcox - Sheriff Matthew Wilcox out of Spokane County. These are my deputies. We are here with a will that entitles you and your wife to over twenty thousand dollars. However, I need to serve these papers into your hands and you will need to sign them before the document is deemed legal.”

  There was a prolonged silence and then they heard Owens holler, “Who died?”

  Matthew got down from his horse, rooted around in his saddlebags and found a sheath of arrest warrants. Holding the rolled bundle in the air and hoping Owens fell for the ruse, he thought, This is tricky. He had no idea where this so-called preacher came from and knew even less about the man’s family. What he did know, though…

  “Mr. Owens, the judge who gave me these papers told me that a wealthy parishioner from California left her fortune to you and your ministry.”

  Crossing mental fingers against the lie, Matthew waited. Ten seconds passed, then twenty seconds before the lawmen heard Owens shout, “Stay where you are. I’m comin’ out there to look for myself.”

  Sighing with relief, he caught Roy’s eye. The deputy suppressed a grin but winked once in acknowledgement of a gambit well played. “You want us up or down, boss?” he whispered.

  Matthew watched the front door open and saw a gangly-looking man squeeze through the opening to stand on the porch. “You get down and stand by me, Roy. Abner, stay mounted, but back your horse up about twenty feet. Be ready for anything.”

  He heard the young deputy click his teeth and saw the old draft horse move backwards. Staring at the dirty, middle-aged man who glared at him from the safety of the porch, he said, “I get the feeling these are bad people, Roy, and they aren’t going to let us in. Agreed?”

  Roy nodded. “Yep, I think you are right.”

  “We need to get Owens and his wife out here. Once they’re close enough, I want them subdued. Let’s try to do it without any gun play, but we can’t let them get the drop on us either.”

  The pastor studied them and the papers Matthew held in his hand. He looked like a starved rat with long, yellow teeth and a sharp, pointy nose.

  “Those papers in your hand,” he growled. “Is that the will? I want to see it.”

  “Sure, Mr. Owens, you will.” Matthew replied. “Both you and your wife need to sign, though, for the will to be bound by law.”

  Owens glared. “My wife don’t write.”

  “That’s alright, sir,” the sheriff said. “I am here to witness her X.”

  Undecided, Owens wavered for a moment and then he hollered, “Mary, get out here! Now!”

  “Here we go,” Matthew said. “Get ready to move on my mark.”

  A well-fed, buxom woman exited the front door and went to stand by her husband’s side. She wore a long, bloodstained apron and she scowled at the two lawmen with piggish, hostile eyes. After a brief conference, Frank and Mary Owens stepped off the porch and walked toward Matthew and Roy.

  Matthew smiled at them. “Looks like this is your lucky day.”

  “Let me see them papers.” Frank snarled as his wife studied them with a closed-lip frown.

  Matthew adopted a wounded expression. “You seem a mite unfriendly for a man of the cloth, Mr. Owens.”

  The sheriff saw the couple hesitate and watched in fascination as they physically wrestled their faces into a parody of righteousness. Then Frank Owens smiled and said, “Our apologies, Sheriff. These are hard times and this country is a harsh place. Our flock has dispersed and we find ourselves ever on the lookout for fighting injuns.”

  Matthew bowed his head and held out the unfurled sheaf of papers, facedown, for them to see. He clasped a small bottle of ink and a pen in his other hand. “If you will, just come over here next to my horse. You can use the saddle as a desk to mark your names.”

  The man and woman approached, staring at the papers like thirsty pilgrims at a pool of cold water, and Matthew said, “Now!”

  Immediately, Roy took two quick steps and placed his pistol up against Mary’s dingy bonnet. The woman probably outweighed the deputy by fifty pounds but she was no fool. The Colt’s cold kiss against her temple was equalizer enough, though, and she followed Roy’s guiding hand down onto the ground.

  The second Roy made his move, Matthew snapped his handcuffs around Frank Owens’s wrist. The man lunged away but stopped when he felt Matthew’s gun dig into his left kidney. Landing on the ground next to his wife, the pastor burst into tears.

  “She made me do it! It was all her, the sick bitch!”

  “Shut up, you bastard!” Mary Owens snarled. Then she wriggled close enough to sink her teeth into Frank’s shoulder.

  Growling, she worried at the man’s body like a rabid hound while he screamed in terrified anguish. The two lawmen gaped in disbelief and then Roy cuffed the woman over the head with the butt of his pistol.

  Mary fell into an unconscious heap next to her weeping spouse, her mouth wide open. Matthew and Roy bound the couple back-to-back hoping that, upon waking, the psychotic female would not try to eat her husband alive. Staring at her dirty, broken teeth, their hearts sank as they began to understand what might have happened to the children.

  Looking up as Abner approached, Matthew said, “Abner, tie these horses onto that chew rail, please. Roy and I are going into the house to check on the kids.” Studying the bloody bite on Frank Owens’s shoulder, he shuddered. “If there are any kids left, that is.”

  Roy had the same sinking feeling and he glared down at the married couple in disgust. “You better hope and pray, Mr. Preacher Man, that we find all your kids present and accounted for.” He spat on the ground and walked away up onto the front porch, Matthew following close behind.

  “By any chance, did you see what happened to that girl?” Matthew hissed as they walked slowly into the house.

  “Nah,” Roy answered. “So we better look sharp.”

  The two men walked through the dark interior, their senses ringing with alarm. The place was filthy and they could smell the stench of death coming from the north end of the building. They ducked through an archway into a kitchen area and saw a door standing open at the back of the room.

  The smell of decay rose from the open doorway like a steady stream of foul breath from the throat of hell. Exchanging a look of dismay, Matthew and Roy stepped through the doorway and descended a flight of rickety steps to the root cellar.

  Both men already knew what they were going to find and their hearts were heavy with the savage knowledge of humanity’s baser instincts.

  Chapter 12

  Finally, A Clue

  Matthew and his deputies sat at a table in the back of Callie’s Café, picking listlessly at the food on their plates. None of them had an appetite, although the beef pies sent up fragrant puffs of steam and their bellies cramped with hunger. Each of them struggled with what they had seen and experienced earlier that day.

  Once Matthew and Roy found a lantern in the basement of Pastor Owens’s house, they discovered wicker cages filled with pale fragile bones, scraps of leathery skin, and the remains of two small children. Their heads had been removed and sat on a high shelf, staring down at the lawmen in reproach.

  Although Abner would never carry the weight of th
at spectacle, he was suffering as well. Mary Owens had awoken and lay trussed up against her husband, growling and hissing like a snake. Busy keeping one wary eye on her and the other on the darkened doorway through which his friends had disappeared, Abner never saw the Owens’s eldest daughter Prudence sneak around the back of the tent with a shotgun in her hands.

  Following her father’s instructions, she had grabbed the gun and snuck out the back door while her parents met the lawmen out front. She watched helplessly as the sheriff and his deputy seized Frank and Mary, but she didn’t know what to do. The men moved so quickly there was no way she could debilitate them without doing the same to her folks. It wasn’t until the tall sheriff and his deputy disappeared into the house that she seized her opportunity.

  Abner was staring down at Mary Owens, trying to keep his skin from crawling away. She stared past his left shoulder and whispered an eerie language that made his heart stutter in fear; he’d heard his ma talk about holy men who sometimes “spoke in tongues” and wondered if that was what he was hearing now.

  What he did not realize was that Prudence was creeping up on him with a shotgun aimed at his back. Her mother—who only tolerated the girl because she provided sexual relief for her father and Mary had no intention of allowing Frank access to her own private parts—was whispering encouragement to Prudence in a strange, sibilant language the Owens had perfected over their years of chicanery in the ministry circuit.

  The only thing that saved Abner’s life was, at the same moment she took aim and fired, Matthew and Roy stumbled out the front door onto the porch, saw the girl with her gun, and shouted for him to duck.

  As it was, the shot grazed the young man’s shoulder and the right side of his face. Roy and Matthew wrestled the girl to the ground before she had a chance to reload and heard her squeals of defiance and fury as she was tied up alongside her parents.

  Matthew was able to pick most of the buckshot out of Abner’s body but it wasn’t until later—after Roy galloped into town, told young Dicky what had transpired and grabbed the sheriff’s department paddy wagon for prisoner transport—that the town doc was able to dig some of the deeper pellets out of Abner’s neck and jaw.

  So now he sat, his shoulders slumped in misery and his spoon forgotten on his plate.

  Yorkie and his friends had stopped by a little earlier. Most of them were agog at the news of the Owens’s capture and the rumors of their foul deeds circling the small town like wildfire. Yorkie himself seemed both proud and saddened. He had known something was wrong and was glad that he had expressed his concerns to the first officers who acted as if they gave a good goddam. Still, if the stories were true, he kicked himself for the delay—maybe, if he had acted sooner, those two little boys might still be alive.

  He told Sheriff Wilcox that the twin girls were safe with Merrill although there was no telling how long that might last. Yorkie recalled his own pa and how he used to beat both him and his ma senseless every other Sunday. The Presbyterian Gospel, Pa had called it with a smile. Yorkie remembered how he had wanted to run away; to just disappear from people like his father, who held him and his mother in helpless thrall.

  “How long do you plan on staying, Sheriff?” Yorkie asked.

  “We’ll probably head out tomorrow, Mr. Smith,” Matthew replied.

  “Well, happy trails,” Yorkie said. “I hope you find your niece.”

  Getting ready to leave, Matthew stared across the street at the silhouette of the telegraph officer who appeared to be closing up for the evening. Standing up suddenly, he said, “I have to go send my wife word about our whereabouts. You two have anything you want to add?”

  Roy shook his head. “Nah, our families will know we’re okay unless you say different.”

  Matthew nodded and clapped his hat on his head. Handing Roy a couple of silvers, he said, “Pay up for us, won’t you? I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Then he headed out and crossed the dirt road to the telegraph office.

  The door was opening just as Matthew jumped up on the boardwalk. Smiling, he said, “Sir, I know it’s late in the day but I wondered if you could fire your machine up one last time?”

  The portly man frowned. “Young man, I can see from your star that you are a lawman but I can’t turn that machine back on. Not unless Sheriff Winslow says so, anyway. Sorry.”

  Matthew sighed with frustration. He had met Winslow earlier and recalled withstanding the sharp edge of the man’s reproach.

  “How could you do such a thing in MY town, without MY permission? I have half a mind to let those two go free!” he had snarled while young Dicky—who had already experienced a similar tongue-lashing—wrung his hat in his hands with dismay.

  Matthew had remained silent while Winslow ranted and raved but then something came over the Kittias County lawman’s face and he stuttered to a stop, peering up at the young sheriff in sudden shock.

  It was all Dicky could do to keep from laughing out loud. It was as if a tiny poodle had run up against a giant hound, barking and growling with territorial fear, only to realize his adversary was twice as big and a hundred times stronger than he was.

  Taking a deep breath, Winslow backed away and muttered, “Well, of course, that ain’t going to happen. The parents will hang. Don’t know yet what will become of the girl.”

  Matthew stayed quiet while Winslow fiddled at his desk and then he said, “I believe that girl was as much a victim as her brothers and sisters were albeit in a different way, Sheriff. I hope you will give a true accounting when the circuit judge gets here?”

  Winslow nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. When did you say you and your men are leaving town?”

  “Tomorrow morning, we’ll be on our way. One more time, Sheriff…” Dicky heard the insolence in Matthew’s voice even if Winslow did not. “You and your men have heard nothing about any girls gone missing in the area?”

  Winslow shook his head, jowls flapping. “No! I tell you, nothing like that is going on here.” His face turned red, either in fear or outrage.

  Now, standing on the boardwalk in front of the telegraph office, Matthew gritted his teeth in frustration. The agent’s hands were apparently tied and there was no way he was going to test Winslow’s will at this time of night. Sighing, Matthew said, “Well, I guess I’ll have to come back in the morning then.”

  Bowing slightly, the man mumbled an apology and promised to open a little early; 6:30 rather than 7:00 am. Then, he took off down the street.

  Matthew stared after him and shook his head. He had never felt so helpless in his adult life. This was the second full day of his search for Amelia Winters and he was no closer to finding her than he was two days ago. He knew that every day that passed lessened the chance of finding her at all but, time after time, he and his men seemed to be running up one blind alley into another.

  Heading across the street, Matthew jumped a little when he saw Dicky’s slight form materialize from thin air. Actually, Dicky had been hiding behind a tall sandwich board in front of the feed store trying to decide whether he wanted to tell Sheriff Wilcox what he had seen or not. He had just decided to plow ahead when the sheriff turned around, startling him.

  “Oh, I’m ssssorry to snee..eak up on yyy…” his voice trailed off.

  “Hello, Dicky. Did you want to speak with me?”

  The young man nodded and Matthew said, “Well, let’s head on inside the hotel, shall we? I think I can scrounge up some paper.”

  Dicky followed him and waited while the sheriff asked the clerk at the front desk for writing material. There was a small lobby with chairs, a couch and two round tables. He sat down at one of them, fidgeting nervously.

  Matthew pulled up a chair, smiled and said, “Tell me what you know, Dicky.”

  For the first time since he had started working for Winslow, Dicky felt at ease and confident. There was something—a kindness maybe, or just a deeper understanding in Matthew’s eyes—that told the young man his word was valued…needed even. He grabbed t
he paper and pen and started scribbling.

  He filled up three pieces of paper, read them and finally handed them back to the sheriff. Dicky watched Matthew and noticed when his eyes got big; he watched as the man bent over and started writing his own notes.

  A few minutes passed in silence. Then, sitting back with a small smile on his face, Matthew asked, “Dicky, how would you like to work for me?

  Chapter 13

  A Keepsake

  The next morning, Dicky stepped inside Callie’s Café and saw Matthew and the deputies sitting at a table in the back. They smiled as he approached and Matthew said, “Pull up a stump, Dicky. Did you want to order something to eat?”

  Dicky could not afford to eat out very often—not with what Winslow paid—and had packed a lunch. Having just ate half of it on his way to the restaurant, he grinned and shook his head.

  Matthew said, “Welcome aboard, son. Since you are officially a part of my posse now, you will be eating and drinking compliments of the Spokane County sheriff’s department. Okay?”

  Dicky nodded, flushing with pleasure.

  Matthew studied the young man’s face and asked, “We may need to leave at the drop of a hat…are you fixed with your family and ready to go?”

  Dicky pulled out a piece of scratch and wrote, “Yes sir! My saddlebags are packed and my ma knows I took up a job with your outfit. Thanks again!”

  “Good,” Matthew said. “Here’s our plan. First, I need to send a telegraph back home. We’re waiting for the agent to show up, which he promised to do by 6:30. Then, once the Donnelly’s come into town, we’ll head out to their place and have a look around. Are you sure they don’t have a lookout in place?”

  Dicky shrugged and scribbled, “I don’t think so. They have their two men, Dan O’Reilly and Fred Marston, but I am pretty sure they took off to the Donnelly’s warehouse in Seattle. They usually head over there once a month or so to pick up handles and metal scrollwork for the caskets they make here in town.”