Bad Men Die (4 page)

By the middle of the afternoon, McCluskey fell into a sullen silence. Eventually he dozed off as he rocked along in the saddle.

Luke noticed. The peace and quiet was more than welcome.

McCluskey remained subdued when Luke made camp next to a small creek that evening. With one hand free and the other cuffed to his saddle weighing him down and preventing him from making any sudden moves, he was able to feed himself and drink the coffee Luke brewed. He even said, “I'm obliged to you for the meal—and for not killin' me.”

Luke didn't trust this new, meek, cooperative McCluskey for a second. He knew the man was still a ruthless killer. His life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel if McCluskey ever got the upper hand. Luke was determined that wasn't going to happen.

After they had eaten, Luke propped McCluskey, once again in handcuffs and leg irons, against a tree trunk and wound rope around him, binding him securely to the tree. With that done, Luke was able to stretch out in his bedroll and sleep soundly—or better than McCluskey did, anyway.

They were on their way again early the next morning, and by the middle of the day they were approaching Rattlesnake Wells. McCluskey hadn't caused any problems since the day before at the dry wash. His shoulders slumped as he rode along, he looked like he had given up hope.

Maybe it was just a pose, Luke told himself. He kept a wary eye on the outlaw. But McCluskey seemed mired in despair as they rode into the settlement.

Marshal Elliott had called Rattlesnake Wells a boomtown, and that was an apt description. Main Street was crowded with wagons, buckboards, buggies, and riders on horseback. The boardwalks thronged with people. The town had been there before the gold strike in the mountains that loomed above it. Several large springs—the wells that had given the place its name, along with an accompanying nest of diamondback rattlers—provided water for immigrants passing through the area on their way to Oregon and Washington. Because of that history, a number of permanent buildings stood along the street, but the boom had brought in quite a few tent saloons and stores and other business establishments.

Luke had seen it happen before—sleepy little hamlets becoming thriving cities almost overnight. Rattlesnake Wells would go back to being small and sleepy as it once had been almost as quickly if the gold vein ever petered out.

The most important result of the boom, as far as Luke was concerned, was that the railroad had come to Rattlesnake Wells. He had seen the tracks running into the settlement from the south as they'd approached, along with the poles carrying telegraph wires. The tracks ended at a large, red-brick depot building and roundhouse at the far end of the street.

It would have been too much to hope that a train was in town, soon to pull out and head south to the junction with the Union Pacific. Luke would have gotten on that train with McCluskey and spent as little time in Rattlesnake Wells as possible.

But there was no locomotive at the station puffing smoke from its diamond-shaped stack as it built up steam, so Luke knew he would have to spend at least one night there, which meant his first priority was to get McCluskey safely behind bars again.

A lanky old-timer with a bald head under a tipped-back hat perched on the driver's seat of a wagon parked in front of a store set up in a big tent. A sign tacked to a post pounded into the ground read A
LBRIGHT'S
M
ERCANTILE
.

Luke reined in and nodded to the old-timer. “Excuse me, mister, can you tell me where to find the marshal's office?”

The old man looked at McCluskey with wide, interested eyes. “Got yourself a prisoner there, I see. You a lawman, son?”

“You could say that,” Luke answered with deliberate vagueness. Plenty of people didn't like bounty hunters and considered them one step above the reptiles that had congregated around the springs in times past.

“What'd he do?” the old man wanted to know.

Luke kept a tight rein on the impatience he felt. “Enough to get himself in plenty of trouble. If you could point me to the marshal's office . . . ?”

“Oh, sure.” The old-timer leveled a gnarled hand. “Just go on down this street. It's yonder a couple blocks on the left-hand side.”

Luke nodded again. “Obliged to you.”

“Gonna lock him up?”

“That's the idea.”

“He don't look all that dangerous.”

It was true. At the moment, McCluskey looked more pathetic than he did like a menace.

Luke knew just how deceptive that was and heeled the dun into motion. He weaved through the traffic in the street, leading McCluskey's mount. The outlaw drew a lot of interested stares, but Luke didn't stop to offer explanations. He didn't draw rein until he was in front of the stoutly built log building that housed the R
ATTLESNAKE
W
ELLS
M
ARSHAL'S
O
FFICE AND
J
AIL
, according to the sign.

A little boy about ten years old, with bright red hair, stood in front of the marshal's office and stared up at Luke and McCluskey.

Luke said, “Son, do you know if the marshal's inside?”

The youngster had a little trouble finding his tongue before saying, “Yes, sir, he is.” He added with barely controlled excitement, “That's Frank McCluskey!”

“That's right,” Luke said, a little surprised that the boy knew who McCluskey was. “Would you mind fetching the marshal for me?”

“Sure!” The kid hurried to the door, threw it open, and called, “Pa! Pa, come quick! A fella out here's got Frank McCluskey in irons!”

Well, that probably explained it, Luke thought.

Seeing as the boy's father was the marshal, the boy spent a considerable amount of time in his pa's office and could have studied all the reward dodgers that came in. The drawings of McCluskey that decorated some of those posters were reasonably accurate, with enough of a resemblance for the kid to recognize the genuine article when he saw it.

A tall young man with the same red hair as the boy emerged from the office. He was hatless and had an open, honest, friendly face with a faint dusting of freckles. He wore a Colt on his hip and looked like he knew how to use it. A lawman's badge was pinned to his vest.

A whistle of admiration came from his lips as he looked at Luke and the prisoner. “That's Frank McCluskey, all right. Good eye, Buck.” To Luke, he said, “Who are you, mister, and what are you doing with this desperado? Although I reckon I can make a pretty good guess.”

“Name's Luke Jensen. McCluskey's my prisoner, and I'm taking him to Cheyenne to turn him over to the authorities there.”

“And collect all the rewards on him, I'll wager,” the marshal said. When Luke didn't respond to that, the lawman went on. “I'll bet you want to take him on the train.”

“That's the idea,” Luke said. “When's the next one due?”

“Ten o'clock tomorrow morning.”

That was a relief, Luke thought. He and McCluskey would have to spend only one night here. He had nothing against Rattlesnake Wells, but the sooner he took in McCluskey and had the reward money in his pocket, the better.

“I was hoping—”

“That you could lock him up here overnight? I reckon that can be arranged. My name's Bob Hatfield, by the way. Some folks call me Sundown, on account of my hair.” Marshal Hatfield put his hand on the boy's shoulder. “This little heathen is my son Bucky.”

Luke nodded to the youngster. “Pleased to meet you, Bucky. And I'm obliged to you for your help a minute ago.”

Buck grinned. “Shoot, all I did was open a door and yell for Pa.”

Luke swung down from the saddle. “If it's all right with you, Marshal, I'd like to go ahead and get McCluskey safely behind bars.”

Hatfield frowned. “He looks a little banged up, and your throat's a mite bruised, Mr. Jensen. The two of you have some trouble on the way here?”

“Yeah, yesterday,” Luke admitted. “On the way here from Rimrock. That's where I caught up with him.”

Hatfield nodded. “I know Marshal Elliott over there. Good man.” He drew his revolver, and the smooth ease with which the Colt slid out of its holster told Luke he'd been right in his estimation of the young marshal. “I'll keep him covered while you get him down. Buck, you run on back to the house.”

“Aw, Pa, I want to stay here and watch,” the boy objected.

“No, you go on and do what I tell you. I want you to let Consuela know she'll need to cook up enough food for a couple guests tonight.” The marshal added to Luke, “That's my housekeeper. She feeds the prisoners here in the jail, and the town pays her a little.”

Luke nodded, but he didn't really care about Hatfield's domestic or financial arrangements. He just wanted to get McCluskey behind bars again.

Ten minutes later, he'd accomplished that. The outlaw continued to cooperate. He sank onto the bunk inside the cell, clasped his hands together between his knees, and stared expressionlessly at the floor.

As Hatfield turned the key in the cell door and stepped back, he commented, “I'm not complaining, mind you, but from everything I've heard about him, I expected Frank McCluskey to be more of a ring-tailed wildcat.”

“He seems to have tamed down some,” Luke said as he looked at the prisoner. “But you and your deputies, if you have any, shouldn't trust him. He knows he's got a hang rope waiting for him. A man like that is usually desperate enough to try anything.”

“We'll be careful,” Hatfield promised. “You're welcome to bunk here tonight if you want to, just to keep an eye on him. There's a cot in the storeroom you can use.”

“I'll think about it,” Luke promised. “I might just take you up on that. Right now, though, I could use a drink and something to eat.”

Hatfield grinned. “Bullock's Saloon, on the other side of the street in the next block, puts out a decent free lunch, if you want to kill both of those birds with the same stone.”

“I'll do that.”

“Stop back by any time,” Hatfield said. “And you're having supper at my house tonight.”

The invitation took Luke by surprise. Most lawmen treated bounty hunters like something they'd scrape off the bottom of their boots.

“I wouldn't want to put you out—”

“You won't be putting anybody out,” Hatfield insisted. “I know what you're probably thinking. I don't have anything against bounty hunters, though. Every outlaw you put behind bars—or in the ground—is one less hardcase to wander into my town and cause trouble. Keeping the peace here in Rattlesnake Wells is my one and only concern, Mr. Jensen. Well, that and my boy.”

“All right, then.” Luke's instinctive liking for this young man grew. “I'll be back by later, after I've tended to my horse and gotten something to eat. Can you point me to Peterson's Livery Stable? Marshal Elliott over in Rimrock recommended it.”

Hatfield gave him directions, they shook hands, and Luke took his leave of the young marshal. He led both horses down the street until he came to the cavernous livery barn.

After turning over the mounts to the proprietor, a gangling, dark-haired, garrulous man, and making arrangements for them to be kept there until he returned from Cheyenne, Luke headed for Bullock's Saloon.

Having been in business for a while, it was one of the permanent buildings in town, a fairly impressive two-story frame structure. He crossed the street, dodging wagon teams and saddle mounts along the way, and had just stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the batwing entrance when a hand fell hard on his shoulder and jerked him around.

“Luke Jensen!”

Instinct made Luke's hand flash to the butt of a gun. He pulled and had the Remington halfway out of leather before he realized the man who'd accosted him wasn't making any threatening moves.

The man stood there on the boardwalk staring at Luke as if he couldn't believe his own eyes. “Luke?” he asked in an astonished voice. “My God, Luke Jensen. Is that really you?”

The man was as tall as Luke but leaner, wearing brown whipcord trousers, a gray shirt, and a darker brown hat. His slightly lantern-jawed face was clean-shaven but as rugged and weathered as Luke's. Obviously, he spent most of his time out in the open, as well. His hair was sandy and starting to gray.

As soon as Luke saw the man, a chord of recognition went through him. He was certain he knew the hombre from somewhere, but he couldn't come up with a name or recall where they had met.

The man had called him by his real name, which meant Luke probably didn't know him from the years spent as a bounty hunter. Most of that time, until the past couple years, he had used the name Luke Smith. He knew he hadn't met the man that recently, or he would have remembered him.

“I'm sorry—”

“I thought you were killed at Richmond.” The man grabbed both his shoulders. “But you're alive!”

That was all it took. The mention of Richmond made the memories come flooding back into Luke's mind.
The long, bloody siege that had left most of the once beautiful city in ruins. The growing sense of numbing despair and defeat. The last-ditch plan to smuggle a fortune in Confederate gold to safety so that it could continue to finance the struggle against the Yankees. Greed, betrayal, sudden death, the smashing pain of a bullet in the back . . .

Luke shook his head to clear out the memories. But Derek Burroughs hadn't been there for that part of it. That was the man's name. Luke knew it now as well as his own. Burroughs had fought side by side with him in the hellish battles of the Wilderness and Cold Harbor, when General Lee was trying desperately to keep that butcher Grant from closing in on Richmond. Luke and Burroughs had been friends—not close friends, but the comradeship known only to men who have been through combat together. The last time Luke had seen him was when Burroughs was wounded at Cold Harbor.

“I heard you made it and were sent back home,” Luke said.

“They told me you'd been killed, just before the war ended.”

“I'm still breathing.”

“I can see that.” Burroughs paused. “You know who I am now, right?”

“Of course I do, Derek.”

Burroughs laughed and pulled Luke into a hug, pounding him on the back. Luke returned the embrace, glad to see his old comrade. The war had been a grim, dark time, and he had never gone out of his way to look up any men he had known then. The only ones he wouldn't have minded seeing again—the men who had betrayed him and left him for dead—had been brought to justice by another member of the Jensen family, gunned down by Smoke years ago when he believed he was avenging the murders of his pa and his older brother, long before he'd discovered that Luke was still alive.

It was good to see Derek Burroughs, no doubt about that. As the man stepped back, Luke said, “What brings you to Rattlesnake Wells?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing!” Burroughs exclaimed. He pointed at the batwings with a thumb. “Why don't we go inside and catch up over a drink?”

“That's exactly what I was thinking.”

Bullock's Saloon was a nice enough place, very similar to hundreds of other saloons Luke had been in over the years. Sundown Bob Hatfield was right about the free lunch being good. Luke assembled a sandwich from several pieces of ham and a couple thick slices of fresh bread, then put it on a plate with three hard-boiled eggs and carried the food over to a table, along with a mug of beer.

Burroughs said he had already eaten, but he had a beer, too. He sat with his long legs stretched out and his hat thumbed back. “You've got to tell me how you wound up alive, Luke. Everybody I ever talked to from the old outfit believed you were dead.”

Luke shook his head. “It's too long a story to go into, but you've probably heard how it was in Richmond at the end. Pure insanity. It's a wonder anybody ever got anything right about what happened in those days.”

Burroughs nodded solemnly. “I didn't just hear about it. I was there. I was in a hospital in Richmond during the bombardment. The cot would shake day and night from the shells falling nearby. It got to where I wished one of them would go ahead and land on me, just to get it over with. But it never did. The sisters said it was a miracle the hospital was never hit worse than it was. They said God was watching out for us. I don't have any better explanation.”

Luke swallowed the big bite of the sandwich he'd been chewing while Burroughs talked. “I'm glad you made it out alive. A lot of good men didn't.”

“Truer words were never spoken.” Burroughs lifted his beer mug. “To absent friends.”

“Absent friends,” Luke said as he lifted his own mug. Both men drank.

As Luke set his beer down, he went on. “What have you been doing since then?”

“Oh, I went home after the war, when I had recovered enough.” Burroughs shook his head. “There was nothing for me there. A bunch of Yankee carpetbaggers had come in and taken my family's land. All my friends, the boys I ran with growing up, were dead. I was the only one of my bunch who made it back from the war. There was a girl . . . but she'd had enough time while I was away to decide she didn't really want me after all. She married a Yankee judge instead.” His shoulders rose and fell. “I didn't see any reason to stay. So I lit out for Texas, you know.”

Luke knew. It was a story that had been repeated thousands of times over as defeated Confederate soldiers returned home.

“Ever since then I've been drifting,” Burroughs continued. “Never could seem to settle down any one place. I drove cattle from Texas up to the railheads in Kansas for a while and thought about becoming a rancher, but I just couldn't see it. When folks struck gold in the Black Hills, I went up there and thought I'd make my fortune.” He laughed and shook his head. “Gold and I just seem to have a natural aversion to each other.” He leaned forward. “All right. I rambled on and let you eat, because I know a hungry man when I see one. But now you can tell me what you've been doing for the past fifteen years.”

“There's not a lot to tell.” Luke didn't like to talk about the past.

“You're not getting off that easy,” Burroughs said. “Did you go home after the war? Where was it? Missouri, right? The Ozarks?”

Burroughs had a good memory, being able to recall those details from late-night conversations around a campfire. That was where the Jensen family farm had been, all right. Luke's little brother Kirby—known to one and all as Smoke, these days—had kept it going, along with their mother and their sister Janey while Luke and their pa Emmett had gone off to fight.

That part of the Jensen family had endured its own tragedies during the conflict that had split the nation apart, things that Smoke didn't like to talk about, even to this day. But after he and Luke had been reunited, he had shared the truth.

Luke shook his head. “No, I never went home. After everything that had happened, it just didn't seem like the right thing to do. I did like you—went on the drift.” He swallowed some of the beer. “Wound up getting into bounty hunting work.”

“A bounty hunter,” Burroughs repeated.

Luke looked for signs of disapproval but didn't see any.

“Well, I can't say that I'm surprised. You were always the toughest fella I ever knew, Luke.” Burroughs grinned. “That's why I always tried to keep track of where you were when we were fighting the Yankees. I figured most of their shots would be aimed at you, so if I could keep a little distance between us, I'd be safer.”

Luke chuckled. He knew that Burroughs was exaggerating. The man hadn't been foolhardy or reckless, but he had never lacked for courage and had given a good account of himself in every battle.

“What brings you to Rattlesnake Wells?” Burroughs went on. “You hunting an outlaw?”

“Nope. Already caught him. He's locked up over at the jail, and I'll be getting on the train with him in the morning and taking him to Cheyenne.”

“Well, how about that? Good reward on him?”

Luke nodded. “Good enough.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Burroughs grew serious. “I imagine it's a hard life, but I wish you the best with it, Luke, I really do.”

“How about you?” Luke asked. “Why are you here?”

“Well . . .” Burroughs let out a rueful laugh. “I said that gold and I have a natural aversion to each other, but that doesn't mean I've stopped trying to find it. I was thinking about staking a claim up in the Prophecies and giving prospecting another shot.”

“Good luck to you, if you do.”

“Oh, I'll have good luck. I consider the two of us meeting like this to be an omen. It's not every day you run into an old friend, you know.”

“I reckon not,” Luke agreed. He wasn't sure he believed in omens, though.

But he believed in luck, no doubt about that, and he hoped his would continue to run as smoothly as it had since that ruckus at the dry wash the day before.

 

 

Joe Peterson was working on a wagon in his wagon yard—had a wheel off so he could grease the axle—when the buggy rolled up in front of the livery stable next door. His hands were pretty dirty, so he grabbed a rag from the wagon seat and wiped them as he walked toward the buggy.

A woman was at the reins, he noted with interest. She wore a prim blue dress with little flowers on it and a blue sunbonnet with blond curls peeking out from under it. A thick book with black leather binding—a Bible, more than likely—lay on the seat beside her.

She greeted him with a big smile. “Good afternoon, sir. I was wondering if I could leave my buggy and my team here with you?”

A couple fine brown horses were hitched to the buggy, which was a nice, well-cared-for vehicle. The woman was nice, too—young and pretty with a wholesome innocence about her.

She didn't have a wedding ring on her finger, he noted. “You sure can, miss. I'll take good care of the critters for you.”

She picked up the Bible and held it in both hands as she said, “Would it be all right if I looked inside, just to assure myself that conditions are suitable? I mean no offense, of course. It's just that I love all of God's creatures so much, even the beasts of burden, and I want to be sure they'll be treated properly.”

Peterson was a little annoyed, but he didn't show it. He smiled and nodded. “Why, sure, that would be fine. Let me give you a hand . . .” He helped her climb down from the buggy and led her inside the barn. It was cooler there, out of the sun.

She kept her Bible clutched in front of her chest, as if to ward off any evil that might come at her.

“This is the finest livery stable between Laramie and Rock Springs, if I do say so myself,” he told her.

“I do believe you're right, Mister . . . ?”

“Peterson, ma'am. Joe Peterson.”

She paused in front of the two most recently occupied stalls, the ones that held the horses brought in by Jensen. “These animals look like they're quite happy,” she commented.

“Like I said, I take good care of the animals stabled here.” Peterson gave in to the curiosity he felt and asked, “Ma'am, are you some sort of, I don't know, missionary? I couldn't help but notice that you're carryin' a Bible.”

“That's right, Mr. Peterson,” she said, giving him another of those dazzling smiles. “A missionary is exactly what I am. I've come to spread the good news to Rattlesnake Wells. You can call me Sister Delia.”