Bad Men Die (6 page)

Deputy Fred Ordway sat in the office with his feet propped up on the desk, wondering if he might be able to sneak a piece of chicken out of the basket before he took the food in to the prisoner. The marshal had mentioned Consuela's fried chicken earlier and it was about as close to heaven as a man could find, at least in that part of Wyoming.

From time to time Fred thought about asking Consuela to one of the box supper socials the town held several times a year. From the looks of it, Bob was never going to get around to asking her, despite the fact that his wife had been gone for a couple years.

Of course, every time Fred started thinking like that, he got over it and told himself to forget it. No girl as beautiful as Consuela Diaz would ever go to a social with somebody like him. Besides, she was in love with Bob. Anybody with a pair of eyes could see that.

Except, evidently, Bob his own self.

Fred was musing on such universal mysteries of life when the door of the marshal's office opened. Not wanting to be caught with his feet up on the desk, Fred swung his legs down quickly and straightened in the old swivel chair. He tried to look official and efficient, but he wasn't sure that was possible under the best of circumstances.

He thought the visitor might be Consuela bringing the prisoner's supper, but that wasn't the case. The person who came in was female, though, and like Consuela, young and pretty. Blond and fair, however, not dark and sultry. She wore a blue dress and bonnet and carried what looked like a Bible in front of her like a shield.

Fred got hurriedly to his feet. “Can I help you, ma'am?”

“Are you the marshal?”

Her voice was sweet as apple pie, Fred thought. “Uh, no, ma'am. I'm the deputy, though. Deputy Fred Ordway, at your service.”

“Why, I'm just so pleased to meet you, Deputy Ordway. My name is Sister Delia.”

“Sister?” Fred repeated with a slight frown.

“Oh, I know I'm not a nun. But I
am
a missionary, come to minister to the good people of Rattlesnake Wells—and the not-so-good people, too, of course. They need to hear the word of the Lord more than anyone else, don't you think?”

“Well, I, uh, suppose so.” Fred wasn't sure what this woman was doing there, and she didn't seem to be in a hurry to explain. “Have you had a problem? Need to report a crime?”

“What?” She seemed genuinely puzzled, then her expression cleared and she laughed. “Oh, no, nothing like that! I'm here because I heard that you have a prisoner locked up in the jail.”

“Yes, ma'am. I mean sister, we do. A vicious outlaw named Frank McCluskey.”

Her blue eyes widened. “Oh, dear. He sounds terrible. But Deputy, we mustn't forget that no matter what Mr. McCluskey has done, he is one of God's creatures. And as such, he needs the comfort of the Holy Word.” She lifted the Bible she held. “I would like to go share that comfort with him.”

Fred stared at her for a second, then emphatically shook his head. “No, ma'am. I'm sorry, but the marshal would skin me alive if I ever let a lady like you into the cell with an outlaw! I know you're just tryin' to help, but I can't do it.”

“Goodness gracious. I don't want to actually go into the cell with him.” A little shudder went through Delia. “If I could just go into the cell block, so that I can speak to the man through the bars, that would be sufficient for me to follow my calling and do my sacred duty.”

“Well, I don't know . . .”

“You'd be right there with me, of course. To protect me.”

Fred liked the sound of that. Something about the woman made him want to protect her. Still, he was a little leery about taking her into the cell block to preach to McCluskey. For one thing, he didn't think it would do a blasted bit of good. He had never seen or heard of a truly repentant outlaw, unless maybe it was one who was walking up the thirteen steps to a gallows to keep an appointment with the hangman.

“Tell you what,” he suggested. “Marshal Hatfield will be stopping by here later when he makes his evening rounds. If you'd like to wait, you could ask him about it. If he says it's all right for you to talk to the prisoner, then it's fine with me.”

“Well, how long will that be?”

Fred scratched his head. “Hard to say for sure. An hour or so, I reckon.”

“I'd really hate to wait that long, Deputy. None of us know for certain how long we have left in this world. No one knows the day and the hour of the last trumpet. Why, if the Lord were to return in the next hour, poor Mr. McCluskey would be lost in a state of sin, when salvation awaits him right here.” She patted one hand against the Bible's black leather binding and gave Fred a soulful look.

He felt himself weakening. He was pretty sure that Bob would be fine with what Sister Delia wanted. It wouldn't hurt anything to let her talk to McCluskey for a few minutes. Anyway, Consuela would be there soon with the prisoner's supper, and he could use that as an excuse to shoo the pretty little missionary gal out.

“All right,” Fred said reluctantly. He was acting against his own better judgment and hoped it wouldn't come back to cause him trouble. “But I warn you, you may be able to stay for only a few minutes.”

“That's all right,” Delia said, warming the room with her smile. “A few minutes is all I need.”

Fred took the ring of keys down, unlocked the cell block door, and swung it open. As Delia started forward eagerly, he held up a hand to stop her. “Better let me go first. Just to make sure McCluskey's not doin' anything that might, uh, be improper for a young lady to see.”

“Why, you're so kind and thoughtful to look out for me like that, Deputy Ordway.”

“You might as well call me Fred.”

“I'd be delighted to . . . Fred.”

Feeling better about his decision, the deputy put his hand on the butt of his gun and stepped into the cell block. A lantern hung at the end of the short corridor between the cells, and its glow revealed McCluskey still stretched out on the bunk. He wasn't doing anything except lying there.

“Get up, McCluskey, you've got a vis—”

The unexpected feeling of a ring of cold metal pressed to the back of his neck made him stop short in what he was saying. He started to turn, but the object prodded him harder and a voice he barely recognized as belonging to Sister Delia said, “That's a gun muzzle. Stand still, you damn fool, or I'll kill you.”

While Fred stood there frozen and shocked beyond belief, McCluskey swung his legs off the bunk and stood up quickly. He practically lunged at the cell door and wrapped his hands around the bars. “Delia!” he exclaimed. “Is that you?”

“Of course it is, Frank. You didn't really think I'd let you rot in jail, did you?”

McCluskey threw back his head and laughed. “Gal, you're just full of surprises. Get me out of here!”

“In a minute. I want to make sure this fat boy doesn't get even more stupid and try anything.”

Fred felt her lifting his revolver from its holster. He felt sick to his stomach, not only because he knew how upset and disappointed Bob would be that he'd let a prisoner escape, but also because he was disgusted with himself for letting a pretty face and a honeyed voice fool him so easily. He knew that if he allowed Delia to take his gun, he'd have no chance at all of stopping this.

He felt the gun at the back of his neck waver and realized it was probably the only opportunity he'd have. He jerked away, twisting around, and flung out his arm toward the phony missionary. He made a grab for his gun and tried to knock her aside at the same time.

The little pistol in her hand cracked. Fred felt a line of fire rake across the side of his neck and knew the bullet had grazed him. He got hold of his Colt and tried to wrench it out of her grip, but he fumbled and the gun slipped away from both of them. It thudded to the floor at their feet.

“Frank!” Delia cried as she kicked the revolver and it slid toward McCluskey. Panic bloomed inside Fred as he saw the outlaw bend over, reach through the bars, and scoop up the Colt.

McCluskey came up shooting, flame spouting from the barrel of the gun.

The door of the hardware store was set back in a little alcove. Luke grabbed Consuela's arm and pushed her into it. “Stay there,” he told her sharply as he reached for one of the Remingtons. “You ought to be out of the line of fire.”

“But what is happening?” she asked, her voice full of alarm.

“A jailbreak, if I had to guess.” He couldn't waste any more time talking to her. He had to hope she would stay where she was.

Quite a few other people were on the street. All of them would be in danger if bullets started to fly around. As he broke into a run along the boardwalk toward the jail, he waved his left arm at them and shouted, “Get off the street! Off the street now!”

Men yelled curses and questions, but thankfully most of them also began to scatter. Riders galloped away from the gunfire, and men on wagons turned their teams toward the nearest alleys and cross streets.

On the far side of the street, the door to the jail stood partially open with lamplight spilling through it. Suddenly someone flung it wider. Two figures appeared, dark against the light behind them as they rushed out of the building. The man lunged into the street and leaped at a man trying to ride past.

The rider let out a yell as he was grabbed and flung out of the saddle. He landed hard with his face in the street.

As Luke ran closer, he got a better look at the two people who had rushed out of the marshal's office. Frank McCluskey was the one who had just unhorsed the rider. As the woman grabbed the mount's dangling reins, Luke realized he could think of only one female who'd try to bust the outlaw out of jail.

“Delia!” Luke grated. Was that woman going to plague him forever?

McCluskey grabbed the saddle horn, stuck his foot in a stirrup, and hauled himself up into the saddle. He took the reins from Delia and extended his other hand toward her. She grabbed it and swung up behind him, pulling her dress up brazenly to her thighs so she could throw a leg over the horse's back. The hurried movement caused her sunbonnet to tumble backward off her blond curls and dangle behind her by the strings tied around her neck.

That was Delia, all right, Luke thought as he raised the Remington in his hand and bellowed, “McCluskey!”

The outlaw jerked the horse around and rammed his boot heels into its flanks. The animal leaped ahead and raced straight at Luke. McCluskey leaned forward over the horse's neck to make himself a smaller target as he fired at the bounty hunter.

The slugs kicked up dirt in the road not far from Luke's feet, but McCluskey's gun blasted only twice before the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Luke hated like hell to shoot a horse, but he drew a bead on the charging animal and squeezed off a shot. The horse screamed and collapsed, its front legs going out from under it so that McCluskey and Delia sailed off its back and over its head.

McCluskey hit hard but rolled and came up on his feet. Luke fired again and narrowly missed. A second later, McCluskey crashed into him and they both went down. The outlaw grabbed Luke's wrist and twisted, forcing the gun to fall and skitter away in the dust.

Luke swung his left fist into McCluskey's jaw, driving the outlaw to the side, but he managed to stay on top of Luke and hammered a punch to the side of his head. McCluskey got a hand on Luke's throat and bore down hard.

Damn sick and tired of McCluskey trying to choke him, Luke bucked up violently from the ground and threw McCluskey off. They rolled away from each other, and as each man came up on one knee, Luke saw to his dismay that McCluskey had wound up next to the fallen Remington. The outlaw snatched the gun from the ground and swung it up.

Luke braced for the shock of the bullet.

Before McCluskey could pull the trigger, a shadow flashed behind him and something thudded. The outlaw sagged forward, the Remington slipping from his fingers and dropping to the ground again. As McCluskey toppled onto his face, out cold, Luke was surprised to see Derek Burroughs standing there, gun in hand. Clearly, his old friend and comrade-in-arms had just buffaloed McCluskey, saving Luke's life.

The danger wasn't over, though. Delia had pushed herself up onto hands and knees. She shook her head as she tried to recover from the fall off the horse. Seeing the small pistol lying beside her, she grabbed it.

Footsteps pounded in the street close by. Luke looked over to see Marshal Bob Hatfield rushing toward them. Hatfield didn't know who Delia was and had no reason to think she was a threat. To him she would just be a woman knocked down in the street who needed help.

“Marshal, watch—”

Delia fired at Hatfield. The lawman stumbled and fell.

Luke's shouted warning had come too late.

He scrambled up and dived at Delia as she tried to turn the gun toward him. He knocked it aside and rammed into her. She cried out as he knocked her sprawling again. He grabbed both of her wrists, shook the gun loose from her hand, and then used his left hand to pin her wrists above her head. She bucked and kicked as he straddled her, but she couldn't throw him off.

“Derek, cover McCluskey,” Luke said. To the townsmen who were still on the street, he snapped, “Somebody see how bad the marshal's hurt! Some of you men need to go check on the deputy, too.”

Delia was still struggling as Luke tore the bonnet off her head and used its strings to bind her wrists together. She spit and snapped at him like a wildcat.

She was pure-dee crazy, he thought, consumed with hate and obsessed with a no-good outlaw.

When he was satisfied that she couldn't get away, he stood up and drew his left-hand Remington, which had stayed in its holster. He looked at Burroughs still covering McCluskey. The owlhoot showed no signs of regaining consciousness yet.

“You all right, Derek?”

“Yeah, I've got this one, Luke. He's not going anywhere.”

Luke hurried over to the men who had gathered around Hatfield. When the crowd parted a little and he saw that Hatfield was sitting up.

“Looks like he was just creased on the hip,” one of the townies reported. “He'll be all right.”

“I'll be the judge of that,” Hatfield said as he lifted a hand. “Somebody help me up.”

“I'm not sure you should be walkin', Marshal—”

“Damn it, I have to see if Fred's all right.”

Luke understood the worry over the deputy. If Ordway was still hale and hearty, it was unlikely McCluskey would have gotten out of the jail.

Luke clasped wrists with Hatfield and lifted the young man to his feet. Hatfield's jeans were dark with blood at his left hip, but the injury didn't stop him from heading for the office, although he limped badly along the way.

Consuela hurried to meet him, still carrying the basket containing McCluskey's supper. She said anxiously, “Bob!” In her fear for him, she obviously wasn't worried about keeping things formal between them.

“I'm all right, Consuela,” he told her as he reached the boardwalk in front of the marshal's office. “At least I reckon I will be.” He disappeared inside with her right behind him.

Luke reached down and grasped Delia's arm. She kicked at him as he hauled her to her feet. He turned her around so she was facing away from him, took hold of both of her arms, and marched her toward the marshal's office.

“I don't know how the hell you got here from Rimrock,” he told her, “but you're going behind bars just like McCluskey.”

She flung out curses that would have done a muleskinner proud.

Luke ignored them. “And if you killed that deputy, I wouldn't be surprised if you wound up hanging for it.”

“That fat fool's not dead,” Delia said.

Luke hoped she was right.

As he shoved her into the marshal's office, he saw Hatfield and several other men through the open cell block door. They had Fred Ordway propped up against the bars of an empty cell. The deputy's left shoulder was covered with blood, but at least he was alive and conscious. Consuela knelt beside him, mopping at the blood around his wound.

Hatfield turned toward Luke, swayed, and almost fell. He caught himself with a hand against the doorjamb and asked, “Who's this?” as he nodded toward Delia.

“She's the one who shot you and tried to bust McCluskey out of here,” Luke explained. “She may be dressed prim and proper now, but she's just a saloon girl from over in Rimrock who fancies herself in love with him.”

“I
am
in love with him!” Delia screeched. “And I'll kill all of you to save him!”

“It would be a good idea to lock her up, Marshal,” Luke said.

Hatfield nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. Put her in that cell across from the one where McCluskey was.”

Luke forced Delia into the cell and clanged the door closed behind her. He asked the marshal, “How's your hip?”

“Hurts like blazes, but the bullet just creased me. Didn't break any bones as far as I can tell. I'll live. I'll just be a mite gimpy for a while. Where's McCluskey?”

“A friend of mine knocked him out and is keeping an eye on him.”

“We need to get him back behind bars.”

“I'll take care of that.” Luke went to the door and motioned to several of the men crowding onto the boardwalk to peer into the marshal's office. “Some of you fellas pick up McCluskey and carry him in here.”

They toted the senseless outlaw into the building and dropped him none too gently on the bunk in the cell he had occupied previously, causing some signs of coming around to appear. It was the third time he'd been knocked out in the past few days.

It was a wonder his skull wasn't getting a little mushy by now, Luke thought.

Seeing that Burroughs had followed the men carrying McCluskey into the jail, Luke nodded to him. “I'm sure obliged to you, Derek. You not only saved my life, you made sure McCluskey didn't get loose to keep on robbing and killing.”

“Well, I couldn't just stand by and do nothing when I saw him about to shoot you, now could I?” Burroughs said with a grin. He clapped a hand on Luke's shoulder. “What are old friends for if not to save each other's lives every now and then?”

“Well, it's a debt I won't forget,” Luke said.

A little bird-like man in a dark suit hurried into the office. Seeing the medical bag in the man's hand, Luke pointed to the cell block door. “Your patients are in there, Doctor.”

The sawbones nodded and bustled past them.

A moment later, Hatfield came out of the cell block, being helped by Consuela. “I told Doc to tend to Fred first. He's hurt a lot worse than I am.”

“You need medical attention, too,” Consuela said to the marshal.

“I'll get it, as soon as I know that Fred's going to be all right. Just help me sit down. I'd just as soon get off this leg.”

Luke and Consuela helped lower him into the chair behind the desk. Once Hatfield was sitting, he frowned and reached out to pull a book lying on the desk toward him. “What's this?”

“It looks like a Bible,” Consuela said.

“That's what it was.” Luke took hold of the leather-bound volume and opened it to reveal that someone had carved out a space in the pages. When the book was closed, no one would be able to see what had been done to it. “I knew Delia must have smuggled a gun in here somehow and then gotten the drop on Deputy Ordway. I guess when he's up to it he can tell us exactly what happened. But for now it's enough to know that she-devil tried to help McCluskey escape—and failed.”

“It's a good thing we've got her locked up, then,” Hatfield said.

Luke nodded solemnly. “Truer words were never spoken, Marshal. That's exactly where she belongs.”