Blood at Bear Lake (18 page)

Joe took his bowie out and used the heavy butt end to rap on the door. Loud and hard.

There was no immediate response, so he did it again, and kept up the pounding until he heard a voice from the other side call out, “I'm closed, dammit. Come back in the morning.”

“I have an express packet for someone name of James Tuttle,” Joe called through the door.

“An express?”

“That's right. Some fella in Julesburg paid me t' carry it here. I'm supposed to give it into the hand of this James Tuttle person an' no other. That's what I was told.”

“But what is it?”

“How the hell would I know? The package is tied tight with string. It ain't heavy enough t' be gold, though.” He faked a laugh. “I don't know as it woulda got here if I thought it was gold.”

“Just a minute, then.” There was the thump and scrape of a heavy bar being retracted, then the door swung partially open. “Let me have . . .
you
!” The trader's eyes went wide when he saw who his nocturnal visitor was.

Joe shouldered his way inside, pulling the door closed behind him. He yanked the bar into place, locking himself inside with James Tuttle, who turned out to be the same impatient fellow Joe had spoken with earlier in the day, the one who took Sol's place when Sol was murdered by Ransom Holt.

“What do you want here? Come back during business hours and we . . .”

Joe shut him up with a slap across the face.

“Wh—you can't do that!”

Joe slapped him again. Harder. Blood began to trickle out of the corner of Tuttle's mouth.

“Why are you . . . why are you doing this?” Tuttle demanded. His voice was firm. But he did not meet Joe's eyes when he spoke. He knew damned good and well why Joe was there.

Joe slapped him a third time, the force of it turning Tuttle half around. His hand crept into the pocket of his apron and emerged holding a tiny pepperbox revolver.

Joe took it away from him.

Tuttle turned pale with terror now that he was unarmed. “Look . . . Moss . . . I didn't, uh, I didn't . . .”

“Interesting that you know who I am now,” Joe said. “Earlier today, you didn't know nothing. Or claimed you didn't. But you knew enough to hire those damn fool pork eaters t' kill me. Gonna pay each of them a hundred dollars, they said. Told them I'd be passed out drunk an' it'd be easy t' take my scalp.” Joe held up the two fresh scalps for Tuttle to see. “Wasn't quite that easy, James. Turns out they're the ones as has gone under.”

Joe returned the scalps to his war bag and took up the bowie again.

“The thing is, James, I figure t' take one more scalp tonight. Something you ought t' know before we set down t' talk. There was one of those Missouri boys lived long enough t' tell me a few things. Then I finished the son of a bitch off.” He drew the edge of the bowie over an imaginary throat, then chuckled. “Don't know as I'll be so easy on you though, James. Might kill you Injun style so's it will take you a couple days t' die, wallowing around in pain an' screaming for your mama.”

“Don't kill me, Moss. Don't. Please.”

“I can't think of any reason why I shouldn't, you settin' me up t' die like that.”

“I can tell you . . . tell you everything, Moss. Just let me live. Everything.” The man was sweating profusely and looked like he might pass out there on his own floor. “Everything.”

“I dunno, James. I ain't gonna make no promises. Not yet, I ain't. But I reckon I'll listen to what-all you got t' say. Then I'll decide.” He smiled, under the circumstances a very chilling expression, and tapped Tuttle lightly on the chest with the tip of the big knife. “So let's us two set down in those chairs over there an' have us a good talk. After that, we'll see do I still want t' kill you or just leave you alone t' fester in your own pus. Go on. Set. An' James . . . one thing more. Any time you decide you want t' make a try for me, why, you just go right ahead.” The smile turned into a wickedly mocking grin. “
Any
time, you cocksucking son of a whore.”

The insult brought no reaction from the thoroughly terrified trader.

47

“HE S-S-SAID HIS name was Holt. Rance Holt. Said he was f-from Nevada. Worked for a man named Peabody. Said he w-was tracking a murderer. Said there's a bounty. The descrip . . .” Tuttle paused to take a deep breath and swallow. “The description fit you to a T. Wanted you. And a woman, too. Handsome woman, he said. Red hair. Traveling with you. Said you was riding a spotted horse. I didn't . . . didn't see a woman nor your horse, but I knew right off it was you he wanted.

“I asked about you. Couple men told me who you are. They said you can handle . . .” Tuttle stopped and rolled his eyes. He shook his head and tried to swallow back the lump of raw fear in his throat. “Said you could handle yourself. I'm no fighter. That's why . . . why I hired those men. To do what I couldn't.”

“They couldn't neither, James. That's why they're laying dead out there an' I got their scalps here in my bag.” Joe leaned down closer so that his face loomed over Tuttle's from only a scant few inches away. “It's why I figure t' put your useless scalp in here, too. Now tell me about this sonuvabitch Holt. Where is he now?”

“I don't . . .
south
. Don't
do
that. Please.” Tuttle's voice rose into a high-pitched yelp when he felt the tip of Joe's knife lightly tickle his rib cage. One thrust there and he would be a dead man. “Please.”

“Where is Holt, James?”

“Julesburg. Maybe Julesburg. Or Denver City.”

“I heard of Julesburg, but where is Denver City?”

“It used to be called Cherry Creek.”

“All right. Go on.”

“He said . . . he said if I k-k . . . got you, I could find him in Manitou, wherever that is.”

“I know Manitou,” Joe told him. “What else?”

“He said . . . he said . . . oh, God, do I have to tell you this?”

“Yeah. You do.” Joe nudged the man with the bowie again and Tuttle tried to flinch away. Joe yanked him back and pressed him back against the counter in his store. The place smelled of wood smoke and fur . . . and fear. Tuttle was sweating even though the inside of the trading post was chilly at this hour. “What did Holt tell you t' do, James?”

“He said I was to . . . to . . . oh, Jesus!”

“Tell me, James.” Joe's voice fell to little more than a whisper, but it had a sharper edge to it than his bowie did. It carried the sure promise of death, slow and agonizing death. “Tell me.”

“He said I should . . . I should cut . . . cut the head . . . off the man who came here . . . and p-pack it in alcohol . . . in a keg . . . and send it to him at . . . at Manitou. And he could come p-p-pay me f-for . . . p-pay me two thousand dollars re . . . reward.”

“Uh-huh. And how much did he give you to bind the deal, James?”

“He didn't . . .” Tuttle looked into Joe's face and saw death looking back at him there. “Five hundred dollars. That's what . . . I gave some of it to those fellows from Indiana. I promised to give them more when . . . you know.”

“Yeah. I know. Indiana?”

“Someplace like that. They said they were afraid they were going to be conscripted into Mr. Lincoln's army. They didn't want to go. That's why they . . .” The trader shrugged. “They were going to California.”

“They should've kept going,” Joe said. “You should've gone with them. Exactly where in Manitou were you t' send this keg of alcohol, James?”

“I have it written down so I wouldn't forget. I . . . I can get it for you. If you, um . . .” He motioned with his hand, asking Joe to back away and let him move away from the counter.

“Sure. Go ahead an' get it.” Joe stepped back a pace. Then another.

Tuttle bobbed his head and wiped the cold sweat out of his eyes. The man went behind his store counter and bent low.

When he stood upright again, he had a pistol in his hand. An old-fashioned but very effective—and very deadly—horse pistol. The bore looked big enough to walk into and hardly have to bend over.

It was pointed straight at Joe Moss's chest.

48

“YOU STUPID SONUVABITCH,” Joe said with a snort of amusement. “If you're gonna kill a man, you should at least ought t' cock your damn pistol.”

Tuttle's already pasty face turned white as a sheet of paper, and he looked down at his big pistol.

A moment later, shock turning to anger, he looked up again. “Damn you,” he snapped, “this gun already
is
coc—”

Realization came a split second too late. Joe's bowie was already flashing through the air. The distance between the two men was not quite far enough to allow the rotation of the knife to end up point-first in Tuttle's flesh. Instead, the knife struck with the blade flat against the man's chest.

The bowie did no real damage, but it startled Tuttle into flinching. His hand clenched reflexively around the butt of the old dragoon horse pistol. The gun went off, its heavy lead ball flying somewhere into the eaves of the trading post.

Smoke from the discharge of so much gunpowder left the air in the low-ceilinged trading post reeking of sulphur, and for several long moments obscured vision in that end of the building.

When the smoke began to dissipate, Joe was behind the counter, kneeling on James Tuttle's chest. Joe had retrieved the bowie and was holding it to the man's throat.

“Don't . . . don't . . . please don't hurt me,” Tuttle pleaded.

“James, you are fixin' to find out just how much pain a man can live through. An' then I'm gonna let you die.”

“No, I . . . I'll tell you . . . everything. Do you hear me, Moss? I can help you. I'll tell you everything you want to know.”

A wicked imitation of a grin thinned Joe's lips, and very, very softly he said, “Oh, James, m'lad, I
know
you'll tell me everything I want t' know. There ain't a doubt in the world 'bout that, old son.”

Joe snorted. His grin grew even wider. “No, sir,” he said as he slid the tip of the bowie into James Tuttle's left nostril, “not a doubt in this whole damn world.”

It was the better part of an hour later when Joe emerged from the trading post. A lovely crimson and purple dawn was breaking to the east. The air was crisp and cold, and Joe was feeling pretty good under the circumstances. He still did not know where Fiona was. But he knew where to find Ransom Holt.

He was wearing buckskins again, taken from the trading post stock. His “civilian” clothes were ruined, soaked in blood. He had left them in a sodden pile in a corner of the place. Tuttle he had left in a different sort of pile.

The man had died badly, screaming into an empty nail keg that Joe had slipped over his head to keep his noise from rousing others in the sleeping outpost.

But before he died, he told everything he knew to Joe. Hell, Joe thought, Tuttle probably told him some things the miserable sonuvabitch did not know, too. Made-up things that he desperately hoped would make Joe hurry up and kill him, anything to make the pain stop.

The lies could be sorted out later, Joe figured. The one true fact that he really needed was the information about where to find Holt.

Stopping Holt was the key to making Fiona safe.

Stopping Holt. And then ending this blood feud with whatever Peabodys were left back in Nevada.

Once he'd reached Fort Laramie and had some time to think about his and Fiona's situation instead of concentrating on scurrying about searching for her, Joe realized that if they so desired, the Peabodys could afford to send out a hundred more just like Ransom Holt.

Killing Holt would solve his and Fiona's immediate problem. But it would take killing the source of that trouble to really give them any peace.

One thing he knew for certain. He had to protect Fiona and little Jessica. Protecting them was even more important than reuniting with them, and if he had to choose between knowing they were safe and happy but apart from him, and having them close but being in danger—there was no question what he would unhesitatingly choose. Fiona's and Jessica's safety was far more important than his own.

Joe returned to the corral where his animals were penned. He gave a soft, shrill whistle, and the huge Shire raised its head and whinnied in recognition. The mule, on the other hand, slipped quietly around behind the Shire as if hoping no one would notice it there.

Joe led them outside the corral and tied them to a fence rail, then saddled the patient black horse. When he was done with that, he began the much more complicated task of building a pack for the mule to carry.

At one point when he was nearly ready to ride out from Laramie, he paused and realized with something of a shock that he had been whistling again. But a tune this time. He could not remember what the tune was called, nor could he think of the words, but he remembered the rhythm of it and that was enough.

He had not felt like whistling tunes since . . . since Fiona was with him.

Joe untied his animals, picked up his Henry rifle, and climbed onto the big Shire.

“Come along, boys,” he said softly. “We got us some ground t' cover.”

49

CHERRY CREEK USED to be a pretty decent little run of water. Not worth a damn for beaver, though. Joe knew. He had tried trapping it years ago. Hadn't taken any plews worth spit. Then some damned fool came along and found a little gold, and the rush had been on. Cherry Creek, Georgetown, there was a whole string of brand-new gold camps growing like mushrooms along the headwaters of the South Platte and its many tributaries.