Colorado Sam (16 page)

   “Stay, Sam, stay.”

   The savage fierceness in the dog's eyes didn't alter, but his growling gradually diminished, as if he were debating whether or not he would compromise his loyalty to Alana if he obeyed Nathan. 

   “Stay, Sam, stay,” an encouraged Nathan repeated.

   Sam stopped growling, and seemingly satisfied Nathan was no threat to his prone mistress, jumped from the bed, lunged past Nathan, and settled to the floor just beyond the bedroom door, muzzle resting on crossed paws.

   Mary Zhang emptied her lungs, and Zeta, police revolver growing too heavy to hold, collapsed on the couch. “I'm ever that scared again, my heart will explode,” Mary Zhang predicted with a hollow laugh. “You suppose he'll let us wrap Alana's wound now?”

   Nathan holstered his Colt. “Just don't close the bedroom door. Long as he can see what's happening I think he'll let you fuss over her. We've not much time, Mrs. Zhang. Mr. Westfall has sent for a coffin.”

   Mary Zhang couldn't believe her ears. “What the dickens for? Alana's hurt and weak, but she ain't dead.”

   “So we can carry her to the station. We're leaving on the afternoon train. Mr. Westfall says she isn't safe in Creede.”

   “Hell's bells, nobody is,” Mary Zhang said. “But it appears arguing with your Mr. Westfall would be like trying to scratch your rump with your elbow. How long before that coffin arrives?” 

   “Less than an hour,” Nathan informed her. 

   “That's better than five minutes. Let's finish our work, Zeta.”

   Nathan plopped on the couch in place of Zeta. It was only noon and the heart-pounding excitement of the morning left him drained and bone-tired. He sat loose-limbed and relaxed, trying to figure how he could best keep Sam from interfering with the transporting of his mistress from Zhang's to the train station. 

   Sam displayed less hostility toward women than he did men. Yet for some reason he'd let Nathan and Ira carry Alana up the lobby stairs on the guest room door. A little thinking and Nathan concluded Sam responded of his own volition to any sign of distress on the part of his mistress. If he knew you, and if Alana didn't moan or call out, chances were he would tolerate your ministering to her, even physically moving her. 

   Nathan hoped he was right for Sam's sake. During his hospital stay after the mastiff had nearly torn off his leg, Ira Westfall had related that on more than one occasion he'd killed vicious dogs to make an arrest in the line of duty. And the forceful ex-policeman having decided Alana was to travel to Alamosa without delay, he wouldn't hesitate to dispose of Sam if the huge dog caused a ruckus. 

   Sooner beating later, Nathan ordered Sam to “Come.” The huge dog eyed him without lifting his muzzle from his paws. Nathan waited, and when Sam made no attempt to rise, he snapped his fingers, and said much more forcefully, “Come, Sam, come.”

   The finger snap and change in tone brought Sam to his haunches, and then to his feet. He padded over to Nathan and stopped an arm's length away, waiting for his next command. Nathan pointed to the floor at the end of the couch and ordered Sam to “Sit.” 

   Sam went to the designated spot and sank down, situated so he could watch Nathan, the bedroom door, and the hallway door. Nathan was delighted. He owed Sam. He owed him for that night in the Payne stable, and he owed him for helping drag Alana to safety this morning. He and the huge beast might never reach the hand licking and petting stage, but the odds had improved that he wouldn't ever have to tell his aunt she was safe, and then with the next breath tell her she'd lost Sam in the bargain, destroyed by one of her own people.

   He leaned his head against the backrest of the couch. He needed a quiet interlude to get a grip on himself. He was proud he hadn't failed Alana on the hotel porch, and he had more confidence in things now that Ira Westfall was in charge. Still, that didn't guarantee they could win out over Roan Buckman, his brothers, and their hired assassins.

   While stacking crates and boxes at the Tanner warehouse, he'd craved the action and adventure of his father's Colorado days with Uncle Seth. His father had spun wonderful tales, yarns full of cow thieves, smoking guns, and violent death in which the right-minded always won out. Those yarns lost their luster and thrill, though, when you were part of them. When you were involved, the loss of loved ones and the pain of injury numbed your feelings. The tension of not knowing what would happen the next minute dominated your every breath. Fear became as familiar as the sound of your own heartbeat. 

   A new longing beset him, a longing for the quiet, peaceful existence where his biggest worry was warehouse inventory and shipping customer orders on schedule, and his family was safe and secure and waiting to share dinner with him. 

   It was as his father said.

   It was a life worth fighting for...and dying for. 

   The knock at the door came just as Nathan, warm and relaxed, was about to doze off. Sam jumped to his feet and snarled. Mary Zhang spoke from the bedroom. “We've done our best. You can let them in, young man.”

   The hallway was stuffed with people, two of them night-gowned females with hair in disarray and cigars in their mouths. Ira called out, “Make way,” and nodded at Burt Dawes. “Let's get inside before we're trampled.”

   The plain wooden coffin cleared the doorway by an inch on either side. Nathan kept an eye on Sam. The big dog had positioned himself in front of the bedroom and continued to growl. Ira Westfall kicked the door shut behind him, and he and Burt lowered the coffin, which nearly filled the small parlor, to the floor. 

   Nathan sidled around the coffin and confronted Sam, knowing this was the moment of truth. He pointed to the spot Sam had vacated at the end of the couch. “Sit, Sam, sit!”

   Defiance humped Sam's back. Nathan held his ground and repeated his order, the huge dog finally relented. 

   Nathan turned to Ira. “He won't attack.”

   “Good,” Ira Westfall said, holstering his pistol. “I've never liked killing an animal for being loyal to its master.” 

   Nathan stepped aside so Ira could enter the bedroom. Mary Zhang was lying in wait for the ex-policeman. “You're taking a mighty big risk with this woman's life, you know,” she challenged. “If she dies, it's your cross to bear.”

   “And it would be a heavy one, Mrs. Zhang, along with many others,” Ira confessed. “Our chances of leaving Creede alive will be less the longer we wait. I want to be gone before the killers can regroup. They learn the law isn't hunting them, and it isn't from what I can tell, they'll start circling like wolves again.”

   A rustling on the bed drew everyone's attention. Alana Birdsong's voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Step closer.”

   Ira bent over the bed. “I'm Ira Westfall, Mrs. Tanner, and I'm taking you home to your ranch where we can protect you. That is, unless you object.”

   Alana's smile was fleeting. “I'll go. I must know how Nathan is?”

   Ira swept an arm in Nathan's direction. “He's right here, healthier than a well-fed horse.”

   “And Sam?”

   “He's here, too,” Ira said. “And you needn't worry he'll be on the train with you. I promise you that.”

   Given the rules of the Denver & Rio Grande, Nathan thought Ira's promise a little premature. But then, Ira Westfall wasn't a boastful individual. If he didn't have some scheme in mind that would finagle Sam aboard the train in broad daylight, he wouldn't make such a pledge, and Nathan couldn't deny it would be fun watching Ira try to buffalo a D&RG conductor that might well be Amos Longworth again.

   Ira was seated on Alana's bed now, derby hat resting discreetly on his thigh. “Mrs. Tanner, it may sound crazy, but you died an hour ago. We'll be carting the late Mrs. Tanner to the station in her coffin. Do you understand what I'm saying, ma'am?”

   Alana's attempt to laugh produced a wheezing squeak. “Yes, I'm to be buried so I can live.” 

   “We'll be as gentle as we can,” Ira said, squeezing Alana's limp fingers. “You mustn't cry out or make a sound until we're aboard the train.” Ira paused for a deep breath. “If Creede's to believe we're really carrying a funeral casket we'll have to close the lid. I know it's a lot to ask, yet there's no other way. We'll drill holes in the lid to give you plenty of air.”

   Ira paused again, letting Alana absorb what he was proposing. “Can you do this, ma'am?”

   Nathan could see only the top of Alana's head over Ira's shoulder. Her answer, a simple, “Yes,” was barely audible.

   The lump in Nathan's throat was big as a cue ball. Ira turned to Burt Dawes in the parlor. “Drill half dozen holes in that lid. Space them well apart. We don't want them to appear too obvious.”

   Burt began drilling with gusto, his brace and bit squealing with each rotation, while Ira discussed bedding with Mary Zhang. “The less we jostle her about, the better off she'll be. What do you two women suggest?”

   “Zeta, drop down to the store room behind the kitchen and fetch James' bed roll. And shut the door after you right quick,” Mary Zhang cautioned. “The gossip hounds are bound to be loafing in the hallway. A bunch of them are probably hoping to be hired as pallbearers. I always say anything for a buck in Creede.”

   Ira Westfall rubbed his chin as Zeta slipped through the parlor door. “Mrs. Zhang, you just solved a major problem for us. It's a considerable jaunt to the station through all that mud and snow. A few paid locals would lighten our burden and their talk in the saloons this evening will guarantee that if our bushwhackers miss the procession, they'll be hot after us on the next train.”

   “Is that what you want?” Mary Zhang questioned. “I thought you wanted to get Alana home safely ahead of everything else.”

   “I do. I also want Corbin and Hobie to run to Roan Buckman and demand their pay. He'll tell them the job's not finished until Nathan's dead, too. When they come after Nathan, I'll be waiting for them.”

   “That sounds damn risky to me, if you'll forgive my language. You're using that young man for bait,“ Mary Zhang accused, pointing at Nathan. “Why not let the Alamosa police hunt them down?”

  “Oh, they'll be there, too,” Ira assured Mary Zhang. “I'll allow no harm to befall the son of Lucius Tanner, or his aunt for that matter.”

   A soft tapping on the parlor door heralded the return of Zeta. Nathan cracked the door for her, and then closed it behind her. Mary Zhang grasped the Artic sleeping bag Zeta had lugged up the stairs and unrolled it on the bed beside Alana. The bag, made of heavy waterproof, tan-colored duck, was lined first with sheepskin with the wool left on. Inside the sheepskin was a second lining of heavy twilled cotton. “We'll wrap you in a blanket, Alana,” said Mary Zhang. “You won't need your mackinaw. James slept through a blizzard in this bag after his horse went over the edge of a cliff.”

   “How you coming, Burt?” Ira asked.

   “I'm drilling the last hole.”

    Ira tugged a gold watch from a vest pocket. “Not bad. We've ninety minutes before the train leaves. Mrs. Zhang, do you need help with Mrs. Tanner?”

   “Yes, I have need of you, Nathan, and Burt.”

   The paleness of Alana's face shocked Nathan. Her eyes were dull and her lips thin, the consequence of constant pain. But she smiled weakly and bore up like a trooper. She didn't so much as whimper when they slid her into the sleeping bag. 

   “You're a tough lady, my girl. Damned if I don't think you'll survive just to spite those murdering bastards,” Mary Zhang said. “And I ain't apologizing for my language neither, Ira Westfall.” 

   “No call to,” Ira said. “We ready for the box?”

   Mary Zhang studied the wooden coffin. “Believe some extra padding might be in order. Zeta, bring the pillows from the bed and the hamper.”

   Mary Zhang and Zeta lined the coffin with feather pillows, leaving a hollow in the center for its occupant. “That'll keep her from rolling side to side,” Mary Zhang observed. She nodded, and with Nathan gripping Alana's shoulders, Ira her hips, and Burt Dawes her legs, they lowered her into the coffin. 

   An alert Sam watched their every move, but obeyed Nathan's command to “Stay.” Once Alana was resting on the pillows, the huge dog moved alongside the coffin, paused near her head, and licked her cheek. 

   Despite her pain, Alana managed another weak smile. “Good boy. Go with Nathan.” 

   Nathan had come to appreciate that her command to “Go” with someone else effectively transferred control of Sam to that person. Sure enough, Sam stepped away from the coffin and sat at Nathan's feet. 

   Ira and Burt Dawes hefted the lid of the coffin. “You'll have plenty of air, Mrs. Tanner, and don't forget we'll take this off as soon as we're aboard the train.”

   Zeta couldn't keep her hand from flying to her mouth as the lid thunked home. Mary Zhang glowered at Ira. “Your fool idea doesn't pan out, you won't be safe anywhere.”

   Ira grinned as if he'd received the finest of compliments, winked, and opened the parlor door. The eyes of the onlookers widened at the sight of the closed coffin.   Those possessing an innate respect for the dead doffed their hats. One of the nightgowned, disheveled ladies of the night hid her cigar behind her hip. 

   “We're taking the remains of Mrs. Tanner to Alamosa on the afternoon train,” Ira announced. The ex-policeman pushed a finger at the six biggest males in the crowd. “I need pallbearers. I'll pay five dollars to each of you, if you're sober and have sound backs.” The three men bobbed their heads. “You're hired. Wait in the lobby.”

   Ira took the bottom of the coffin and Nathan the top. They descended the narrow stairs without a hitch, Nathan pondering how scary it must be imprisoned in a wooden box with your fate in the hands of others. In the lobby, Ira detailed the six men he'd hired to opposite sides of the coffin, and with Sam snarling and growling in front of them, the crowd parted and they gained the street. There the sight of a funeral possession slowed the rush of shoed and hoofed traffic and they were given a wide berth. 

   Eight inches of fresh, sunlit snow overlaid Creede's canvas and board stores, temporarily diminishing the mining camp's raw ugliness. Creede Avenue was a morass of crusty, pulverized slush. Ira maintained an even pace, which enabled the pallbearers to hold the casket as steady as possible. Nathan couldn't keep from dwelling on how Alana had to be biting her lip and wincing at the slightest bump or dip. 

   The customer line at the boxcar serving as the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad ticket office was three bodies wide and twenty yards deep. Nathan worried there wouldn't be any tickets left by the time they reached the window. 

   “Make for the express car, gentlemen,” Ira instructed his pallbearers. 

   The express car was at the head of train behind the coal tender. With everyone in the rail yard staring and gaping, for not many of the dead left Creede for burial elsewhere, they crossed the tracks and lowered the coffin to the ground before the sliding door of the express car. 

   Ira stepped forward and pounded on the door with the butt of his revolver. A chubby face appeared in the barred window of the express car. Glimpsing Ira and his drawn gun, the owner of the face shook his head, signaling he had no intention of opening the door, and ducked out of sight. Undaunted, Ira began pounding in earnest. 

   “Here, stop that damn fool nonsense!”

   Sam whirled and growled. Nathan expected the speaker to be the conductor or the engineer. It was a lean, towering man instead. The man was so tall he appeared to be walking on stilts. Any resemblance he had to a circus performer ended there. Serious eyes peered from beneath his black range hat and the Silver Star pinned to the wide lapel of his canvas coat sparkled in the autumn sunlight. A double-barreled shotgun rode comfortably in the crook of his left arm. 

“Keep that beast off me or else,” the towering stork warned, aiming the shotgun in Sam's direction. “I'm Marshal Blue Arnett. What are you men up to?”

   Metal scratched against stiff leather as Ira opened his sack coat and holstered his pistol. “Keep Sam quiet, Nathan. Marshal, I need passage for this coffin. I believe they're permitted to travel in the express car.”

   “That depends entirely on the Denver and Rio Grande. Got any paperwork granting you or that box permission to board?”

   “No, I don't,” Ira admitted. “That's where I need your help.”

   The marshal's laugh was a high-pitched cackle. “I ain't putting my self contrary-wise to the Denver and Rio Grande for no reason, mister. They don't brook nonsense from nobody. They'd have my badge.”

   Nathan groaned. All their effort was for naught. They might be days securing the consent of the railroad. In the meantime, they couldn't obtain medical treatment for Alana without word of their deception leaking to the populace of Creede. One summoning of the doctor to treat a dead person would be their undoing. Ellie Langston and Alamosa seemed a million miles away.

   Ira Westfall withdrew a metal object from his coat pocket. “Marshal, I'm Detective Ira Westfall of the St. Louis Police Department. I'm escorting the body of Mrs. Seth Tanner to Alamosa for burial. Two men I trailed here murdered her a few hours ago. The same two men murdered Nathan's father in St. Louis a few weeks ago. I need your help to trap them and have them arrested.”

   It was too much for Blue Arnett to grasp. He was accustomed to mining camp disturbances best resolved with a shotgun and brute force, not complicated murder plots stretching across three states. “Mister, I'm fresh off a two-day ride after a thief and I don't appreciate having my leg pulled.”

   Ira Westfall showed his palms. “Stand easy, Marshal,” he said, fishing in a coat pocket for his leather purse. He counted out six five dollar gold pieces and gave one to each of the hired pallbearers. “Gentlemen, I much appreciate your assistance. Go enjoy yourselves.” 

   Ira waited for the pallbearers to cross the tracks, and then addressed Blue Arnett. “Marshal, now that there are no big ears around, let me explain our situation. Mrs. Tanner's not really dead.”

   Anger hardened Blue Arnett's gray eyes, the skin of his throat reddened, and he swung the shotgun to cover Ira. “Mister, you just won today's grand prize—a night in jail for you and your two friends.”