Dead of Winter (2 page)

  Maybe he shouldn't get all that drunk tonight.

  The Pioneer greeted him with a jingle from the doorbell and a warm rush of air. The familiar smells of coffee, spirits, and sweat blended into a single fragrance as Jack took in the saloon's afternoon lull. A few miners stood at the bar, getting an early start on their drinking. Two had their backs to the door, staring into their whiskey between gulps. Another at the end faced the room, both elbows planted on the bar. Drops of liquor clung to the man's beard like beads of dew on a grizzly's fur. The only other patrons sat around a game of poker at one of the rough-hewn pine tables, talking and laughing as they studied the cards in front of their faces.

  "Afternoon, deputy," Boots said as Jack walked up to the bar. "Nothing else to worry about in here."

  "I'm off duty, Boots," Jack replied, making sure the others at the bar could hear him.

  "Good." The bartender set a glass of whiskey in front of the deputy, a grin on his round face. "This one's on the house. Payment for them thugs you and Mart ran off earlier."

  Jack picked up the glass, nodded his thanks, and threw it back. The alcohol left a burning trail through his chest down into his stomach. Eyes closed, he relished the feeling for a moment, then he looked at the bartender and grinned.

  "Ain't seen no lawman enjoy his whiskey like you, Jack," Boots said, refilling the glass.

  "I deserve it today," the deputy replied. An image from the clearing sprang into his mind, the sight of red guts hanging from a branch, and his face grew serious. He'd seen plenty of gunshot wounds, frostbite, and mining accidents; they came with the territory out here. Hell, he'd seen a man's brains get blown out not more than a month after signing on as a deputy. The sight had turned his stomach, but it hadn't burrowed into his memory like this. Shaking his head, he drained his glass, hoping to burn the images from his mind.

  "As I see it, you deserve it most every day," the bartender said, leaning against the rack of bottles behind the bar. "Dealing with this lot day in and day out would drive any man to drinking."

  Jack replied with a cold grin. He could see the bartender's bald spot in the mirror above the bar. Despite his age, Boots seemed sure of himself among the miners, thugs, and other residents of Leadville. Then again, he'd stood behind the Pioneer's bar in the same black militaryissue boots for longer than Jack knew. No matter how disheveled the rest of him might be, Boots always kept those boots shiny and clean. A proper tribute to his days in the service, he said, but he refused to elaborate whenever Jack pressed him for details. Every once in awhile, the miners would get to speculating on the nature of that service as they drank away the day. Some said he was Custer himself in hiding, waiting for the day when he would announce his return and sweep away the rest of the Indian nations. Others, spurred on by the fact that nobody knew his real name, said that Boots was a deserter hiding from the government. Still others figured Boots had gotten his balls shot off in some battle and resigned in shame. Nobody knew for sure, and the bartender never offered to shed any light on their speculation. Ignorance was good for business, he claimed.

  The bell over the door made a pitiful jingle. Glancing over his shoulder, Jack watched the newcomer make his way over to the card table. The man kept the wide brim of his hat pulled low. A few at the table seemed to know him and called out a greeting. The stranger responded with a silent wave and pulled up a chair.

  "That one looks like trouble," Boots said, refilling Jack's glass.

  "Why's that?"

  "No respect. Bastard just waltzes in here and plants his ass for a round of cards without buying so much as a cup of joe."

  Jack's third glass flowed down his throat. Potent as it was, the whiskey wasn't going to work fast enough to suit his need. Gray light from the saloon's windows winked at him from the empty glass, pulling him back into the early morning hours and the sharp scent of blood.

  "If that's the worst of your problems, you got it easy," Jack muttered, not looking up. "Hell, I'd take a hundred angry miners screaming for my blood and call myself lucky if I never had to cross paths with that monster that did those wolfers in." Catching himself, he drew a quick breath and looked up, afraid he had let the secret slip, but Boots had moved to the other end of the bar. Relieved, Jack let the breath out and glanced at himself in the mirror.

  The stranger was standing behind him.

  The shock slammed into his ribs. He whirled around, his hand flying to the butt of his six-gun, but the stranger didn't flinch. The man's buffalo hide coat stayed wrapped around his small frame, and his hands rested at his sides. Jack couldn't see any iron on him, although he wore a leather rifle sheath across his back. All he could see of the man's face was his mouth, small and twisted into a mocking grin. Without a word, the stranger stepped up to the bar and rapped it with his knuckles.

  Jack let himself relax, his hand dropping away from his gun. This close, he could see the man's rifle sheath in greater detail. The leather was old but well-oiled, marking a long and friendly relationship with the gunman. The stranger was shorter than the deputy, his profile hidden by the brim of his hat. A dark braid tied with a simple strand of twine ended halfway down the man's back.

  The stranger rapped on the bar a second time, and Boots hurried over. "What will you have?"

  "Whiskey. The good stuff," came the reply, followed by the clinking of two silver dollars on the bar. The bartender nodded and scooped up the coins. As the black boots disappeared into the storeroom, Jack almost laughed out loud. The voice had been low and quick, but there was no mistaking it: the stranger next to him, who had scared the daylights out of him not a minute before, was a woman. A chuckle escaped his lips as he fingered his glass.

  "Nothing funny about an empty glass, deputy," she said as Boots returned with a clay jug.

  "No, ma'am," Jack agreed, lifting it up. "Take care of it, Boots."

  "Give him a drop or two of the good stuff, Boots," the stranger said, sliding a few more coins toward the bartender. Boots grinned and filled Jack's glass from the jug. Jack brought it up to his nose and drew in the aroma: strong and full-bodied. He'd never had the money to sample the Pioneer's private collection himself, but he never turned down a free drink. Smiling, he lifted his glass to the woman beside him.

  "To the good stuff!"

  Glass clinked against glass, and the good stuff filled Jack's chest with fire. Eyes closed, he allowed a stupid grin to bloom beneath his mustache. He took a deep breath, then clapped the stranger on the back.

  "Much obliged, ma'am! That was a treat."

  "Go on, have another," she said, giving Boots a nod.

  Jack lifted the refilled glass to his lips. "Well, ain't you generous? Anything I might do to repay the favor?"

  "I ain't looking for much," the stranger replied, running her fingers along the rim of her glass. "I'm just a mite curious about that monster you mentioned earlier."

 

Mart Duggan shut the door of the marshal's office, leaving Victor Sanchez and George Murray in charge of the midnight watch. Pulling his coat closed, he heaved a sigh and stepped into the snow-covered street. The livery's lantern winked at him from across the street, burning a pale yellow against the cold night. He could almost feel his wife's hands on his shoulders, working out the knots in his muscles in front of a crackling fire. Shaking his head against the morning's carnage, the marshal crunched across the snow toward home. The night was crisp and quiet out on the streets, but he could sense trouble brewing behind the town's walls. He would've been up for a good fight any other night, but tonight he hoped his deputies could keep a lid on things. Tonight, all he wanted was a good sleep to put some distance between himself and the day's events.

  "You might want to teach that deputy of yours how to keep his mouth shut, marshal."

  The voice came from a dark alley to his right. Duggan turned and pulled his Colt in a single motion. The night air resounded with the metallic click of the gun's hammer.

  "Hey, now, no need for all that." A slim figure in a wide-brimmed hat stepped into the moonlight, hands raised. "Just wanted to have a word with you before you tuck in."

  Duggan's temper flared, but he forced himself to lower his gun. "What about?"

  "I hear tell you and your deputy had some trouble this morning." Her voice was calm as she leaned against a hitching post and crossed her arms. "Your man Jack seemed pretty shook up about it, and there ain't much as can shake up a Leadville lawman."

  "That son of a bitch," Duggan said, shaking his head. "I tell him to keep quiet and he shoots his mouth off to the first woman he meets."

  "Can't say I didn't help loosen his tongue a bit," she replied. "Good whiskey sure works wonders on a man."

  "Well, ma'am, I appreciate you telling me about my wayward deputy. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's a bit chilly out and I've had a long day." Duggan holstered his gun. Something about the woman bothered him, and he didn't want to lose his temper. Tipping his hat to her, he turned toward home.

  Her voice brought him up short. "I imagine you'd sleep a lot better knowing what killed those men this morning."

  "And I suppose you know?" he asked without turning.

  "Ain't got a clue."

  Duggan's fists clenched as he whirled on the woman. A few strides brought them inches apart. "Then don't waste my time," he said, his breath covering her face.

  The stranger met the marshal's cold blue eyes with a calm stare. "Wouldn't dream of it. Fact is, I'm looking to save you some. You're a busy man and ain't got the time to be chasing down spooks, am I right?"

  "Who said it was spooks?"

  "You ain't no fool, marshal," she replied. "You know damn well that wasn't no bear that killed those men."

  Surprised, Duggan took a step back, his gaze falling to the snow on his boots. This woman, whoever she was, didn't seem like a fool, either. He hated drawing in outside help, but she was right. He didn't have time for spook hunting with all of his regular duties as Leadville marshal, and he didn't want to risk sending one of his deputies after something that dangerous. Problem was, he didn't know this woman from Eve. She could have butchered the wolfers herself for all he knew. Still, if she could really take care of the problem, he'd be a fool to turn her down.

  After a long silence, his blue eyes came back up to her face. "So what do you want from me?"

 
 

 
 
 

From atop Our Lady of Virginia, Cora Oglesby surveyed what remained of the scene. Above them, the noonday sun filtered through the evergreens, dappling the mare's chestnut coat. Our Lady snorted and flicked an ear. Despite the marshal's warnings of carnage, both horse and rider were unconcerned by the clearing spread out before them.

  Then again, there wasn't much to be concerned about.

  Cora pounded the saddle horn and cursed. "That Mart Duggan is a damn fool," she said.

  "How's that?" Ben asked, nudging his gelding up beside her to see for himself.

  "If he'd led us out here when we first asked him to, there might have been something to see," she said. "A trail of blood, or footprints, or some leftover guts, or something. But no, he has us sit in our hotel room a full week while he runs our story past that good-for-nothing sheriff Jim Barnes. 'Can't associate with no criminals,' he says while he lets the real monster just slip away."

  "No use worrying about that now," Ben said.

  "I'll fret about it if I want to." Cora sighed and dismounted.

  She gave Our Lady a pat on the neck, then looked up at her husband. "Don't fall asleep, now."

  Ben nodded. Cora pulled her rifle from the saddle scabbard and stepped toward the clearing. Scavengers had picked the area clean, leaving only a few rust-colored stains behind. She made a full circle around the area without finding much of anything. Another sigh filled the cold air around her. If only they could have gotten here sooner. Still, even with the scavenger's tracks, she could tell that nothing big enough to kill the wolfers had been through the clearing. It was as if the men just vanished in a bloody mist.

  She was intrigued.

  A crow's call broke the silence. Cora scowled up at the interruption. The black bird perched about fifteen feet above her head, its feathers gleaming in a patch of sunlight. It crowed again, turning to stare at her through one beady black eye. She considered blowing the smug look off of its face with her rifle, then thought better of it. Her bullets were too valuable to waste on animals, no matter how irritating they might be.

  Rocks, however, were much cheaper. She slipped the rifle into her shoulder scabbard, knelt down and began digging through the snow. She rejected several stones before finding one that felt right. Standing up, she was glad to see that the offending bird hadn't moved from its perch. She smiled and drew her arm back, ready to see feathers fly, when she noticed something.

  "Hey, Ben," she said over her shoulder, "come have a look at this."

  Ben tossed his reins onto a nearby branch and walked up next to her. "What am I looking at?"

  Cora pointed at the crow's perch. The branch the bird sat on was broken, jutting out from the pine's trunk like a snapped bone. From what she could see, the break was still white and clean. A single black feather drifted down and settled on the snow at the tree's base. Acting on instinct, Cora walked over and picked it up. It was about as long as her gloved hand and boasted a glossy sheen, but there wasn't anything unusual about it.

  Frustrated, she let the feather drop from her fingers. It floated off to her left, lighting on a branch sticking out from the snow. Cora's brow furrowed as she leaned down for a closer look. The scent of pine sap drifted up to meet her from the fresh break in the wood. She lifted the branch out of the drift, grunting from the effort. Shaking the snow from its needles, she hoisted it upright and leaned it against the tree's trunk. The branch was nearly as tall as she was and too thick for the fingers of one hand to wrap around.