Ralph Compton The Convict Trail (17 page)

“Lorraine,” he said softly, “I'll find them. And they'll hang, I promise you.”

The woman laid her head on Kane's shoulder and dissolved into tears. Time seemed to be standing still for the tall marshal, and the wide land around him held its breath and made no sound.

Chapter 18

Logan Kane had buried Barnabas deeper; and when he asked Lorraine if she wanted to say the words, she shook her head and answered, “I have nothing to say.”

The marshal couldn't let it go, not like that. “Ma'am, he was your man. And he had sand. He proved that at the end.”

“Then you've said all that needs to be said. Let that be his epitaph. ‘He had sand.' ”

“Hard, ma'am. Mighty harsh.”

“And you know nothing of hardness and harshness, Marshal Kane? You who has put a dozen men in the ground?”

There was a time, a recent time, when Kane would have defended himself. But he knew what the woman had just said was true, and he'd no longer use lies to protect himself from the truth.

He threw down his shovel and walked to the wagon. Every scrap of food was gone, and with it the coffee.

Lorraine was staring at him. “They didn't find it, if that's what you're looking for.”

“You mean the money Barnabas killed to get? He took it from a man who stole it in New Orleans?”

“Then you know the whole story?”

“Three men rode into my camp, brothers by the name of Provanzano. They want their money back. I think one of them may have saved my life when he shot a gunfighting man off me.” He smiled. “I think they planned to keep me alive, hoping I'd lead them to you.”

“And that's what you've done, you think?”

“You asked me, so I'll say yeah, I reckon it could shape up that way.”

The woman was quiet, turning something over in her mind. Then she said, “Those men are Mafia. Have you ever heard of that? It's a crime organization in New Orleans immigrants brought with them, from a place called Sicily, I think. Barnabas, when he thought on it and got scared to death about what he'd done, told me the Mafia never forgets harm done to them—never. The other side of the coin is that they never fail to repay a favor either.”

“The Provanzanos look like dangerous men, Lorraine, men who would go about a killin' as just taking care of necessary business.”

“You're right, Marshal. Murder is a big part of their business, along with bribery and corruption. Barnabas said that was how they took over the New Orleans docks and then the police department and city hall.”

“Barnabas never looked to me like he was running scared.”

“Oh but he was. That's why he wanted to lose himself in the Indian Territory where the Mafia couldn't find him.”

“He could have given the money back.”

“A crippled man who made his living as a hangman and had killed for thirty thousand dollars doesn't return money willingly. He told me it was ours, for a new life together. He said in the future the hangings would only be something extra, a thing he'd do for the fun of it. Barnabas loved to see fear in other men's eyes when he put the noose around their necks. He was cruel, in the way a cat tormenting a mouse is cruel.”

“Right nice feller,” Kane said without a trace of humor.

“Barnabas Hook was a killer hiding behind the law,” Lorraine said. She hesitated only a moment, looking at Kane, then shrugged. “There are a lot of those around.”

If that was a barb directed at him, the marshal let it go. “Did you know he killed a man for the money?”

“Of course I knew, but only after the killing was done.” A small anger in her eyes, Lorraine said, “Yes, I could have left him then. But go where?”

Kane's eyes moved to Nellie, who was now sitting on the grass, watching them. “It might have been better if you had,” he said. He waited for an answer and when none was forthcoming, he said, “Where is the money?”

“In the wagon. It has a false bottom.”

“We'll take it with us. When the Provanzano brothers catch up to us I'll give it to them and hope they just ride away.”

Lorraine shrugged. “As you wish.”

“You're not going to protest?”

“Why should I? It's blood money and I want no part of it.”

 

The money, all in high-denomination bills, was where Lorraine had said it would be, stuffed into a burlap sack hidden under the wagon's false bottom.

Kane transferred the sack to the prison wagon, then unhitched the mustang. He turned both horses onto good grass near the creek, then set about building a fire.

Nellie watched him intently and after the fire was lit, he smiled and held up a piece of wood. “I need more firewood,” he said. “Can you get me some, Nellie?”

The girl understood. She got to her feet and began to hunt among the trees for fallen branches. The marshal nodded to himself, looking at the girl. It was a start.

He rooted around and found some wild onions and cow parsnip, stripping off the tender, smaller leaves and flower stems. The bottom stalk of the plant was used by Indians as a salt substitute and this he cut up into tiny pieces.

Stringfellow and his looters had overlooked a skillet in the Hook wagon, and in this Kane prepared a stew of venison, onions and parsnip and set it on the fire to cook.

They ate from the skillet just as the day was shading into night, sharing Kane's knife to spear the sizzling meat. Nellie stayed close to her mother, but she ate with an appetite and the marshal considered that another good sign.

The night was cool and they slept close to the fire. Kane had gotten his blanket from his bedroll, covered Lorraine and Nellie, then lay on his back, his head on his saddle, smoking, looking at the stars. The plains to the west were a dusky purple, bladed by moonlight, and the creek ran over its pebbled bottom, chuckling at stories told by the wind. Kane closed his eyes and slept.

He dreamed of his mother. She stood in the shadows, just beyond the reach of the firelight, her arms stretched out to him. He smelled the lavender water she always wore and saw her pale lips move.

“You left us, Logan. Come back for us, Son, come back.”

“I'll find you, Ma,” he said. “I'll bury you decent.”

A great wind rose and his mother slowly shredded into the darkness, streaming piece by piece away, like a tattered banner.

“I'll find you, Ma, I swear it,” Kane whispered.

The smell of lavender water lingered sweet in the air. He slept on. . . .

Logan Kane woke with a start, but remained still, listening into the night, alert for any sound. What had wakened him? Kane dropped his eyes to the fire. It had burned down to dull red coals and he estimated he'd been asleep for only a couple hours. Far off, coyotes were yipping, but that was a small, remembered noise that had not entered his subconscious.

Something, like an invisible finger tapping on his shoulder, was putting Kane on edge. But the darkness pushed against him and would not reveal its secrets readily. He sat up, put on his hat and rose to his feet, bending to pick up the rifle that had been lying beside him. He tossed some small twigs and pieces of tree bark onto the fire, then added a few thicker branches.

Kane backed out of the firelight and drifted into the trees beside the creek. He stopped and listened. The wind played in the branches, the creek babbled and the moon picked out runnels of white water. The night was assuring him that it harbored no threat; yet the marshal's mouth was dry and he felt jittery.

What was out there?

Kane picked his way through the cottonwoods, walking south. He crossed a treacherous stretch of open ground, splashed with moonlight, then with relief entered trees again. He was a ways from camp now and had seen nothing. The marshal was angry at himself. He was acting like an old lady, afraid of every rustle in the bushes.

Then he heard the scream—a woman's shriek, quickly muffled.

Kane's instinct was to run back to the camp, but he forced himself to walk slowly through the trees, rifle crossed over his chest at the ready. He stumbled into a patch of Texas prickly pear, and a thorny pad scraped cruelly across the front of his wounded thigh. The marshal bit back a cry of pain, but, no matter, he had been heard.

A yell came from the darkness ahead of him. “Come on in, Kane. Quickly now, damn you, or I'll scatter the woman's brains.”

He knew the voice. It was Joe Foster. Kane hesitated. Were the others with him?

Foster answered his question, or appeared to. “You got no call to be scared, Kane. I'm alone.”

“Where's Stringfellow?” Right then the marshal didn't care about a reply. He was playing for time, trying to discover if Foster was alone as he claimed.

“He ain't here. It's only me an' me's enough. You quit bein' a yellow-bellied cur an' come on in now, or I'll kill the woman and the kid.”

“I'm comin' in,” Kane said.

“You ain't got an old man and a woman to hide behind, Kane,” Foster yelled. There was a laugh in his voice. “I'm gonna kill you fer sure and enjoy doing it.”

Kane stepped into camp. Foster stood a few steps beyond the fire, his arm around Lorraine's throat. He held a Smith & Wesson .38 to her head, presumably the one he and the others had taken from Hook's wagon.

Nellie sat on the ground, her scared eyes on Foster. Kane didn't know, or care to know, what the man had done to her, but the girl was terrified. She remembered.

“Drop the rifle, Kane. Throw it away from you,” Foster said.

The marshal did as he was told. “Let the woman go,” he said. “Your fight is with me.”

Foster giggled. “You're so right, Mary Ann.” He threw Lorraine away from him. She sprawled on the ground and Nellie immediately ran to her. The man's gun was steady on Kane's belly. “Now it's just between me an' you.”

“Drop the iron, Joe,” the marshal said. “There's no need for killing here.” The thought flashed into his head that he wasn't afraid, but he knew he should be. Foster was said to be fast and the ranger had told him he'd killed six men. He was no bargain. “Go with me to Fort Smith, peaceable like, an' take your medicine.”

“Damn you, Kane, I'm going nowhere with you on account of how I plan on killing you. Look what you done to my face. I ain't pretty for the whores no more.”

Foster was right about that, Kane decided. His kick had smashed the man's cheekbone, and his left eye socket looked deformed, giving him a strange, wall-eyed look.

“I regret that, Joe,” Kane said with as much sincerity as he could muster. “I'm not like that no more.”

“You're yeller, Kane, just like I always knew you were.”

The Smith spun in Foster's hand, its blue barrel catching the gleam of firelight. The gun slammed into his palm and he shoved it into the waistband of his ragged pants.

Kane recognized the fancy work for what it was, a grandstand play meant to impress and intimidate a scared man. It was the action of a wannabe, not a professional. Foster had killed seven men, or so he claimed, but what manner of men were they? One way to run up a score and gain a reputation was to gun drunks, scared married men and green farm boys. Flashy Joe Foster seemed the type.

He was talking war talk again, grinning. “I always knew I was faster than you, Kane. Now I plan on proving it, to you, to me, to the whole damned world.”

The marshal was aware of the frightened faces of Lorraine and Nellie, staring at him. “Joe I don't want to kill you,” he said. “You can back away from this.”

“Let's see what you got, Kane,” Foster said. “When this is over I plan to walk a wide path. Men will look at me and say, ‘That there is the man who killed Logan Kane.' Why, folks will come from miles around and . . .”

A talking man, Joe Foster went on and on, but all Kane's talk was done. There was no way out of this and he knew it. He'd experienced similar scenes too many times in the past. Now all that was left to him was to—

Draw and fire.

If Foster saw it coming, he didn't show it by making much of a play. His hand had just closed on the handle of his revolver when Kane's bullet hit him square in the chest.

Foster staggered from the impact of the hit and took a step back. His shocked eyes wide, he was a man who had just wakened to a terrible reality. . . . He was still on his feet but was already a dead man.

The gunman tried to lift his revolver, but the gun seemed too heavy for him. He dropped to one knee and rested the Smith on his crooked left arm, desperately working to bring the weapon to bear.

Kane held his fire. The kid was game and he didn't want to put another bullet into him.

Foster fired, then fired again. A bullet whiffed past Kane's ear and the second kicked up a startled exclamation point of dirt at his feet. The man screamed, not from fear but from rage and frustration. His eyes lifted to the marshal's face. “Only the devil is that fast,” he gasped, blood red on his lips. Then he pitched forward onto his face, and all that had been Joe Foster was gone.

Kane punched the empty shell from his Colt and reloaded from his belt. He shoved the gun into the holster and stood, a tall man, terrible in the darkness, his head bent as though in prayer.

There was no end to it. No matter how he tried, there would be no end to killing. For as long as he wore Judge Parker's star on his belt he would be trapped in an endless cycle of violence. “I don't send lambs after coyotes,” the old judge had told him when he signed on. “It takes violent men to stand up to violent men. That, my young friend, is unfortunate, but, alas, it is the way of things.”