Ralph Compton The Convict Trail (23 page)

“Friendly place,” Vito said, eyeing the gallows as he and Kane left the bridge and splashed through the mud of the street.

“I've been here only oncet,” the marshal said, “an' that was in summer. Didn't look near so bad then.”

“Making up for it now though, huh?”

“I can't disagree with that. But if they have decent grub and hot coffee, my opinion of Baines Flat might improve considerable.”

They rode into the livery stable and dismounted. Apart from a few leaks in the roof, the stable was relatively dry and smelled of horses, dung and old leather. A wide-shouldered man dressed in buck-skins walked out of the shadows, and it took a minute for Kane to realize he was in fact a woman. Lank, blond hair fell over her shoulders, spilling from under a battered felt hat. She wore a holstered Colt on one hip and a huge bowie knife on the other. Her brown face was traced by wrinkles from the sun, but her blue eyes were bright and friendly.

“Stalls for a couple of days, hay an' oats if you got them,” Kane said.

As rain ticked from the top of the door, the woman looked the marshal over, from the toes of his scuffed boots to the top of his hat. Then her eyes flicked to Vito.

“You boys need a bath and a shave,” she said. “Winded you as soon as you rode inside. I said to myself, I said, ‘Katie, look what the cat just drug in.' ”

“The bath can wait,” Kane said. “Right now we need a place to put up our horses, then get grub an' coffee.”

“Suit yourself. It will cost you two bits a night, including the oats. That's each. You fellers got two bits?”

Nettled, Vito snapped, “Madam, where I come from, we don't stop to pick up two bits lying on the sidewalk.”

“Took ye fer some kind of Eastern dude,” the woman said.

Vito drew himself up to his full height. “Madam, I'm from New Orleans, the fair magnolia of the Southern cities.”

The woman called Katie screwed up her face, as though deep in thought. “Nope,” she said finally, “I've studied on it, but I don't recollect that I've ever shot anybody from New Orleans.”

Kane grinned. “Pay the lady, Vito.”

Vito dropped four silver dollars into Katie's open palm. “Tell me when we've gone through that.”

The woman looked at Kane. “It ain't none of my business, but I'd say you boys are here for the hanging tomorrow.”

“First I've heard.” The marshal was surprised. “You got law here?”

Katie shook her head. “Ain't no law in Baines Flat. Well, unless you count Hulin Green. He kinda keeps the peace around here.”

Kane was surprised a second time. “You talkin' about Hulin Green out of Wichita?”

“He rode into town about six months ago on a played-out hoss. That's all I can tell you.”

“Big feller, wears his hair long an' has a red beard down to his belt buckle.”

Katie shook her head. “That don't sound like Hulin.”

Vito looked at Kane. “Do you know this man?”

“I've heard of him. Robbed banks and stage-coaches for a while, then became a lawman. Last I heard he was a peace officer in Wichita. He's good with a gun an' he's killed his share.”

“This man who's gettin' hung,” Kane said to Katie, “he get a fair trial?”

The woman laughed. “Bless your heart, stranger, Frank Dawson didn't need a fair trial or any other kind. He was caught red-handed.”

“How did it come up?”

“We had a gal here in town, name of Lily LaBelle, at least that's what she called herself. She hung out at the Bucket of Blood and entertained the miners in a shack out back, and anybody else who had two dollars. Well, four days ago she was found strangled. Hulin Green caught Frank Dawson here at the livery stable, trying to steal a hoss. When Hulin searched him, he found Lily's silver locket, garter and gold ring in his pocket.”

“Katie, were you here when Green caught Dawson?”

The woman looked hard at Kane, apparently wondering why he was so interested in the murder of a two-dollar whore. “No, that night I was over to the hotel, eating supper.”

“So we have only Hulin Green's word for it.”

“His word is good enough for this town,” Katie said. “That's why we're hanging Dawson tomorrow. Lily was way past her best and after Baines Flat her next stop would've been a hog ranch, but, even so, she didn't deserve to die the way she did.” The woman rubbed the velvety nose of Vito's horse. “Don't feel bad about Dawson, Mister. He's always been strange, a bit tetched in the head, you might say.”

“He deserved a fair trial nonetheless,” Kane said.

“He won't get it, not around here. We don't have a judge,” Katie said.

“Marshal, I'm sure in need of coffee,” Vito said.

And Kane threw him a look.

Katie was taken aback. “Hell, have I been standing here talking to a man pinned to a tin star?”

“I'm afraid so,” Kane said. He pulled back his slicker. “Name's Deputy Marshal Logan Kane out of Judge Isaac Parker's court with jurisdiction over the Indian Territory.” He smiled. “Since we're in the Territory, that would make me the law in Baines Flat.”

Katie's jaw dropped in her long face. “Here, what are you planning, Marshal?”

“I'm takin' Dawson back to Fort Smith to stand trial for murder.”

The woman was dismayed. “What's it to you? He's as guilty as hell and he done it here, so let him swing here.”

Kane nodded. “Maybe a couple of weeks ago, I'd have done just that,” he said. “Now I've come to realize . . . well, I don't know . . . maybe I've come to realize that I'm a sworn peace officer and I should start behavin' like one.”

Katie's tone was skeptical. “You gonna start behavin' like a peace officer around Hulin Green?”

“I guess so.”

“He'll take it hard, an' when Hulin takes things hard it always leads to a killing.”

Kane shrugged. “I'm the law. I'll tell him that an' it will make a difference.”

“Not to Hulin's way of thinking, it won't.”

Katie led the horses to stalls at the rear of the barn and Kane followed her. For a few moments he watched her expertly unsaddle the sorrel, then said, “If five men and a woman with a young daughter ride in, let me know right away, huh?”

“Are they outlaws? If they are, they might be friends of mine,” Katie said.

“I doubt it. Ever hear of Buff Stringfellow an' Jack Henry?”

“Can't say I have,” Katie said.

“Then they ain't friends o' your'n,” Kane said.

“And the gals?”

“They're friends of mine.”

Katie thought it through. Kane could hear wind-driven rain raking across the roof.

“I'll let you know,” the woman said finally.

“You won't mistake Stringfellow and his men. One of them will be riding a Percheron and one of them”—he held up his right thumb—“is missing this.”

“From the war?”

“No, from me.”

Katie began to fork hay to the horses and Kane said, “The girl is around twelve or thirteen an' she don't talk anymore. She was roughly handled by those men an' it done something to her mind.”

The woman straightened, her eyes level on Kane's. “I'll let you know.”

Chapter 25

The front door of the Tontine Hotel opened onto the dining room, partitioned from the rest of the building by gray army blankets hanging from a sagging string. There were three roughly sawed pine tables and benches, the walls covered in old newspapers and, cut from mail-order catalogs, buxom women wearing corsets.

At the end of the room, jammed against the wall, was the kitchen—a stove and a single shelf stacked with chipped white plates and cups. A huge, blackened coffeepot smoked on the stove, improving Kane's first impression of the place considerably.

Not so Vito, who looked around with disdain, breathing through his nose as he took in the pervading odor of coffee, mildew, ancient man-sweat and unwashed feet.

Kane smiled. “Well, they got coffee.”

“Wonderful,” Vito said smoothly, as though his voice had just been planed.

A blanket pulled back and a stocky man in striped pants, a dirty red undershirt and a stained apron knotted around his waist stepped into the room. The man was in his mid-fifties and walked with a limp; Kane pegged him for an old ranch cook. He waved a careless hand. “Sit anywhere, gents. As you can see, we ain't exactly busy.”

Kane and Vito took a seat, and Kane said, “Coffee first. Then breakfast.”

“Coffee I got. As to breakfast, I can rustle you up elk steak an' beans if you care to make a trial of it. You fellers like beans?”

“Elk an' beans will do,” Kane said, ignoring Vito's disapproving glance.

The cook left to get the coffee, and the young man said, “I swear, if I survive the Western food, I'll never leave New Orleans again.”

Kane grinned. “Your brothers knew what they were doing when you were the one they left behind.”

“That is the duty of the youngest. Besides”—he leaned back while the cook placed a steaming cup in front of him—“I'm the best of us with the revolver.”

Kane was puzzled. “Vito, what exactly is it you do at the docks?”

The man thought for a moment, then said, “I'm an enforcer, you might say. I keep the peace and see that our business affairs run smoothly.”

“So, you're like a police officer in a way.”

“You could say that, yes. But the law I enforce is Provanzano law. Above all, I preserve the interests and honor of the family.”

“Lorraine told me your family is called . . . what was it? Yeah, I remember, the Mafia.”

Vito's face hardened. “It is a word recently come into use by certain New York newspapers. It's nonsense. It means nothing.”

Kane shrugged. “Meant nothing to me to begin with.”

The food was surprisingly good and the two men ate with an appetite. After he pushed himself away from the table and smoked a cigarette, Kane called the cook over. “We'll need rooms.”

The man nodded. “Dollar a night for a double. The single luxury suites cost two bits extry.”

“We'll take the single suites,” Vito said quickly.

“Dollar for the breakfasts, an' if you gents will follow me I'll show you to your rooms.”

With a long-suffering expression, Vito paid, since Kane made no effort to reach into his pocket.

The cook pulled back a blanket and the two men followed him into a narrow hallway that ran the full length of the building. Rooms lay on either side, closed off by more blankets on strings.

“Your suites are at the end of the hall,” the cook said.

Kane stepped through the blanket that served as a door and wall for his room. The suite consisted of an iron cot, a battered dresser with a basin and pitcher, and a shelf for clothes. The pillow and blankets on the cot seemed reasonably clean and the pine floor was swept.

He walked back outside. Vito turned and saw him, the expression on his face that of an animal at bay.

“Hey, I've seen worse,” the marshal said.

Vito was incredulous, his face long in surprise. “Worse? Where?”

“Places. Over to Kansas way. I seen worse places over to Kansas way.”

“God help us,” Vito said.

“Walk with me.” Kane grinned. “I want to talk to that Frank Dawson feller.”

“Sure. Anything to get away from here.”

As they stepped back to the dining room, Kane stuck his head into every room he passed.

“What are you doing, Marshal?” Vito asked, his irritation evident.

“I wanted to see what the regular rooms looked like.”

“Any different?”

“Yeah, they got two cots instead of one.”

 

Outside, the rain was still coming down hard. The iron gray sky hung so low, it looked like a tall man could walk along the street with his feet in the mud, his head in the clouds. The wind was cold, still out of the north, shredded into shrieking gusts by the ragged ridge of the Poteau. Kane bent his head against the downpour, water dripping from his mustache.

“Wait!” Vito had glanced in the hardware store window. Now he turned and dashed inside. “I'll be right back,” he said over his shoulder.

The man emerged a couple of minutes later and pushed open a large, black umbrella. He swung the umbrella over his head and it was immediately made noisy by the kettledrum rumble of the rain.

“Ah, that's better,” Vito said. He looked at Kane. “Want to share, Marshal?”

Kane shrugged. “Sure, why not.” He moved closer to the other man and walked with him a few steps. But when two men share an umbrella, both get wet. He gave it up and resumed his place beside Vito.

“Don't poke me in the eye with that thing,” Kane growled. “You're waving it around my head.”

Vito had a white-knuckle grip on the handle, like a kid holding on to a silver dollar. “I can't help it. It's the wind, Marshal, bumping it around.”

Kane put space between him and the other man until they reached the jail.

The adobe had a single barred window to the front and Kane stood next to it. “Dawson,” he said.

He heard a cot creak, then the sound of feet squelching through mud. A man's face appeared at the window and a timorous voice said, “I'm Dawson.”

Kane looked at the man and what he saw did not impress him. Frank Dawson was a small, skinny rat of a man with sly, black eyes and thinning brown hair. He wore a white, collarless shirt and black pants, both stained with mud.