Bad Men Die (2 page)

Normally, Luke checked in with the local star-packer whenever he arrived in a new town. It was just a reasonable precaution. Some lawmen got proddy when they found out that a bounty hunter was operating in their jurisdiction. Others were relieved that a dangerous outlaw was about to be taken into custody and would offer to help.

Luke hadn't done that because the first man he'd asked about McCluskey, the elderly hostler at the livery stable where he'd left his dun, had pointed him to the hotel and said that a man matching the outlaw's description was staying there. Luke had decided to look into that before paying a visit to the local law.

With the inducement of a five-dollar gold piece, the desk clerk had confirmed that a man who looked like McCluskey was upstairs in Room Seven. The name he'd signed to the register was Pete Yarnell, an alias McCluskey had used in the past.

“He's still upstairs, too,” the clerk had said. “Reckon he's sleeping late this morning. From what I heard, he had quite a bit to drink last night at the Powder River Saloon. The night clerk told me he came in drunk as a skunk.”

A hungover outlaw was usually a little slower in his reactions and therefore easier to corral. With that opportunity staring him in the face, Luke hadn't been about to waste it by taking the time to hunt up the marshal. He'd gone upstairs, ready to bust into Room Seven and capture Frank McCluskey.

As the shotgun-wielding marshal had put it, all hell had broken loose.

Struggling to hang on to the squirming Delia, Luke said, “Marshal, my name is Luke Jensen. That fella there on the floor is Frank McCluskey. I reckon you've got at least one wanted poster on him in your office, and probably more than that. He's wanted in Wyoming, Idaho, Montana, and Dakota Territories for holding up banks and stagecoaches, rustling cattle, and gunning down at least five men.”

“Sounds like a real sidewinder,” the lawman said as a frown creased his forehead. “If you know all that, I suppose you must be either a bounty hunter or a deputy U.S. marshal—and I've got a hunch Uncle Sam wouldn't hire anybody as scruffy-looking as you.”

Under other circumstances, Luke might have taken offense at that comment. It was true that he was a little dusty and trail-worn at the moment, but several times a year he enjoyed visiting San Francisco, dressing well, and patronizing the city's finest restaurants and clubs. Although he was largely self-educated, he was also a very well-read man and could discuss Plutarch, Hawthorne, and von Clausewitz with equal ease.

But there was no way the marshal could know any of that. Luke shrugged. “That's right. I'm a bounty hunter, and I'd be much obliged to you, Marshal, if you'd let me lock up McCluskey in your jail.”

That prompted a fresh round of squealing, cussing, and fighting from Delia, and despite the lawman's grim demeanor, a smile tugged at his mouth for a second under his bushy gray mustache. “What've you got there, Jensen?”

“A wildcat,” Luke said dryly. “She says her name is Delia Bradley. Do you know her?”

“Yeah. She's a soiled dove, works over at the Powder River Saloon. She seems a mite put out with you.”

“I believe she's smitten with McCluskey here. She tried to take a shot at me with a derringer and did her best to warn him to get away.”

The marshal nodded. “All right. Why don't you put her down? I don't figure she'll try anything else.”

Luke wasn't so sure about that, but he pulled the dress off Delia's head and set her feet back on the floor.

She clenched her fists and pounded them against his chest. “Marshal, arrest this man! He attacked me. You can see for yourself that he ripped the dress right off me!”

“That's not exactly the way it—” Luke grabbed her around the waist from behind as she lunged toward the bed and made a grab for the gun he had tossed there at the marshal's command. He swung her away from the bed.

She started kicking and flailing again.

On the floor, McCluskey groaned and moved around a little as he began to regain consciousness.

“Blast it. Quit that!” Luke told Delia. “I'm going to pitch you out that window if you don't stop fighting.”

“Here now!” the marshal exclaimed. “Nobody's pitching anybody out any windows. But I
will
lock you up if you keep raising a ruckus, Delia.”

The threat seemed to get through to her. She stopped struggling and said coldly to Luke, “Quit pawing me, mister. I get paid any time a man wants to do that.”

Luke set her down where he would be between her and the bed where the Remington lay. He said to the lawman, “Is it all right if I get my gun again, Marshal?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” the middle-aged man told him. “I reckon I've got the straight of things now. You say that fella's name is Frank McCluskey?”

“That's right,” Luke said as he picked up the iron and pouched it.

“I've heard of him, all right.” The marshal moved farther into the room and stepped aside to clear the doorway. “Delia, put your dress on and get out of here.”

“But it's torn!” she objected.

“It'll hold together enough to cover you so you'll be decent.” The marshal paused, then added, “As decent as you ever are, I should say.”

Delia sniffed disdainfully, picked up the dress, and pulled it over her head. It was ripped down the back but covered the front of her well enough.

Luke had an objection of his own. “Wait a minute. She tried to help McCluskey escape. That's against the law.”

“Yeah, but he didn't escape, and I can tell you right now, our justice of the peace will just throw out any charge you try to press against her.”

“That's right,” she said, smirking. “Charlie's not going to put me in jail.”

Luke bit back a curse. The fact that Delia referred to the justice of the peace as
Charlie
indicated that he was probably one of her regular customers. He wouldn't likely want her locked up.

As long as she stayed out of his way, Luke supposed he didn't care what happened to her. He nodded his head toward the door. “All right. Get out.”

She glared at him, and for a second he thought she might stick her tongue out at him like a little kid. But then she sniffed again, lifted her head, and stalked out of the room in her torn dress as if she possessed all the dignity in the world.

The marshal stepped closer to McCluskey and prodded him with the shotgun.

“Be careful, Marshal,” Luke warned. “He's as fast and tricky as a snake.”

“I know what I'm doing. He won't be the first outlaw I've locked up, you know.” But the lawman backed off a couple steps before he went on. “All right, McCluskey, get up. You're going to jail.”

McCluskey groaned again and looked bleary-eyed at Luke. “Damn. You just about busted my head open,” he complained.

“That's right,” Luke said. “You're lucky your brains are still inside your skull. Don't give us any trouble and maybe they'll stay there.”

The marshal covered McCluskey with the Greener and Luke rested his right hand on the butt of a Remington as McCluskey climbed unsteadily to his feet.

“Let's go,” the marshal said as he backed toward the door.

“Damn it. Won't you even let me put my pants on?” McCluskey begged. “You can't mean to parade me through town like this!”

The marshal hesitated, shrugged, and looked at Luke, who picked up McCluskey's denim trousers from where they had been thrown over the back of a chair, most likely the previous night while he and Delia Bradley were caught up in the throes of passion.

Luke checked the pockets and didn't find any weapons, only a few coins and a lucky elk's tooth—said luck having run out for McCluskey. He tossed the garment to the outlaw, who pulled it on.

“How about my boots?” McCluskey asked.

The marshal shook his head. “I've already given you the only break I'm going to. Get moving and keep your mouth shut.”

With the lawman in front of McCluskey and Luke behind, they took the owlhoot out of the hotel room and down the stairs to the lobby. Quite a few people were gathered there. From the looks of them, some were guests in the hotel and others were citizens of Rimrock. They had all turned out to see what the shooting on the second floor was about. They watched with avid interest as Luke and the marshal took McCluskey out of the hotel.

Luke looked at them as he passed by. Probably would be a good turnout in Cheyenne, too, when the law hanged Frank McCluskey for his crimes.

The marshal's name was Warren Elliott and he had been the law in Rimrock for the past five years, he explained to Luke as he poured coffee from a battered old pot keeping warm on a potbellied stove. “I'd say McCluskey is the worst renegade I've had locked up in all that time.” He motioned with his tin cup toward the stack of half a dozen wanted posters he had pulled out from the pile in the bottom drawer of his desk. All of them offered rewards for the capture of the notorious bandit and killer Frank McCluskey.

“He'll get what's coming to him,” Luke promised. “All I have to do is get him to Cheyenne.”

Elliott scratched at his jaw. “Have you given any thought to how you're gonna do that?”

“I suppose I'll put him in handcuffs, tie him on a horse, and lead him to his appointment with the hangman,” Luke said with a shrug.

“How's his gang going to feel about that?”

Luke sank down on the old sofa positioned against the front wall of the marshal's office and cocked his right ankle on his left knee. “McCluskey doesn't have a gang right now,” he explained. “He was riding with four or five men, but the others got shot up and captured when they tried to hit the bank in Rock Springs about a week and a half ago. McCluskey was the only one of the bunch who got away. He should have known right then that his luck was starting to turn.”

Elliott grunted. “If he got away, I reckon he still had at least a little luck on his side.”

“But he got away empty-handed and with nobody to back his play anymore. It was only a matter of time until somebody nabbed him.”

“And that somebody was you.” Elliott fanned out the wanted posters. “You're gonna collect . . . let's see”—he added on his fingers—“four, five, six thousand dollars, looks like.” He whistled. “That's a mighty good reward.”

Not so good when you considered how often he had to risk his life to collect that kind of money. But Luke supposed that as a small-town badge-toter, Marshal Elliott sometimes had to risk his life, too—and for a lot smaller payday.

“If I was you,” the lawman mused, “I think I'd take McCluskey over to Rattlesnake Wells.”

Luke frowned. “I think I've heard of the place. Just a wide place in the trail, from what I recall. Why would I take McCluskey there?”

“You haven't been around these parts for a while, have you?”

“No, not really.”

“Rattlesnake Wells is a lot more than a wide place in the trail now,” Elliott said. “There was a gold strike up in the Prophecy Mountains not far from there, and Rattlesnake Wells turned into a boomtown. Some mining tycoon name of Browning built a spur line railroad just to haul out the ore.”

Luke thought he saw what the marshal was getting at. “Does that spur line connect up with the Union Pacific?”

“Yep. And once you get to the Union Pacific, it's a straight shot over east to Cheyenne. You can be there in about three days from now, countin' the time it'll take you from here to Rattlesnake Wells, instead of the week or more it'd take you to ride all the way, especially as slow as you'd have to move with a dangerous prisoner.”

Luke liked the sound of that. The less time he had to spend in McCluskey's company, the better. Not to mention the fact that he would collect the bounty on the outlaw a few days sooner, as well. It never hurt to speed up the money.

“There's a good livery stable and wagon yard in Rattlesnake Wells,” Elliott continued. “Run by a fella name of Joe Peterson. You could leave your horse there for a few days while you take McCluskey over to Cheyenne, then come back for him.”

“That's a good idea, and I appreciate the advice, Marshal.” Luke frowned slightly. “What about that Bradley woman? Is she liable to cause any more trouble?”

“Delia?” Elliott shook his head. “I doubt it. She may be sweet on McCluskey right now, but there's no profit in her being stubborn about it. Did you ever know a soiled dove who was interested in anything except money, when you got right down to it?”

“Not many,” Luke admitted. “Maybe one or two.”

“Well, there's nothin' special about Delia Bradley. You don't have to worry about her anymore, Jensen. I'd bet a hat on that.”

 

 

Luke was a pretty good judge of jails, and the one in Rimrock looked solid to him. He didn't see any way McCluskey could break out, and Marshal Elliott was too canny to be taken in by any tricks that the outlaw might try to pull. Luke decided it was safe enough to get a good night's sleep at the hotel and start out for Rattlesnake Wells early the next morning.

When he checked in, he asked the clerk, “Nobody was hurt in all that shooting a while ago, were they?”

“No, but I've got some bullet holes in the walls to patch,” the man groused. “Rimrock's a pretty peaceful town. We're not used to so much commotion.”

“It wasn't my idea for McCluskey to shoot up the place.” Luke started to add that the clerk had already collected a sawbuck for his trouble but then decided to be generous. He slid another silver dollar across the counter, in addition to what he had already paid for the room. “That'll buy some plaster.”

Yeah, he thought as he carried his Winchester and war bag upstairs to Room Twelve, he was definitely getting soft in his old age.

He dumped the rifle and bag in the room and headed back downstairs.

The hotel didn't have a dining room, but there was a café in the next block run by a Norwegian couple with thick accents. The husband fried up a good steak, and the wife's deep-dish apple pie was as good as any Luke had tasted in a long time. Her coffee was considerably better than Marshal Elliott's, too.

By the time he was finished with the meal, he was comfortably full and a bit drowsy but not quite ready to turn in yet. He stood on the boardwalk outside the café, lit a cheroot, and considered his options.

There seemed to be only one. Rimrock appeared to have but a single saloon, the Powder River . . . where Delia Bradley worked. He gazed diagonally across the broad main street toward the brightly lit building, not sure he wanted to run into her again.

On the other hand, he was damned if he would allow some little soiled dove who didn't weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet keep him from going anywhere he wanted to go.

Clenching the cheroot between his teeth, he started across the street. He heard the tinny notes of a player piano coming from inside before he reached the entrance. The merry sound grew louder as he pushed the batwings aside and stepped into the saloon.

The place was about half full, with a number of men standing at the bar and others sitting at tables drinking and playing cards. Luke spotted three women, all with painted faces and wearing gaudy dresses, delivering drinks from the bar to the tables, but none of them was Delia Bradley.

Maybe she was taking the night off because she was too upset about her outlaw beau being captured to work, Luke thought.

Most of the men and all three of the women turned to look at him when he came in. It wouldn't have taken long for word to get around town that a bounty hunter was in Rimrock. He was probably the only stranger in these parts, other than McCluskey himself, so he had to be the manhunter. Some of the saloon's patrons had seen him earlier that afternoon, too, when he and Elliott marched a barefoot, stripped to the waist, sullenly scowling Frank McCluskey to the local
juzgado
.

Luke didn't particularly want the attention. He figured he'd drink a beer, then head back to the hotel and try to get a good night's sleep. He gave the people in the saloon a curt nod, then headed for the bar.

The man on the other side of the hardwood was lean and gray, wearing an apron tied around his waist, a white shirt with sleeve garters, and a brocaded vest. He greeted Luke with a sardonic, unreadable expression and asked, “What'll it be?”

“Beer if it's cold.”

“It's what passes for cold around here,” the bartender said. “Is that good enough for you?”

Luke chuckled. “I reckon it'll have to be.”

Although the beer the drink juggler pulled from a tap was only cool, it tasted good. Luke took a long swallow and nodded in satisfaction.

The bartender finally smiled. “You're him. The bounty hunter.”

“That's right.”

“You're the reason I've got a girl upstairs crying her eyes out instead of, well, doing what she's supposed to be doing.”

Luke shook his head. “I'd tell you I'm sorry, but that's not really my responsibility. Anyway, McCluskey just rode in here yesterday. How could she fall head over heels in love with him that fast?”

The bartender grunted. “You don't know Delia. That girl . . . well, she never does anything halfway. She's all the time pitching a conniption fit over one thing or another. I'd fire her and run her little round behind out of here if she wasn't so good at what she does.”

“Somebody who's that quick to go whole hog about something is usually pretty quick to get over it, too,” Luke commented.

“We can only hope,” the bartender said, raising his bushy gray eyebrows. “In the meantime, I'd watch my back if I was you, Mr. Jensen.”

“I'm sort of in the habit of that.” Luke finished the beer and thought about seeing if he could sit in on one of the poker games, then decided he was too tired for cards. He nodded good night to the bartender and walked out of the Powder River, aware that some of the customers were still watching him curiously.

Most of the time, life in a frontier town was so monotonous that any distraction was welcome. Luke knew that and didn't take offense at the staring.

Nobody was in the hotel lobby except the desk clerk, who still didn't look too happy about the prospect of repairing those bullet holes. Luke ignored the man and went upstairs to his room. He smiled a little, though, as he passed the section of wall McCluskey had done such a good job of ventilating.

His room was on the other side of the hall and a couple doors farther along. As he approached it, he looked at the spot where he had wedged a bit of black thread between the door and jamb, down low, close to the floor. It was still there, telling him that no one had gotten into the room.

Unless they had come in through the window, that is. Since there was no balcony outside—Luke had already thought to check on that—such an invasion would have been difficult. It would have required leaning a ladder against the front wall of the hotel, something that was liable to be noticed in a tranquil place like Rimrock.

He was satisfied that he wasn't walking into an ambush, but had a gun in his right hand anyway as he used his left to unlock the door and swing it open. He'd left the curtain pushed back over the window so some light from the street came in, and he could see well enough to tell that the room was empty except for its simple furniture. He stepped inside, holstered the Remington, closed and locked the door, and pulled the curtain before he lit the lamp on the table beside the bed.

His gun belt and holstered revolvers went on the lone ladderback chair, which he'd pushed over next to the bed so the weapons would be handy while he was sleeping. He dropped his hat on the table next to the lamp. He had taken off his boots and undressed down to his trousers when a quiet knock sounded on the door.

He stiffened for a second and then reached down to slide one of the Remingtons from its holster. Knowing how easy it was to fire a shotgun through the flimsy panels of the door, he stood to the side and well back in the room so it would be more difficult for someone in the hall to pinpoint his location by the sound of his voice as he called, “Who's there?”

“Delia Bradley.”

Not many things surprised Luke after the life he'd led, but that answer did. He stayed where he was and asked, “What do you want, Miss Bradley?”

“Just to talk,” Delia said through the door. “I promise. I . . . I'd like to apologize for my behavior earlier today, Mr. Jensen.”

Luke didn't trust her for a second, but he was curious. She sounded calm and rational enough. Of course, that could be an act. Still, there was only one way to find out.

In his bare feet, he moved to the door in utter silence and turned the key slowly and carefully. It didn't click in the lock to alert Delia that he was right on the other side of the door.

He backed off and told her, “It's open. Come on in.”