Death In Helltown (6 page)

“Where’s Ed Tucker?”

“Don’t know. Don’t give a damn. Now let me go back to sleep.”

Bloodworth raised his eyebrows in surprise when Mattie hauled off and smacked Belle across the face.

Belle looked at her employer in shock, a hand rubbing her already reddening cheek.

“Tell this man what he wants to know,” Mattie ordered. Her face and voice were hard.

“What if I don’t know much?” Belle asked meekly.

“Then tell him whatever you do know.”

“Where’s Tucker?”

Belle hesitated only a moment, long enough to see Mattie getting ready to smack her again. “He … He said he was going to Dodge.”

“Dodge?” Bloodworth asked, surprised. “Why in hell would he go back to Dodge?”

“I don’t know. He said he did something near there. I thought he was crazy if he had done something wrong there and was goin’ back. But he seemed cocky, almost as if he was tryin’ to show up the marshal or something.”

Bloodworth nodded. Many a hard man were arrogant like that, often to their own demise. “When did he leave?”

“Two, three days ago, I think.” Belle looked a little sheepish. “I been busy.” She glanced sideways at Mattie almost as if seeking her approval. 

“What was he wearin’?”

Belle shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t payin’ attention to his duds. He did have a new hat, though. He seemed mighty proud of it. Buckskin color, short, flat crown, snakeskin band.”

Bloodworth thought for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you kindly, ladies.” He tipped his hat to both, turned and walked out. At the bottom of the stairs, he glanced into the parlor. Max was sitting on one of the couches, holding his head. He did not look up.

Within half an hour, Bloodworth was in the saddle and trotting out of Wichita. It was a long haul back to Dodge, and Dogtown was a fine place to stop. He figured he’d stay the night there, have a decent meal, a few drinks, sleep in a real bed.

**  **  **  **  **

Bloodworth walked into the first saloon he found, the Pig’s Blood, and waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The place was dark, and smoke clouded the air that moved only when he had opened the door. Two faro tables were doing a brisk business and several tables were occupied with men who were either drinking, gambling, or both. He stood, eyes scanning the foul room, then moved forward. Suddenly he stopped. He couldn’t believe his luck when he spotted a man in a buckskin-colored, short-crowned hat with a snakeskin band. A grim smile crossed his lips.

Bloodworth limped forward, slipping the loop off the hammer of his Remington. He stopped against the bar and ordered a beer. He slid his pistol out and stuck it into the side of the man to his left. “I’d be obliged was you to come along peaceably with me, Mr. Tucker,” he said quietly.

He realized in an instant that he had underestimated Ed Tucker. The man was faster than he had expected. He whipped around, his elbow catching Bloodworth a glancing blow on the side of his forehead. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to stagger Bloodworth. His pistol went off, singeing Tucker’s shirt, he thought. And as his pistol jerked out his hand, skittering across the floor and his side bounded off the bar, he heard someone beyond Tucker yelp.

But he did not care because someone grabbed him in a bear hug from behind, and Tucker moved toward him from the front. Bloodworth had the fleeting thought that it was strange that Tucker just didn’t shoot him, but he had no time to wonder about it.

He planted his good leg on the floor and kicked out with the other. The sole of his boot caught Tucker in the midsection, driving him back and knocking the wind out of him. As the foot came back to earth, he half swung and pushed off with both feet, smashing his captor’s back against the edge of the bar. He smiled as he heard ribs crack. The man released him.

A cowpuncher was moving up on his left, six-gun in hand. Bloodworth grabbed his beer glass, whirled and hurled it at the man, who ducked. Bloodworth leaped forward and smashed a fist into the drover’s face, then again, and once more, driving the man to the ground. He scooped up the man’s pistol. He spun to face another cowboy coming at him with a knife. Once more he kicked out, and the man crashed to the floor.

He heard someone else coming, and turned, thumbing back the hammer of the pistol. The man skidded to a stop. “You don’t want to die, friend. Especially over the likes of him.” He jerked his head in Tucker’s direction.

The man looked at him in puzzlement.

“He and his pals robbed a stage north of Dodge, killed a woman and damn near killed the driver. Hell, the driver might even have gone under by now. Now, you don’t look like some heartless bastard who’d think little of gunnin’ down a woman, and a high-class one at that but if you are that kind of man, you best think to pull the trigger on that hogleg.”

The man hesitated only a second before he half knelt and set the pistol on the plank floor. “I got no argument with you, Mister,” he said, stepping away from the weapon.

Bloodworth nodded and looked around. “Anyone else of you aim to make stink about this?”

No one said anything. Until someone shouted, “Behind you!”

Bloodworth knew it might be a trick, but he couldn’t take the chance. He whirled. Tucker had almost regained his breath and was reaching for the six-gun stuck in his belt. Bloodworth shook his head. “That would be unwise,” he said, realizing that he was breathing heavily. It was disconcerting to look at Tucker’s off kilter eyes. He shook off the feeling.

“To hell with you.” Tucker started to snatch out his Colt. Bloodworth fired, aiming to shoot Tucker in the arm, but with his uneven breathing and the slight unsteadiness after the fight, he missed by a bit. The bullet caught Tucker high on the chest, in the meat just below the collarbone.

“Seems you ain’t the shot I thought you was,” Tucker said with a sneer mingling with a grimace of pain. “Don’t know how in hell you ever made a livin’ as a bounty hunter.”

“You ever think I shot you there because I wanted to? I aim to take you back to face justice.”

“Well, I ain’t aimin’ to go. You’ll just have to force me.” He sneered.

“You are one dumb son of a bitch, Tucker,” Bloodworth said. He stepped up and slammed a boot heel into Tucker’s chest.

The outlaw’s eyes widened in shock and he gasped in pain as he struggled to breathe again. Bloodworth pulled Tucker’s Colt from his belt and tossed it aside, then knelt in front of him. “I can stand here all night and kick you every couple of minutes,” he said in a soft, cold voice. “Makes no difference to me, though it might be some enjoyable. Still, all these boys’d likely object to havin’ the games of chance and their drinkin’ disturbed by such doings, so I suggest you get smart and ready yourself to take a short journey. ’Course, at the end of that little journey, you’ll face a judge, and likely the hangman, but maybe you’ll get lucky and get a judge who ain’t so harsh.”

“Piss off,” Tucker croaked.

Bloodworth shook his head. He fought to control his anger. Every time he looked at Tucker’s off-kilter eyes, the picture of Edith’s bloody body flooded into his mind. He gritted his teeth and stood. He tossed away the drover’s pistol and picked up his own Remington. As he turned back to face Tucker, the outlaw had drawn a belly gun and was bringing it to bear.

“Stupid son of a bitch,” Bloodworth muttered. He thumbed back the hammer of his pistol and fired. The bullet tore through Tucker’s off-center right eye, spraying blood, brains and bone on the lower bar facing.

Bloodworth glanced around the room. “Any of you boys know which horse is his?”

“Sorrel gelding tied to the hitchin’ post on the other side of the alley,” a man said. He jerked a thumb in the right direction.

“Obliged.” Bloodworth holstered his pistol.

“You want help getting’ his carcass across the saddle?” the same man asked. When Bloodworth glanced at him, surprise in his eyes, the man added, “I don’t know about these other fellahs, but I don’t take kindly to shootin’ down a woman. We’re tough men, used to hard doings, and maybe we’ve done some wicked things, but killin’ women ain’t what most of us consider bein’ a hard man is.”

Murmurs of agreement circled the room.

“I’ll get his horse,” another man said.

A third said to the bartender, “Alf, get this man a beer. Or whiskey, if he prefers. I’ll pay.”

Bloodworth was only a little surprised. Most of these men were Texans, cattle drovers, who came here to this section of the city to raise hell. They were not dainty fellows. They were giving to rough language and rough actions. But they were not, by and large, stage robbers and killers. Still, it was some surprising that they reacted the way they had. Bloodworth was glad for it, though.

The bounty man slid his pistol into the slim jim cross-draw holster and gratefully accepted the beer Alf set on the bar. He downed it in three large gulps.

“Whiskey?” Alf asked.

Bloodworth nodded. “Just one.” He swallowed that down, and by then the man who had gone to get Tucker’s horse was back. He and two other’s grabbed the body and carted it outside, as Bloodworth followed. They tossed the corpse over the saddle and tied it down.

The first one who had spoken held out his hand. “Name’s Tom Dayton.”

Bloodworth shook it. “Harlan Bloodworth.”

“This is Bill Jordan and Bob Ward,” he added, pointing to his two companions.

Bloodworth nodded and shook those men’s hands.

“You hungry, Mr. Bloodworth?” Dayton asked. “Me and the boys’ll spot you a meal down at Baker’s.”

“You boys’re bein’ mighty kind,” Bloodworth said a bit warily. “It has me curious as to your motive.”

Dayton laughed. “Hell, Mr. Bloodworth, we just want to get you out of town before you start raisin’ more hell and killin’ or lamin’ some others of us.”

Bloodworth hesitated, then decided the men were joshing him, though he also suspected there was more than a kernel of truth to the statement. “Well, in that case, Mr. Dayton, I will take you up on your offer.” As they turned to head up the street, Bloodworth asked, “Is Baker’s food edible?”

Ward chuckled. “Can’t rightly say if it’s tasty.” A grim split his face. “Tell true, most of us’re pretty well in our cups when we set to feedin’ there.”

“But ain’t a one of us come down ill or died from chowin’ down there,” Jordan threw in with a wide grin.

“A man can’t ask for no more,” Bloodworth said with a nod.

Ten minutes later, joined by the others, he was gnawing on a stringy, slab of rare beefsteak with potatoes on the side. Corn came next, followed by peach cobbler and two cups of black coffee strong and thick enough to float a good size horse.

Finally he pushed back from the table. “Weren’t bad, boys. I’ve had better here and there, but I’ve had a hell of a lot worse.” He grinned. “Especially my own cookin’.” He rose. “Well, boys, it’s time I was on the trail. I’m obliged for all your help and your kindness. I wish you all well.”

Bloodworth stopped in front of Marshal Redmon’s office and dismounted. The lawman came out, eyes flat. Bloodworth untied the ropes holding Ed Tucker’s oiled-cloth body and hauled it down into the dirt between the horses.

“Ed Tucker,” Bloodworth said. “The last of the killers.”

“You sure?”

“Yup. One other was wounded when he run off from the stage. I found him a few days ago.”

“And?”

Bloodworth gave the marshal a baleful glare. The lawman nodded. “That suits me.”

“Posse back?”

“Come back day before yesterday.” Seeing Bloodworth’s look of annoyance, he hastily added, “These men ain’t like you. Or even me. They’re shopkeepers and tradesmen mostly. Not man hunters. After half a day they lost the trail.” He waved a hand at Bloodworth, stopping him from saying anything. “I know, I know, Harlan, to you the trail was plain as the sun. But not to these men.”

Bloodworth let his anger dissipate, then nodded. He shoved the body with his foot. “I took the twelve dollars and twenty cents he had on him, and tossed his pistol on the trail somewhere. I figure there’s a bounty on him. I expect to get it. And I’ll take whatever I can get selling his horse and saddle.”

Redmon shrugged. “Sounds fair to me.” He smiled a little. “Hear you had some ruckus there in Dogtown. Telegraph came in day before yesterday. About the time you rode out, I’d say.”

“There was some resistance on Tucker’s part. Some others thought to aid him. It took some doing, but I quieted ’em down.”

“Marshal in Dogtown wants you arrested,”

Bloodworth tensed a little. “You aimin’ to do so?”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Courtesy to another lawman.”

Redmon snorted. “You see the marshal there?” When Bloodworth shook his head, he added, “Fella’s maybe a hunnert years old. Can’t remember his dingus from a Colt.”

“Reckon I got no worries from that, then.”

“Nope.” He looked at the corpse. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, more to himself than his companion.

“Your problem, Marshal. I ain’t about to put him back on the horse. Have Deputy Smitty drag him down to Bock’s funeral home. Or straight to the cemetery and toss him in a hole just the way he is.”

“Now that sounds reasonable.”

Bloodworth climbed into the saddle. Taking the reins to Tucker’s horse in one hand, he turned his horse with the other and headed toward the livery at the end of the street.

**  **  **  **  **

After a good meal and a shave and bath, Bloodworth headed for the Pecos saloon. Sally Ahearne saw him as soon as he entered. She smiled and waved, though she was talking with a man. She started walking toward him, but the man grabbed her arm. She tried to jerk it free, but the man was having none of it. Bloodworth could see he was talking angrily to her.

“Ah, damn,” he muttered. He was tired of fighting, but figured he faced another one. He strode to them and grabbed the back of the man’s long, dirty hair and twisted it. “Let her go,” he ordered.

The man released Sally, and Bloodworth freed his hair. The man turned. “Who the hell are you?”

“Don’t matter none.”

“Like hell. Me and this whore were discussin’ business.”

Bloodworth shrugged. “Did you pay?”

“Not yet, but I was just getting’ around to it.”

“Since you didn’t, you got no hold on her.”

“You son of a bitch.” He started to lift his arm, fist ready.

Bloodworth slammed the heel of his hand against the man’s nose, knocking his head back. Then Bloodworth hit him in the stomach, doubling him over, wheezing. The man shuddered.

“Evenin’. Miz Sally,” Bloodworth said with a smile. “Are you free for the evenin’?”

“Well, not free,” she said with a laugh.

“Ah, yes, the little matter of cash changin’ hands. Maybe I should ask if you’re available for the night.”

“I am.”

As Bloodworth went to pay, the bartender pulled out his sawed down shotgun. Bloodworth started reaching for his pistol, figuring he had no chance against the 10 gauge already out, but he wasn’t going to stand there and get shot. “Put that shooter down, boy,” he growled.

Surprised, Bloodworth turned. The man he had hit stood with a six-gun in his hand. He was sweating as he looked down the muzzles of the shotgun’s twin barrels.

“I said, put it down, boy. This here shotgun will put one hell of a hole in you, close as we are.”

The man gingerly bent and placed the pistol on the floor.

“Now get out, and don’t show your face here again. You can pick up your six-shooter in the river tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Bloodworth said as the man hurried out.

Sam Wattes nodded. He put the shotgun under the bar and grinned. “Now, there’s the small matter of some cash.”

“Reckon there is.” As he pulled out some money, he asked, “Where’s Micah?”

“Went on a bender a couple days ago. Ain’t seen him since. Ain’t no loss really, ’cept I got to pull double duty.”

“That can’t be much fun.”

“Ain’t. But it’s double the pay.” He grinned.

Bloodworth returned the grin. He paid and he and Sally headed upstairs.

Sometime later, when they had calmed, Sally snuggled up to Bloodworth. He realized something was wrong, though she appeared to be cheerful enough. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“Another of us girls was killed last night.”

“What do you mean ‘another’?”

“One was killed the maybe a month ago and one last week. Then Round Heels Annie last night.”

“Three fallen angels killed in a month? How?”

“Beaten, then slashed to death.” Sally shuddered. “Carved up is more like it.”

“You tell Marshal Redmon?”

“I think the owner here did, but he ain’t about to do nothin’ about us soiled doves gettin’ killed.”

“I’ll talk to him in the mornin’,” Bloodworth promised.

**  **  **  **  **

“Mornin’, Marshal,” Bloodworth said as he walked into the lawman’s office and headed right for the coffeepot.

“Help yourself,” Redmon said with a touch of sarcasm. “But since you’re getting’ yourself some, bring me a taste too.”

Bloodworth brought Redmon a tin mug with steaming coffee.

“I suppose you’re here for your money.” He seemed a little annoyed.

“I am.”

“But?” the lawman questioned him, sensing there was more.

“You heard about the killin’s over in Helltown?”

Redmon nodded. “A couple whores come to bad ends.” He did not seem concerned.

“Three. In the past few weeks.” When Redmon nodded, Bloodworth asked, “You doin’ anything about it?”

Redmon shrugged. “Not much I can do.” He sipped his coffee, eyeing Bloodworth over the rim of the mug.

“You can’t?”

“Ain’t no one down there gonna talk to me, Harlan. You know that,” he said, putting the cup down. “They ain’t fond of a lawdog under the best of circumstances. Besides, I can’t be spendin’ my days patrolling town and nights doin’ the same down there.”

“You got a handful of deputies.”

“Mostly useless for anything serious. I reckon you’ve seen that.” He paused. “How about you?”

“What about me?” Bloodworth asked, surprised.

“Why don’t you look at this?”

“Not my concern. You’re the law around here.”

“Reckon that’s true.” Redmon reached into a drawer and came out with a handful of greenbacks. “Four hundred,” he said. “A hundred each. Well, actually, two hundred for one, a hundred on another and fifty each on the other two.”

“Don’t matter none who was worth what. Just the total.” He took the cash. He headed for the door, but stopped at Redmon’s voice.

“I’d be obliged if you was to leave town, Harlan.”

Bloodworth turned back. “And why is that?” His voice was cold.

“Tell you the truth, you bring trouble wherever you go. I don’t figure you look for it, but it finds you no matter. And I got enough trouble ‘round here without you drawin’ more.”

“I’ll think on it, Marshal,” Bloodworth said flatly as he left.

**  **  **  **  **

Bloodworth was sitting in his room at the Cheyenne Hotel when there came a knock. He grabbed his pistol and in stocking feet went to the door. “Who?” he asked.

“George Smalley.”

“What do you want?”

“Need to talk to you. It’s important.”

Bloodworth eased open the door, pistol up and cocked. “Come on, then.”

Warily, Smalley entered the room and took a seat in the only chair when Bloodworth nodded to it. Bloodworth leaned against the wall next to the door, pistol stuck in his belt under his untucked shirt. “So talk.”

“I’d like to hire you.”

Bloodworth looked at him in surprise. “For what?”

“You heard about the killings? Of the girls?”

Bloodworth nodded. “Sally told me. So?”

“I’d like to hire you to find out who did it. And, he added after a moment’s pause, “and stop him.”

“What’s your interest in all this?” Bloodworth asked, surprised anew.

Smalley let a small smile play across his lips. “I own the Pecos. And several other places in Helltown. And all the girls that work them.”

Bloodworth was beyond surprise now. “Then what the hell were you doin’ workin’ for Edith?”

The smile grew. “Actually, Edith owned it all. She bequeathed it to me in her will. When she was killed, it all came to me.”

Bloodworth was stunned into speechlessness for some time. He finally managed to ask, “Was she involved in the business?”

“No. Not her type of thing. Her husband started out with one place and a few girls. He gradually built the business up. When he crossed the divide, she inherited everything. I was known to her husband. Had done some work for him, so she picked me to run things. I remained at the house as her servant to keep up appearances”

“Hope?”

“Just a maid seein’ to Edith’s needs around the house.”

Something in George’s look or tone made Bloodworth suspicious. But all he asked was, “How are things goin’?”

Smalley’s face twisted in annoyance. “Things were goin’ well till these unfortunate events.”

“Sounds like you don’t care much about these girls.” Bloodworth wasn’t pleased.

Smalley shrugged. “It’s a business, Harlan. I can’t afford to care too much about these girls.” He held up his hand when Bloodworth went to argue. “It maybe ain’t right in most people’s eyes, but it’s the way it is. But I will say this in defendin’ myself: None of the girls in my employ was – is – harmed. Not by me, and not by my customers. Some cowpoke messes with one of them, he regrets it quick. I will not abide that.”

“Who handles it?”

“Guy named Big Fred. He moseys around from one of our places to the next. When he ain’t drinkin’.”

“Why ain’t you askin’ him to handle this?”

“He’s only good for hittin’ people on the head. I wouldn’t trust him to handle something like this. Hell, I barely trust him to thump people. He was on Art Wickline’s payroll, so I just sort of kept him on.”

Bloodworth considered it for a bit, then said, “I’ll think on it for a spell.