Death In Helltown (9 page)

Bloodworth began prowling Helltown later, and within two nights, he knew when each saloon slowed down and threw their clients out for a short while. That was at least something. The shacks he could not guard very well. There were too many and too scattered. But the saloons were contained. It still would not be easy, but at least he had a direction to go in.

He showed up the various saloons at random, not letting anyone know where he would appear. Oftentimes he would just look through the doors; at others he would stroll in and take a gander at the hallways where the whores worked and sometimes lived. Occasionally he would stop to chat with the bartender, if he wasn’t too busy restocking, and perhaps sip at a beer or take the rare shot of whiskey.

He was doing so in the Red River just before the Ike, the barkeep — a tall, slender fellow with a neck too small seemingly to support his head — was getting ready to start throwing out what few patrons were left, those that weren’t nodding off at tables. Suddenly a scream rang out from one of the rooms above.

Bloodworth spit out a mouthful of beer, swore, spun and raced as fast as his gimpy leg would allow up the stairs. He stopped for a second, trying to figure out where the sound had come from. Then came another scream, this one muffled. But Bloodworth had a fix on the room. He dashed there and shouldered the door open, pistol in hand.

A short, stout man with a thick brown beard and patchy russet hair had one of the soiled doves by the throat. The woman looked half dead already.

“Let her go, boy,” Bloodworth commanded. “You come along peaceable to the marshal and maybe you’ll make out all right.”

The man stood there dumbly, staring at Bloodworth. He still had his hands around the woman’s neck, but he was mostly just holding her up. She looked at the bounty man, a pleading look in her gray eyes.

“Who the hell’re you?” the man finally asked.

“The man who’s gonna plant your ass six feet under the Kansas sod you don’t let that woman go.”

“She ain’t but a whore.”

“Far’s I can see, she’s a lady. Don’t matter much anyhow. She ain’t deservin’ to have a slug like you tryin’ to choke the life out of her. Now let her go and come along quietly so’s Marshal Redmon can lock you up till you get some sense. With some reasonable remuneration to this young gal, she might forget this happened. Maybe a small fine and you can go your own way. Should that happen, though,” Bloodworth added, voice hard, “you’ll leave Kansas.”

“If I don’t?” the man said with a smirk crossing his lips.

“You’ll never leave Kansas.” Bloodworth’s voice was flat, his eyes cold.

The man flung the woman aside. “All right, dammit. Just let me get my coat.”

The woman started to get up and Ike moved to get past Bloodworth to help her. Bloodworth took a step to the side to stop the barkeep and waved at the woman to stay down. He was sure this was not going to end well. He was right.

The man snatched a gun out of his coat and whirled. It was a damn fool move, seeing as how Bloodworth had his pistol out and ready. He fired, drilling the man in the forehead just above the left eye. The man collapsed in a bloody heap.

“Ike, go fetch Bock, and maybe whatever deputy might be on duty.”

“Whoever it is, he’s likely to be sleepin’ off a drunk somewhere.”

“Reckon you’re right. Just the undertaker, then.”

Ike spun and hurried out. Bloodworth went and knelt beside the woman. “What’s your name, girl?” he asked as he helped her up.

“Sassy,” she gurgled, her voice box still in bad shape.

Bloodworth gave her a small smile. “Reckon that gets you in trouble time to time.”

“It does,” she gargled softly, but she returned Bloodworth’s smile half-heartedly.

“All right, Sassy, let’s get you out of here.” She was rather wobbly, so he helped her down the stairs and got her seated at a table. As he went to the bar to get her something to drink, he shook his head at the sight of a drunk helping himself to a bottle.

“I’d advise you to skedaddle, boy, before Ike gets back.”

The fellow looked up, startled, then took Bloodworth’s advice and scooted out the door. Bloodworth grabbed a glass and bottle and took both back to the table, pouring a drink for Sassy and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she said hoarsely and downed it in one swallow.

Amused, Bloodworth poured her another. “Take your time with this one. We ain’t gonna run out.”

Sassy nodded and sipped. A bit of natural color was returning to her face. “Thank you,” she said after some moments.

“My pleasure.”

“I owe you for it,” she said, turning her head away as if embarrassed. “Ain’t but one way I know to thank you for what you did.”

“No need.”

“But I…” She broke off when Ike and the undertaker, Erwin Bock, hurried in.

Both nodded curtly at Bloodworth before heading up the stairs.

“You got somewhere you can go, Sassy?” Bloodworth asked.

She finished her drink and poured herself another. Seeing his annoyed look, she said, “My last one, honest.” When he nodded, she said, “I got a small place not far behind the saloon here.”

“I’ll escort you there. Make sure you’re safe.”

“I’d feel real safe were you to stay with me,” she purred as well as she could with her throat still suffering.

“Reckon you would, but I got business to see to.”

She sighed. “Reckon I’ll be safe enough here.”

“Here?” Bloodworth was surprised.

“I don’t figure Ike — or Mr. Smalley — will be happy with me leavin’. With things slowin’ down as usual, I’ll get a bit of time for some food, then I have to get back to work.”

“Mr. Smalley won’t mind, and Ike won’t have no say about it.”

“How do you know he won’t mind?”

Bloodworth smiled tightly. “I will make certain of it.” He rose. “Time to go.”

When they arrived at Sassy’s shack, she turned to Bloodworth and said, “You certain you won’t come in?”

Bloodworth nodded. “This ain’t the time. Like I said, I got business. Besides you don’t seem to be in any shape to be entertainin’. Now you get yourself some rest, you’ve been through a hard time.”

He tipped his hat to her, made sure she actually went inside, then left. He stopped by the Red River. Bock and Ike were standing at the bar, the former on the outside, the latter on the inside, each working on a foamy beer. Bock looked up at Bloodworth when he entered. “Join us, Mr. Bloodworth,” Bock said.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Ike poured him one, and as Bloodworth slurped down a mouthful, Bock said, “You did a hell of a job on that fellow. Damn fine shot.”

Bloodworth shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “I’ve had some practice,” he muttered.  He chugged the rest of his beer. “Well, boys, I reckon my night’s over.”

“Who’s going to pay for that fellow’s funeral and burial?” Bock asked.

“Don’t matter a damn to me, Mr. Bock. I ain’t doin’ so. Far’s I’m concerned, nobody comes up with the cash for it, dump him in the river and be done with it.” He pushed through the batwing doors into the street.

**  **  **  **  **

Marshal Redmon found Bloodworth the next afternoon in his favorite restaurant, chowing down on a breakfast of ham steak with redeye gravy, three eggs fried up, fresh biscuits, and coffee.

“Mind?” the lawman asked, indicating the chair across from Bloodworth.

“Suit yourself.”

Redmon sat, and tossed his hat on the scarred table. He waved at the waiter, who quickly brought him some coffee.

“I’d like to congratulate you.”

“For what?”

“Catchin’ the killer of them gals. Most others on both sides of the river feel the same. Everybody’s grateful it’s over.”

“No praise needed, Marshal. He ain’t the one.”

“You sure?”

“Yep,” Bloodworth sopped up a bit of egg yolk with a biscuit and popped it in his mouth.

“Why do you say that?”

“All them other gals was cut up somethin’ awful. This one was just some drunk saddle tramp choking one of those unfortunate soiled doves.”

“Damn,” Redmon said with a shake of the head. “You gonna keep lookin’ for the killer?”

“Or killers. I told Smalley I think there’s two, maybe more. But, yes, I aim to keep huntin’ ’em down.”

“Good luck,” Redmon said, draining his coffee. He rose. “I doubt there’s much I can do, but if I can be of any help, you let me know.”

“I will.”

No sooner did Redmon leave when Smalley walked in. He took the seat the lawman had vacated without asking. He slapped a stack of bills on the table and shoved it across toward Bloodworth.

The bounty hunter moved his plate aside and stuck a cigar in his mouth. He scratched a Lucifer across the tabletop and got the smoke fired up properly. Then he leaned forward and pushed the money back toward Smalley. “Can’t take it.”

“What?” Smalley asked, surprised. “Why? You earned it fair and square. I said we’d pay up when you finished the job, and I’ve done so.”

“Job ain’t finished.” He blew a smoke ring into the air.

“What do you mean? You got the guy last night. From what Ike said, you plinked square in the eye.”

“I did shoot that fellah but I missed his eye by an inch. But it don’t matter none. But he ain’t the one been killin’ them gals.”

“What makes you think he’s not the one?”

“This saddle bum was stranglin’ Sassy…”

“That the whore’s name?”

Bloodworth glared at him. His mood had been sour since he awoke, and Smalley was not helping to improve it the least little bit. In fact, he was adding considerably the Bloodworth’s foul humor. “Like I just told the marshal, this son of a bitch was tryin’ to strangle Sassy. All the others were beaten and all carved up.”

“Maybe he planned to do that after he killed her.”

“Maybe,” Bloodworth allowed “but I’d wager against it.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. It should be enough to send the other fellow…”

“Fellahs,” Bloodworth interrupted. “I still think there’s more than one.”

“All right, send them packin’ after this. Now you take the money. You earned it.” Smalley rose and headed out, leaving the money on the table.

Bloodworth sat there for some time, sipping coffee and puffing his cigar. Finally he pulled the money to him and shoved it into his coat pocket. “I’ll earn it yet,” he vowed silently.

As he began patrolling the town, if that’s what he could call what he was doing, he had too much time to think. Standing in the shadows where he could keep watch over several buildings, he contemplated the situation.

Not much of this made sense. There were, he knew, some men who were just plain ornery and mean and given over to living a life of evil. But killing some fallen angels seemed mighty odd. He could understand once, maybe twice, by some fellows who had been given some back talk from one of the girls and being drunk might’ve gone off his head and killed her, then took off back to Texas. He thought it reprehensible, but sometimes such things occurred. But a whole series of them? It was incomprehensible to Bloodworth, but, then, Bloodworth had dealt with too many men who did inconceivable things for no other reason than they were downright wicked.

He began to consider people he knew here who might be such a malevolent thing. Erwin Bock, the undertaker, might’ve been trying to drum up business. But Bloodworth immediately cast that thought away. There was plenty enough mayhem and killings in Helltown to keep Bock busy. Besides, he was too old and too scrawny to kill anyone by beating her to death.

Sam or Ike, the bartenders? Or any of the other barkeeps? Possible, he reckoned, but not very likely. A number of them would have to be in cahoots seeing as how the murders had occurred in several places. And they happened at different times, when at least some of those men were tending to their bar.

Lundqvist, the owner of several saloons and brothels. Bloodworth and Smalley had discussed that, but it seemed rather dubious, seeing as how at least two of the killings had taken place in his establishment. Of course, he could’ve had those staged to keep suspicion off himself. Bloodworth had known men who would do such a loathsome thing.

Come to think of it, George Smalley might not be beyond such a thing. He would be known anywhere, have free access and the girls would be used to him, and afraid to turn him away. But that didn’t seem likely. Bloodworth wasn’t sure why, but it just seemed wrong. Smalley might be a slimy character, but he was a businessman, and killing off his working girls would not be good for business. Like Lundqvist, he might be doing it to scare off competitors, but since most of the killings had taken place in his establishments, it was unlikely.

He smiled a little to himself as he thought of Marshal Redmon. He was certainly strong enough to be able to do such a dreadful thing. And, like Smalley, he could easily get into the areas where the killings were perpetrated. The girls would be open to him showing up. And he had a bunch of reprehensible deputies. Bloodworth’s slight smile faded as he gave the thought more consideration. The lawman had often seemed to have a grudge against Bloodworth, several times ordering him, to no avail, of course, to leave town. At others, he seemed to be making an effort to be friendly. It all seemed suddenly suspicious to Bloodworth.

Seeing two men stop outside the Dusty Steer saloon cattycorner across the street and peer over the batwing doors broke Bloodworth’s reverie. He waited, though, alert. The two seemed to be satisfied, and pushed inside, seemingly in a hurry. Bloodworth waited a minute or two, then swiftly limped across the street and carefully entered.

The place was empty save for two drunks sleeping it off at one table. Even the bartender was nowhere to be seen. “Damn,” Bloodworth muttered as he headed for the stairs. He paused at the top, wary. A muffled thump caught his attention. Not sure if it was just one of the girls entertaining a customer, he crept forward.

He half bent and pressed his ear against the door. He smiled when he heard the sound of lovemaking, if that’s what the animal-like grunts coming from the room signified.

Then someone slammed him in the back of the head and he went down, not out completely but on the doorstep of unconsciousness. He tried to rise as he heard two men muttering. Then they laughed. He felt hands grab his boots and drag him along into a room. They dropped him.

“Nice pistol you got here,” one of the men said with a chuckle. His voice was a grumble. He tossed the gun in a corner.

“Best check him for a second six-shooter,” the other man said in a reedy voice. “I reckon a man like him carries a belly gun.”

Bloodworth’s short-barreled backup was removed and was also tossed in the corner. Then the two men tugged him up and shoved him into a chair. Despite the throbbing in his head, he had the presence of mind to puff his chest out as far as he could as the men tied him to the chair.

“Well, well,” the rumbling-voiced man said rather jovially, “look at who we got here, Matt. The great Mr. bounty hunter himself. All trussed up like a chicken.”

“Reckon you found us at last, after so much searchin’,” Matt said. He and his partner laughed. “Not the way you expected, however, I’d sure say, eh?” He shook his head. “We got started on this crusty little whore when we decided to finally bring you in and let you see our handiwork. It took some doin’ trackin’ you down, but once we spotted you across the street, we had you.”

Bloodworth said nothing. He simply tried to focus his eyes and mind. Beyond the two men he saw a woman naked, tied to the bed. She was gagged and looked at him with fear in her eyes.

“Since you’ve been rather interested in me and Harv’s activities of late,” Matt said, “we thought we’d let you watch just this one time. ’Course it won’t do to let you see more than once, as you’ll be dead soon’s we finish with this harlot.” He turned toward the bed.

When Matt and Harv moved away, Bloodworth could see a pair of longhandle-clad legs lying just on the other side of the bed. He figured the man was dead. He neither knew why nor cared.

Both villains dropped their gunbelts in the opposite corner from Bloodworth’s six-guns and shucked their shirts and pants, leaving them in longjohns. Matt bent and pulled a knife from his gunbelt.

Harv, who Bloodworth had figured was the boss of the two, moved up between the woman’s spread-eagled legs. He pulled himself free from the front of his longhandles. Without warning, he jammed his hardness into her.

From where he sat, Bloodworth could see that she barely grimaced at the violation. It was an entirely different matter when Matt quickly slid the knife crossways across her belly. Her eyes bugged out and her scream not escape the gag. The look and silent shriek grew even worse, or so it seemed to Bloodworth, when Matt in rapid succession sliced one breast, then the other.

In barely seconds, Harv grunted to the finish. He pulled himself free, face blank. He took Matt’s knife as the two men switched places.

Bloodworth worked furiously to free himself. Between the inch or two of room he had given himself by puffing out his chest, and the sloppily fastened knots, he thought he had a pretty good chance of doing so. He was not at all certain he could do it quickly enough to save the woman.

Matt took his place between the woman’s legs, but he was flaccid. He almost immediately grew red-faced and began sweating when he could not rouse himself with some tentative, then panicked, strokes. Suddenly he stopped and punched the woman in the stomach, then again.

“Ain’t up to it, eh, Matt?” Harv said with a grin. Almost absent-mindedly he nicked the woman’s neck with the knife, then flicked the tip of the blade against a nipple.

Bloodworth gritted his teeth as he increased his efforts to get free. He was enraged at the woman’s treatment, and burned to kill these two men. He wriggled his shoulders and arms, feeling the ropes loosen a bit. He seethed as he watched the two brutes begin to work with methodical cruelness on the poor fallen angel.

Bloodworth fought frantically and the knots gradually slackened, then more, then still more. With one great flexing of his shoulders and biceps, the knots unraveled. Bloodworth yanked the ropes free. But in doing so, the chair crashed over backward.

Harv, who was on the near side, swiveled his head. Alarmed at what he saw, he dashed toward the guns across the room, snatching one and coming up on one knee. Bloodworth dove for his own gun in the near corner. He grabbed his Remington, rolled once and fired at the same time Harv did. Bloodworth’s bullet punched into Harv’s right shoulder, knocking him back against the all. He dropped his six-shooter. Harv’s shot dinged off the barrel of Bloodworth’s six-gun, knocking it from his hand.

He glanced up, shocked to see Matt with a gun in his hand coming around the far side of the bed. Bloodworth had the fleeting thought that Matt had grabbed it from the man who had been killed earlier. But he had no time for thought or to scrabble around for his gun. He shoved up off his bad leg, ignoring the jolt of pain it brought, and charged at Matt.

The big man froze for a moment, surprised. Then he started to raise his pistol. Bloodworth slammed into him, driving him back and back. Then both crashed through the window. Bloodworth managed to twist a little and when they hit the ground two floors down, he landed atop Matt. He heard bones break and Matt groan.

Bloodworth lay atop him for some moments, the breath having been knocked out of him. Wheezing, he finally began pushing himself up, and saw Harv staggering up the street. “Shit,” Bloodworth muttered. He grabbed the pistol from the ground next to Matt and trotted weakly out to the middle of the street. He knelt and raised the pistol, resting it across his left forearm. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he fired.

Though Harv went sprawling on his face in the dirt, Bloodworth knew it was not a fatal shot. By the way Harv went down, Bloodworth figured he had gotten him in the leg. “Damn,” he sighed. “Dammit.” He pushed slowly to his feet.

Sam, the bartender, shotgun in hand, popped out of the Pecos saloon. He glanced toward Bloodworth. “That you, Harlan?” he hollered.

“Yep.”

“This belong to you?” Sam pointed the muzzle of the scattergun toward Harv.

“He is. Keep him there while I see to the other.”

People were drifting out of saloons along the street, interested.

“The other?”

Yep.”

“We don’t cotton to shootin’ one of us boys,” someone yelled from the crowd.

“He’s a whore-killin’ son of a bitch.” Bloodworth thumbed back the hammer of the pistol. “Someone wants to take offense at that, come on out here and face me. Otherwise, keep your traps shut and go back to your drinkin’.”

There was silence for some moments, and then a man stepped out from the crowd. “I don’t like it,” he said, his words thickly slurred.

“Pull your piece or shut that shithole of a mouth,” Bloodworth snapped.

The man scrabbled at the pistol in his belt. Bloodworth, in as foul a humor as he ever had been, and he was not of a mind to deal with such a fractious drunk. He started to bring his pistol to bear when another man stepped into the street, getting between Bloodworth and the drunk.

“Go easy there, Bloodworth,” he said over his shoulder. To the man in front of him, he said, “Come on, Fred. I’ll buy you a drink.” He took the man by the arm and led him away. The other men began to slowly scatter.

“One of you men go get the undertaker and Marshal Redmon,” Bloodworth ordered.

A couple of men moved off, one of them heading toward the better part of Dodge.

“You go on, Harlan, do what needs doin’,” Sam yelled. “I’ll tend to this one.” Harv was trying to stand, but Sam placed the sole of a boot on his back and held him down.

Bloodworth turned and walked back to where Matt still lay. The man struggled for breath. Bloodworth looked down at him in loathing, his eyes cold with hate and disgust. “You ain’t deservin’ of this, you scum. Not after what you done. But I ain’t of a mind for dealin’ with you and havin’ you take up a doctor’s time.” He shot Matt through the forehead.

With fury still flooding through his veins, Bloodworth walked around to the front of the building, into the saloon, and up the stairs. In the room, he went straight to the bed.