Sathow's Sinners (10 page)

“Go on with it then.”

“He also wanted mounted armor plates.”

“Mounted onto what?” Pete asked.

More than happy to look away from Frank, Caster said, “The armor is essentially made from steel plates attached to hooks that can be hung from railings, the side of a wagon or even windowsills.”

“What about the rest of the order?”

Caster nodded. “He wanted one of my special order safes and a few crates of rifles and such.”

“Men don't come to you just for rifles. What was the safe for?”

“What's any safe for?”

Not knowing much about safes, Pete went back to more familiar territory. “How was the cannon supposed to be modified?”

“He wanted something that could inflict as much damage as possible. I had already been working on something along those lines. I call it a flame spout.”

“What the hell is that?” Pete asked through a perplexed scowl.

“Well,” Caster said uncomfortably, “I've been putting it together as something of a curiosity and the stranger seemed very interested in it. Quite simple really. It's similar in design to hand pumps used by fire departments in New York City and Europe. Instead of water being pumped, kerosene is used. There are some other precautions to take when dealing with a combustible like that. Once you make those considerations, all that's needed is an ignition source that will not set fire to the kerosene tanks. It was an unusual project, but I managed to fill it in time for delivery.”

“Which is when?” Since Pete only got a bewildered grimace from Caster, he placed the saw across Caster's chest and started dragging it just hard enough to rip his vest and shirt.

“It's already happened!” Caster yelped. “That's why those men stopped by and were here for so long. Pescaterro and that stranger I told you about came with a wagon to collect the order.”

“How long ago was the order placed?”

“A few months. I needed time to figure out how I would complete my flame spout and then build it along with the armor plates.”

Frank surprised both of the other men by pressing the barrel of his .38 beneath the German's left eye. “Why?” he snarled. “Why would you make weapons like this?”

“I just do what I'm asked!” Caster insisted.

“If you were asked to execute a family or burn a schoolhouse full of children, would you?”

“I— That's not the same.”

“Isn't it? You must know those weapons will be used to inflict pain, death and suffering!”

“I wouldn't take part in killing anyone. I'm just a craftsman. I make tools. I don't use them. Please forgive me, Father. I'm trying to be a better man. I would never—”

“Shut your mouth,” Frank said in a strained voice. Holstering the pistol as if he'd forgotten that he'd drawn it in the first place, he whispered, “Just . . . be quiet.”

Frank pulled in a long breath and let it out. Keeping his hand on the grip of the .38 to push it as far down into its holster as possible, he put his back to the sunny side of the workshop and headed for the door.

Once outside, it took a few moments for the scent of the air or the sound of the nearby water to register on his weary senses. All of the natural wonders were still there, but it took Frank a bit longer to recognize them. He walked around the building until he could see the river as well as hear it. The wind had calmed somewhat but with some concentration, Frank was able to feel its touch on his cheek.

Birds sang lazily to each other from the branches of slowly swaying trees.

Horses tied nearby let out a few huffing breaths and stomped their feet to fret at something or other.

A door swung open and a set of boots crunched against the ground. When Frank felt a pair of eyes burning into his back, he turned around to check if anyone was staring at him. Although Pete was approaching, he was looking toward the street. Frank checked the door and saw the nervous weapons maker holding it open while staring at him. A second later, the door was quickly shut.

“You doing all right, Preacher?” Pete asked.

“Yeah. Did he have anything else to say?”

“It started as a bunch of rattling on about Dog Ear and that stranger he was with. He thinks the two of them pulled together a small amount of men. Less than a dozen in all. You squeezed all the really good stuff out of him before you left. That was damn impressive, if I do say so myself.”

“I lost my temper. That shouldn't happen. Not anymore.”

“You're still a man, ain't ya?”

“Very much so,” Frank replied.

“Then you got nothing to be sorry about. You didn't let him walk all over you or try to preach to him. And, when you surprised both of us at the end there, you didn't do any real damage. There might be some damage to Caster's trousers, but it ain't nothing a good wash can't fix. Did that stranger Caster described sound familiar at all?”

Grateful for something else to think about, Frank pondered that and then shook his head. “Not as such. I don't know anyone who would—”

“Who would what?” Pete asked. “Want to kill so many men in as quick a time as possible?”

“No,” Frank said with a tired laugh. “I've known more men like that than I've known good souls who want nothing more than to tend to their field or bring their children up right. I'm talking about someone who would want to have something built that can spray fire and cause not just pain and death but . . . screaming agony. Have you ever seen someone burn?”

“Yeah,” Pete replied. “Two men who went into a burning stable to try and pull out a couple of panicked horses. They made it to the door and then dropped. The flames were so bad . . .” He closed his eyes and quickly opened them again to focus on the slowly rippling river. “Me and the others trying to douse the blaze couldn't get close enough to do anything. We just had to stand there holding those heavy, useless goddamn buckets of water and watch those men and horses melt down like candles.”

“And not only did someone think up a way to spread that kind of misery,” Frank said, “but another man actually built it for him.”

Pete put a hand on Frank's shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, we're all workin' to find those killers and they're all bound for the noose when we do.”

“How many more killers must be dealt with after that?” Frank wondered.

“We'll just chip away wherever we can. The way I see it, if enough folks do their part, this filthy stink hole of a world may have a chance after all.”

Frank nodded, but not enthusiastically. For now, it was the best he could manage.

F
rank and Pete left later that same day. Because Nagle was such a small, tight-knit community, it didn't take much for them to be convinced that there was a gang of killers lurking about somewhere. After eating a quick lunch and stocking up on supplies, they put Nagle behind them.

There was a trading post which was roughly halfway between Nagle and the mining camp where they were supposed to meet up with Nate and Deaugrey. Having arrived slightly ahead of schedule, Frank found some other folks in need of a good conversation. Apart from the trading post, there was also a small platform and ticketing office used by several local stagecoach companies. Waiting on the platform were a family of four on their way to Nebraska and a man traveling on his own who was headed all the way to San Francisco. It did Frank a world of good to speak with them and, when Pete sauntered up to the platform, he went unnoticed for several minutes. Finally, Frank excused himself so he could stand by the burly tracker.

“You seem to be in better spirits,” Pete said.

Frank smiled and clasped the lapels of his black jacket. “I do, indeed! It feels nice to be among people who regard a man in my profession as a comfort instead of as a threat to their tainted souls. No offense meant, of course.”

“You think I got a tainted soul?”

After a short but uncomfortable silence, Frank asked, “Did you find anything in regards to Nate or Deaugrey?”

“Not a damn thing.” Pete's words carried just far enough to catch the attention of a mother traveling with her two young boys. She was a pleasant woman with curly blond hair and a round face who quickly escorted her sons away from the source of the foul language to which they'd just been subjected. Pete tipped his hat to them and shrugged apologetically to the tall bespectacled man who walked over to accompany the woman and children.

“Did you check for a message?” Frank asked. “There's a telegraph desk. That's why Nate chose this spot to meet.”

“I know there's a damn telegraph desk,” Pete snarled in a quieter voice. “I saw the damn wires. There ain't no message waiting there, no telegrams and none of the folks working in this place have seen anyone that looks like Nate or Grey.”

Now worry began to show on Frank's face. “It's possible they might forget about seeing Nate. But Deaugrey . . . he's memorable if nothing else.”

“That's one way of putting it. How much longer do you reckon we should wait here?”

“We've got plenty of sunlight left. If we head out now, we should make it all the way to that mining camp by this time tomorrow.”

“Earlier, I'd say,” Pete told him. “I know some shortcuts we can take that may be a bit tougher of a ride, but will shave a good amount of time off the trip.”

“We can't stray too far from the original trail,” Frank insisted as he and Pete walked to where their horses were tied. “There's always the chance Nate and Deaugrey were merely delayed and are on their way to meet us. They'll be taking the same route as we did but if we take another one, we might pass each other without knowing.”

Pete approached his horse to check the saddle's buckles and reins to make certain all the essentials were securely in place. “I could always look for high ground every so often to check for anyone using that other trail.”

“Could you do that well enough to see that trail without losing any of the time we'd gain by taking the other route in the first place?”

It didn't take long for Pete to arrive at his conclusion. “No.”

“Then we'll do the most obvious thing,” Frank said. “You ride ahead on your shorter route and get to that mining town as quickly as you can while I ride the original trail back so I can meet up with Nate and Deaugrey if they're headed that way.”

“I don't know if I like that idea too much,” Pete said.

“Why? You think a preacher wouldn't be able to handle himself if things got rough along the way?”

Pete grinned. “After what I seen over the last couple'a days, there ain't no doubt in my mind you can handle yourself. Still, if you run into Dog Ear or any of his boys, that could be the sort of trouble that no man can handle on his own.”

“It's not a very long ride. Both of us will move quickly and silently, avoiding trouble wherever possible. Besides,” Frank added, “if we ran into Dog Ear or his men, having one or two of us wouldn't make a big enough difference to worry about. From what we've heard of the ordnance they're packing, all four of us are going to have our hands full on the day we cross paths with them.”

“Yeah. I see your point. Can't say as I like it any better, but you're right. So we split up, and if you do happen to find Nate or Grey, the lot of you turn back around and head for that mining camp. No matter what, that's where we pick up the next leg of Dog Ear's trail.”

“Agreed.” Frank was about to snap his reins when he saw Pete reach one hand straight out to him.

When Frank shook the hand that was offered, Pete said, “My apologies for before.”

“No need for that,” the other man assured him.

“That's where you're mistaken. I wasn't thinking too highly of you. To be honest, I never did quite warm up to the notion of Nate riding with a preacher. You always struck me as a burden that wasn't good for much apart from steering a bit of suspicion away from us.”

Frank shrugged. “I doubt I'm really good for that, to be honest.”

“Right, which just makes you a burden.” Smiling, Pete surveyed his surroundings with the scrutiny of someone who had the skills to truly see everything there was to be found. “I was wrong about that, and I was wrong about you.”

“Lord, I hope so.”

“I can see why Nate has you as a partner. You did a hell of a job. I can't speak for any of the others on Nate's list, but I'm someone who'll be more than willing to put his life into yer hands.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “I hope it doesn't come to that, but thanks.”

The two men parted ways. Frank retraced his steps down the trail they'd originally taken to get to Nagle at a brisk, steady pace. Unencumbered by worry about anyone else keeping up with him, Pete snapped his reins to coax his horse to a gallop as quickly as possible. When he disappeared into the Missouri woods, they swallowed him up like a ghost.

A
s far as Pete was concerned, being in the company of his fellow human beings wasn't nearly as beneficial as everyone else seemed to think. If he had things his way, his days would all rush past him in a furious gust of wind and the thunder of a horse's hooves beating against the ground. When he didn't have to concern himself with things like another person's well-being or the letter of the law, everything just became clearer.

Not all folks were cut out for living in the hills or forging new paths across an untamed land. Those were the folks who needed to keep to their towns and lock themselves away behind their walls. As he rode over the rough terrain, watching for any flaw in the ground before him that could send him flying from his saddle, Pete wore a cruel grin at the notion of tenderfeet trying to survive in his world.

Out there, miles from civilized niceties, was most definitely Pete Meyer's world. Anyone who couldn't read every last sign given by the grain of the earth or the creatures dwelling there was headed for a swift and painful end. For those folks, there was no practical way to find a bloodthirsty animal like Dog Ear Pescaterro until he showed himself in his own terrible way. All Pete had to do was keep his nose to the wind and his eyes open wide. Sooner or later, even the deadliest predators stepped where they shouldn't. Bear, wolf or man, it made no difference. They all made mistakes.

For the next day's ride, Pete reveled in his element and tore through Missouri like the last plate of Nate Sathow's cooking had ripped through his innards. With nobody else to guide through the mess of Missouri's backwoods, he traversed a route that barely qualified as a trail. Since Pescaterro would have needed to be a miracle worker to bring a wagon through there, Pete didn't even need to concern himself with tracking the outlaw. His only task was to move swiftly, and he fulfilled that purpose with true tenacity. By late morning of the following day, he'd made even more progress than he could have hoped.

A simple breakfast of cold oatmeal and jerked venison kept him going for the rest of the ride. Before he could even think about supper, he caught sight of a small cluster of men huddled around a crook in a stream. Pete skirted the men's position, getting close enough to tell they were panning in the water. Not much farther along, Pete met up with the proper trail leading toward the mining camp. He was so far ahead of schedule that he didn't bother looking to see if Frank was there or not. If the preacher had beat him to that camp, Pete would gladly pick up a shovel and join the miners in a new line of work.

The camp was less than a mile away. Once his horse slowed to a walk and the wind in his face had dwindled down to a hot, sticky breeze, Pete wished he could look over to Frank and nod for the preacher to take over from there. But Frank was still somewhere in the dust behind him, and Pete needed to do some scouting of a different sort, which involved talking to folks and getting a few answers. It wasn't anything new to him and neither was the sour expression that settled onto his face as he climbed down from his saddle to lead his horse through camp.

The first place he went was the corral where he, Nate and the others had put up their horses during their last stop there. He handed over his reins to the same man who'd been there before and gave him enough money to pay for a feed bag and some clean water. Holding out a bit more cash, Pete asked, “You seen the other men that were with me the last time?”

“Oh yeah,” the stableman replied. “There was another one, sure enough. Had a scar, I believe.”

“When did they leave?” Pete asked.

“Leave?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You've only got one horse here and I ain't never seen it before. The loud one and the one with the scar probably left in the last few days. If you could narrow it down for me, I'd be obliged.”

Once a bit more money was dangled in front of him, the stableman asked, “What horses were they riding?”

Pete looked in the corral roped off in front of him. “I don't see them. One should be a spotted gelding and the other's a mule.”

“Right. They're still here. I got 'em inside.”

“Inside?”

The stableman nodded over to a long tent set up nearby. All this time, Pete had written it off as a bath house or laundry because of all the puddles around it.

“I own that place as well,” the stableman said. “Use it to wash the horses and clean half the clothes in this camp.”

“At least I was half right,” Pete grumbled.

“Huh?”

“Forget it. You were paid to give my friends' horses baths?”

“Nah. I also use that place for anyone who wants to rent a space for extended periods. That don't happen very often since most folks who stay are workin' here, and they can keep their own horses themselves.”

Now more than ever, Pete longed for the solitude of an open trail. “You're not making this very easy on me,” he grumbled as he walked over to the long tent.

“What do you mean?” the stableman asked. “Where are you going? Hey! You ain't allowed to just poke your nose in wherever you like!” Although he was more than willing to grouse about what Pete was doing, the stableman wasn't about to get off his wide ass to do anything about it himself.

As the man outside continued to holler at him, Pete stepped into the long tent to have a look. The interior was divided into spaces the size of stalls for the horses, two of which were occupied. He was relieved to find the spotted gelding and mule he'd been after and was even happier that he didn't have to continue talking in circles with the stableman. Unfortunately, there was just one more question that needed to be asked.

Once Pete had walked away from the tent that reeked of wet animals, he made his way back to the stableman. Obviously pleased with himself for some reason, the fat man folded his hands across his belly and looked up at Pete. “Sorry to speak so roughly to you,” he said. “A man's got to protect his interests.”

“I understand,” Pete replied. “How long have the two men who own those animals been in camp?”

“Awhile.”

“Have they ever left?”

“No, but I expect they won't be leaving anytime soon. Ever since Dale got ahold of one of 'em, that fella ain't seen the light of day.”

Keeping his face an unreadable mask, Pete asked, “Who's Dale?”

“Dale Chester. Him and Adam Ross act as regulators in this camp. Closest thing to law there is around here.”

“Where can I find them?”

“Dale only got one of your friends. The other one was fit to be tied when he came around to try and get the horses from me. Didn't have any money on him, though. He was the one with the big mouth, so I guess that other fella with the scar you mentioned is the one in lockup. Ross keeps drunks and vagrants in the old smokehouse on the western edge of camp. There was some sort of commotion outside the Straight to the Eight, shooting and all. I imagine your friends were wrapped up in that somehow.”

“Much obliged,” Pete said with a tip of his hat.

“Hey!”

Turning around again, Pete expected any number of threats or boasts from the fat man who seemed to have grown roots into his chair. Instead, the stableman nodded up at him and asked, “You need a spot to put your horse up for the night?”

“Don't think so.”

“Suit yourself.” With that, the stableman settled back into his blissful state of apathy.

On his way through camp, Pete went through the thick of the settlement, which included a saloon and some other large tent marked with red scarves fluttering from atop two of its posts. Having spotted the bar through the saloon's wide front entrance, he went inside and rapped on the warped wooden surface.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“I hear there was some sort of commotion here not too long ago,” Pete said as he placed enough money on the bar to cover a drink and then some.

“Sure was,” the barkeep replied while scooping up the money. “What can I get you?”

“You can get me a beer and keep the change if you let me know what happened.”

“The two who were in that shooting. They friends of yours?”

Pete nodded once.

“Then you'll be willing to pay a bit more to hear about what terrible bit of business befell them.”

“Or,” Pete offered, “I can consider it a kindness if you'd let me know what happened. In exchange, I'll do you the kindness of not putting a match to this pile of kindling you call a bar.”

The barkeep was quick to offer a wide smile. “Kindness is a reward in itself, right? There was a fight or some such at the cathouse next door. Scared the hell out of the girls working there and part of the tent was knocked down. Dale got to him before anyone was hurt.”

Pete patted the bar and said, “Keep the beer and all the money,” even though the barkeep hadn't made a move toward the tap. “What about the other one? My friend that wasn't caught and dragged away.”

“The one with the big mouth?”

“That's him.”

“Over yonder,” the barkeep replied while nodding toward the card tables.

When Deaugrey wasn't acting like a fool, he didn't stand out nearly as much. Still, it didn't take long for Pete to spot him leaning over one of the tables with his back to the bar. Pete approached him, grabbed one of Deaugrey's shoulders and gave him a shake as he leaned down to whisper, “You shouldn't keep your back to the door like that, Grey.”

“I like surprises,” Deaugrey said.

“Where's Nate?”

“Oh, that's a hell of a story.”

“I already got most of it,” Pete said.

“Then why come and bother me?”

Tightening his grip on Deaugrey's shoulder, Pete started to lift him from his chair. This wasn't the first time Deaugrey was forcibly taken from one place to another, which meant he'd had plenty of practice in shaking himself loose. After a few quick twists of his body, he pulled free of Pete's grip and turned to face him.

“Can't you see I'm busy?” Deaugrey snapped.

Pete gave a stern look to the rest of the players before they could object to the interruption of the game. “We got plenty to keep us busy so come along with me, crazy man, before I embarrass you in front of all your new friends.”

“If you've truly heard about our predicament, then you should be able to guess that we're in need of as much money as we can get as quickly as we can get it.”

Admittedly, Deaugrey had a point. His case gained even more strength when Pete took into consideration the impressive stack of chips and cash in front of Deaugrey. Add that to the hopeful expressions that were starting to appear on the faces of the other players and Pete was certain Deaugrey's luck was showing no hint of running out soon.

“How much longer?” Pete asked.

Settling into his seat and straightening his clothes, Deaugrey said, “It's a game of ebbs and flows.” In a quick whisper, he added, “Two hours.”

Pete excused himself and headed for the bar. “What's he been drinking?” he asked the tender.

“Whiskey. The cheap stuff.”

“Keep them coming,” Pete said as he placed some more cash onto the bar. “But start watering them down, you hear?”

In his experience, that was never a request a barkeep was unwilling to fulfill. So as not to disappoint him, this bartender smiled and reached for a bottle on the shelf behind him. It was one of the largest and least dusty in the entire place.

In the short amount of time that he'd been in the camp, Pete had gotten most of the answers he needed. He could get the remaining ones by simply doing what he did best. After leaving the Straight to the Eight, he went to the tent marked with red scarves and took a moment to have a gander. In a matter of seconds, a pretty young thing wrapped in nothing but a slip sauntered over to him and asked, “You look lonely, handsome. I can help with that.”

“I hear there was some trouble here recently.”

“Yes, but don't worry about that,” the young woman replied with a dismissive wave. “Let me take care of you.”

“What's your name?”

“Sadie.”

“Tell you what, Sadie. When I come back after collecting some money I'm owed, I'll ask for you special.”

She winked and walked away to let him get to it.

Pete hadn't asked where the trouble had been exactly because she'd told him enough by the direction she'd waved and glanced when he'd mentioned the commotion. Wandering outside to circle around to the side of the tent, Pete studied the ground carefully and blocked out everything else around him. It felt mighty good to get back to what he did best.