Sathow's Sinners (9 page)

Nagle, Missouri

F
rank slept well that night. His rented room was tiny but its window allowed a cool breeze to drift through and fill it with the scent of the river. The fee for the room included breakfast, which wound up being griddle cakes, bacon and coffee. Pete didn't poke his nose from his room until Frank had made his way through half of his stack of cakes. When the tracker saw him sitting at the breakfast table, he looked to the window, which was bright with the deep orange glow of morning, and then back to the table.

“It's early,” Pete said.

“A man in my line of work gets into the habit of waking up early,” Frank replied cheerily.

“And enjoys it as well,” Pete grunted as he made his way over to the table and sat down. When the woman who owned the place greeted him, he responded with, “I'll take what he's having, with some more bacon.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Be right there.”

After Pete had filled a cup of coffee from the pot that had been left on the table, Frank said, “You weren't expecting to find me down here yet.”

“Nope.”

“We've ridden together a few times, Pete. We should be able to trust each other.”

Pete stirred a cube of sugar into his coffee and stared quietly down into it. Eventually, he said, “It ain't a matter of trust. It's just . . . he ain't only a knife maker.”

Frank smiled and got back to work on his breakfast. “I've pretty much gathered that on my own. Is this man is a good friend of yours?”

“No, but I've known him awhile,” Pete said.

The cook returned with Pete's breakfast and set it down. Once she was happy that her work was done, she went back to the kitchen.

“I've got plenty of patience,” Frank said, “but my supply is running short. Tell me who this knife maker is so we can get on with what we're here to do.”

“His name is Caster Grunwaldt. He . . .” Lowering his voice until it almost couldn't be heard at all, Pete said, “He's done some things he ain't so proud of. Caster has been getting soft in his old age and he's the sort who might just decide to repent once he gets a look at a preacher.”

“So . . . what's the problem with that?”

“I was thinkin' maybe you could just show yourself, but not be close enough to let him talk to you. Sort of . . . grease the wheels.”

“Why didn't you just come out and ask that before?” Frank said.

Pete shrugged and cut a portion of griddle cakes that looked almost too large to fit inside a human mouth. “Thought you might find such a thing disagreeable.”

Frank waved that off and chewed on his last strip of bacon. “I've had to do many disagreeable things in my time, and not all of them are because of Nate. If seeing me will rattle this Caster person enough to talk a bit more, then so be it. I think I could do even more good if I was close enough to put a few words in myself, though.”

“Guess I underestimated you.”

“You're not the first to do that, my friend. Tell me some more about this man we're going to meet.”

“He's made weapons of all sorts,” Pete explained. “If you needed something that could kill a man in the best possible way, you went to Caster. If he didn't have any in stock or know where to get them, he'd make the weapon for you himself.”

“Sounds like someone Nate would like to meet.”

The fork Pete pointed at Frank still had a bit of bacon on it when he said, “That's another reason I was treading carefully on that matter. Caster's trying to make good. He ain't another one of us who's just given in to what we are.”

“We do good work, Pete. You're no criminal.”

A shadow fell over Pete's face as he lowered his fork. “Caster ain't cut out to work with Nate Sathow. He's a might shaky in the head. Not as shaky as some men we both know, but he's . . .”

“Haunted?” Frank offered.

“Yeah. Haunted by what he's done. That being said, I don't think he's through doing it, either. Truth is, I don't know quite what to think. That's why I thought you'd be a good partner to have along when we talked to him. Perhaps we can shake something loose.”

“If there's anything to come loose.”

“There is,” Pete said. “It ain't just some coincidence that a killer like Pescaterro gets ahold of a knife made by someone as fluent in death as Caster.”

“What else is there, Pete? I know when someone is holding back from saying something important. Also, I've never seen you so uncomfortable.”

Pete stabbed a few more chunks of griddle cake, used them to sop up some syrup and chewed them down. Finally, he said, “I don't know if we can trust him. He's dangerous.”

And there it was. The hesitance in Pete's tone, the sudden pensiveness, even the way he shifted his eyes away came from a little flame of guilt within Pete's core. If anyone could spot that flame from a mile away, it was a preacher. “A man who makes the best guns would naturally be a fairly good shot,” Frank said. “For a man with the talents of your friend . . . I imagine his skills extend into some pretty exotic directions.”

“That's right. I know Nate trusts you, but I ain't never been right with him letting a man of the Lord ride along with us when we're getting shot at. But on these jobs, Nate calls the shots. Now that it's me callin' a shot or two . . .”

“First of all,” Frank interrupted, “Nate doesn't
let
me do anything. He's damn lucky I offer my services, as are the rest of you. Second, we can't do what we do by holding back. We work together or not at all. If we, as a people, could take anything beneficial from the War Between the States, that lesson is it.”

“All right then,” Pete said as he sat up straight and wiped his face with his napkin. “For this to go the way we want it to, I need to be certain you'll go along with the plan and not step on my toes when I'm goin' to work.”

“That sounds . . . ominous. I thought he was a friend of yours.”

“You're the one that's been callin' him my friend,” Pete said. “I only mentioned that I know him.”

“Fair enough.”

“I've worked with Caster enough to know when he's lying,” Pete said through a mouthful of breakfast. “I also know what it'll take to push him into helping if he's feeling uncooperative. What I need from you is—”

“Is to make my presence known as a man of God so I can appeal to this man's sense of guilt for his past, but not assert myself so much that I get in the way of you breaking his spirit and possibly parts of his body,” Frank said. “Does that sound about right?”

Pete nodded. “It would also help if you didn't try to do nothing like confuse him with spiritual talk or discuss ways he can repent and such.”

“I see how a preacher trying to save a lost soul might inconvenience our need to beat information out of somebody.”

“When you say it that way, it sounds downright savage.”

“Well then,” Frank said through a warmer smile, “at least we're both finally seeing eye to eye. Let's get this over with.”

C
aster's shop was a simple one, located near a sawmill and an easy walk to any raw materials a man of his profession might need. There was a blacksmith within sight of his shop, but not so close as to be considered a proper neighbor. Nagle itself was a small community filled with people who were mostly uninterested in meeting the gaze of two strangers walking through it, which suited Frank and Pete's needs just fine.

On their way to the shop, Pete and Frank discussed how they would approach this weapon smith. It was fairly straightforward, but Pete was a stickler for sorting through any eventualities his fertile mind could produce. By the time Pete was ready to knock on the shop's door, Frank felt like he'd already met with its owner three or four times in a row.

The shop was locked up tight. Every window was covered and, if he were alone that day, Frank might very well have been convinced the place was empty. He certainly wouldn't have switched from knocking to kicking the door hard enough to rattle it within its frame. That was the path Pete decided to take, so Frank stood by and watched him go.

After a minute or two, the door's latches were worked from the other side. Amid the rattle and clatter of the metal posts being pulled back, a grumbling voice could be heard. Frank recognized the language as German. Having a basic understanding of a language didn't help him decipher the steady torrent of it that was accentuated by colorful gestures and what must have been some nasty requests.

When the door was finally opened, a short man with beady eyes peered out at them. Almost all of his hair was sprouting in a thick curtain covering his upper lip. Whatever grew from his scalp had been cut so short that it wouldn't have made a serviceable brush. “What do you want?” he asked in an accent that reeked of dark beer and heavy breads.

“Hello, Caster. It's Pete Meyer. Remember me?”

“Of course I do,” Caster replied in short, chopped words. “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you about a knife.”

“There's a general store in town.”

Pete grinned. “Not just a regular blade. One of your special orders. I got the money to pay for the job to be done right.”

Caster squinted past Pete to where Frank was standing. “Who's he?”

“A friend. Can we come in or should I start laying out the details on your front porch?”

The door swung open, and Caster stepped aside. He was dressed in simple clothes that were clean, functional and not much else. The black trousers he wore had obviously been mended several times and went along nicely with the rumpled white shirt and dark gray vest that was buttoned most of the way up.

Pete led the way into a shop that was anything but what Frank had expected. Where the front of the store was tightly shut to any intrusion from the outside world, the back was open and embraced its natural surroundings with true vigor. Windows larger than doors lined the far wall, allowing every possible bit of sunlight to flood the wide-open workspace. The floors were immaculately clean. Both work benches had such a high degree of polish that they looked freshly made. Even the collection of tools hanging on the side wall and arranged on a long table had been assembled like a jigsaw puzzle. Each and every piece came together in the most efficient way to make one glorious whole.

“What is this knife you need me to make?” Caster asked. “Probably one of my custom throwing blades?”

“I don't know if it's supposed to be thrown, tossed, dropped or used to butter a biscuit,” Pete said. “But yeah. It's one of your fancy custom models.”

As he listened to Pete talk, Caster cringed at every word. Frank couldn't help but notice that Pete was stringing more words together in an unusually messy way and now he saw why. Just listening to the prolonged patter of unnecessary syllables clearly raked Caster's nerves.

“You are working for Nathan Sathow again, yes?”

“Yes indeed. What makes you pose that question?”

“Because you are still prattling on about nothing instead of buying something,” Caster snapped. “Ask your question and then be on your way.”

“Don't get snippy with me,” Pete said.

“Why does that one keep staring at me?” Caster asked while staring pensively at the third man in the workshop.

Frank stepped forward with his hands clasped and a tranquil expression on his face, which was the pose he struck whenever he was with someone who expected to talk to a more traditional preacher. “Patience is a virtue, my friend.”

“Sathow has sunk to new lows,” Caster said, “if he has taken to recruiting priests to do his bidding.”

“I only answer to one call, I assure you,” Frank said in a good-natured manner. He then held his hands about a foot apart. “The knife in question is about this long and was purchased by—”

“I haven't sold a custom blade in years.”

“Then it could have been stolen,” Pete said. “It had your mark on it, so I know it's yours.”

“You don't know anything,” Caster said.

Storming over to one of the workbenches, Pete grabbed the trigger guard of a rifle that was laying in pieces. He turned it around and quickly grinned while pointing to a small design of two sideways
V
s pointed in opposite directions overlaying each other that had been stamped into the iron. “This mark right here!” Pete said. “You're the only one who stamps such a thing into his weapons. Not only that, but this man would've passed through here on his way south from up north of here where he broke out of prison.”

Although he was still riled up, Caster didn't quite know what to make of Frank. He didn't have that problem when he looked back over to Pete, though. “I want you to leave. Both of you.”

Pete now stood at a long table where an array of drills was displayed beneath several saws hanging from pegs on the wall. Letting his fingers drift from one drill to another, he appeared to be seriously contemplating which was best for a job before he selected one and threw it through the closest window. The move was so swift and so catastrophic to the pane of glass he'd targeted that both Frank and Caster nearly jumped out of their skins when the crash filled the formerly immaculate shop.

“What is the meaning of this?” Caster fumed.

“It's about that damn knife!” Pete roared. “You may not have a problem lying in front of this here priest, but I'm not gonna stand here and take it from you! I just came across that knife and it was from someone who sure as hell hasn't been holding on to it for years!”

In all the times that Frank had worked with Pete, he'd never seen him move as quickly as he did on this day. Pete grabbed another one of those drills and was poised to bore a hole into some random part of Caster's anatomy when he was stopped by a frantic voice.

“No!” the weapon smith shrieked. “Listen to me! Please!”

“Go on and talk,” Pete said.

“I was telling the truth before. I haven't sold one of those blades for some time.” Turning to Frank with what seemed to be very genuine sincerity in his eyes, Caster added, “After so many lives were ended with those blades, I swore to my God above that I would not sell another one. You must believe me, Father.”

Frank rarely let himself be addressed on such formal terms, but Caster spoke the title with such reverence that refusing him would have been a sin in itself. Nodding quietly, Frank let Pete's strategy unfold.

“I've kept those knives here,” Caster continued. “I can show you.”

“Not all of 'em are here,” Pete said. “I've seen it and there's no mistaking one of them blades. Just tell me about the one that's missing before I get agitated.”

“It was stolen from me.”

Pete allowed himself to ease back into his normal speaking voice as he said, “Now we're getting somewhere.”

When Caster looked his way, Frank gave him another nod and said, “Go ahead. It's all right.”

Those words often had a soothing effect on folks. For Caster, they were more. They were a balm that alleviated whatever pain he'd been feeling from a wound that so clearly festered within his soul.

“A man came through town,” Caster said. “He arrived at night, more than a week or two ago now. To be honest, I have tried to forget him since he left. He was a large man. Muscular. Unruly hair. His face was scarred. Burnt, I think. His whiskers only grew in irregular patches.”

Pete nodded. “Sounds like the man we're after. He have crazy eyes?”

“No.”

Now it was Pete who glanced over to Frank. Quickly recovering his commanding demeanor, the tracker asked, “Are you sure about that? His eyes are what most folks remember about him.”

“He wasn't a normal killer,” Caster told him. “I have seen more than my share throughout the years. But he didn't strike me as crazy. He spoke calmly and knew exactly what he wanted.”

“Which was one of those fine knives?”

“No, no! He was poking around in my stock when he found those knives. He took a liking to one of them and took it from me. It would have been more trouble than it was worth to try and stop him so I let him walk off with it. That's all there is to it. I swear to God.”

“So what else did he talk about?”

“You asked about the knife,” Caster said. “I told you about the knife.”

Pete started nodding again. “I did, Caster. And now I'm asking you about the rest.”

Turning toward Frank, Caster reached out with one hand as if he'd suddenly found himself sinking in a pool of black water. “I can't. Just . . .”

“Don't talk to him!”
Pete roared. “You'll talk to
me!
Because no preacher and no Lord above,” he said while selecting one of the smaller gauge drills and holding it up for all to see, “can help you if you don't.”

Now that Pete's demeanor had changed, so did Caster's. “The two of you can't tell me what to do in my own shop,” he said through gritted teeth while reaching for a pistol stashed beneath the flap of his dark gray vest. “Not even Sathow's own priest!”

Without pause and without sparing a moment to try and convince the man in front of him of his wrongdoing, Frank drew his own weapon and steeled himself to end that man's life.

Like any other predator, this one knew when he'd awakened the wrong prey. “Easy, Father,” Caster said.

“Don't call me that.”

“All right.” Looking to Pete, Caster asked, “Can't you tell him I won't shoot?”

Pete stepped up to Caster, turned him around and took the pistol from him. The drill was still in his other hand and he jabbed its tip against Caster's belly while saying, “If I gotta tell you one more time not to talk to him . . .”

Snapping his eyes to Pete, Caster disregarded Frank altogether. He was shaken and confused when he said, “I don't know everything Casey had planned. He just came to me to ask some advice.”

“So you know who was paying you the visit?”

“Yes. I've met Casey Pescaterro once before, and I've dealt with some of his men over the years. All of those men are either dead or locked away. This most recent time, Casey only came to me with one other man that I've never seen before.”

“Who was this other man?”

“I don't know.” Feeling the drill twist against his gut, Caster squirmed and rose to his tiptoes in an attempt to put any sort of distance between himself and the tool he knew so very well. “I swear on my eyes, he never gave me his name. He was an older gentleman, though. Tall. Lean.”

“And he was in Pescaterro's gang?”

“Actually, I got the impression that Pescaterro was in
his
gang.”

Frank didn't like the sound of that one bit and knew Pete was feeling the same cold discomfort in the pit of his stomach at the notion of someone being able to rein in Dog Ear enough to give him orders.

“So the knife was just stolen on a lark,” Pete continued. “What business brought them here in the first place?”

“They had an order to pick up. They were headed south from here. I don't know where.”

“And here I thought you were retired.”

“I was,” Caster insisted. “But the money for this was too much for me to resist. After something like this, I could maybe retire for certain very soon.”

“Very soon, huh?” Pete mused. “Isn't that what you were sayin' about a year or three ago?”

Knowing there was no way to talk himself out of that one, Caster stopped trying to plead his case. “If I tell you everything, these men will find out. This fellow who placed the order knows a great many things. It is how he has gotten as far as he is.”

“You don't even know the man's name,” Frank pointed out.

“He will kill anyone who crosses him,” Caster said. “That is all I need to know.”

Tossing away the drill, Pete grabbed Caster with both hands and dragged him over to a shorter, rectangular workbench. “Well it ain't enough for me,” he said fiercely. He lifted the German up onto the table, slammed his shoulders against the clean surface and grabbed a saw hanging from a peg on the table's edge and lowered the jagged teeth of the saw across Caster's neck. “You came this far,” he said. “Might as well finish the story. Otherwise I'm gonna have to cut you short.”

That was one of the few jokes Frank had ever heard Pete tell. It was also one of the best.

Caster didn't find it nearly as amusing. Sweat poured down his face, which had suddenly gone fish-belly white. “The order was for mounted Gatling guns and a specially modified cannon.”

“Are you serious?” Frank asked as he moved over to the table so he could look directly down into Caster's eyes.

The weapon smith pressed himself against the table as if he thought he could shove all the way down to the floor. He seemed to be looking at his Maker when he said, “I'm telling the truth.”