Shadow of the Hangman (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

“I'm sorry to see you so low, John,” Jacob O'Brien said.

“How did you know where to find me?” Moore said.

“The sheriff riding into town with a bullet in him attracts a lot of attention, even in a burg like this,” Jacob said.

“The whores are taking good care of me,” Moore said.

Jacob looked around the frilly pink and white room that smelled of lavender water and said, “I'm sure they are.”

“Damned butcher that calls himself a doctor near killed me taking the bullet out,” Moore said. “That's why Thistledown brought me here. He said I needed round-the-clock care.” With a dramatic flair Jacob didn't know the man possessed, Moore laid the back of his hand on his forehead and whispered, “I'm just so weak and fevered.”

Jacob grinned. “John, you're a damned liar. You're as strong as an ox, and it's plain to see you're faking it.”

Moore raised a hand in alarm. “Shh . . . Jacob, somebody might hear you. The Vigilance Committee is paying for this, you know. I can stretch it into a week, maybe two.”

Jacob sat on the bed, took a bottle of bourbon from the side table, and studied the label. “Old Fitzgerald,” he said. “They are treating you well.” He poured himself a drink and raised the glass. “Your good health, John.”

“Don't say that too loud, Jake,” Moore said. “And go easy on the whiskey. That bottle's got to last until tomorrow. The whores ration me.” He tried to smile. “Bless their hearts.”

“Tell me about the posse that challenged the colonel this morning,” Jacob said.

“You heard about that, huh?”

“How could I not? The whole town's talking about it.”

“They came back with their tails between their legs.”

“So I understand. Anybody shot?”

“Not a one. The colonel ran them off, and that was that.” Moore punched his embroidered pillows into shape and sat up. “Wentworth wants to bring in the army, but I don't know if and when that'll happen. The soldiers are still trying to round up a few bronco Apaches, and that might keep them busy for a spell.”

“You were in El Cerrito,” Jacob said. “So were me and Shawn. We spoke to a Mexican kid named Pedro, and he told us about the monk.”

Moore's expression changed. He looked confused, like a schoolboy who doesn't know the answer to a question.

“Jake, I'm not a man who believes in ghosts and ha'ants an' sich, but that whole business was mighty strange,” he said.

“You and Thistledown met up in El Cerrito while you were both hunting that Lum character,” Jacob said.

“Well, that ain't exactly how it come up, Jake,” Moore said. “You might say Thistledown saved my life.”

Moore told how he'd been captured and how the little bounty hunter saved him. He described the Mad Hatter's picnic, and then said, “And you know what I saw through a back window before they put my lights out and dragged me into the barn?”

The sheriff glanced around, as though he suspected there was a spy in the room. He leaned closer to Jacob and whispered into his ear, a cupped hand to his mouth. When he finished talking, he said, “So what do you make of that?”

Jacob shook his head. “John, that takes a heap of figuring. And that thing about the upside-down cross is mighty strange.”

“Told you it was,” Moore said. “But it got stranger when the monk showed up; called himself Brother Benedict.”

Moore described how the monk had led them out of the barn, holding on to a huge crucifix.

“Not a shot fired at us, even from Luke Caldwell, and he's a shootin' fool. And the scream Dora DeClare let out”—the sheriff's eyes were haunted—“Jake, I never heard anything like that in my life. She's a pretty little blond gal, Dora is, but she sounded like a wild animal. No, louder than that. Hell, she sounded like a whole pack o' wild animals, and different kinds at that.”

“You sure that was her on the table?” Jacob said.

“I don't mistake something like that. It was Dora all right, and she was naked as a jaybird.”

Jacob poured whiskey for himself and Moore, and then he said, “I can't figure it. Lum, Shade Shannon, and Luke Caldwell, all gathered in that house, I mean. It's strange.”

“Damn strange if you ask me,” Moore said.

“John, did you hear anyone call Dora by the name Nemesis?”

“No, never did,” Moore said. “What is it, a fancy back-east name?”

Jacob didn't feel like pursuing a dead end. “Yeah,” he said, “something like that.”

“They called her Dora,” Moore said. “Just plain Dora.”

“What happened to the monk?” Jacob said.

“He took us to Thistledown's buggy. You know that they call him the Buggy Bount—”

“I know what they call him, John. What about the monk?”

Moore spread his hands and shrugged. “Damned if I know. He just walked away and vanished into the dark.”

“And Thistledown?”

“No idea. Out hunting Lum again, I guess.”

The door opened and a woman walked inside, wearing a robe, a smile, and nothing else. “Visiting time is over,” she said. “Sheriff Moore must rest now.”

“I'm very tired, Trixie,” Moore said in a weak voice.

“Yes, I know you are, poor thing,” Trixie said. She rounded on Jacob. “Out! Out! Do you see what you've done? The sheriff is overtired.”

“Yes, I am, Trixie, overtired,” Moore said. “Even lying here all shot to pieces, people still come to me with their little problems.”

“Later I'll bathe you, Sheriff,” Trixie said. “And then get you something light to eat.”

“Yes,” Moore said, “maybe a steak and half a dozen fried eggs.” He moaned. “That's all I can face today.”

Trixie plumped Moore's pillows. “You rest now. I'll look in later, between my gentlemen callers.”

Jacob rose to his feet. “I hope you feel better soon, John,” he said. “You've been through a terrible ordeal.”

“He's very brave, isn't he?” Trixie said, beaming at the stricken lawman.

“Oh, yes he is,” Jacob said. “Makes a man proud just to shake his hand.”

“We must leave him now,” Trixie said.

Weakly, Moore said, “You can stay, Trixie. I get so lonely when you're not here.”

The woman smiled at Jacob. “Perhaps you'd better leave now.”

“Yes, I will. But if the end comes suddenly,” Jacob said, “you'll let me know.”

“Of course,” Trixie said.

“Good-bye, old friend,” Jacob said. He sniffed and pretended to wipe a tear from his cheek. “If we don't meet again in this world, wait for me in the next.”

“Jake,” Moore said after a weak little cough, “leave me now—and don't let the door hit you on the ass.”

 

 

Jacob asked around town, but no one had seen Dora DeClare and her crippled brother. He decided to stay in Georgetown overnight and checked into the hotel. After dinner, he stepped into the Lucky Seven saloon for coffee and brandy, determined to spend the money he'd borrowed from Shawn, even at the cost of a lecture on fiscal responsibility from his younger brother.

There were only a half-dozen men in the saloon, and a tired and disinterested ten-cents-a-dance girl who glanced once at Jacob and dismissed him.

The girl showed more interest when he proved he had the wherewithal to buy a Hennessy and coffee. After Jacob sat at a table she joined him.

“Passing through, cowboy?” she said.

“Seems like,” Jacob said.

“Like to dance?” the girl asked. “We don't have a piano player tonight, but if you name a song I know, I'll sing it.”

“Now my brother Shawn can cut a dash at a cotillion and dance real fancy,” Jacob said. “But I've got two left feet.”

“Mister, everybody I dance with in here has two left feet.” The girl took off a high-heeled shoe and wiggled her toes. “Get a load of them.”

Jacob smiled. “Looks like every one of them has been broken at one time or another.”

The girl slipped on her shoe again. “Every one of them has been broke at least twice at one time or another.”

“I can buy you a drink, if you want,” Jacob said. “I'm spending borrowed money.”

“The best kind,” the girl said. She turned in her chair and yelled to the bartender, “Hey, Lou, fix me a rum punch, will ya?”

Jacob waited until the girl had her drink and then said, “How long have you lived in Georgetown?”

“Too long, if you consider this living.” The girl smiled. “All right, two years come the fall.”

Jacob took the makings out of his shirt pocket, and the girl took them from him. “Never met a man yet who could roll a smoke tidy.”

She built the cigarette, held it out to Jacob to lick, and then handed it to him. “See how neat that is?”

“You've done that before,” Jacob said, smiling.

“Only about ten thousand times. My name's Sarah, by the way, Sarah Elizabeth Walker.”

Jacob lit the cigarette, then said, “All right, then Sarah it is. Tell me, Sarah, you ever hear of a gal by the name of Dora DeClare?”

“Sure, until recently she used to come into town now and again; had a crippled brother, I recollect,” the girl said. “She came across as a real lady, pretty as a picture and always dressed nice. But I heard that her pa got hung for a cattle rustler when she was just a kid, so who knows, huh? You can't judge a book by its cover, I guess.”

“Who hung her pa?” Jacob said, straining forward in his chair.

“I don't know, some rancher probably. Ranchers don't take kindly to folks who lift their cattle.” She smiled. “Hell, you're a puncher, you know all about that.”

Jacob nodded. “I guess I do. I've seen a few men hung. Never liked to watch it, though.” He waited until Sarah sipped her drink, then said, “You ever hear that DeClare gal call herself Nemesis?”

Sarah looked surprised. “No, I never did. What kind of name is that?”

Jacob shrugged. “French, maybe.”

“All I ever heard her called was Dora or Miss DeClare,” Sarah said. “I don't recollect that anybody called her . . . what was that name?”

“Forget it,” Jacob said. “It doesn't matter.”

“What happened to her, that gal?” Sarah said. “Her brother kept right poorly, I remember that.”

“She's around,” Jacob said. “Travels a lot.”

“What I said about her pa being hung,” Sarah said, “I don't know that for sure. But it was the gossip around town. Seems that some old-timer, who's dead now, remembered the hanging; said the pa died real hard, cussin' God.” Sarah shivered. “Can you imagine that, cussin' our Maker with your last gasping breath?”

“Hard to believe,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “You sure the old-timer didn't say who hung DeClare?”

Sarah shook her head. She wore lilac eye shadow that Jacob thought looked real nice. “I don't know if he did or not,” she said. “It was quite awhile ago.”

“People forget things,” Jacob said.

“When it's not family,” Sarah said.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Jacob said.

“But if it really was Dora's pa who got hung, she won't forget.”

“No, I guess not,” Jacob said.

The saloon door swung open, and a man strode inside, arrogant enough to grin a challenge and occupy more space than he needed.

And Jacob knew right there and then that he would kill him.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Shade Shannon looked around the saloon, and then his white eyes met Jacob's. Held, clashed, panicked. “O'Brien, by God!” he yelled.

Shannon turned and made a dash for the door. Jacob drew, fired, and heard a yelp of pain as the man charged outside.

“Down!” Jacob yelled. He grabbed Sarah and dragged her to the floor.

Three shots in rapid succession slammed into the saloon, splintering wood. One hit an oil lamp that fell to the floor, spread its fuel, and burned with a blue flame.

Jacob got to his feet, aware of the bartender swatting at the flames with a corn broom, yelling at the girl to get the hell out of the way. When Jacob rushed outside, Shannon was already mounted, flapping his chaps as he galloped south out of town. Jacob stepped into the middle of the street and cut loose. He thumbed off three fast shots at the fleeing rider, but as far as he could tell, none took effect.

Feet thudded on the boardwalks, and men raised their voices and demanded to know what was going on. James Wentworth, breathless, a supper napkin tucked under his chin, skidded to a halt beside Jacob and said, “O'Brien, what the hell's all the commotion?”

Jacob nodded at the dust that still clouded the street. “Firing at a skunk,” he said.

“Damn it, man, what skunk?” Wentworth said. “There are plenty of them in this town.”

“A skunk by the name of Shade Shannon,” Jacob said, thumbing fresh shells into his Colt.

“He's wanted for murder,” Wentworth said.

“He is that,” Jacob said.

“Hey, Mr. Wentworth!” a man yelled from the settling dust, “Lookee here!”

Jacob holstered his revolver and walked to the man, and Wentworth followed.

“Blood,” the man said, pointing at his feet. “A lot of it.” He motioned in the direction where Shannon had disappeared. “It goes quite a ways.”

“Well, O'Brien, you winged him at least,” Wentworth said.

“Seems like.”

Wentworth watched his bartender pound a flaming broom on the boardwalk. “Lou,” he yelled, “did the savage set my place on fire?”

“It's out, boss,” Lou called back. “No damage done.” He stomped on the still burning broom, gave up, threw it into the street, and went back inside.

Wentworth turned and stared down the street, his mind working.

“Don't even think about it, Wentworth, unless you got a full-blood Apache handy,” Jacob said. “With those white eyes of his, Shannon can see in the dark. I've taken that trail before.”

“Then we'll wait until sunup and go after him,” Wentworth said. “He can't shoot up my saloon and get away with it. By God, I'll hang him myself.”

Jacob remembered what Moore had told him about Wentworth's last attempt at a hemp posse, but he figured it would be ungracious to mention it.

“O'Brien, I'll need you to write a report of the incident, including the parties involved, times, locations, number of shots fired and at whom, et cetera,” Wentworth said. He pulled his napkin away from his neck, as though he'd just now remembered it. “Triplicate will be fine.”

“Sure thing,” Jacob said without the slightest intention of writing a word.

“And you'll join the posse, of course. Ten dollars a day and grub is the committee rate.”

“Of course,” Jacob said. He had no intention of doing that, either.

Suddenly the man's eyes hardened. “I don't know if you've heard yet, but your father defied a lawful posse in the pursuit of a condemned criminal, and now there will be repercussions, serious repercussions.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Jacob said.

“You were not present when this, ah, act of defiance took place, so I'm absolving you of blame.”

“Wentworth, that's true blue,” Jacob said.

“When the army gets involved it will become a federal matter, and I intend to play hob,” the man said. “You understand?”

“You've laid it out.”

“Good. I just wanted you to know and to advise you to stay away from what's coming down.”

Jacob nodded. “I'll surely consider what you've said.”

“Well, see that you do. There's no reason for us to become enemies.” Wentworth tried a smile that faded instantly. “Until tomorrow then. The posse mounts at first light.”

“Yeah,” Jacob said, “until when.”

If Wentworth heard that last, he didn't let it show.

 

 

Jacob O'Brien stood in the middle of the suddenly empty street and pondered his next move. Shawn was a good tracker, but Shawn wasn't here. One thing Jacob didn't want to do was join Wentworth's posse. He and his rubes would wander around in ever-diminishing circles until they rode up their own horses' rears.

Jacob nodded to himself. All right, there was only himself. He had it to do.

He decided not to cancel his room at the hotel. Desk clerks were notorious spies, and word could quickly get back to Wentworth that he was leaving town.

Instead, Jacob walked to the livery and saddled his horse. He was about to step into the leather when a voice stopped him.

“Mister,” Sarah said, “take me with you.”

Jacob turned his head and smiled. “Kinda sudden, isn't it?”

“I think you're my only hope,” Sarah said. “My last hope.”

The girl wore a threadbare gray coat over her dress, a black hat with dusty imitation flowers above the turned-up brim, and she held a carpetbag in her right hand.

Jacob's smile grew into a grin. “Hell, lady, why me?”

“You saved my life in the saloon, and you were very brave,” Sarah said. “I admire that in a man.”

“I didn't save your life,” Jacob said. “None of Shade Shannon's bullets even came close to you.”

“But they could've done, so you saved my life.”

Jacob figured there was some kind of female logic at play, and he let it go. “I'm going after Shannon,” he said. “He's a killer, and you could get yourself shot.”

“Mister—I don't even know your name—there are worse things than getting shot,” Sarah said. “Staying in Georgetown and getting pawed by every drunk who has ten cents is one of them.”

“The name's Jacob.”

The girl dropped the carpetbag and opened her arms. “Look at me, Jacob. How old do you think I am?”

“I can't judge women's ages, Sarah,” Jacob said, caught flat-footed. “I'm no good at it.” The girl was looking right through him. “All right, about thirty,” he said, taking five years off what he really thought.

“I'm twenty-two,” Sarah said. “I started whoring when I was thirteen, and I've been dancing for the past two years.” She picked up her bag again. “You know, I tried to sign on with the cathouse down the street, but they threw me out. You know what the madam said?”

“Sarah, I—” Jacob began, floundering.

“She said I looked too worn out, too used up, and that her gentlemen wouldn't like that. She said maybe I could find a hog farm someplace that would take me, or a soldiers' brothel near one of the army posts.”

Sarah smiled. “So that's my tale of woe, Jacob. Now do you pity me enough that I can tag along with you for a spell?”

“Sarah,” Jacob said, “I'm a wandering man, and my life is hard and violent. I can't be slowed by a woman.”

“You're Jacob O'Brien of Dromore ranch,” Sarah said. “The bartender told me so.”

“I'm the black sheep,” Jacob said. “I go my own way, and it's not a way for a woman.”

“Even a whore?”

“For a woman, Sarah. Any woman.”

The girl nodded. “I understand.” She turned and headed toward the livery door, a small girl, very thin, walking on broken toes.

“Wait,” Jacob said, cussing his own weakness. “I'll take you with me until I figure there's enough git between you and this town. Then we part ways. How does that set with you?”

“It's better than nothing,” Sarah said.

“Yes, it is,” Jacob said. He swung into the saddle. “Climb up behind me and don't jibber-jabber,” he said. “If there's one thing I can't abide it's a jibber-jabbering female.”