Cottonmouth, page 15
“That would explain why you quit the agency,” Pritchard said. “Was it worth it?”
“Thought so at the time. It was better’n what Cottonmouth was payin’ us.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Got a juicy tip from someone,” Tyler said. “He said you were leavin’ Atherton by train, and for a slice of the bounty he’d tell us which one.”
“What’s his name?”
“Do I have to tell you? He’s a friend of mine.”
“Iffen you don’t want to die feedin’ critters, you do.”
“Searcy,” Tyler said. “Jim Searcy. He used to be with the Quincy Agency a long time ago.”
“Never heard of him,” Pritchard said.
“I told you all I know,” Tyler said. “I held up my end. Don’t leave me to be gnawed on by coyotes.”
Pritchard dismounted and recovered the derringer from the dead gunman’s hand. He lowered the hammer and broke it open to ensure the gun still contained an unfired .41 caliber cartridge. Then he closed the gun’s action and tossed it back and forth between his hands as he looked down at Yancy Tyler.
“Please, Joe?” Tyler begged. “Give me the gun. Don’t leave me like this.”
“By all rights I ought to,” Pritchard said. “If you and your friends had your druthers, you’d be leadin’ my horse into Saint Louis with my carcass slung over the saddle.”
“Please?”
Pritchard didn’t answer him. Instead, he leaned down and placed the derringer on Tyler’s chest.
“Hey, Joe,” Tyler said as Pritchard turned and headed for his horse. He pointed the gun at Pritchard and cocked it. “How do you know I won’t shoot you in the back?”
“Because if you waste your only shot on me,” Pritchard answered over his shoulder, “you’ll be back to dyin’ slow and feedin’ the critters.” He remounted the big Morgan and pointed him east.
“So long, Yancy Tyler,” Pritchard said over his shoulder.
Rusty hadn’t taken Pritchard fifty yards before he heard the shot.
Chapter 28
Pritchard was five miles from Boonville, just west of the railroad bridge spanning the Lamine River, when Rusty suddenly collapsed. The horse abruptly fell to its side, tossing Pritchard to the ground.
Pritchard had ridden Rusty several miles from the scene of the battle with the ex–Quincy Detective Agency men. One of their three surviving horses had followed. It wasn’t uncommon for stable-broke horses to automatically follow another, and every so often Pritchard would look back and see the forlorn animal trudging along behind them.
At first, Pritchard thought Rusty stepped into a gopher hole. As he got up and dusted himself off, he realized the big Morgan was in distress. A quick examination revealed his horse’s legs were unbroken, but his right rump was covered in blood he hadn’t noticed earlier due to the darkness and the reddish hue of the animal’s hide. He surmised Rusty must have taken a bullet during their flight from the train, and mentally kicked himself for not checking his horse more thoroughly after the gunfight.
“I’m sorry, brother,” Pritchard apologized, soothing the horse. “Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d have known you were hurt, I never would have mounted you.”
Pritchard quickly uncinched his saddle and bags, which were laden for travel, and lifted them off Rusty’s back. “It don’t help any that I’m as big as I am,” Pritchard continued talking to his horse, “and you’re loaded down for war. Next time, you stubborn old cuss, say somethin’ to me, will ya?”
Pritchard examined the wound more closely. The hole was in the meatiest part of Rusty’s butt and seemingly hadn’t struck any vital organs or major blood vessels. Had that been the case, Rusty would never have made it as far as they’d gone without breaking pace. Pritchard was reassured that his beloved horse would recover, provided he dug the bullet out, cauterized the wound, infection didn’t set in, and Rusty got some rest.
Pritchard filled his hat with the contents of his canteen and watered Rusty, who drank greedily. He was contemplating building a fire, when he saw a light flickering ahead in the distance through a stand of trees. Evidently someone else already had one going.
Pritchard walked out to meet the docile horse that had been trailing them. It was a good-sized, black quarter horse, sixteen hands tall, and approached him without hesitation. He took the reins, unhooked the tiny pancake saddle it wore, and tossed it away. Then he led the animal back to Rusty, and in another minute had his saddle cinched on the quarter horse’s back. He gently nudged Rusty to his feet.
Rusty could stand, but Pritchard could tell he was weak and unsteady.
“C’mon,” he said to both horses, taking their reins in his left hand. He put his Winchester in his right. “We don’t have far to go.”
Pritchard led both horses toward the light. He walked slowly, because he could tell Rusty was having a hard time. “I know you want to lay down and rest,” Pritchard said to his weary horse. “Let’s see if we can’t get you some help up yonder.”
Pritchard didn’t know who the fire belonged to, but dared not make one of his own so near another’s camp unannounced. Some would interpret such an act as hostile, and he wanted to avoid further hostilities if he could.
As Pritchard got closer, he could hear music. It was a stringed instrument of some kind, similar to a mandolin he once heard at a county fair. He could also hear a violin, but it didn’t sound the way the violins did at the barn dances he’d attended. He stopped at the tree line and peered through the foliage at the scene before him.
There were eight, ornately decorated box wagons parked in a semicircle on the bank of the Lamine River, and at least that many tents. A bonfire was blazing, and more than two dozen people sat on chairs and logs surrounding it.
The group comprised men, women, and children. Pritchard could smell beef cooking, and saw both a caldron and a metal rack containing steaks, over the fire. Three seated men were playing the music, one with a violin, one with something that looked to Pritchard like a guitar, but was shaped differently, and one with a wind instrument of a type he’d never before heard.
What struck Pritchard most was their appearance. The people were all fairly dark-skinned, similar to the Mexicans he’d encountered in Texas, and in the New Mexico and Arizona Territories, but shared none of their Hispanic features. Their dress was different, too. Their boots, hats, and coats were of a cut and style he’d not seen before.
Pritchard put his Winchester back into the saddle scabbard and led the two horses slowly into the camp.
“Good evening,” he said.
The music stopped. Everyone in camp suddenly turned to face him. Women scurried to grab their children, and some of the men grabbed weapons, which included a single-barreled shotgun, an old Fayetteville musket, and an ax.
“Easy, now,” Pritchard said. “I come in peace.”
“Who are you?” a man said. He was a swarthy, broad-shouldered fellow in his fifties, with thick eyebrows and a dark mustache. By his carriage, Pritchard surmised he was the one in charge. “What do you want?”
The man’s voice was deep. To Pritchard’s surprise, he spoke with a British accent.
“My name’s Samuel Pritchard,” he answered. “I was on the train to Saint Louis and ran into some trouble. My horse caught a bullet in his hind. I was hopin’ you folks would allow me to treat him at your fire, and perhaps rest a bit? I’d be glad to pay you for the privilege.”
A handsome woman in her forties approached the man. She glared at Pritchard, and spoke into the man’s ear in a language he’d never heard before and didn’t understand. She pointed to the pistols on his hips and made a slashing motion across her throat.
“How did your horse get shot?” the man asked.
“It’s a long story,” Pritchard said. “Let’s just say I was fleeing some fellers who didn’t have my best interests at heart.”
The woman continued to gesture angrily and argue with the man. The others in the crowd watched Pritchard, some in fear and some with disdain they weren’t shy about displaying. Small children clung to their mothers, reflecting their parents’ doubt and fright.
Pritchard noticed the men, regardless of age, were muscular, with the builds of those who’d spent their lives in manual labor, and had hard, suspicious faces. He also noticed the women, some of whom were quite young, were exotically beautiful.
The man in charge nodded to the woman, then gave her a dismissive wave. She stopped speaking and stepped back with the others.
“You must go,” the man said to Pritchard. “You cannot stay here.”
“I wouldn’t be long,” Pritchard said. “I need light to dig out the bullet, and a fire hot enough to get my knife heated red to sear the wound shut. It’ll take me an hour or more to get a fire that hot going myself, and you’ve already got one. My animal’s in pain and bleedin’ bad. I’m obliged to do what I can to ease his sufferin’. Like I said, I can pay you. I’d be deeply in your debt, if you’d reconsider.”
“These are your troubles,” the man said gruffly, “not ours. Go.”
The men with the guns, and the one with the ax, took a step toward Pritchard.
“Very well,” Pritchard said, tipping his hat. “I’ll thank you nonetheless, and bid you all good night.” He turned around and led Rusty and the quarter horse back the way they’d come in.
Chapter 29
Ditch, Idelle, and Eudora Chilton satin comfortable chairs on the big porch of the Atherton Arms Hotel. It was an unseasonably warm night, even for late April, and the full moon hung over the town as big as a nickel. Ditch was nursing a beer, while Eudora and Idelle were each enjoying a glass of wine. The dinner hour had passed, and the kitchen was closing up. Inside, it was standing room only at the hotel’s small bar.
“I wouldn’t have admitted it a few days ago,” Idelle said, “but I’m looking forward to the Sidewinder’s opening. It’ll be a relief to have the hotel lobby less populated in the evenings.”
“Don’t worry,” Ditch said. “Not long after the wedding our house will be finished. Once we move in, it won’t matter how crowded the hotel gets at night.”
“True,” she said. “Tell me, Eudora, how soon do you anticipate opening the Sidewinder for business?”
“I’ll be open in a few days,” Eudora said.
“That was quick,” Ditch said.
“The building itself is in fine shape,” Eudora said. “What work needs to be done inside will be finished in a day or so, and the delivery of liquor and beer from Kansas City should arrive any day now. I’ve already hired a bartender and a couple of local gals to sling drinks. Everything else will fall into place once I open the doors.”
“Congratulations,” Ditch said, raising his glass. “I look forward to becoming a regular visitor.”
“Not too regular, I hope,” Idelle said with a smile.
“If Ditch gets too regular at the Sidewinder,” Eudora said, with a smile of her own, “I’ll refuse him entry.”
“How will you stop me?” Ditch teased. “Call the law and have me locked up?”
Idelle’s smile suddenly vanished. “Speaking of the law,” she said, “what do you suppose Samuel’s up to right now?”
“Hard to say,” Ditch said. “If I know Samuel, he’s plenty busy.”
“What do you mean by that?” Eudora said.
“He made a fuss about leaving Atherton to keep folks in town safe from any bounty killers and gunfighters,” he said, “but that was only part of the reason why he left. You heard what he said to Benedict Houseman last night?”
“I also saw what he did to Benedict Houseman,” Idelle said. “I thought he was going to tear that man’s head off.”
“That was nothin’,” Ditch said with a grimace. “That was Samuel givin’ Houseman a polite warning, that’s all. If he wanted to hurt ole Benedict, he could have. During the war, I once saw him kill a man with one blow.”
“If that was being polite,” Eudora said, “I’d hate to see him riled.”
“You don’t know how right you are,” Ditch said. “Iffen you’ve ever seen Samuel Pritchard with blood in his eyes, like I have, you’d know what trouble looks like. He’s gonna find out what’s what with Houseman and that Bonnie Shipley gal, or whatever her name is, and God help anyone who tries to get in his way.”
“I just hope he’s safe,” Idelle said. “I know he’s my big brother and can take care of himself, but I still worry about him.”
“Me, too,” Eudora said. “I’m not ashamed to admit it, but I’ve grown very fond of your brother. He’s young, but he’s a lot of man. You don’t find his kind very often.”
“I’ve noticed you and him having eyes for each other,” Idelle said.
“I hope that hasn’t offended you,” Eudora said.
“Not at all,” Idelle said. “It’s nice to know someone else besides me cares enough about my brother to worry over him.”
“I am worried,” Eudora said. “Maybe even as worried as you.”
“You two should save your worryin’ for anyone who tries to cross him,” Ditch said, draining his beer.
John Babbit and Judge Eugene Pearson walked up the hotel steps. “Is there a place we can speak privately?” the judge asked, after greetings were exchanged.
“The hotel office,” Idelle said. She led everyone into the hotel, to a room behind the main desk.
The office was empty, save for a large table and several chairs. It had once been Burnell Shipley’s official office, his unofficial headquarters being the Sidewinder, and was the room where he’d coerced Dovie Pritchard into marrying him to spare her son Samuel’s life. Idelle had all Shipley’s personal effects and furniture burned, and rarely went into the room, believing it held too many bad memories. Tonight, it was the only place for them to meet without prying ears and eyes. Ditch lit the kerosene lamps and everyone took a seat.
“We have news,” Babbit said. He motioned to Judge Pearson.
“I got a telegram from a friend of mine, an Illinois magistrate working out of the capital in Springfield,” the judge began. “He responded to my query about Benedict Houseman.”
“What did he say?”
“It’s as bad as we thought,” the judge said. “Houseman once had a law practice in Chicago specializing in probate law.”
“Probate law?” Ditch asked. “What kind of law is that?”
“It’s the law governing the transfer of a deceased person’s property.”
“That figures,” Idelle said.
“It gets worse,” Judge Pearson continued. “Houseman was involved in the highly questionable seizure of a number of deceased person’s assets. Apparently, he has a history of filing claims against estates in probate by producing hitherto unknown heirs.”
“People like Bonnie Shipley,” Idelle said.
“Precisely,” the judge said.
“How can he get away with that?” Ditch said.
“He knows the law,” Pearson said. “Houseman can tie up the probate process with frivolous, expensive filings for so long that he eventually wears the legitimate heirs down and they settle the claim.”
“You mean, he swindles the rightful heirs out of their inheritance,” Eudora said, “or forces them to pay him off with a percentage to avoid losing it all in a costly legal battle?”
“That’s correct,” Judge Pearson said.
“He’s a thief,” Ditch said. “Instead of a gun, he uses a law degree.”
“Again, correct.”
“How come Houseman hasn’t been arrested?” Idelle asked.
“Two reasons,” Pearson explained. “First, he’s a smart, slippery character who knows how far he can push the law before he breaks it. In most cases what he’s doing, while unethical, is perfectly legal. At least no one can prove it isn’t.”
“And the second reason?” Idelle asked.
“Heirs that are in legal conflict with Benedict Houseman’s mysterious clients have a habit of turning up dead.”
Ditch and Idelle exchanged glances.
“That’s right,” Pearson said. “One of the defendants in a claim Houseman filed died in a highly suspicious riding accident. Another just happened to get shot dead during a street robbery. And an entire family, including children, who were in legal dispute with him over one of his dubious probate claims, perished in a fire.”
“That’s horrible,” Idelle said.
“That dirty son of a bitch,” Ditch said.
“The authorities couldn’t pin any of the deaths on Houseman,” Judge Pearson said, “but he certainly benefited financially from them. As a result of the bad press, and out of fear of vengeance from the rightful heirs, he was forced to flee Illinois. According to my source, Houseman was last rumored to be residing and practicing law in Saint Louis.”
“Burnell Shipley spent years drinking, gambling, and whoring in Saint Louis,” Idelle said. “His absences were the only time Ma and I got any peace. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“Unfortunately,” Judge Pearson said, “Shipley’s well-known sojourns to the brothels in Saint Louis not only put him in Benedict Houseman’s crooked sights, but lend credibility to Bonnie Shipley’s claim to be his daughter.”
“This is great news,” Idelle said, rubbing her forehead. “Either Houseman is going to fleece me out of everything I have, or I’m going to have a fatal ‘accident’ of a highly suspicious nature.”
“Neither of those things are going to happen,” Ditch said, taking Idelle’s hand. “I won’t let them. If Benedict Houseman tries to harm you, I’ll—”
“That’s where you might run into trouble,” John Babbit said, cutting Ditch off.
“What trouble?” Idelle said.
“Not what,” Babbit said. “Who. Jack Stearns, that’s who.”
“What about him?” Eudora asked.
“Remember when I told you after Pritchard’s first inquest that I wired every newspaperman in the territory?” Babbit said. Ditch and Idelle nodded. “Yesterday, I got a response from a freelancer in Omaha. He wired me with information about a man named J. Stearns who was involved in a shooting there a few months ago.”
