The Devil's Waltz

  THE DEVIL’S WALTZ

  OTHER FIVE STAR TITLES BY ETHAN J. WOLFE

  * * *

  The Last Ride (2014)

  The Regulator (2015)

  The Range War of ’82 (2015)

  Murphy’s Law (2015)

  Silver Moon Rising (2016)

  All the Queen’s Men (2017)

  One If by Land (2017)

  THE DEVIL’S: WALTZ

  ETHAN J. WOLFE

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, Cengage Learning

  * * *

  Copyright © Wolfe, Ethan J., author.

  Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, a Cengage Company.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Gear, W. Michael, author.

  Title: The devil’s waltz / Ethan J. Wolfe.

  Description: Waterville, Maine : Five Star Publishing, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017039272 | ISBN 9781432837365 (hardcover) | ISBN 1432837362 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781432840259 (Ebook) | ISBN 1432840258 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781432840242 (Ebook) | ISBN 143284024X (Ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Outlaws—Fiction. | Revenge—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Action & Adventure. | FICTION / Westerns. | GSAFD: Western stories.

  LCC PS3612.A5433 D49 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017039272

  First Edition. First Printing: February 2018

  Find us on Facebook–https://www.facebook.com/FiveStarCengage

  Visit our website–http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/

  Contact Five Star™ Publishing at FiveStar@cengage.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 22 21 20 19 18

  For young authors who inspire me

  and those who wear magic hats.

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  The train ride from Santa Fe to Yuma was close to unbearable. Fourteen hours of stifling heat from which even an open window didn’t bring relief, never mind the stench of burning coal at every water stop along the way.

  Scheduled for a ten a.m. arrival, the train was forty-five minutes late due to an unscheduled stop to grease wheels and pistons.

  When US Marshal Dale Posey stepped off the train carrying his one satchel, the dry heat was like a slap in the face. May, and it had to be ninety degrees in the shade. He stood on the platform and looked at the town. About twelve hundred residents occupied the fairly large place, although the streets were close to deserted, and who could blame them in this heat.

  Not far from town the Colorado River flowed, and was, about a thousand feet across at one point. A ferry boat took travelers across the river to California, panhandlers mostly, still seeking their elusive fortune in gold.

  Dale set his satchel down for a moment to pull out his tobacco pouch and paper and roll a cigarette. He struck it with a match and inhaled with satisfaction. Sarah, his wife of eleven years, made him quit drinking the rye whiskey he enjoyed so much, but she couldn’t make him quit the tobacco habit just yet.

  Smoking, carrying the satchel, Dale stepped off the platform and walked the hundred yards or so to town.

  Most of the shops, stores, and saloons were open for business, but few people were about. They were either all having an early lunch or avoiding the brutal heat. Dale bet on the heat.

  He located the Yuma Hotel, a four-story structure with balconies on the front rooms. The lobby was spacious with several comfortable chairs, a long sofa with a table, and a small love seat. A few men sat reading newspapers and drinking coffee.

  A clerk of about fifty with thinning brown hair stood behind the desk.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked Dale.

  “US Marshal Dale Posey,” Dale said. “I wired to reserve a room.”

  “Oh yes, I have it right here,” the clerk said. “I reserved room 403. It has a balcony facing Main Street.”

  “Can you have my bag brought up to the room and arrange for a bath for about an hour from now?” Dale said.

  “Certainly, Marshal.”

  “Where is the sheriff’s office?” Dale asked.

  “Two streets to the left and one across.”

  “Back in an hour,” Dale said.

  He left the hotel, turned left, walked two blocks on the wood plank sidewalks, and crossed the street.

  The sheriff’s office was a stand-alone, red brick building with a heavy wood door and iron bars on the inside of a large plate-glass window.

  Dale opened the door and stepped inside. Two men occupied the office, one seated at a desk, the other standing with a cup of coffee.

  “I’m US Marshal Dale Posey,” Dale said, looking at the man behind the desk. “Are you the sheriff?”

  “I am going on eight years now. Name is Bill Riker. This is my deputy, James.”

  Dale looked at the deputy and noticed the resemblance.

  “He your son?” Dale asked.

  “He is and a good man,” Riker said.

  “Any more of that coffee you’re drinking?” Dale asked.

  James nodded and went to the woodstove.

  “So what can I do for you, Marshal?” Riker asked.

  “Have a good jail cell?”

  “Best in the territory.”

  “Show me.”

  “May I ask your interest in my jail?” Riker asked.

  Dale reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a folded federal document and handed it to Riker.

  “I’m extraditing a prisoner from Yuma and would like to pick him up this afternoon and have him spend the night in your jail so we can catch the ten o’clock train tomorrow morning,” Dale said.

  Riker scanned the paper, folded it, and gave it back to Dale.

  “Jim,” Riker said.

  James handed Dale a tin mug of coffee and then opened a wood door that led to the two cells.

  Dale followed him. The two cells were large enough to house four men each. Twin bunk beds, a sink, and toilet occupied each cell. Neither held a prisoner.

  Dale and James returned to the office.

  “Those will do just fine,” Dale said.

  “Yuma is a federal prison, and I ain’t got much to do with it, but since I’ll be holding one of their prisoners, I’d like to know who he is,” Riker said.

  “John Posey,” Dale said.

  Riker stared at Dale for a moment. “The one they call Jack, Lightning Jack?”

  Dale nodded.

  “He’s also my kid brother,” Dale said.

  Dale shaved before immersing himself into a steaming hot tub of scented water. A Chinese woman the desk clerk called Mrs. Moy ran the hotel bathhouse. There were eight tubs, but Dale was the only one taking a bath at the time.

  While he was soaping up, Mrs. Moy entered the bathhouse.

  “You want haircut?” she asked in a thick accent.

  “I could use one,” Dale said. “When I get out.”

  “Best time when in water,�
�� Mrs. Moy said. “Hair wet.”

  Dale looked at her.

  “I see many beans,” Mrs. Moy said. “Thousands. Yours no different. Wash hair. I cut. Twenty-five cents extra.”

  “What the hell,” Dale said.

  Freshly shaved, hair trimmed, Dale dug out a clean shirt from his satchel and pinned his badge to the left front pocket, then put it on. It was too damned hot for a jacket, so he wore just a vest.

  As he stood before the mirror over the dresser, Dale strapped on his heavy gun belt. His sidearm of choice was a massive Smith & Wesson .44 revolver that weighed more than six pounds when loaded. The holster held eighteen bullets, which added even more weight to lug around on his waist.

  Dale left the hotel and walked several blocks down a side street to a large livery stable. A burly blacksmith was hammering out shoes in front of a blistering fire. How the man stood the heat was a mystery.

  “Stable manager around?” Dale asked the blacksmith.

  “Office,” the blacksmith said.

  Dale turned and entered the stables where a small office was located on his right. A man was seated behind a desk, counting money.

  “I need to rent a buggy for the day,” Dale said.

  “Where you headed?” the manager said. He noticed the badge on Dale’s shirt and added, “Marshal.”

  “The prison.”

  “Best take a team,” the manager said. “In this heat a team lasts longer.”

  “Can you provide a fresh canteen?”

  “Sure. For an extra dollar.”

  “I’m going to grab a quick lunch,” Dale said. “Have the team ready when I get back.”

  “Eleven dollars in advance,” the manager said. “You pay for what you break.”

  Yuma Prison came into view a quarter mile away. It was a huge structure, built to house five hundred prisoners at a time. Constructed of rock and cement with the heaviest iron bars available, it was conceived to be escape proof.

  Even if you could escape, your choice was to flee to town and almost certain immediate capture, or flee into the desert and for certain die in that vast wilderness of scorched earth on foot.

  As he neared the prison, guards on watchtowers observed him carefully. The front gates were open, and two armed guards stood watch on the outside.

  Dale halted the team.

  “US Marshal Dale Posey to see the warden,” Dale said. He dug the folded letter of introduction for the warden and said, “Give this to the warden. I’ll wait here.”

  Warden Fife was a short man in his late fifties. He met Dale in his office, which overlooked a courtyard where prisoners were cracking rocks with sledgehammers.

  “May I offer you a cold drink, Marshal?” Fife asked when Dale was escorted into the office. “I’m partial to lemonade myself.”

  “That would be fine. Thank you.”

  “I must admit when I received the telegram from Washington, I was a bit taken aback,” Fife said.

  “Understandable,” Dale said.

  “Prisoner Posey is relations to you?” Fife said.

  “My kid brother.”

  “I see. Where would you like to see him?”

  “Someplace private.”

  “You’ll need to check your firearm first.”

  The room was void of furniture. Fife said it was still under construction and would eventually be used as a dining hall for the guards.

  When Dale entered the room, his brother, Jack Posey, was already inside and waiting.

  His brother had always been taller than him, taller than most, at six foot one inch in his bare feet, a good five inches taller than average for a man. Broad shouldered, heavily muscled, prison only seemed to add to his girth.

  Shirtless, Posey was covered in sweat and grime and he looked at Dale.

  “Prison seems to agree with you, Jack,” Dale said. “You look fine. Why’s your hair so short?”

  Posey’s sandy-colored hair was worn close to the scalp.

  “Head lice,” Posey said. “They like long hair and beards.”

  Dale walked close to his brother and had to look up to see him eye-to-eye.

  “Been pounding rock, by the look of your hands,” Dale said.

  “Eight hours a day, six days a week,” Posey said.

  Dale nodded. Then he punched Posey on the jaw as hard as he could.

  Posey’s knees buckled, but he didn’t go down.

  “Stupid son of a bitch,” Dale said and punched his brother again, and again his brother stayed on his feet.

  Posey waited for his head to clear and looked at Dale.

  “Did you get that out of your system?” Posey asked.

  Dale shook the pain out of his right hand. “Got any possessions or money?”

  “A clean work shirt and pants and seventeen dollars,” Posey said.

  “Go back to your cell and get your shirt. You’re coming with me,” Dale said.

  “Where?” Posey asked.

  “Wherever I say,” Dale said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  * * *

  His arms and legs shackled, Posey was dumped onto the back of the buggy by two guards.

  “Obliged,” Dale said to them.

  “Is this necessary?” Posey asked.

  “You shut your mouth and keep it shut until I tell you to open it,” Dale said.

  Posey grinned at the guards as Dale yanked the reins and the buggy lurched forward.

  When they rode into Yuma late in the day, the streets were full of citizens. Most stopped whatever they were doing to watch the wagon with Dale driving and the filthy prisoner in back roll into town.

  Dale stopped the wagon in front of the hotel.

  As Dale stepped down, Sheriff Riker and James crossed the street and approached the buggy.

  “Good Lord,” Riker said.

  “As soon as I get him cleaned up, he’s yours for the night, Sheriff,” Dale said.

  “Even upwind I can smell him,” Riker said.

  “I’d like to borrow your deputy for a bit,” Dale said.

  Posey sat in a tub of hot, soapy water as Mrs. Moy shaved his face.

  “Wash hair good,” she said. “Very dirty.”

  Posey grinned as he looked at James, who stood in the corner, watching.

  “I don’t suppose a man could get a shot of something to drink around here?” he asked.

  “I can’t abide giving a prisoner liquor,” James said.

  “Hold still,” Mrs. Moy said. “Cut face.”

  Posey waited until she had scraped the last bit of soap off his face and then he dunked under the water to rinse off. When he came back up, Dale was there and said, “Is he clean?”

  “Clean enough,” she said.

  “Good,” Dale said and tossed his brother a wrapped package. “Get dressed.”

  Dressed in new trail clothing that consisted of black shirt and pants, new boots and hat, Posey walked across the street in shackles to the jail.

  Dale and James escorted him.

  Once Posey was safely in a cell, Dale removed the shackles.

  “James, can you ask the restaurant across the street to bring two steaks with all the trimmings and a pot of coffee to the jail?” Dale said.

  “Hey, and some apple pie,” Posey said. “I haven’t had apple pie in three years.”

  Dale nodded to James.

  James left the back room.

  “So what’s this all about, Dale?” Posey asked.

  Dale rolled a cigarette as he looked at Posey.

  “Can you fix one for me?” Posey asked.

  Dale gave him the cigarette and rolled a second. He lit both off one wood match.

  “That’s good,” Posey said.

  “Virginia tobacco,” Dale said.

  “So why am I here, big brother?” Posey asked.

  “You owe me twenty-three dollars for the clothing,” Dale said.

  Posey sat on a bed. “You going to charge me for the steak, too?”

  “That comes under the feed and c
are of a prisoner,” Dale said. “I’ll be back when the steaks arrive.”

  Dale had Fife open the door so a table with two chairs could be brought into the cell. Two oil lanterns provided enough light to read by as well as eat.

  “Last time I had a steak was the last time I had a drink of rye whiskey,” Posey said.

  James came into the cell.

  “Want me to stand guard?” James asked.

  “Why?” Dale said. “Do you think my brother is going to steal my baked potato?”

  “Okay, then,” James said. “I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

  The brothers sliced into their steaks and began to eat.

  “You have eight more years left on your sentence,” Dale said. “Eight more years of back-breaking hard labor. You’ll be. What? Forty-four years old by the time you see daylight.”

  Posey ate a hunk of steak and washed it down with a sip of coffee.

  “I heard they killed old Jesse James a few months back,” he said. “I never did like old Jesse. Now his brother Frank, now there was a thinking man.”

  “Are you listening to me, Jack?” Dale asked.

  “Killed William Bonney, locked up John Hardin, and I hear Holliday is off somewhere dying of consumption.”

  “Dammit, Jack, listen to me,” Dale said.

  Posey cut and ate another piece of steak. “I’m listening.”

  “I have a document here signed by the governor of Arizona Territory and the President himself,” Dale said. “To grant you a full pardon.”

  Posey stared at his brother for a moment. “Full pardon?”

  “Expunging you of all and any crimes of your past,” Dale said.

  “And what do I have to do to earn such high regard from the governor of Arizona Territory and President?”

  “Help me find and capture Tom Spooner,” Dale said.

  Posey looked at Dale without expression. Then his lips curled into a smile and he cracked up laughing.

  “You’re crazy,” Posey said.

  “The day of the outlaw is coming to an end, Jack,” Dale said. “They have telephones and electric lights in New York. Electrified trains that run underground. Indoor toilets even. The west needs to be settled, and dangerous men like Spooner put away.”