The Devil's Waltz Page 7

  “Orphans have no parents, Jack. They’d be fatherless, not orphans.”

  “Look, I know you’re game, but game don’t mean a thing to the likes of Spooner,” Posey said. “And I know what orphan means. All I’m saying is I’m going at this alone. You said yourself this is a job for an entire company or one or two men.”

  “What do you mean, alone?” Dale asked.

  “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m heading out after Spooner,” Posey said.

  “You can’t do that,” Dale said.

  “From where I stand, Dale, you’re in no position to stop me,” Posey said.

  “But why?” Dale asked. “Spooner’s been on the loose for more than a decade. What’s another month?”

  “My mind’s made up, Dale,” Posey said. “You got me pardoned to help you catch Tom Spooner, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Alone,” Dale said. “You’ll just get yourself killed.”

  “Better me than you,” Posey said. “I’ll see you before I ride out.”

  After Posey left the room, Dale sighed and said, “Damn fool.”

  “Get your dirty clothes together, and I’ll have them clean by morning,” Sally said.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Posey said.

  “You’ll need supplies,” Melville said. “The store usually opens at nine, but I can have them open at eight so you can get what you need.”

  “I appreciate it, both of you,” Posey said.

  “I’m going to talk to Bart about opening the store early for you,” Melville said. “I won’t be long.”

  After Melville left the kitchen, Sally said, “More coffee? Jed told me how much you dislike tea.”

  “I would, thank you,” Posey said.

  Sally stood up from the table to fetch the pot from the woodstove and filled Posey’s cup. After she returned the pot, she sat and looked at him.

  “What’s gnawing at you that you’d risk your life going after a bunch like Spooner’s on your own?” she asked.

  Posey took a sip from his cup but didn’t answer.

  “Oh, I’ve seen that look before,” Sally said. “When we first came out here in ’fifty-one with a settlement and after the war when men were desperate. I suppose it’s none of my business, so you pay me no never mind.”

  Posey stared up at the dark ceiling above his head and knew sleep wouldn’t be arriving anytime soon tonight.

  Something he didn’t tell Dale, or anyone else for that matter. He never believed that story the Pinkerton detectives told him about the ranch foreman recognizing his black Colt Peacemaker.

  For one thing, Posey rarely wore that Colt while working on a ranch. He wore an old, dented, nickel-plated Smith & Wesson .44 and kept the Colt in his saddlebags. The other thing that always bothered him was how the man who turned him in was mysteriously killed six months later.

  He suspected Spooner was behind the whole thing. Maybe because he didn’t fancy the notion of Posey roaming free with the knowledge of his crimes, and using the ranch foreman was an easy and convenient way of getting rid of him.

  Killing the ranch foreman served two purposes. Get rid of the witness and pick up what was left of the reward money.

  In all the years Posey was separated from Spooner, he never breathed a word about the man to anybody. Even when those six Pinkerton men rode up armed with shotguns to arrest him when he was unarmed and branding cows for the Big Whiskey Ranch, he never said a word.

  Before his trial, when the federal prosecutor wanted to make a deal for Spooner in exchange for a reduced sentence, Posey kept his mouth shut and took his medicine.

  So maybe a bit of Posey’s desire to hunt down Spooner was revenge. Who could blame him?

  What did the law care so long as the job got done?

  That’s what Posey told himself just before sleep finally came.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  * * *

  “The shopkeeper said to give you this voucher for my supplies,” Posey said and handed the paper to Dale.

  “Forty-seven dollars? What did you buy?” Dale asked.

  “Plates, coffee pot, food supplies, and ammunition,” Posey said. “It was the ammunition that jacked up the bill.”

  Dale looked at the long trail knife hanging off the left side of Posey’s gun belt. “How much for that Bowie?”

  “Four dollars and worth every penny,” Posey said.

  Dale sighed. “I can’t stop you, Jack,” he said. “But I can ask you not to do anything to disgrace that badge I pinned on your shirt.”

  “Want it back?” Posey asked.

  “No.”

  “Take care of Sarah and the kids,” Posey said.

  “Jack, wait,” Dale said.

  Posey looked at Dale.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Montana.”

  The best the railroad could do was take Posey to Miles City in Montana, and even that took two days because of all the stops and changes along the way. It was four o’clock in the afternoon when it finally did arrive, too late in the day to ride and too early in the day for sleep.

  Posey walked his horse off the boxcar to the street where he paused and looked around. Soldiers were everywhere: walking the streets, in wagons, on the wood plank sidewalks.

  It wasn’t unusual to see soldiers in Miles City, as the army established two forts nearby after the Battle of Little Bighorn in ’seventy-six.

  Posey walked his horse to a wide livery stable at the edge of town. A hunched-over manager greeted him at the corral.

  “Overnight and give him your best grain,” Posey said.

  “Two dollars,” the manager said. “In advance.”

  Posey took the Sharps and Winchester rifles and saddlebags with him when he left the livery and walked into town. Besides the usual array of shops, stores, gunsmiths, and blacksmiths, there was an unusually high number of saloons and gambling houses. Almost every saloon and gambling house had a brothel on the second floor.

  The last time Posey passed through Miles City, it had a population of around three hundred. It had doubled since then, mostly because of the army.

  As he walked the streets, some glanced his way, seeing the badge on his chest, looking at it with mild curiosity.

  At the end of Miles Street sat a large jail and the city marshal’s office. Posey opened the office door and stepped inside. There were three wood desks, one of which was occupied by a baby-faced deputy.

  “Marshal,” the deputy said as he stood up.

  “You got a city marshal named Carver and a town sheriff named Smalls?” Posey asked.

  “Yes sir, Marshal,” the deputy said.

  “Where are they?” Posey asked.

  “This time a day they’d be over to the Last Chance Saloon,” the deputy said. “They own it, you see.”

  “I’m going to leave my long guns and saddlebags here,” Posey said. “I’ll be back for them later.”

  Posey found the Last Chance Saloon a few blocks away on Main Street. It was a large saloon, with several different types of gambling tables, including roulette and faros, a long, mirrored bar, and a second-floor brothel. A piano in the corner was manned by an old-timer who played out of tune.

  Every table and spot at the bar was occupied, but Posey had little trouble spotting Carver and Smalls as they stood behind the roulette wheel.

  Bar girls were everywhere, serving drinks to soldiers and cowboys, enticing them to the second-floor brothel.

  Posey merged through the crowd and elbowed his way to the bar. One of two bartenders on duty approached him.

  “Give me a shot of your best bourbon and send one each to the marshal and sheriff over there behind the roulette wheel,” Posey said. “And have your prettiest girl deliver it.”

  The bartender looked at the badge on Posey’s chest and nodded.

  Posey rolled a cigarette, lit it, and watched in the mirror as a saloon girl delivered the drinks to Carver and Smalls. As they took the shots, the girl pointed to the
bar. The crowd parted for Carver and Smalls as if Moses himself walked to the bar. Just before Carver touched Posey on the back, Posey spun around and looked at them.

  “Howdy, boys,” Posey said. “I see you prospered since we parted ways.”

  Shock registered on the faces of Carver and Smalls.

  “Jesus Christ,” Carver said.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Smalls said.

  “What’s it been, eight years?” Carver said.

  “At least,” Posey said.

  “We heard you did a stretch in Yuma,” Smalls said.

  “Arrested on a false technicality they called it,” Posey said. “Got a full pardon.”

  Carver looked at the badge on Posey’s chest. “That for real, Jack?”

  “It is,” Posey said. “You got a place where we can talk private?”

  There was a large office on the second floor behind the brothel. Posey sat at the table with Carver and Smalls. Carver poured three drinks from a decanter and said, “This is the good stuff, Jack. Come all the way from Kentucky.”

  Smalls opened a cigar box on the table and removed three.

  “Here, Jack,” he said and gave a cigar to Posey. “A good drink needs a good cigar.”

  Smalls reached for a match in the tinderbox, struck it, and lit Posey’s cigar.

  “So what brings you to Miles City?” Carver asked.

  Carver and Smalls served with Posey and Spooner during the war and afterward, when Spooner recruited them; they rode with them until ’seventy-three when they had the good sense to call it quits.

  “I’m looking for Tom, boys,” Posey said.

  Carver sighed loudly. “I had that feeling,” he said.

  “We been here since ’seventy-eight, Jack,” Smalls said. “Tom only rode through once in all that time about a year ago. He loaded up on supplies and rode out the same day.”

  “I figured,” Posey said. “I’m on my way to see Jane. I heard she has a ranch nearby.”

  “About twenty miles west,” Smalls said. “She don’t come to town but once every other month and not at all during winter.”

  “Is she all there in the head these days?” Posey asked.

  “When has she ever been?” Smalls said.

  “Jack, you ain’t tracking old Tom alone, are you?” Carver asked.

  “Want me to deputize you?” Posey asked.

  “Shit, Jack,” Smalls said. “I ain’t worn my gun in so long I don’t even know where it is.”

  “Same with me,” Carver said. “We just ain’t gunmen no more, Jack.”

  “I saw that right off by the soft bellies you two have grown,” Posey said. “Now where can I get a hot bath, a good steak, and a soft bed?”

  “There’s six hotels and the like amount in boarding houses in town,” Carver said. “We recommend the Black Rose.”

  “You wouldn’t have some interest in that hotel?” Posey asked.

  “We own it,” Smalls said.

  “And we don’t charge old friends,” Carver said.

  “Give me some time to get cleaned up and I’ll buy you gents a steak,” Posey said.

  “The hotel serves a good one,” Carver said. “And it’s on the house, Jack.”

  Posey let the bathhouse girl shave his face while he soaked in a tub of hot, soapy water.

  He sipped coffee from a tin mug while she lathered and shaved him.

  When his face was clean, the bathhouse girl said, “For an extra five dollars I’ll hop in there and wiggle your bean for you good, Marshal.”

  “Five dollars?” Posey said. “What do they charge in the saloons?”

  “Two, some girls as much as three.”

  “Then why do you charge five?”

  “ ’Cause those girls won’t wash your back like I do.”

  “It’s a tempting offer, but I have to respect the badge,” Posey said.

  “Well, if you change your mind, just ring that little bell there on the table beside the tub.”

  Posey met Carver and Smalls at six o’clock in the hotel dining room. Carver didn’t lie when he said they served a good steak. It was one of the best Posey ever tasted.

  “Montana is becoming cattle country, Jack,” Carver said. “It’s wide open and ripe for anyone with the capital and stock to start a ranch.”

  “You planning on doing that?” Posey asked.

  “Us?” Smalls said. “We got too much going on around here to worry about ranching.”

  “Since you don’t carry sidearms anymore, how do you two keep the peace?” Posey asked.

  “We employ six deputies each,” Smalls said. “They’re younger and full of juice. We handle the paperwork and serving of warrants and such.”

  “Jack, when was the last time you had ice cream?” Carver asked.

  Posey thought for a moment. “I don’t think I ever had no ice cream,” he said.

  “We got an ice cream maker came all the way from London in England,” Carver said. “We have vanilla and chocolate and both are excellent.”

  “I’ll order some for all of us after we finish our steak,” Smalls said. “We’ll take it on the porch.”

  Posey had to admit that ice cream was pretty damned good. He had a bowl with a scoop of chocolate and vanilla ice cream, covered with nuts and topped with a helping of whipped cream.

  A mug of coffee to wash the sweetness down added to the pleasure.

  “I have to admit ice cream is quite tasty,” Posey said when his bowl was empty.

  “Why don’t you stay on here, Jack?” Smalls said.

  “Most of our deputies are amateurs at best,” Carver said. “A man like you can get rich in this country, Jack.”

  “It’s cold as hell in these parts come November,” Posey said.

  “Nothing a good coat, a woman, and a warm fire can’t fix,” Carver said.

  “I’ll consider it right after I find Spooner,” Posey said.

  “Forget Tom Spooner,” Smalls said. “Chasing him will only get you killed.”

  “Here comes one of your deputies,” Posey said.

  “He’s one of mine,” Smalls said.

  The deputy came out of the dark street to the well-lit porch.

  “Thought you should know, Sheriff, a fellow named Wil Stockburn is at the Last Chance,” the deputy said. “He’s wanted in Kansas for murder. He’s playing cards and losing. Might be trouble.”

  “Is he wanted in Montana?” Smalls asked.

  “No, sir, but he’s wanted by the federal marshals,” the deputy said.

  “Are you sure?” Smalls asked.

  The deputy rested his shotgun against the porch railing and dug a poster out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Smalls. “That ain’t a drawing. It’s a tinplate photograph. Came in last week in the mail.”

  Smalls held the poster up to the light of the wall-mounted lanterns, and then handed it to Posey.

  “It’s federal, Jack,” Smalls said. “Makes it yours.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Posey said.

  “What should we do, Sheriff?” the deputy asked.

  Smalls looked at Posey. “Jack?”

  “Want I should round up the other deputies?” the deputy asked. “Two are already in the Last Chance.”

  Posey was suddenly on his feet and off the porch.

  “I just had a bath,” he said.

  Posey quickly crossed the street and walked toward the Last Chance Saloon.

  “Sheriff, we should back his play,” the deputy said. “Shouldn’t we?”

  “Let’s just watch,” Smalls said. “Jack Posey don’t need help from the likes of us.”

  Carver, Smalls, and the deputy left the porch and followed Posey to the Last Chance Saloon.

  Holding the poster in his left hand, Posey pushed through the swinging doors and entered the crowded saloon.

  Soldiers and cowboys made up most of the crowd. The piano player banged out an off-key tune. Two of Smalls’s deputies stood at the bar.

  Stockburn wa
s playing poker with two soldiers and two cowboys at a table. From the looks of it, a soldier was the big winner and Stockburn a sore loser.

  Posey pushed his way through the crowded saloon to the table where Stockburn sat and tossed the poster onto the table.

  Stockburn looked at the poster and then grinned with yellow teeth at Posey.

  “What in the hell do you want?” Stockburn said.

  In one smooth, very quick motion, Posey drew his black Colt, flipped it around so he held it like a club, and smacked Stockburn across the face with it. The noise on contact was a loud thud and Stockburn fell over backwards, chair and all, to the floor.

  The saloon was stunned into silence.

  Posey looked at the two deputies at the bar. “Carry him over to the jail.”

  The deputies stared at Posey.

  “You got mud in your ears?” Posey said. “Move.”

  The two deputies left the bar and walked to Stockburn.

  Posey turned and walked to the swinging doors. He paused at the piano and looked at the man behind the keys.

  “Learn how to play the goddamn piano,” Posey said.

  Posey sat behind Carver’s desk in the jailhouse and wrote a telegram to the marshal in Dodge City, Kansas.

  Smalls, Carver, and several deputies gathered around the desk.

  Posey handed the paper to a deputy. “Get this telegram sent right away to the marshal in Dodge,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” the deputy said and dashed out of the office.

  “Mighty fine work, Jack,” Carver said. “I wish you’d reconsider our offer.”

  “After I see Jane, I’ll give it some thought,” Posey said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  * * *

  Posey was ready to ride at first light and walked his horse to the jailhouse where Smalls and Carver were seated outside in chairs. Each man had a mug of coffee.

  “Have a cup with us before you go, Jack,” Smalls said.

  Posey tied his horse to the post and took the cup offered him by Carver. Smalls had a pot and filled the cup. Posey sat and rolled a cigarette.

  “How do I find Jane?” Posey asked as he struck a match.