The Vengeance Seeker 3 Page 4

Swiftly, Weed reached out and plucked the glass out of his hand. He set it down beside the bottle and got up from the chair. “What’s the matter, kid? You don’t look so hot?”

  “Cramps. And my head. Jesus!”

  Weed smiled, reached back for the glass, and lifting Tinsdale’s head gently, held the glass of whiskey to his lips. Tinsdale looked up past the glass at Weed’s face—and saw the eyes, the glowing, malevolent eyes—and felt the burning liquid pouring down his throat. It was not just whiskey!

  They were poisoning him!

  With a strangled cry, he flung Weed away from him, knocking the glass across the room with the same motion. At once Weed stood back and paused, watching him carefully.

  Tinsdale tried to get up, to run out of that room—away from Weed. He needed a doctor. But his limbs were heavy, leaden. Everything moved in slow motion. His feet seemed so far away. And his head! My God, it was bursting!

  Somehow, he managed to get up onto his feet. But when he took a step, he collapsed forward on the floor. And then immediately he doubled up, his arms wrapped about his abdomen. He knew he was going to relieve himself right there on the floor, but there was nothing he could do about it. And he was so cold. His teeth were chattering.

  Oh Jesus! Sweet Jesus! He was going to die!

  Weed stepped away from Tinsdale’s sprawled body, picked up the bottle of whiskey from the table, then left the room. Moving silently down the hotel stairs, he waited at one point until the desk clerk went back into his office; then he hurried across the small lobby and out into the night.

  His horse was behind the General Store along with his two pack horses, both of which were already loaded and ready to go. He was glad of that. All of a sudden he was anxious to get back to his woman. He emptied the contents of the whiskey bottle out onto the ground, then hurled the empty bottle into a corner. It smashed sullenly.

  He grinned and kept walking. He’d made his last trip back to Landusky, but it had been an interesting trip, at that.

  Four

  Wolf rode into Landusky and down its main street past single-story frame and log buildings, his way lit by garish light that bloomed through open doorways and sifted through dust-coated windows. It was late, but the town was still very much awake. On the left corner of the first intersection, he noted a large wooden frame building that housed not only a general store and hotel but a large saloon that called itself The Miner’s Palace.

  Across the street beyond the saloon was the livery, and as Wolf rode up to its dark opening the dim figure of the hostler materialized out of it and stood in the entrance, waiting as Wolf dismounted and gave his black a small drink at the street trough. Wolf turned on the hostler, a question in his glance.

  “Second stall back,” the man said.

  Wolf nodded and led the black into the stable. After removing the saddle, he stood for a moment with his hand resting on the black’s sweaty back, then slung his saddle bag over his shoulder, took his Winchester from its scabbard and left the place. For a moment he stood in the street, letting the weariness wash over him like a wind; then he squared his shoulders and walked across the street to the hotel.

  He paid no attention to the hoots and the hollering that came from The Miner’s Palace as he walked past the batwing doors and into the hotel. After he had registered and paid for his room, he fixed the slim desk clerk with his one eye and asked the man if his friend, Red Tinsdale, had arrived yet.

  “Mr. Tinsdale?” the clerk repeated nervously.

  “I didn’t see his name on the register,” Wolf said, smiling wearily, “but he should be here by now. This is the only hotel in this place, ain’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s got red hair and some freckles. A tall feller, as young as you are—and almost as scared. Which room’s he in?”

  “Oh ... yes! Of course.” The clerk swallowed. “He’s in room eight. On the second floor.”

  Wolf took his key off the counter and headed for the stairs, glancing back at the desk clerk as he started up them. “Thanks,” he said. “Don’t bother to tell him I’m here. I want it to be a surprise.” There was a hint of steel in Wolf’s voice.

  The clerk’s round head bobbed anxiously on its narrow neck. “Of course, sir.”

  The clerk scurried into his office behind the desk as Wolf continued on up the stairs.

  His room was on the second floor, number three. There was little light in the corridor and Wolf had to fumble a moment with the key before he got it into the lock. The room smelled of dust as he pushed open the door. Closing it, he dropped his saddle bags and Winchester on the bed, then crossed to the washstand and lit the candle sitting on it with a sulphur match he had taken from the tin he carried in one of his saddle bags. Beside the candle sat an earthenware bowl and a pitcher of tepid water. He poured the water into the bowl and bent his face to it, washing the mask of alkali dust off his face and neck with his bare hands. A rough muslin cloth had been hung on a hook on the side of the washstand, and he used it to dig the sand out of the corners of his eyes and finally to dry himself off with. This meager toilet was a poor substitute for a bath but would have to do for now, he realized as he straightened and looked out the window.

  The street below was dim, pocked with occasional stains of light from the windows and doors of the saloon and the hotel. Across the street, next to the livery, he saw a small place with the sign: Bim’s Place—Eats. The thought of food caused a sudden sharp pain to start in the corner of his jaws. Red Tinsdale would have to wait.

  He left the room, descended the stairs and walked out of the hotel, crossing the street to the restaurant just as the owner appeared ready to close the place for the night. As Wolf shouldered his way into the place and smiled down at him, the owner—a balding, squat fellow—started to say something, then shrugged, closed the door behind Wolf and ducked back behind the counter.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked wearily. Wolf assumed he was Bim. “We got steak and chops left. That’s all.”

  “Chops and coffee,” Wolf said, “and some fries if you’ve got ’em.”

  As Bim went back into his kitchen, Wolf sat down at a little table by the window and turned his attention to the foot traffic flowing past the window—and moving in and out of the big saloon across the street. It occurred to him that if the saloon didn’t quiet down some, he would have difficulty getting any sleep that night. The men he saw seemed, for the most part, to be a motley of cowpokes, gamblers, miners, and drifters, most of whom were bewhiskered and dust-laden, a boisterous, gun-slick crew that undoubtedly had been drawn to this town not despite its isolation and lack of prosperity—but because of it. It was, in short, an ideal place for the rest of the Dawson Bunch to lose themselves.

  Wolf’s chops arrived, two large thick ones smothered in fries, and a steaming mug of black coffee. Wolf paid the forty cents and set to work on the chops, aware of the shadowy impatience of the owner standing just inside the kitchen door.

  At last, finished with the chops, Wolf sipped the coffee, studying as he did the painted sign over the saloon entrance. The name of the proprietor had been clumsily flaked off and the names of the new owners painted over it: Jim & Tom Sayles. The paint looked fresh.

  “Bim!” Wolf called.

  The owner appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Yeah?”

  “Looks like the Palace has new owners.”

  “Yeah.”

  “For how long?”

  “About two weeks, maybe.”

  Wolf nodded. “Any more coffee left in the pot?”

  The little man disappeared back into the kitchen and reappeared a moment later with a pot of coffee. He filled Wolf’s cup, then went back into his kitchen.

  Sipping the coffee, Wolf found himself bracing himself wearily for what he knew lay ahead. He was all but certain that Tinsdale had led him finally to the nest where he’d find the rest of the Dawson Bunch—including Weed Leeper.

  Wolf’s thoughts returned then to Kid Curry.


  The Kid still did not recognize him; and even now, as the two of them moved down the alley behind the bar, the Kid leaning on Wolf for support, Wolf was oddly reluctant to reveal who he was to the Kid. But Wolf wanted him to know—before he killed him. If the Kid had any rights at all, he had that right, at least.

  A door opened in front of them. A bright splash of light nearly blinded them as a large woman dressed in a skimpy, spangled red dress burst into the alley just in front of them. She was obviously very drunk and went down on one knee in the mud before coming to rest. She was sobbing and as she turned her face up into the light of the still open door, Wolf saw the pasty, heavily rouged face, the open mouth and the broken, ill-kept teeth—and felt immediate pity. The woman looked as if she were drowning.

  She caught sight of Kid Curry and at once broke into a grateful howl. With open arms, she staggered to her feet and rushed upon the man, hugging him clumsily about the neck.

  Her weight almost pulled the Kid to the ground. He yanked her arms from around his neck and pushed her roughly away from him. The woman lost her footing and sat down suddenly in the mud. “Whatsa matter, Kid?” she wailed. “It’s Cora!”

  “Come on, Wolf,” the Kid said, stepping around her. “I know where there’s better stuff than this!” But Cora reached up and pulled the Kid back. “No, Kid!” she cried. “You tole me! You said we was gonna go away together!”

  Embarrassed that Wolf should think he had proposed anything of the sort to this besotted slut, the Kid reached out and shoved her back into the mud. But Cora was far too drunk to notice the Kid’s anger, it seemed, and she clawed at his shirt front and pulled herself to her feet.

  In that instant Wolf saw Kid Curry become a killer. His black eyes went flat—like a snake’s—and the leashed violence Wolf had felt in the man all during this evening was abruptly let loose. He stepped back from the big girl and smiled.

  “You are a pig, Cora,” he told her quietly. “The biggest pig in Ma Renfrew’s house. You touch me again and I’ll kill you.”

  Before Wolf could reach out to restrain her, Cora rushed at Kid Curry, shrieking in a sudden, wild female fury, her fingers hooked like claws. Smiling thinly, the Kid sidestepped her and as she blundered drunkenly past him, he brought the barrel of his six-gun down hard on the side of her head. The sound of her skull cracking came clearly to Wolf—along with the soft moan Cora uttered as she collapsed heavily face down in the mud.

  Wolf bent quickly and turned the girl over. The right side of her head had been stove in, so powerful had been the Kid’s blow. Her eyes stared sightlessly up at him from a mud-smeared face. Cora had been drowning when first Wolf saw her; now the job was finished.

  Wolf took out his six-gun and stood up to face the Kid.

  “You killed her, Kid,” Wolf said. “I guess I’ll have to take you in.”

  The man laughed. “You must be crazy, Caulder! She’s just a cheap whore! I didn’t mean to kill her! You saw her come at me!”

  “That’s right. I saw you goad her. I saw you murder her!”

  “Well, you ain’t taking me in for it!”

  “No, I guess not. You’d only get off this hook just like you and others got off that other one not so long ago,” Wolf paused. “You remember that, don’t you, Kid—that Tipton coach full of people, dying or already dead. And me.”

  “You?”

  Wolf nodded.

  The Kid swore softly. “I knew you was familiar—but I couldn’t place you.”

  “I was on the floor when you and your friends came by,” Wolf reminded him. “One of you kicked me, as I remember.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Kid.”

  Wolf brought his six-gun up then—just as the Kid brought his up as well. Both guns thundered in unison. Wolf’s shot missed as he dove to his left. He felt the Kid’s bullet whisper past his cheek. Before the Kid could fire again, Wolf’s second bullet slammed into him, catching him dead center in the chest and slamming him backward into the side of a building. Slowly the Kid sagged into the mud, his Colt falling from his hand.

  Wolf holstered his six-gun and lifted the dying man to his feet. Doors were opening up and down the alley. Wolf hurried the Kid past the gaping onlookers toward the livery.

  He had a spot for the Kid already picked out, and there was no time for explanations.

  The hand on his shoulder startled Wolf. He turned quickly, his right hand dropping instantly and closing on the butt of his Colt. The restaurant owner ducked back quickly, his round face showing the fear he felt at Wolf’s sudden reaction.

  “Hey, listen, mister,” the man said, his voice slightly querulous, “I gotta close up now. I don’t usually stay open this late as it is. And you’re just sitting there.”

  Wolf held up his hand to stop the flow. “You made your point, Bim,” he said quietly. “Been riding too far between stops, looks like. Lost track of time.”

  Wolf got up, settled his black Stetson down more firmly onto his head and left the place.

  Threading his way through the night traffic—most of which seemed to be heading into The Miner’s Palace—he entered the hotel lobby. The desk clerk was asleep in his cubbyhole of an office, the sound of his snoring coming clearly to Wolf as he mounted the stairs to the second floor.

  Room number eight was down the hall from Wolf’s room. Removing his Colt from its holster, Wolf rapped on the door. He didn’t expect Tinsdale to be in his room at this hour; the man was probably in the saloon below, lapping it up. But Wolf’s years on the trail had taught him never to expect the usual.

  He thought he heard something from the other side of the door, but he couldn’t be sure. It could have come from the street below, through an open window. He rapped a second time, louder, then placed his ear against the door.

  There was no doubt this time: Tinsdale—or someone—was calling weakly to him. But it was more a groan than a call.

  Wolf tried the knob. The door was not locked. He pushed it open, his Colt still out and ready, and stepped into the room. The first thing he noticed was the awful stench. Then he saw the coiled body on the floor beside the bed. The stench was coming from that. Tinsdale had evidently lost control of both his bowels and his bladder—if it was Tinsdale.

  Wolf knelt by him, careful where he placed his feet, and holstered his weapon. In the light that filtered in through the open doorway from the hall light, he could see that it was Tinsdale, all right. The young cowpoke squinted painfully up at Wolf and tried to smile.

  “What is it, Tinsdale?” Wolf asked. “You’re pretty damn sick, looks like.”

  Tinsdale shook his head convulsively. “Not sick ... poison,” he said, gasping painfully.

  “Who did it, Tinsdale?”

  “Weed ...!”

  Tinsdale began to shake all over then, and Wolf could see sweat standing out clearly on his waxen forehead. The shaking grew more violent. Having seen ponies after too long a stretch in a loco weed patch, Wolf knew Tinsdale was just about at the end of his rope. The convulsions grew more violent. Tinsdale’s face went blue and he reached out a claw of a hand and grabbed Wolf’s wrist to hang on to, his mouth working painfully as he tried to talk.

  Wolf leaned close to the dying man. “Where’s Weed?”

  Tinsdale’s crazed eyes stared past Wolf out the window. “Out there ... mountains ...”

  Wolf swung his head around to look out the window. Over the town and over this hotel hung a great, lowering peak, the leanest and tallest of the Absarokas—and beyond them, he knew, was the Indian River Range, poking clear into Montana. If Weed was out there somewhere, holed up among those peaks, it would be a cold day in Hell before Wolf tracked him—assuming Weed meant to stay up there.

  Tinsdale’s clutching hand pulled Wolf back around. “Weed ...” the cowboy gasped. “... changed!”

  Wolf frowned and leaned closer. “What’s that?”

  Tinsdale’s teeth began to chatter then and Wolf gave it up. If there was a doctor
in this town, he might be able to ease Tinsdale somewhat before whatever poison Weed had used finished its job. Wolf got to his feet and looked down at Tinsdale. The cowpoke was trembling like a branch in the wind.

  “I’m going for a doctor,” Wolf told him.

  “Save ... yourself the trouble,” the shuddering face managed. “I’m done for ... already. Get them for me ... the bastards!”

  “Who else besides Weed, Tinsdale?”

  “The Dawsons ...”

  “Where are they?”

  “Downstairs ... own the place ...”

  That was all Tinsdale could get out. He tried to speak again, but his mouth was trembling now so violently that all he could utter was a long, continuous moan.

  Abruptly, the man’s long lean frame grew still. A kind of peace passed over him. He closed his eyes and seemed to sigh. Then his body settled into the floor as the stench that hung over him like a curse became suddenly sharper. Wolf’s stomach roiled sickeningly and he backed up and pulled the door shut on the dead man.

  Wolf had to clear his throat twice before he could rouse the drowsing desk clerk. The man emerged sleepily from his small office, a barely perceptible look of alarm passing over his face as he saw Wolf standing there.

  “My friend in room eight,” Wolf said to the man. “Did he have any visitors earlier this evening?”

  “Tinsdale?”

  “Yes, Tinsdale.”

  “I don’t know. I can’t keep track of everyone that comes in and leaves here. The hotel’s guests have been coming in and out all evening.”

  “Was one of them a fellow with thick whiskers, someone you might have heard called Weed?”

  “I told you. I wasn’t keeping track. The only one I remembered especially was a fellow a foot shorter than you—a thin, pale-looking gentleman, he was. But he didn’t have no whiskers. He was clean-shaven.”

  “How come you noticed him?”

  “He was carrying a bottle of whiskey and didn’t seem to want me to notice him.” the little desk clerk shrugged. “So I didn’t let on I had.”