Born to the Badge Page 20

  Unable to sleep, he sat up on the edge of her bed and set his feet to the cold floor. His clothes were folded neatly on her chair. The symmetrical drape of shirt and coat on the chair-back was like a stranger in the room, mocking him for his failures. He had watched Lillie arrange his clothes as she had described to him the new Celtic song she was learning for her performances. He had not understood most of what she had said, but he doubted she would grasp the meaning of much of his police work, if ever he tried to explain it to her.

  Behind him, she stirred in the sheets, stretching and purring like a cat. “Are you leaving, Wyatt?”

  He reached to the chair for his trousers and began pulling them on. “I’m still on duty, remember?”

  “This is your duty, too, Wyatt.” She poked him with a long-nailed finger and giggled, and then her hand dropped to the sheets and was still. Within seconds the rhythm of her breathing told him she was asleep.

  He had just tucked the tails of his blouse into the waistband of his trousers when a gunshot broke the quiet of the night, close enough to be in the next block east. Then three more shots followed, the reports almost blurring into one sound. Wyatt finished dressing and took his revolver from the top of Lillie’s bureau. Just before he closed the door to her room, he heard a light airy snore from the bed. For Lillie, those gunshots may as well have been in Topeka.

  As soon as Wyatt stepped into the street behind the hotel, he saw Jim Masterson running around the corner of the Varieties. Jim slowed when he saw Wyatt, and his hand took a grip on the revolver at his hip.

  “Wyatt?”

  “Where’d it come from?” Wyatt called out.

  Masterson visibly relaxed, released his hold on his weapon, and approached. “I was on the other side of the tracks.” He pointed east. “Sounded like this block.”

  Together they left Bridge Street and walked into the alley behind the Great Western Hotel. Several lamps were lighted in the rooms at the back of the building. When they reached the corner of the hotel, Wyatt slipped his gun from his waistband and outstretched his free hand to clamp down on Jim’s arm. Masterson stopped and turned a taut face to Wyatt.

  “What?” Masterson whispered.

  Wyatt pointed with his gun toward the back of the lot where Mayor Kelley’s squat cottage hunkered in the dark. As they got closer, they heard a high-pitched wailing. In the open back door of the little wood-frame building a woman stood in her nightgown, fingering the tie cord knotted at her collar.

  “Who’s there?” Wyatt called.

  “Dora’s dead,” the woman cried out. “Someone shot through the wall and killed her.” She tried to say more, but her words trailed off into a pitiful sobbing.

  “Fannie?” Jim said. “Is that you?”

  Shivering, she collapsed by degrees in the doorway, her cheek pressed into the jamb, forcing her open mouth into a skewed oval. Her eyes were clamped shut so tightly that three deep lines etched across her brow. Tears streaked down her face as she moaned into the emptiness of the night.

  Jim crouched to check her for a wound. Wyatt moved past them into the cottage, his gun extended before him.

  “Mayor Kelley?” Wyatt called. The dark house was quiet. It smelled of perfume and candle smoke.

  “Fannie says he’s at the army hospital,” Jim called from the door. “Says Dora and her were staying here while he’s gone.”

  A match flared in a front room, and Wyatt made out the figure of a man standing over a candle. He was naked from the waist up, staring back wide-eyed and licking his lips. He approached, carrying the candle before him, the flickering flame illuminating his face.

  “Weren’t me done the shootin’, Marshal. You know me. Name’s Wilden. I’s with Dora. The shots come from out front. Four of ’em.” He pointed back toward the room from which he had emerged. “Dora’s in there. Somebody kilt her, sure ’nough.”

  “How do I know you didn’t shoot her?” Wyatt said, putting some iron in his voice.

  Wilden was shaking his head even before Wyatt had finished the accusation. “I ain’t even got a gun here, Marshal.” He gestured toward the back stoop. “You can ask Fannie. She seen me come in.”

  Wyatt took the candle from the man and walked into the front bedroom, where he found an unmoving mound beneath a bedsheet. A tangle of long hair spread across the pillow, and a dark stain on the sheet glistened black in the candlelight. In the south wall four rough holes were ringed by splinters in the wood. Wyatt combed the hair back from Dora Hand’s relaxed face. He felt for breathing with the backs of his fingers, but there was none. He returned to the back doorstep, where Wilden stood barefooted, watching Jim Masterson comfort Fannie. Across the alleyway, two women stood on the rear stoop of the hotel.

  “Who did the shootin’?” Wyatt called out, but the women did not reply.

  Fannie looked at Wyatt through her tears. “I heard a horse,” she sobbed.

  Wilden began nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah, I heard it, too . . . and after that first shot, I might’a heard somebody work the lever on a rifle. The rest of the shots were so fast . . . I couldn’ be sure.”

  “Why would anyone want to hurt Dora?” Fannie whimpered to no one in particular. “She was so good.”

  Wyatt called across the alleyway to the hotel. “I need one o’ you to get a doctor! The other come over here and see about Fannie. She’ll be needin’ you.”

  Fannie pointed east. “I heard the horse run that way . . . and then I think it went up toward Front Street.”

  Wyatt stuffed his gun into his waistband and carried the candle around to the front of the house. The bullet holes were erratically grouped. From the position of Dora’s bed in the room, he estimated the assassin had shot from horseback—a horse that had probably spooked at the first shot. Returning to the back of the cottage, he dripped wax on the doorstep and perched the candle to light the entranceway.

  “Take care of things here, Jim. Keep Wilden with you. Have the girls take Fannie to the hotel. I’m going to have a look around.”

  He ran out to Front Street and sent two men from the train depot to find Sheriff Masterson and Marshal Bassett. Then just beyond the rails of the side track he stopped. Tethered to an awning post in front of the Long Branch was a familiar stallion, powerfully built with every fine equestrian point that marked a prime racer. On its back was perched a silver-studded saddle with a fancy fringed saddlebag.

  Wyatt walked to the saloon window and saw only two customers, who shared a bottle at one of the back tables. Up front, Chalkley Beeson put away whiskey bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Looking back at the drinkers, Wyatt recognized the puckish face of Spike Kenedy. The young Texan sat with his back to the wall. He was a troublesome brat who had spent many a night in the city jail. As the son of a wealthy cattleman, his habit was to throw his father’s money at the court fine and pout for a day before finding some way to get himself arrested again. Wyatt had seen Kenedy’s recent scrap with Mayor Kelley right here in front of this saloon just a few days before.

  Kenedy was dressed in a scarlet shirt adorned with fancy white embroidery along the bib, a yellow scarf, and tall, studded boots. He downed drinks with a balding man who talked as fast as he poured. The young Texan laughed, stretched his legs before him, and crossed his showy boots at the ankles.

  Keeping his eyes on Kenedy, Wyatt entered the saloon and walked to the bar, where Beeson turned at the sound of his boots. Kenedy never once looked his way.

  “Wyatt,” Beeson said and leaned on the bar. “What’s the ruckus out there tonight?”

  Wyatt turned his back to Kenedy and lowered his voice. “How long have these boys been here, Chalk?”

  Beeson’s eyes cut to Kenedy, and his face drew cautious. “Come with me,” he whispered.

  Wyatt followed the saloonkeeper into the backroom, where Beeson lighted an oil lamp and hunched so close for privacy that Wyatt had to step back from the flowery scent of the man’s pomade. Beeson was not a nervous man by nature, but now he leane
d in close to Wyatt again and began to whisper in a rush.

  “That Kenedy boy was waving his gun and making threats I couldn’t understand. He’s not as drunk as he wants you to think he is.”

  “Is he heeled now?”

  Beeson’s eyes jumped away in thought. “I can’t say for certain. He came in a couple of hours ago, started juicing up. He had a Schofield on him then. He left just about a half hour ago and came strolling back in about . . . what . . . maybe ten minutes ahead of you?”

  “I don’t know, Chalk. I’m asking you.”

  Beeson shook his head quickly, impatient with his flustered state. “All I know is he’s not shown a gun since he came back in. What were those shots about out there?”

  “Was Kenedy here when you heard them?”

  Chalk frowned, looked away, and rubbed the whiskers on the side of his face—the sound like fingernails on parchment. “No. Just the other one. The little bald guy and me. That was it. I remember when we heard the sound he and I looked at each other but didn’t speak. Kenedy wasn’t with him. I’m sure of it.”

  Wyatt turned his head to the closed door. “Put out the light, Chalk.”

  Wyatt’s gun was in his hand when he stepped out. Kenedy’s chair was empty. The other man sat slouched forward with his fleshy cheek pressed flat against the polished wood tabletop. One hand still gripped the empty bottle.

  Wyatt tapped the drunk’s shoulder with his revolver. The bald man’s eyes half opened, and when they tried to focus on Wyatt, his head rose up from the table an inch, and he licked his lips.

  “Where is Kenedy?” Wyatt said.

  The man lowered his brow over wandering, blurry eyes. “Who?”

  Wyatt jerked the man to his feet and slammed him into the wall. A glass-framed picture of the Dodge City Silver Cornet Band rattled on its hook, but Chalk Beeson caught it before it could fall.

  “Where’s Kenedy!” Wyatt growled. “The man you were drinking with!”

  The man winced at the force of Wyatt’s words. The fist twisting his shirt collar into a knot threatened to cut off his air.

  “He’s gone,” he squeaked. “I don’t know where.”

  Wyatt pushed the drunk toward Beeson. “Hold him here, Chalk, until I send somebody down for him.”

  Wyatt hurried out the door to find the stallion gone. One door down at the Alamo Saloon the nightshift bartender swept dust over the threshold onto the boardwalk. When he saw Wyatt, he stopped the motion of his arms and raised his eyebrows with a question.

  “Marshal?” he said. “What was all the shooting about?”

  “You see a man ride off on a high-strung stallion that was tied here?” Wyatt nodded toward the vacant awning post.

  The man set aside his broom on the doorjamb and wiped his hands on his apron as he stepped forward. At the edge of the boardwalk he stopped, looked west, and pointed far down the rail tracks.

  “That Kenedy kid with the rich Texas daddy. The one that got into it with the mayor here a while back. He rode out o’ here and on down past the lumberyard . . . looked like a swarm o’ hornets was on his tail.”

  Across Front Street beyond the tracks, Wyatt spotted Bat running for the city police building. When Wyatt whistled, the shrill, high-pitched note carried across the plaza, stopping Bat. They met in the street, and Wyatt quickly apprised him of all he had learned.

  “Dora is dead?” Bat said, his face stricken.

  Wyatt nodded. “Shot through the heart, looks like.” He shook his head. “Killed while she was sleeping.”

  Bat’s jaws hardened like rocks. “And you think it was that damned, snot-nosed kid, Kenedy?”

  “Last time Kenedy was in town,” Wyatt reminded him, “Kelley kicked him out of his saloon, humiliated him on the street. The boy made a poor showing of it.”

  Bat cursed and turned steely eyes down the street. “That’s a damned fast horse he’s on. The sonovabitch will be out of our jurisdiction before the sun is up. Let’s go see Judge Cook about getting a federal appointment.”

  Rufus Cook was quick with a warrant but uncertain as to his authority in appointing a federal marshal. Standing in his library in his nightgown, he combed through law books and muttered to himself as he thumbed over pages. The long wait stiffened Wyatt’s back and rankled Bat into pacing the floor.

  “Goddammit, Rufus!” Bat finally erupted. “We’re losin’ too much time!”

  Cook, his patience clearly waning in this too-early hour, pinned his finger on a page and looked up at the lawmen. “Look, dammit, I’ve got no choice in this other than to go through the proper channels. You can’t jump from county to federal authority at the drop of a hat. Just give me a—”

  “If you can’t find a law, then make one up!” Bat spat and spun partway around to fling his arm to point south. “Rufus, right now I’m thinking Ford County extends all the goddamn way to Mexico!”

  Exasperated, Judge Cook leaned both arms on his desk and glared at Bat. “I’ve issued the warrant,” he scolded. “That’s the best I can do!” He frowned at the window as if he could see out into the night where the killer of Dora Hand was galloping hard across the prairie. “Both of you go do whatever it is you think you’ve got to do. We’ll try to sort out all the legalities on this later.”

  Wyatt picked up the warrant, folded it, and sidled between the judge and the young sheriff. Facing Bat, he spoke in a calming voice.

  “Let’s round up who we can and gear up for light traveling.”

  Bat marched for the door but turned before opening it. “Fix this, Rufus! If you have any trouble figuring it out, I want you to consider what Dora Hand would think about jurisdiction restrictions!” Bat pinned the judge with a fierce gaze. Cook tried to hold Bat’s stare, but he was sorely outmatched.

  Sheriff Masterson, Assistant Marshal Earp, Marshal Bassett, and deputy sheriffs Billy Tilghman and Will Duffy rode out of town just as the first light spread across the prairie. The tracks led west, but Wyatt placed bets on the fugitive swinging south to ford the Cimarron at Wagon Bed Springs. From there Kenedy could cross into Indian Territory and cut the Texas Trail.

  The posse struck out cross-country, riding all day and into the night, when a vicious hailstorm unloaded on them out of the dark sky. Crowding their horses beneath an undercut creek bank, the posse men huddled together with their animals and unrolled their slickers. As they waited out the storm, Wyatt had time to describe in more detail the scene of carnage at Kelley’s cottage. By the time he had finished painting the picture of the murder, Bat was so mad he ordered everyone to mount up.

  “Our horses need rest,” Wyatt reminded. “We keep our heads . . . we might catch Kenedy.”

  Bat rose up and stood stiff as a board, glaring out at the relentless barrage of ice hammering the dried-up creek bed. Some of the pieces were the size of a hen’s egg. Cursing, he kicked at a dirt clod and sent a spray of dust and pebbles out over the ice that had accumulated. Finally, he sat down again, wrapped his arms around knees, and seethed.

  “That goddamned, mollycoddled sonovabitch! He thinks he can just take his go-as-you-please rich-daddy’s rules with him anywhere he goes. We’d better catch him. The whole town’s gonna want to watch him swing for killin’ Dora.”

  When the hail slacked off to rain, they buttoned down their slickers and rode through a driving downpour all that second day. Taking periodic rests to spare their horses, they pushed on into pitch dark, finding their way by their knowledge of the country from their days as buffalo hunters. At dawn they silently rejoiced at the sight of the Cimarron River and a cloudless sky ushering in the light. Bassett and the sheriff’s deputies stayed at the ford, while Wyatt and Bat checked the riverbanks for a quarter mile in each direction. No horse tracks had been laid down since the rain. It was Tilghman who voiced what no one else would.

  “If you figure in what that racehorse of Kenedy’s can do, he might ’a got here before the rain stopped.”

  Wyatt squinted south into the Nations. “If he’s out
there, we’ll keep after ’im until we get ’im. But I don’t think he’d ’a lasted that hail storm. Prob’ly holed up like we did and waited out the rain, too. Might still be behind us. Either way, we’ve got to rest our horses. We’re no good on played-out mounts.”

  They unsaddled and let their horses graze in the steam that lifted off the prairie like a floating gauze. After spreading their wet clothes on rocks at the riverbank, they stretched out in their union suits behind a low mound of earth—all but Masterson, who needed to work his game hip. Within minutes, Basset and Duffy were snoring, and Tilghman began to drowse in and out of sleep. Bat was too angry to rest, but he finally perched next to Wyatt and began recounting all the good deeds Dora Hand had bestowed upon the less fortunate souls of Dodge City over the last year. Wyatt said nothing as he kept watch over the mound.

  Less than an hour had passed when Bat saw a change in Wyatt’s face. Bat scrambled to his hands and knees, parted a swath of yellowing grass, and peered north over the low berm of earth.

  “There he is,” Wyatt said.

  “Son of a bitch,” Bat breathed.

  The solitary rider appeared as an apparition on the horizon. He must have been six hundred yards distant. The heat rising off the prairie gave his silhouette a watery shimmer that made positive identification close to impossible. Wyatt crouched behind the mound and shook the others awake.

  “If that ain’t a goddamned racehorse,” Bat whispered, “I’m the fuckin’ Queen of Canada.”

  Wyatt leveled field glasses on the interloper. “Red blouse, yellow scarf, calf-high boots. And the horse has the right markings. That’s him.” Wyatt turned and considered their loose remuda of horses. “Too late to round up the horses.” He bent low and peered over the mound. “He’ll need to come to us.”