Hell's Marshal (13 page)

Mills nodded. “Our source was very specific. Former Governor Crittenden is supposed to meet with an associate here this afternoon to discuss a business arrangement.”

Frank squinted into the gray afternoon, trying to see what was happening on the covered balcony between the two protruding wings of the courthouse. Shadows made it difficult, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Not what he’d expect if a secret meeting with a former governor was going on. Especially a former governor who’d put a bounty on the heads of the original James gang. A bounty that got Jesse killed.

Citizens still entered and exited the building, too, conducting the routine business of any courthouse: marriages, taxes, and so on.

It didn’t add up. Things were
too
routine.

The sun was setting behind a wall of slate-gray clouds that leaked drizzle on Liberty when the former governor’s black lacquered coach finally arrived. The carriage glittered with raindrops as it pulled up to the south side of the courthouse, its two-horse team pawing at the ground and huffing.

Frank watched as the governor stepped out of the coach, his white hair waving in the breeze. In the distance, lightning flashed behind the courthouse, making it look like a giant grave marker or mausoleum.

Crittenden used both hands on the coach’s rails, the ground apparently slick with rain. He strode up the short courthouse steps and through the front door without fanfare. No one even came to meet him.

There was still no sign of the James gang, either.

A few minutes later, Curtis came running down Kansas Street, sliding to a stop on the slippery street just a foot from Frank.

“Something’s going on at the college,” he huffed, hands on knees.

“At Jewell?” Mills asked.

Curtis shook his head. “Not Jewell. The Ladies’ College. Really weird things.”

Frank exchanged a look with Mills, whose brow had furrowed under his bowler. He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Tell us what you saw,” Frank said.

“The Ladies College is at the west end of Franklin,” the boy told them, “and from what I gather, normally it’s pretty quiet right about now. They have an early curfew there, seeing that they’re ladies and all.

“But tonight there are women-folk out all over the yard and on the balconies. And at least some of them have guns.”

“I reckon we oughtta check it out,” Frank told Mills.

“Agreed.”

“Okay, Curtis,” Frank said. “Lead the way.”

They called down Spike and Stan from the hotel and climbed onto Stan’s stage in Town Square, Frank and Mills on the driver’s bench with Stan. They trotted north, past the courthouse on Main Street, and were just about to turn west on Franklin when a carriage thundered past, its four-horse team not even slowing for the other coach. Guards rode front and back, rifles held ready.

“I know that carriage,” Mills said. “That’s Mr. Pinkerton’s private coach. He takes it anytime he wants to travel discretely.”

The carriage rushed west down Franklin, straight toward the ladies college.

“Didn’t Crittenden hire your agency to go after the James-Younger gang?” Frank asked.

Mills’ eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. “He’s gonna kill Mr. Pinkerton.”

Something still didn’t add up for Frank, though.

“Are you sure that was Crittenden at the courthouse?” he asked Mills.

The detective thought a moment, then looked at Frank, eyes narrowed.

“He didn’t have a briefcase. Crittenden’s an attorney. He wouldn’t go to a business meeting without a briefcase.”

“We’ve been hustled,” Frank said. “Catch that coach!”

Stan whipped his team into a gallop, their red eyes blazing through the darkness as the group gave chase.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Frank held the side rail for dear life as Stan drove his horses hard enough for gouts of flame to erupt from their nostrils. They had to stop Pinkerton before he reached the college and went inside. Then, James would have everything he needed to start his rebellion and launch the second civil war.

But Pinkerton’s coach had too much of a head start, and a few moments later, it pulled up the hill in front of the college. Stan reined in just short of the gate, a good hundred yards away, at the bottom of the hill.

Curtis had been right about the people milling around outside the school, despite the late hour. All were dressed like women—dark, ankle-length skirts, white blouses—but many carried themselves more like men. And held rifles. All stared blankly ahead.

Spike leaned out a window, and the four of them watched Pinkerton disembark and stride up the steps to the front door, disappearing inside.

“What do we do now?” Spike asked.

Frank studied the long hill up to the brick building that made up the college, taking in the large number of women—or people dressed like women, anyway—standing guard, despite the now-pouring rain. Frank directed Stan to take cover in a small stand of trees, where they got out and peered at the front of the ladies college.

A group of armed men hurried the Pinkerton carriage around behind the college, knocking the guards unconscious and dragging them into the building.

Frank put his hand on Mills’ arm. The man was wound tight as a bear trap, ready to spring, but Frank held him back.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

Mills frowned, but nodded. Frank’s trust in him grew as he felt the man’s anger boiling under the surface.

A light came on in the south end of the building, and Mills handed Frank a telescope. Through it, Frank watched Crittenden and Pinkerton take their seats at a table before a woman with blond hair closed the drapes. She paused for a moment, staring out into the night rain with dazzling blue eyes.

Frank tensed. “Camille.”

Then she disappeared, leaving only a sliver of light visible.

Several of the women—including one who Frank swore had a full beard and moustache—moved to that corner of the building and crouched, working on something Frank couldn’t make out.

“What’re they doing?” he muttered.

Mills tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to a low shed on the north side of the building. Frank used the telescope again. There, huddled against the rain, sat the now-empty wagon the James gang had used to haul their dynamite.

Motion at the opposite corner of the building caught Frank’s eye as three more women knelt there, working feverishly on the base of the wall. Even with the looking scope, Frank couldn’t see what they were doing. He didn’t need to.

“They’re blowing the whole thing,” he said. “They’re gonna kill the governor, Pinkerton, and a bunch of women. If that don’t start the war, nothing will.”

Mills straightened, reached into the coach and produced Camille’s Winchester. He chambered a round and nodded. Spike held his shotgun against his hip, expression grim as he faced the college. Stan hefted the Sharps, his eyes blazing blue.

Only Curtis looked unsure, his gaze jumping from the school to Frank and back again.

“Stay here.” Frank handed the boy the telescope. “Keep an eye on things, and if you see anyone—especially your friend Jeb—escaping, follow them. Stay safe, and don’t let them see you, but find out where they go and report back to me at the hotel.

“Stan, you’re with Curtis here, but use that rifle and those eyes of yours to give us cover fire. Curtis here can tell you if someone’s…not normal. If anyone gets close to your position, skedaddle. Save yourselves. And if something happens to me…”

“I’ll take care of Curtis.”

Frank gave him a curt nod, then Stan and Curtis climbed atop the stage, the boy looking through the telescope. A moment later, he turned to Frank.

“Save her, okay?” he said. “She really needs to stay here.”

“I’ll try.” Frank turned to Mills and Spike. “Let’s go.”

He stepped out into the full force of the pouring rain. Dim oil lamps around the yard and porches lit the area enough to make out shapes of the guards walking about.

They marched up the hill, unabashed and unhidden, daring someone to open up on them. A quick count told Frank at least forty remained outside, drenched in the pouring rain.

“There are too many of them to be just the gang,” Mills said. “Something doesn’t add up.”

Frank grunted. “Spread out. I’ll get James, you two stop the dynamite.”

As they split, the front door burst open, spilling golden light out across the hillside, turning the women into silhouettes. Then James stepped out onto the front porch, his eyes blacker than death. At his side stood Camille, her hands limp at her sides, blank eyes staring straight ahead as James held her under his control.

James stopped, his possessed body a stick figure in the blade of light, and looked right at Frank. Tucked in his belt, Camille’s Bowie knife glinted in the light. The thin, dark line of a gash ran down his right cheek, dried blood staining his collar.

“Ah, Mr. Butcher!” Frank halted, Spike and Mills spreading out from his sides, weapons ready. “Good to see you, but you’re too late. In just a few seconds, my slaves here will light their fuses, and this building will come down on your important gentlemen, and a large number of innocent women.

“I’ve arranged a special greeting for you, Frank. All the people you see in this yard are under my control, each of them ready to kill you on my command. And since I know how much you like killing women, I made them a mix of my men and students from this college. To get to me, you’ll have to kill every one of them, women included. Even your girlfriend, here.”

Frank cursed. He could end this with one shot, sending Jesse James back to Hell if he was closer and had the right bullet loaded.

“You think starting the civil war all over again will bring your family’s honor back?” Frank shot, hoping to buy time. Spike and Mills continued moving north and south, trying to get in position to stop the dynamite. “It won’t bring back your half-brother, won’t give Zee back her arm.”

James laughed, and lightning struck the dome over his head, thunder shattering the night air.

“You think this is about my family’s honor, Butcher? You believe I broke out of Hell for something so petty? You’re smarter than that, Frank. This is much bigger, and you know it.

“This is your last chance, Butcher,” he bellowed, raising his arms. With a single snap of motion, every person in the yard raised their weapon and took aim at Frank and his friends. “Join me. I could use someone like you. It’s that, or die.”

Frank’s gun-hand twitched, his fingers brushing the ivory handle as he squinted up at the body Jesse James possessed. The boy’s body had shrunk in on itself, his arms little more than sticks, his black eyes sunken. His joints had turned knobby and bulbous, while the sinew of his limbs held taught with tension, ready to snap any instant.

Frank studied the distance—still too far.

“I died once,” Frank spat at the killer’s feet, “and I ain’t scared of doing it again.”

He drew.

Gunfire erupted like a thousand cracks of thunder as the women opened fire. Frank dove for the ground, gunning down the two nearest enemies with deadly precision. To his right and left, Mills and Spike opened fire too, and more dress-clad figures went down in heaps of cloth and hair, rain and blood. The deep boom of the Sharps even split the night air, as Stan added to the volley of lead.

Bullets tore into Frank, rocking him with their impacts, but he no longer cared. His body was a mere tool, a vessel through which he’d been sent to do a job, to retrieve a prisoner. Once that job was done, his use for the body would end and his own soul would follow his prey back to Hell.

Frank moved forward at a deliberate pace, losing sight of Spike and Mills, edging up the hill toward James on the porch. Shooting and reloading, killing and killing some more. Around him, men and women alike screamed, differentiated only by the pitch of their terrorized cries. Each agonizing wail stabbed at Frank’s heart like a knife, piercing his confidence and impaling his very being with cold, dull steel. By the time he reached the foot of the steps, he’d lost count of how many he’d killed, but he knew the rain washed away a good amount of his blood. He ignored the holes in his chest, arms and legs. They hurt, but they would heal, and he wouldn’t need his body after this anyway.

He stood at the base of the marble steps, slick with blood and rain, littered with bodies, and glared up at Jesse James.

“Now, you’re coming with me.”

But James stared off into the darkness to Frank’s right, like the gunfighter didn’t exist, eyes wide.

That’s when Frank heard the growl.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN