Skull Moon (16 page)

Wynona mopped her brow, pushed aside clumps of hair that hung in her face, took a deep breath, and waded back into battle. With a gruesome snap, she got Mayhew's other arm into position. "There," she panted, "that wasn't so bad, now was it?"

"What in the name of the Devil are you doing?"

Wynona, not accustomed to anyone speaking in the preparation room, nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned and saw Mike Ryan standing in the doorway.

"Oh, Mr. Ryan... " Wynona giggled. "You scared the death out of me."

"What in blazes are you doing, woman?"

She smiled, straddling the corpse, very much aware of how it looked. How indecent it might have seemed. "Why, Mr. Ryan...what do you think I was doing?"

"Well, it's just that..."

Wynona giggled again, slid off the slab. "Sometimes you have to straighten them to fit them in the casket. Unpleasant...but necessary. Every job has its unpleasantries, does it not?"

Ryan ignored her, staring at the body. "That Mayhew?" It was hard to tell. Ryan had known Dewey Mayhew for years, but this...this was only vaguely human. It was a bloated, discolored, stitched-up grotesquerie out of a sideshow.

"Yes," Wynona said, covering the body quickly with a sheet.

"My God, he looks worse than they said."

Wynona looked hurt. "There's only so much that could be done."

Mike Ryan was a big man with bushy eyebrows, a hard face, and an intense glare that looked right through a man. He was a local rancher and a very rich man. He dressed in fine vested suits from St. Louis, owned hotels in both Virginia and Nevada Cities, and controlled stock in several copper and silver mining companies. He was a man to be reckoned with. If he liked you, you were set; if he didn't, he could destroy you, being that he owned just about everything and everyone in and around Wolf Creek. He was a good friend of Sheriff Lauters and had been the primary mover in getting Lauters his current post. He was also the mayor and the city council all rolled into one.

Wynona washed her hands in a basin and dried them, powdered them. "What can I do for you this fine day, Mr. Ryan?"

"Fine day?" Ryan said angrily. "What's fine about it, Wynona? Men are being killed out there!"

"A figure of speech."

He looked at her with complete loathing. He didn't care for undertakers in general and a woman undertaker...well, it was just plain unnatural. "Yes...well, I didn't come here to chat with the likes of you." He pulled out a gold pocket watch. "I need a headstone."

"Oh, I see," Wynona said, putting on her best synthetic demeanor. "Has there been a death in the family?" She controlled her voice carefully; didn't want to sound excited.

"No, no death," Ryan said slowly. "Not yet. It's for me. I want a headstone and a coffin. The best you can get. When people see my stone, I want them to stop and think, 'Here lies a man of worth.' Got it? The very best."

"I know of a fine sculptor and mason in Virginia City, Mr. Ryan, he can create something befitting a man of your station."

"Marble. The finest marble money can buy. Get the very best. Imported. Can you do that? I have imported Italian marble in my bathhouse. I fancy it."

"Oh, you can be assured--"

"Don't assure me, dammit, just do it!"

"Yes, sir. It will be done."

"Fine," Ryan said. "Get on it, woman. I'll be back day after tomorrow to discuss the particulars."

Ryan stormed out, leaving Wynona with a widening grin on her pale face. Whistling a happy tune, she went about pressing Mayhew into his cheap pine casket.

Life was rich.

And so was death.

Dr. Perry, his back a catalog of discomfort with the sudden change in the weather, made his way to see Claussen. He moved up the rutted road, cursing as he slipped and slid on the melting pockets of snow.

"If I fall," he said under his breath, "God knows I'll never get up again."

Wagons rolled past him and riders and people out going about their business. Everyone waved at him. More than a few wanted to chat. But Perry wasn't in the mood for any of that. He'd been trying to keep his injections of morphine to a bare minimum and such was the way of the drug that, what was enough to blot out the pain a week ago, was only enough to tease him now.

But he had to be careful.

Narcotics were nothing to fool with.

Dependency came easily and he was already beginning to exhibit the signs of it: loss of appetite, euphoria after injecting, a building need that demanded more and more.

Damn,
Perry thought,
but I'm a fool.

He knew better than to be fooling around with the stuff, had seen countless men turned into addicts during the War Between the States, and yet he'd willingly started a progression of dependency that could only end in disaster. But his lower back troubles--which had started after he was thrown from a horse five years before and slammed against a rock outcropping--had gotten progressively worse. It had reached the point in the past few months where he could barely function. Getting out of bed was a task, examining a patient with all the bending and turning required, was agony.

If it hadn't been for the drug, he would've had to give up his practice some time ago. That and live the doubtful existence of an invalid, confined to bed for the remainder of his years.

Perry couldn't let that happen.

People depended on him and the lifestyle of the aged and infirm would've killed him faster than any drug could hope to.

He came to the church and forced himself up its steps. Inside, it was dark and quiet. He called out for Claussen a few times, but there was no answer. He made his way to the rectory and looked around. Claussen didn't seem to be there. Perry thought once of looking upstairs, but he had no intention of invading the man's privacy. That and the fact that it would be hell on his back.

In Claussen's study, Perry found the books he was looking for. He wasn't about to accept any of this monster nonsense, but only a fool dismissed something without a thorough study. He wrote a note to the reverend and took as many books as his back would allow.

As the doctor left, he thought he heard a moan from upstairs.

He dismissed it and went on his way.

Some time later, Abigail Lauters, the sheriff's wife, and her cousin, Virginia Krebs, came to the church and couldn't find the reverend. It wasn't like him to miss their bible study meeting.

"My God," Abigail said, "I don't like this. Not one bit."

Virginia looked around the dim church and shivered. "Maybe he's in the rectory. Poor dear's been working himself sick."

So they went to the rectory.

"Where do you suppose he could be?" Abigail wondered.

"I do hope nothing's happened."

Abigail touched the broach on her throat. "I better tell Bill about this. He might know where he is." She said this with a certain amount of distaste for she had precious little use for her husband these days. A drunk. A sinner. A poor father to their children. Reverend Claussen remonstrated him from the pulpit on Sundays and Abigail agreed completely. Something was killing people and all Bill did was drink. Shameful.

Virginia said, "This is a bad omen. I'm sure of it."

Neither of them thought of looking upstairs.

The reverend heard people come and people go. But he was in too much pain and suffering, too much humiliation to call out. Lauters had beaten him good. Beyond his shattered nose, nothing seemed to be broken but his pride. But he hurt all over. His face was a swollen purple and yellow mass of bruises. One eye was closed. He was missing two teeth. There was a lump on top of his head the size of a baseball and his nose was a bloody flap.

He didn't want anyone seeing him like this.

He heard the doctor come and go. He heard Lauter's wife and her cousin come and go. He was thankful that neither tried to look for him. To be seen like this...it was unthinkable. They would ask questions and how could he answer? If he said who did it, Lauters would expose him for what he was.

The reverend couldn't allow that.

There were only two possible choices: Either get out of Wolf Creek and give up all he had worked to build for so long or get rid of the man who had done this to him.

Kill Lauters?

It was unthinkable, yet it was exactly what he was thinking--kill the bastard. But how? How in God's name could he kill a man who was both handy with a gun and his fists?

The reverend wasn't sure. But it had to be done.

Longtree caught up with Lauters at the livery.

"I'd like a word with you, Sheriff," he said.

Lauters grumbled. "I ain't got nothing to say to you, Marshal. Just get out of my way."

But Longtree wasn't moving. He was blocking the door. "I wanna talk about the rustling ring. The Gang of Ten."

Lauters wiped his mouth with the back of his fist. "That's a local problem," he said calmly. "It's none of your damn business. You came to stop these killings, so get to it and keep your nose out of the rest."

Longtree hadn't expected cooperation. It was the farthest thing from his mind. The only reason he'd tracked down Lauters was to put him on the spot, to hammer him with questions about the ring and the lynching and their possible connection. And see just what kind of reaction he would get.

"I'm thinking, Sheriff, that these murders and the ring are connected."

Lauters licked his lips. "If you think that you're just a damn stupid breed like I thought all along."

"I wanna know about the Gang of Ten."

Lauters' colorless face was touched with red now. "About all you're going to know is a bullet in the belly if you don't get out of my way."

Longtree ignored him. "I've been hearing talk that these rustlers might be mixed up in a lynching a year back."

"Out of my way, you sonofabitch." Lauters' eyes were bulging now.

"Folks are saying you might know more than you're telling."

Lauters' hand was on the butt of his gun. "You little--"

"Why'd you send your deputy away that night?"

Lauters was trembling. "Shut up! Shut up or I'll kill you! I swear to God I will!"

Longtree had to suppress a grin now. Not because he liked any of this, but because he was pushing Lauters' buttons and the man was reacting accordingly. Longtree had been a lawman for too long not to see that the sheriff was hiding a few things.

Then the ultimate question: "Were you involved with the rustlers?"

Lauters took one step forward. "You're a dead man, Longtree..."

Longtree pulled his coat aside so the pistol on his right hip was exposed. It wasn't a threat...just a warning. "If you're planning to shoot me, Sheriff, you'd best think again."

Lauters glared at him. There was a tic now in his lower lip. His huge hand was shaking on the butt of his Colt.

Longtree stood his ground. "Go ahead, Sheriff, slap that leather. If this is how you deal with your problems, then I guess all my questions have been answered, haven't they?"

Lauters made to turn away, then he launched himself at the marshal. Longtree was caught off guard. Lauters' fist caught him upside the head and he went down.

"Big mistake," Longtree said.

Lauters yelled something and reached down for Longtree. Longtree went back on his elbows and thrust out with his leg, catching the sheriff in the stomach with his boot. Lauters staggered back, but didn't go down. It was enough of a diversion to allow Longtree to get to his feet.

The sheriff came at him, spit running down his chin. "I'm going to kill you, breed! With my bare hands!"

Lauters swung roundhouse and Longtree dodged both blows, coming back instantly with two straight jabs to the face. Lauters fell back, looking shocked, blood running from his nose. With a war cry, he came on again, his punches wild. Longtree kneed him in the midsection, blocked a punch with his left and took another fist on the ear, spilling him sideways.

"All right, you injun bastard, now you're going to get yours," Lauters said, wading in again.

Longtree ducked two more roundhouse blows and smashed Lauters in the face with three lightning quick left jabs, followed by an upper cut that snapped the sheriff's face skyward and sent his hat pinwheeling through the air. Longtree kicked him in the stomach and spun around delivering an elbow to the bleeding wreck of his nose. Lauters went down on one knee, coughing and gasping, arms cradling his belly.

"You want some more?" Longtree asked him.

Lauters shook his head slowly and then drew his gun.

Longtree saw it coming, but there was no time to draw his own weapon. He threw himself sideways just as Lauters' Colt barked. The bullet ripped across Longtree's ribs with a raw and real explosion of pain that made black dots dance before his eyes. He hit the ground, clenching his teeth, unable to draw.

Lauters took aim, his face smeared with blood, his eyes rolling in their red-rimmed sockets.

"Sheriff!" Bowes screamed from the door. "Drop it!"

Lauters looked like some wild, insane thing. One of his eyes was swollen nearly closed and his face was painted up with streaks of red. He was puffy and red and panting. He looked from Bowes to Longtree, muttering under his breath.

"For the love of Christ, Sheriff!" Bowes said, pulling his own iron. "Drop it! Drop it now! You can't shoot a man who hasn't drawn...it's murder!"

Lauters grimaced. "I'm gonna kill that redskin bastard!"

Bowes had his pistol on Lauters. "Please, Sheriff...
Bill,
for goddsake drop it! I don't wanna shoot you!"

"Injun...just a goddamn half-breed--"

"He's a deputy United States Marshal, Sheriff! You'll hang!"

Lauters cursed and spat, dropping his gun. "Look what he did to me, goddammit!" Lauters cried. "Look what he did!"

Longtree moaned and sat up. "I came...to ask him questions...he attacked me...I only defended myself..."

Bowes helped him up. "All right, the both of you, we're going to see the doc. And I don't want any trouble."