Luke Jensen: Bad Men Die Part 5

"Show him, Pa," the youngster urged. "Show Mr. Jensen your draw."

"No, I'm sure Mr. Jensen has better things to do than stand around and watch me shoot."

"As a matter of fact," Luke said, "I don't. I'm just waiting for supper to be ready, and your housekeeper talked like it would still be a few minutes."

Hatfield's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't be wanting to get some idea of how you'd stack up against me, would you, Mr. Jensen?"

"Not at all," Luke answered honestly. "I'm always interested in how a man handles a gun, though. I guess it goes with being in my line of work."

"You see, Pa!" Bucky said. "Go ahead and draw."

"Well . . ." Hatfield shrugged. "I suppose it won't hurt anything. Folks around here are used to hearing shots coming from back here when Bucky's practicing." He turned toward the fence, stood there for just a second, and then in a draw too fast for the eye to follow, the Colt fairly leaped into his hand and spat flame as he triggered three swift shots from the hip. Each of the cans flew into the air, neatly drilled by a bullet, and then thudded to the ground.

Bucky let out a shrill whistle of admiration.

Luke was impressed, too. He didn't possess the blinding speed with a gun that his brother Smoke did, or even their adopted brother Matt Jensen, but he was faster on the draw than most hombres.

However, Bob Hatfield would have shaded him if they'd been facing off. The marshal was that fast.

He would have given Smoke a run for his money, Luke thought, although he firmly believed that Smoke was faster.

Seeming a little embarra.s.sed as he turned away from the fence, Hatfield lowered the gun's barrel, from which a few tendrils of smoke still curled. He took three fresh cartridges from the loops on his sh.e.l.l belt and started replacing the ones he had fired. "It's always best to reload as soon as you can, Buck. You never know when you might need a full wheel."

Luke heard the hint of a drawl in the marshal's voice that he hadn't noticed before, and it jogged something in his brain.

From the back door, Consuela called, "If you men are through shooting up the place, supper is ready!"

CHAPTER 9.

The food was excellent. If Luke had been expecting something like he would have gotten down in Texas or south of the border, he would have been disappointed, because Consuela served fried chicken, corn on the cob, greens, and some of the tastiest, fluffiest biscuits he'd had in a long time. He decided that her excellence as a cook matched her fastidiousness as a housekeeper . . . and her beauty.

Luke decided if Sundown Bob Hatfield hadn't given some thought to marrying the woman, he was a d.a.m.n fool. Two years of grieving for his late wife was long enough. But again, the marshal's personal life was none of his business, Luke reminded himself.

After they had eaten, Consuela announced, "I'll take supper over to the jail for the prisoner now, Seor Hatfield."

Instantly, the marshal got to his feet. "I'll come with you."

She waved him back into his chair. "There is no need. It's only a few blocks, and despite its growth, Rattlesnake Wells is still a peaceful town."

Luke had noticed the same thing, and he understood better why that was so. Word must have gotten around about what a gunslick the young marshal was, and n.o.body wanted to cross Sundown Bob.

That wouldn't last forever, Luke thought as his mouth tightened briefly into a grim line. Sooner or later some hombre who fancied himself a fast gun would show up to test Hatfield's speed, looking to make a reputation for himself. Even if Hatfield survived that encounter, there would be another and another and another....

Luke's brother Smoke was one of the few truly fast guns to survive very long, and even he sometimes found himself challenged now and then by some foolish kid hungry for fame and glory.

"I'd be glad to walk with you, Seorita Diaz," Luke offered. "I'm going back over to the jail anyway. I decided to take you up on that offer, Marshal. I'll sleep on the cot in the storeroom."

"All right," Hatfield said. "I told Fred you might do that. I'll be by later. I always make some late rounds after Bucky goes to sleep."

The youngster said, "I think you ought to take me with you on your rounds, Pa. I'm not sleepy."

Hatfield chuckled. "You say that now, son, but I know good and well you'll be asleep two minutes after your head hits the pillow."

A few minutes later, Luke and Consuela left the house. She had a wicker basket containing the food intended for McCluskey. Luke offered to carry it for her, but she said, "No, that's all right, Seor Jensen. It's not heavy."

As they turned onto Main Street, Luke saw that Rattlesnake Wells was loud and boisterous, but there wasn't any real trouble going on. "Marshal Hatfield seems to have the lid on this town pretty tight."

"S, the people respect him and try not to cause too much trouble," Consuela agreed. "Of course, how could they not respect him? He is a fine man. I have known him for many years."

"Then you must have known his wife."

"Priscilla? Yes, she and Seor Hatfield were older than me, but we all grew up together down in . . ." Her voice trailed off and she didn't finish what she was saying.

But it had been enough to jog another memory in Luke's brain. "Down in Texas, right? In the border country? I remember hearing something a few years ago about a young fella down there who was mighty fast with a gun. Had red hair, too, as I recall. But he wasn't named Hatfield or called Sundown Bob, for that matter. Seems like they called him the Devil's River Kid."

He heard the sharp intake of breath from Consuela as he spoke that name. She stopped short and turned to face him on the boardwalk in front of a hardware store that was closed for the night. "Seor Jensen, I . . . I don't know what you're talking about."

"The Devil's River Kid was an outlaw, wanted for murder," Luke went on. "He shot up a bunch of hired guns working for a wealthy local rancher. I don't remember all the details, but it seemed like he was in a bad spot and didn't have much choice but to do what he did."

She stood stiff as a steel rod and said quietly, "Please, Seor Jensen . . . no one here knows who Bob really is or what happened down in Texas. He just wants to live here in peace and raise his son."

"Might not be easy to do, as fast on the draw as he is. Sooner or later, somebody's going to hear about him and remember the same things I just did and figure it out. They'll show up and try to take him back to Texas. Either that or beat him to the draw and get famous that way."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. If there is any justice in the world-"

"Well, that's sure something n.o.body can count on," Luke said.

"But if there is," Consuela insisted, "Bob will have a good life here. I will do everything in my power to make it so." She moved a step closer to him. "Anything you wish of me, Seor Jensen, to leave him alone, it is yours."

"Hold on a minute," Luke said with a frown. "What makes you think I'm after him?"

"You are a bounty hunter, and . . . and . . ."

"And there's still a reward out for the Devil's River Kid. But not for Marshal Bob Hatfield of Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming. As far as I'm concerned, that's who I just had supper with. A very pleasant supper, I might add."

"Then you . . . you didn't come here to arrest him and . . . take him back to Texas, as you said?"

"Seorita, all I want from that young man is the use of his jail for the night. That's the honest truth. I didn't figure out who he really is until just a few minutes ago, and I'm not going to cause trouble for anybody who's been so friendly and hospitable."

"He is a good man, a very good man, es verdad." Even in the shadows under the awning over the boardwalk, he could see her sag a little in relief. "Thank you, Seor Jensen. Thank you so much."

"No need to thank me. I'm just going on about my business." He took her arm. "So let's just head for the jail-"

Shots blasted somewhere down the street, and even as the echoes rolled through the night, Luke had a pretty good idea where the shots were coming from and what they meant.

Frank McCluskey was making a break!

CHAPTER 10.

Deputy Fred Ordway sat in the office with his feet propped up on the desk, wondering if he might be able to sneak a piece of chicken out of the basket before he took the food in to the prisoner. The marshal had mentioned Consuela's fried chicken earlier and it was about as close to heaven as a man could find, at least in that part of Wyoming.

From time to time Fred thought about asking Consuela to one of the box supper socials the town held several times a year. From the looks of it, Bob was never going to get around to asking her, despite the fact that his wife had been gone for a couple years.

Of course, every time Fred started thinking like that, he got over it and told himself to forget it. No girl as beautiful as Consuela Diaz would ever go to a social with somebody like him. Besides, she was in love with Bob. Anybody with a pair of eyes could see that.

Except, evidently, Bob his own self.

Fred was musing on such universal mysteries of life when the door of the marshal's office opened. Not wanting to be caught with his feet up on the desk, Fred swung his legs down quickly and straightened in the old swivel chair. He tried to look official and efficient, but he wasn't sure that was possible under the best of circ.u.mstances.

He thought the visitor might be Consuela bringing the prisoner's supper, but that wasn't the case. The person who came in was female, though, and like Consuela, young and pretty. Blond and fair, however, not dark and sultry. She wore a blue dress and bonnet and carried what looked like a Bible in front of her like a shield.

Fred got hurriedly to his feet. "Can I help you, ma'am?"

"Are you the marshal?"

Her voice was sweet as apple pie, Fred thought. "Uh, no, ma'am. I'm the deputy, though. Deputy Fred Ordway, at your service."

"Why, I'm just so pleased to meet you, Deputy Ordway. My name is Sister Delia."

"Sister?" Fred repeated with a slight frown.

"Oh, I know I'm not a nun. But I am a missionary, come to minister to the good people of Rattlesnake Wells-and the not-so-good people, too, of course. They need to hear the word of the Lord more than anyone else, don't you think?"

"Well, I, uh, suppose so." Fred wasn't sure what this woman was doing there, and she didn't seem to be in a hurry to explain. "Have you had a problem? Need to report a crime?"

"What?" She seemed genuinely puzzled, then her expression cleared and she laughed. "Oh, no, nothing like that! I'm here because I heard that you have a prisoner locked up in the jail."

"Yes, ma'am. I mean sister, we do. A vicious outlaw named Frank McCluskey."

Her blue eyes widened. "Oh, dear. He sounds terrible. But Deputy, we mustn't forget that no matter what Mr. McCluskey has done, he is one of G.o.d's creatures. And as such, he needs the comfort of the Holy Word." She lifted the Bible she held. "I would like to go share that comfort with him."

Fred stared at her for a second, then emphatically shook his head. "No, ma'am. I'm sorry, but the marshal would skin me alive if I ever let a lady like you into the cell with an outlaw! I know you're just tryin' to help, but I can't do it."

"Goodness gracious. I don't want to actually go into the cell with him." A little shudder went through Delia. "If I could just go into the cell block, so that I can speak to the man through the bars, that would be sufficient for me to follow my calling and do my sacred duty."

"Well, I don't know . . ."

"You'd be right there with me, of course. To protect me."

Fred liked the sound of that. Something about the woman made him want to protect her. Still, he was a little leery about taking her into the cell block to preach to McCluskey. For one thing, he didn't think it would do a blasted bit of good. He had never seen or heard of a truly repentant outlaw, unless maybe it was one who was walking up the thirteen steps to a gallows to keep an appointment with the hangman.

"Tell you what," he suggested. "Marshal Hatfield will be stopping by here later when he makes his evening rounds. If you'd like to wait, you could ask him about it. If he says it's all right for you to talk to the prisoner, then it's fine with me."

"Well, how long will that be?"

Fred scratched his head. "Hard to say for sure. An hour or so, I reckon."

"I'd really hate to wait that long, Deputy. None of us know for certain how long we have left in this world. No one knows the day and the hour of the last trumpet. Why, if the Lord were to return in the next hour, poor Mr. McCluskey would be lost in a state of sin, when salvation awaits him right here." She patted one hand against the Bible's black leather binding and gave Fred a soulful look.

He felt himself weakening. He was pretty sure that Bob would be fine with what Sister Delia wanted. It wouldn't hurt anything to let her talk to McCluskey for a few minutes. Anyway, Consuela would be there soon with the prisoner's supper, and he could use that as an excuse to shoo the pretty little missionary gal out.

"All right," Fred said reluctantly. He was acting against his own better judgment and hoped it wouldn't come back to cause him trouble. "But I warn you, you may be able to stay for only a few minutes."

"That's all right," Delia said, warming the room with her smile. "A few minutes is all I need."

Fred took the ring of keys down, unlocked the cell block door, and swung it open. As Delia started forward eagerly, he held up a hand to stop her. "Better let me go first. Just to make sure McCluskey's not doin' anything that might, uh, be improper for a young lady to see."

"Why, you're so kind and thoughtful to look out for me like that, Deputy Ordway."

"You might as well call me Fred."

"I'd be delighted to . . . Fred."

Feeling better about his decision, the deputy put his hand on the b.u.t.t of his gun and stepped into the cell block. A lantern hung at the end of the short corridor between the cells, and its glow revealed McCluskey still stretched out on the bunk. He wasn't doing anything except lying there.

"Get up, McCluskey, you've got a vis-"

The unexpected feeling of a ring of cold metal pressed to the back of his neck made him stop short in what he was saying. He started to turn, but the object prodded him harder and a voice he barely recognized as belonging to Sister Delia said, "That's a gun muzzle. Stand still, you d.a.m.n fool, or I'll kill you."

While Fred stood there frozen and shocked beyond belief, McCluskey swung his legs off the bunk and stood up quickly. He practically lunged at the cell door and wrapped his hands around the bars. "Delia!" he exclaimed. "Is that you?"

"Of course it is, Frank. You didn't really think I'd let you rot in jail, did you?"

McCluskey threw back his head and laughed. "Gal, you're just full of surprises. Get me out of here!"

"In a minute. I want to make sure this fat boy doesn't get even more stupid and try anything."

Fred felt her lifting his revolver from its holster. He felt sick to his stomach, not only because he knew how upset and disappointed Bob would be that he'd let a prisoner escape, but also because he was disgusted with himself for letting a pretty face and a honeyed voice fool him so easily. He knew that if he allowed Delia to take his gun, he'd have no chance at all of stopping this.

He felt the gun at the back of his neck waver and realized it was probably the only opportunity he'd have. He jerked away, twisting around, and flung out his arm toward the phony missionary. He made a grab for his gun and tried to knock her aside at the same time.

The little pistol in her hand cracked. Fred felt a line of fire rake across the side of his neck and knew the bullet had grazed him. He got hold of his Colt and tried to wrench it out of her grip, but he fumbled and the gun slipped away from both of them. It thudded to the floor at their feet.

"Frank!" Delia cried as she kicked the revolver and it slid toward McCluskey. Panic bloomed inside Fred as he saw the outlaw bend over, reach through the bars, and scoop up the Colt.

McCluskey came up shooting, flame spouting from the barrel of the gun.