The Good, the Bad, and the Dead Page 8

  "A crook and a murderer," Yale answered. "Un criminal" He pulled back his gray duster to reveal not only his holstered Peacemaker, but also the tin star-in-a-circle under his lapel-and the words Deputy Marshal inscribed upon it.

  Yale felt the tension grow. US Marshals were never popular in the Great Maze, especially with Mexicans, who rarely recognized their authority.

  "y£s Diego Cruz en el f&retro!' the kid announced to the angry crowd.

  "Okay, get out of the way! No way that's Diego Cruz." The unmistakably gringo voice cut through the crowd and the Mexicans parted a second later, revealing a large chestnut Quarter Horse. The rider was slightly older than Yale's 30-odd years, and wore a simple leather jacket and chaps, with a Stetson over his head. The Loomis shotgun he was holding on Yale was likewise simple and strong.

  "The Rockies' boat ain't due for another three days, Marshal. What's your business?" The tone was almost friendly, but the Loomis never wavered.

  "There's a warrant out for a robber who killed a girl in these parts." Yale pointed back to the pine box. "Well, I got him."

  The rider broke into a loud laugh. "In that case, welcome to Howling Bluff. I'm Tom MacPherson, the sheriff in this county, but everyone just calls me Mac." He slipped the gun into a long pommel holster and tipped his hat.

  "Deputy Judah Yale," he said, returning the gesture. "Now, that warrant mentioned a reward-"

  "Ha! You don't waste any time. Let's go to my office and we'll sort this out." He turned his horse around toward the remnants of the crowd who were standing on the rickety porch of Piedra Negra, clearly the local tequila joint. "Manuel, 'Dalgo. Get that box over to the prison."

  Manuel, the Mexican who had challenged Yale, moved toward the casket slowly and silently. Hidalgo, his kid sidekick, couldn't hold his tongue, and muttered his suspicions: "Aun asi pienso que es Diego, Manuel."

  "Listen up!" Mac bellowed. "That's Cyrus Amlin, the snake who killed Miss Sadie, not your precious Diego Cruz. Now, pick him the Hell up."

  The two Mexicans lifted the box and moved up what passed for a main street. Howling Bluff was like countless other Maze towns, two rows of buildings perched on the edge of a large mesa. Besides the Mexican saloon and the sheriff's office, Yale saw a half-dozen other buildings, including a general store, the Greyhill Mines Office, a two-story hotel, and another bar, this time with the very un-Mexican name of Duke's. Maybe a half-mile north of town, up on a rise, Yale could see the silhouette of a home. Even from a distance, it was clearly a large manor better suited to the richer parts of Lost Angels than to a dusty mining town.

  The two Mexicans put the casket down in front of the Sheriff's Office, and headed back toward Piedra Negra.

  "So who's Diego Cruz?" Yale asked once the Mexicans were inside the bar.

  "Just a Mex troublemaker. He talked big, but blew out of here last month. His compadres still think he's coming back." Mac pointed north. "We'll head up to the big house to settle that reward and—"

  Mac was cut off by the pathetic scream and thump of a man being forcibly ejected from the Mexican tequila-house. Looking down the street, the lawmen could see a small white man in a pile and several angry Mexicans coming out onto the porch.

  Mac got off his horse and pulled a big Colt Walker pistol from his saddle's right pommel holster, opposite the larger left-hand one holding the scattergun. With Yale right behind him, he walked down the street. The Mexican Manuel was yelling at a weak little man whose spectacles hung limply off one ear.

  "iPinche bueyf the Mexican spat. "You rob us for the old man and laugh in our faces! I'll shut you up, cabronf Mac stepped between the small mob and the smaller man.

  "Mac, thank goodness," the little gringo said, his voice slurred from drink and blows to the head. "These-"

  "Shut up, Jenson. You need to learn to drink with your own kind." Mac stared Manuel in the eyes, but addressed the whole crowd. "Back inside, nifios. Now."

  They all stood there and stewed for a second, and Yale noted that Manuel's fist was clenched tightly. He surveyed the rest of the crowd, trying to see where violence might come from. Mac was paying too much attention to the leader Manuel; he wasn't watching the others. There was the kid Hidalgo, waiting for his cue, and behind him a bunch of other miners, including a big man hanging back near the door-Yale saw the knife glint and drew.

  "Drop it!" Yale's Civilian Peacemaker came up quickly and smoothly and although it was smaller than Mac's big gun, it packed as much punch at this range. The rest of the crowd parted, but the man at the door holding the knife hesitated and Yale thought he might have to shoot. The Mexican was well over six feet and more than half as wide.

  "Joe Sierra," Mac announced as he walked up to the big man. "You draw a knife on me?"

  The large hunting knife fell to the ground.

  "Too late, Joe." Mac's hand tightened on his pistol, and he brought it around in a massive blow, buffaloing the big man on the side of the head. Iron on flesh made a hard smack and Joe Sierra fell to the ground, confusion and concussion playing out on his features.

  Mac put his big boot on the Mexican's knee; one swift movement and the joint would pop and break. He turned to look at Manuel. "Y'all done whining? Your amigo Diego couldn't stop and he left here with a permanent limp; Joe here can join him. The Rockies'll be here in a few days and then you'll get your pay. Till then keep your goddamn asses in line." He put weight on Sierra's knee and the big man cried out. "Comprende?'

  Yale saw rage and resignation both trying to stake a claim on Manuel's leathery face. Resignation won. "Stjefe."

  The crowd trickled back into the bar. Mac released Sierra, and walked back up Main Street. Yale holstered his Peacemaker and followed.

  The two men didn't speak again until they got to the manor north of town. A large porch ran all the way around the first floor, with short steps on the front and the right wing. The other two stories rose sharply, drawn curtains hiding the * interiors. Behind the home in the distance, wisps of green-black smoke wafted into the sky.

  "Those from the mines?" Yale asked.

  "Yup. We got two camps running north of here." Mac made for the door. Yale followed.

  A plump maid greeted them at the door and Mac walked right past her. "Tell Nate I'm here about the reward for Cyrus Amlin, Mary." When she didn't move and instead stared at Yale, Mac's voice gained some decibels. "Go on, woman!"

  They waited in a salon. Yale stood in one corner, near a cabinet filled with books on mining, while Mac paced.

  "I hate that woman," the Sheriff said. "She's always in the way."

  Soon enough, Mary returned and showed them upstairs. Paintings hung along the walls, a large grandfather clock kept time in the hall, and Yale's boots left dusty stains on the rich carpet. Mary opened the heavy wooden door at the end of the main hall and let them into the office.

  The large square room reeked of wealth. From the main door, the walls spread with rows of fine books bound in different leathers. To Yale's right the rows of literature made space for a huge painting of a beautiful young woman in a flowing cream-colored dress. To his left the books made it to the far wall uninterrupted, save for a discreet door along the side wall and the large metallic block of a safe in the far corner. The back wall was dominated by bay windows, providing a view of the town, and by the large oak desk in front of them. Gold pen quills, a paperweight of black ghost rock, and an ornate oil lamp shared space on the desk. Everything was in deep tones of red and brown, with only the bright green rug out of place. That and the thin, ashen man perched behind the desk like a vulture.

  "Sheriff," he said in a Scottish whisper, "is this the man?"

  "This is Deputy US Marshal Yale. He took care of Amlin." Mac sat in one of the plush chairs in front of the desk. He cocked his hat back and said, "Deputy, this is Nathaniel Greyhill, the girl's father."

  "Deputy," said Greyhill, "I am forever in your debt."

  Yale took the other seat and pointed toward the painting on the wall. "Is that your
daughter, sir?"

  "Oh, no. That is my dear, departed wife Vivian. She died of fever when Sadie was only twelve, while we were living in Lost Angels."

  "Sorry to hear it."

  "My Sadie had Vivian's beauty; they were very similar. In fact, when I brought her to Lost Angels last spring, she made quite an impression at the Miner's Association Ball, wearing her mother's gowns and jewelry." Greyhill pointed a bony finger at the painting. "That very ring was her favorite."

  Yale glanced up and noticed a silver ring on the woman's left hand, next to her wedding band. A bright blue blotch of paint stood for a stone.

  "May I ask you, Deputy, just how you apprehended this killer?"

  "Pretty simple, really. I found him in a Lynchburg brothel. He tried to draw and I drew faster. Most crooks end up in Lynchburg."

  "To think that my darling Sadie, a girl of nineteen who loved learning so much, was gunned down by such a misanthrope..." Greyhill's voice trailed off in recollection.

  "The federal warrant says Amlin killed your daughter and robbed the mines office. It spent more time talking about him taking a mail bag than about your daughter."

  "Yes, that he stole that bag of mail seems fortuitous in retrospect. Without that act, I could never have gotten the territorial governor to issue a warrant."

  "Was your daughter in the mines office when it was robbed?"

  "No." Greyhill seemed to age as he spoke. "That man also tried to rob my home. He was in here when Sadie found him, I suppose trying to get into the safe, and he shot her. He let her bleed to death across my floor."

  "Did anyone see him?"

  "I heard the shot from my bedroom and ran here immediately. I arrived in time to see him slip out of the window and run across the porch awning. The maid got here a moment later and tried to help me with Sadie, but..."

  "You done asking questions?" Mac shifted in his chair. "The man lost his daughter; let's just settle that reward."

  "Yes," Greyhill said, "the reward. I will write you a bond for the five-hundred dollars I offered." He pulled out a large paper printed with seals and letters of Greyhill Mines and began to scrawl. "Oh, let's make it six hundred, shall we? You may exchange this for cash at the mines office or at any branch of the Rock Miner's Association in California."

  Yale took the bond and Mac was already getting up. The sun was setting by the time they got outside and the crimson light revealed flaws that hadn't been evident before. Shingles on the main roof and the covering of the first floor porch needed repair and cracks ran up several exterior beams. Greyhill looked down from his office window.

  The lawmen strolled back into town and Yale checked into the Claim House Hotel. He took a room facing an alley, telling the clerk he'd be staying for a few days—at least until the next boat arrived. He threw his bag on the room's creaky bed, sat in a wooden chair and waited.

  Cyrus Amlin would be arriving soon.

  Chapter Two "I thought I'd never get outta that box." Amlin's tone was jovial, even though his heart had stopped beating and much of his face had putrefied. Like everyone else in the Maze, Yale had heard rumors of the walking dead-he'd just never created one before.

  "I heard the Sheriff saying he wants to display me in the morning," Amlin continued. "Way I figure it, that's good for us, partner. I'll be able to watch people watching me and still move around at night."

  "Let's get something straight, Amlin: We're not partners."

  "Well, Marshal, I'm not sure I agree." Amlin walked right up to Yale. The smell crawled down the Marshal's throat and started working on his guts. Amlin pulled open his shirt to reveal the blood-caked holes through his chest. "You shot me down for a crime I didn't commit. You owe me."

  Yale had to fight to look away from the unmoving internal organs exposed by gunshots and decomposition. "You were a thief and a cheat, Amlin. I did this world a favor by taking you out of it."

  "But I ain't no killer! I never even met this Sadie Greyhill gal. I fought my way out of Hell-Goddamn capital-H Hell-to prove it, and you're going to help me, or you'll never be rid of me. Ain't you at all concerned about justice?"

  "In the Maze? Out here," Yale said, raising his Peacemaker for effect, "only justice you get is from Judge Sam Colt and his jury of six."

  Yale walked to the window to put some distance between his nose and Amlin. "I don't like being played for a fool, though, so if someone here set me up to kill you, I wanna know it. But first, what's up with this Diego Cruz?"

  "Who knows? When I was here, he spent a lot of time at Piedra talking to the miners. I heard some Mexicans say he was gonna make 'em all rich. I'm a Virginia boy myself, so I don't think I was part of their plans."

  "Come here." Yale pointed down to the street visible from his window. The bespectacled man Mac had saved from a beating in the Mexican saloon was weaving down the street away from Duke's. Apparently he had learned to drink with his own, after all. "Who's that?"

  Amlin exposed his rotten teeth in an evil smile. "That is Mister Francis Jenson, drunk as a fiddler's bitch. He's the accountant or something for Greyhill Mines. When I robbed the mines office, he was shaking in his boots. He's gotta know something."

  Amlin moved toward the balcony. "Another scare will do him good."

  Or maybe loosen his lips, thought Yale.

  ***

  The next morning, Yale decided to get the lay of the land and paid the local stable-hand to take out a Pinto mare. Riding north, he passed Greyhill Manor and continued toward the plumes of ghost smoke. It took well over an hour to cross the dry mesa at a slow trot.

  The first mining camp featured row upon row of rectangular buildings, like the cheap barracks Yale had lived in during the war, spread along the west edge of the mesa. The camp was swarming with activity. Miners, mostly Mexicans, moved back and forth like ants. Ghost engines screamed as they lowered miners and raised up loads of rock. One building had a set of large scales outside. Men in blue shirts-company men, Yale guessed-were taking down notes as miners weighed their loads.

  It looked like backbreaking work, but the amount of ghost rock coming out of the ground was phenomenal. Nathaniel Greyhill was rich indeed.

  Yale rode on. Looking east, he saw another mining camp spread around a hill that took up the northeastern quarter of the mesa. A deep fissure separated Yale from that hill, and he saw the only bridge a ways north. When he brought his horse closer to the crevice, he could hear the wind running between the high cliffs of the mesa. It sounded like an unholy cross between an owl and a wolf. Howling Bluff indeed.

  By the time Yale got back to town, it was well past noon and his stomach was grumbling like an unhappy bear. After returning his horse, he headed toward Duke's for a hearty meal. He walked by Piedra Negra and the crowd of surly Mexicans gathered there once again. Manuel and Hidalgo, the troublemakers from the day before, were there as well.

  "Pendejo." Yale wasn't sure who spat the insult, but the message was clear. He was the gringo who had helped Jefe Mac beat up Joe Sierra and he'd have few friends among the Mexicans now.

  Duke's was a typical benzinery, just a room with a long bar and a few tables. Two heavy-set miners were wolfing down stew at the bar while the bored tender looked on. And in one corner, Francis Jenson was sitting alone with an unmarked bottle of whiskey.

  "Found a new watering hole, have ya?" Yale slipped into the chair facing the accountant and put down a glass he had swiped from the bar. He poured himself a drink.

  Jenson's beady eyes struggled to focus without the benefit of spectacles. If blood had a caliber, those eyes had been shot with a .45 at least. Amlin must have done quite a number on him. "Who are you, anyway? One of Mac's war buddies?"

  "Nope." Yale pulled back his lapel to reveal the Marshal's star. The whiskey tasted like buffalo sweat; Jenson wanted to get drunk and nothing else. "I brought in Cyrus Amlin and I'm here to collect the reward."

  Jenson grunted and emptied his glass with a trembling hand. "Best of luck."

  The six-hu
ndred dollar bond was in Yale's pocket, but Jenson didn't need to know that. "Yeah, I figured it might not be easy. Your Mexican drinking buddies didn't seem to think Greyhill was paying up either."

  Jenson attempted a derisive laugh, but it came out a drunken slur. "Those idiots. They come here thinking they'll get rich. They move tens of thousands of dollars worth of ghost rock but they see next to nothing. It all goes to Greyhill. It's all his claim, the whole bloody county."

  "So none of these Mexicans are actual prospectors, then."

  "Not a one. They work like dogs in the mines and get paid a few pennies for each pound of rock they dig up."

  "Why'd they keep coming then?"

  "You ever been a miner out in the Maze? They spend years looking for a few nuggets of ghost rock to claim and then get it stolen by pirates. Sure a few get lucky, but most end up poor as dirt and with a recipe book by the Donner Party. And the greasers are even worse-dirt looks down on them. They hear about Howling Bluff and it sounds great. A big huge vein of ghost rock all ready, work for a year or two and you're guaranteed to make some dinero."

  "Sounds good."

  "Sure it does. But no one tells them that they only get paid once a month, when the Rockies send a ship to collect the ghost rock. Or that we keep track of how much we owe them and deduce expenses-like food, sleeping quarters, and everything else. This is Greyhill country, Marshal. You stay at the hotel, you're paying Greyhill Mines. This fine whiskey belongs to Greyhill Mines. Most miners here are lucky if they end up with anything at all."

  "No wonder they don't like him."

  "No one likes him. I count all Greyhill's money and I even taught his precious little girl, and he barely pays me. Greedy bastard."

  The bottle was almost empty and most of it was floating through Jenson. The accountant was slouched in his chair, bags under his eyes and Yale knew he had to get to the point if he wanted the man conscious. "What was Sadie like?"

  "A royal pain. Mac may have thought she was a prize catch, but not me. Her father wanted me to tutor her and I thought, sure, she'll get through a few books and then she'll get bored, right?" He paused and emptied the bottle into his glass. "Wrong. That girl read every bloody book she could get her hands on."