Bounty Hunter

Chapter 7

John Tone sat at the window of his darkened room, staring at the street below, where the white fog twined. Men came and went, their footsteps loud on the cobbles, and from the bar downstairs a piano competed with the drunken roars of men and the high-pitched, false laughter of whores.

“Come back to bed, darlin’,” the woman said. She introduced a practiced little-girl pout into her voice. “Jennie’s getting lonely.”

Tone smiled and said without turning, “It must be a long time since you were lonely in bed.”

“You say cruel things to me, John. Why do you say cruel things?”

“I don’t know. Because you’re a whore. Why do you care?”

“Because I like you, John. You’re not like the other men I meet. You don’t beat me or try to cheat me.”

“You’re Irish, huh?”

“From Donegal. I came over on a British ship. It was terrible, bad food and storms every mile of the way.”

“I knew a girl in Ireland once. Her name was Molly and she had beautiful black hair.”

“Not like mine.”

“No, nothing like yours.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died.”

Tone’s attention went back to the street. It had been a week since he’d taken the oath on Sprague’s ship and since then he hadn’t seen the man, or Penman either.

He’d spent his time exploring the waterfront, realizing just how far he was from his natural element, the wild western lands. Here, along the Barbary Coast, the arroyos were dark, rank alleys, the mountains the high, rickety buildings that rose on all sides of him, and the only streams were the rivers of bad whiskey and rum that flowed in the taverns.

And the sea was always there, making its presence known by sight, sound and smell, as alien to John Tone as the landscapes of the moon.

“What are you thinking about, John?” the woman asked.

“Nothing.”

“You must be thinking about something. Me, maybe?”

“Yes, you. I’m thinking about you.”

“What are you thinking? Do you want to try something new?”

“I’m thinking you’re the gabbiest whore I’ve ever met.”

“See, you’re being cruel again. Why do you never get far from your guns?”

“Because I may need them in a hurry.”

“Why would someone want to kill you, a poor sailorman?”

Tone smiled again and turned. “You ask too many questions.”

The woman was lying on top of the tumbled bed, naked as a seal, the coral tips of her breasts just visible in the darkness. She had a wide, inviting mouth that was smeared with scarlet and her eyes were half shut, languid with awakening desire.

Tone lay beside her and cupped a breast in his hand, caressing the silken skin with the ball of his thumb.

“You like sleeping with me, John, don’t you?”

“Sure I like sleeping with you.”

“Tell me why. Tell me why you like sleeping with me.”

“Because I don’t have to love a whore.”

Tone woke to darkness, all of his senses suddenly alert.

There it was again!

A soft creak on the shoddily built stair outside his room. Then another.

He reached out to the bedside table and picked up the long-barreled Colt. Beside him the woman was breathing softly, lost in dreams.

Tone rose, and on cat feet pulled on his nightshirt, then stepped into the shadows to the left of the window. Outside, the fog was thick and there was little light in the room. Fighting to control his rapid breathing, he raised the Colt and waited.

The door crashed into the room with such force, it was torn from its hinges.

On the bed, the woman shrieked.

Tone saw a bulky body directly in front of him. The man fired into the bed, fired again. The woman screamed louder.

Tone had waited to see how many assailants he was facing. There were two of them.

He fired at the man who’d shot into the bed. He heard a grunt and the huge body turned toward him. The man fired and the bullet crashed into the wall a few inches from Tone’s head. Tone blasted another shot at his assailant and the man staggered back, slamming into his companion. The second would-be assassin made an attempt to get to the doorway, but Tone shot twice, very fast, and the man went right on through, then tumbled down the stairs, slamming and crashing his way to the bottom.

Now Tone moved to his left, aware that he had only one shot left. He heard a groan and through the gloom saw that the man he’d shot was down on his hands and knees, coughing up blood.

“Stay there, you son of a bitch,” Tone said, “or I’ll blow your damned head off.”

He stepped to the bed, ignored the shrieking woman and found a match. He lit the gas lamp above the fireplace and a ghostly, pale blue light spread through the room.

Tone crossed the floor, hooked his bare foot under the wounded man’s chin and raised his face to his own. “Who are you?” he asked.

Blood filled the man’s mouth and his eyes were bright with pain. He tried to speak, but could not.

“Who sent you?” Tone said, anger flaring in him.

“You’re talking to a dead man, Mr. Tone. He can’t speak.”

Looking around, Tone saw Simon Hogg in the doorway. “You blowed his damned liver out,” Hogg said.

“Recognize him?”

Hogg, a big, bearded man with a mottled patch of blue skin on his right cheek where he’d once gotten too close to a firing gun, shook his head. “Never seen him afore, or the one at the bottom of the stairs either.”

“Is he dead?”

“As hell in a parson’s parlor.”

Tone kicked the kneeling man on the side of his head. His assailant fell on his side, coughing up blood. “Look at his feet,” Tone said.

“Texas, by God,” Hogg said.

Tone nodded. “He dressed himself like a sailor, but you can’t get a Texan to give up his boots.”

“Drover?”

“At one time, but look at his hands. This man hasn’t done any punching in years.”

The man on the floor rolled on his back. His breath rattled in his throat and his eyes turned up in his head as he died, a sight that made the woman scream and reach for her clothes.

“I’m getting out of here,” she yelled, jiggling into her dress. “John Tone, you’re not only cruel, you’re crazy.”

She flounced past him and walked out the door, assisted by a grin and a slap on the rump from Hogg. “She’ll be back,” he said. “Jennie Burns has seen worse.”

He looked at Tone. “Do you think he and the other one were sent by the six men who plan to kill the cap’n?”

“I’d bet on it, unless . . .” Tone hesitated. He nodded in the direction of the dead man. “Hogg, are you sure he’s not one of the six?”

“I’m sure. By all accounts they’re dangerous men, but they can afford to have their killing done for them. Besides, that man was way too young to have been in the war.”

“But how could they have known—”

“That you’re Cap’n Sprague’s sworn man?”

“Yes. How would the six men know?”

“Beats me, Mr. Tone. I sure as hell didn’t tell them. I’m a sworn man me ownself.”

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs and a huge man dressed in San Francisco police blue filled the doorway. He looked around him, his icy blue eyes missing nothing. “This your doing, Hogg?” he asked finally.

The innkeeper shook his head. “Not this time, Sergeant Langford. This man and one other attacked Mr. John Tone here, one of my guests.”

“I saw the one other on the landing downstairs. He’d been shot, but it was a broken neck that killed him.” He looked at Tone. “You’ve got some explaining to do, young man.”

As Hogg would tell Tone later, despite his weathered face and iron gray hair, Sergeant Thomas Langford was a police officer to be reckoned with. Like every officer assigned to waterfront duty, he’d been handpicked for his bravery, strength and huge size. He carried the regulation nightstick, heavy revolver and in a large outside breast pocket within easy reach of his hand, a bowie knife with an eight-inch blade.

At one time or another, Langford had used all three of his weapons, but he was an expert with the knife. A year before, after he was attacked by three burglars in a used-clothing store on Pacific Street, he’d drawn his knife and charged the men in the face of their revolver fire. Despite several wounds, Langford had decapitated one, cut the hand off another and sent the third man, badly slashed, screaming into the night.

Now he listened patiently while Tone recounted the attack and his desperate fight for his life.

When Tone was finished, Langford said, “Where is your ship?”

Tone looked helplessly at Hogg, and the man said quickly, “At the moment he’s between ships, Sergeant. Resting on the beach, you might say.”

“Do you always answer for him when he’s asked a question, Hogg?” Langford said.

“Ah, well, he’s a shy lad an’ no mistake. But he’s gold dust, Sergeant Langford, pure gold dust.”

“And if he’s a sailor, I’m the queen of England,” the big officer said. His cool eyes fell on Tone. “A week ago, probably in the late afternoon or the early evening, three men were shot to death down by the Pacific Street docks. Would you know anything about that?”

“He’s been here in his room the whole week, Sergeant, quietly a-reading his Bible an’ thinking pious thoughts, God bless him,” Hogg said, smiling at Tone like a pleased parent.

“You do answer his questions for him, don’t you?” Langford looked at Tone again. “Do you know anything about that?”

Tone caught Hogg’s imperceptible shake of his head. He shrugged. “Not a thing, Sergeant.”

“The man who killed those men knew how to use a gun exceptionally well,” Langford said. “I’ve been a police officer for a long time, Mr. Tone, and to me, you look like a man who can use a gun exceptionally well.”

“I get by,” Tone said.

“Uh-huh,” the big cop said. He lifted his nose and sniffed. “You’ve had a woman in here. Was she reading the Bible with you?”

“Instruction,” Hogg said quickly. “Mr. Tone was instructing a poor fallen woman, as you so rightly observed, on the Christian virtues.”

“Hogg,” Langford said, “don’t answer another question for Mr. Tone.” His face hardened. “Not one.” And to Tone: “Is that right? You were instructing a whore on the finer points of Christianity?”

Tone’s expression did not change. “I was instructing her, yes.”

Langford looked around the room. “Where’s your Bible?”

“The poor soul took it with her,” Hogg said. “She was that grateful, like.”

Hogg saw Langford’s scowl and said quickly, “Beggin’ the sergeant’s pardon, but I’m just so happy when I see a sinner return to the good Lord.”

“Then maybe you should practice what you preach, Hogg,” the cop said. He got down on one knee, then looked up at the two other men. “Did either of you search him for identification?”

“Not us,” Hogg said.

Langford went through the dead man’s pockets and then hefted five double eagles in the palm of his hand. “Nothing, except this. Same for the one downstairs.” He rose to his feet. “I’m confiscating the money as evidence. I’ll send someone to pick up the bodies.”

“Please do, Sergeant,” Hogg said. “Bless ye, it’s bad for business, having stiffs lying around all over the place.”

“You should know, Hogg,” Langford said. “We’ve carried enough of them out of this dive. As I recall, at least one with your knife between his ribs.”

“Ah yes, all unfortunate circumstances, Sergeant, and no mistake.”

“Mr. Tone, it would be another unfortunate circumstance and a big mistake if you should try to leave San Francisco. We have more talking to do, you and me.” His eyes bored into Tone’s. “And I do plan to find out who John Tone is, what he does and where he comes from.”

“He’s just a poor sailorman, to be sure,” Hogg said, smiling.

“That’s the one thing I know he isn’t,” Langford said. “I have the feeling in my gut that he’s one of Lambert Sprague’s sworn men. I also have a suspicion that a war is brewing along the waterfront, and I don’t intend to let that happen. I may have to break some heads before all this is done.”

For that, Hogg had no answer.