Bounty Hunter

Chapter 21

Tone walked along Pacific Street with Sprague. The drift of the swarming crowd was toward the saloons, dance halls, opium dens and brothels, and nobody except the bold-eyed whores gave either man a second glance as they passed.

A sense of wrongness at what he was doing gnawed at John Tone.

He had hunted and shot down men in the past and the right or wrong of it had never troubled him. By the very nature of their profession, outlaws were destined to be shot, hanged or imprisoned and all Tone did was hasten their inevitable end.

But a bomb is an indiscriminate killer and a coward’s weapon, the choice of a man with no real bottom to him. For the first time, Tone realized that Sprague, despite all his piratical bluster and belligerence, was such a man.

“Stay near me, Mr. Tone,” Sprague said. “We’re real close.” The man thumbed a match into flame, touched flame to the fuse.

“Listen, I—”

The crash of the fizzing bomb shattering the window of the Bucket of Blood drowned out Tone’s voice.

“Keep walking,” Sprague said urgently, without turning. “Don’t run.”

Behind them, women’s screams. The hoarse curses of frightened men. The sound of pounding feet. A man yelling, “Out! Out!”

An instant later the saloon exploded with a noise like thunder.

A brilliant billow of scarlet and yellow flame erupted through the collapsing wall at the front of the saloon, then the entire second story and higher turret rooms rose twenty feet in the air, only to crash down again into a boiling cauldron of fire.

A man ran screaming into the street, ablaze from head to toe, and collapsed on the cobbles, tinting those around him with crimson light. The screams and shrieks of people burning to death in mortal agony filled the night and a thick column of smoke rose into the red-stained sky.

Walking briskly, Sprague turned and grinned at Tone. “Damn my eyes, but that was even better than I expected. Did you see the whole goddamned roof of the building go sky high?” He made an upward gesture with his hands. “Boom!”

Somewhere behind them bells clanged as fire engines drawn by galloping horses raced to the conflagration.

“That will bring Joe Carpenter out of hiding,” Sprague said. “After this night’s work he’ll come looking for me.”

Purposely leaving off the “Mister,” Tone said, “Sprague, how many people did you kill tonight to flush a rat out of its hole?”

Now Sprague stopped. He and Tone stood in shadow and alone, the crowds attracted by the spectacle of death and fire.

“What the hell does it matter?” Sprague demanded. “So I killed a few whores, pimps and drunks. Who will miss them?”

“You may have killed hundreds.”

Sprague shook his head. “I should have brought Jim Hunter with me. He was right—you don’t have the guts for this kind of work.”

“You’re right,” Tone said. “I don’t. I’m quitting you as of this moment.”

“You can’t quit me, Tone. You swore an oath, and it’s binding until I say it’s not.”

Before he walked away, Tone grabbed the man by the front of his coat and pulled him closer. “Sprague,” he said, “stick your oath up your ass.”

“You’re a marked man, Tone, and I doubt that I can save you.”

Sergeant Thomas Langford sat at his kitchen table, dressed in his uniform pants, a collarless white shirt and bedroom slippers.

“And thanks for getting me up so early,” he said. “I reckon I’ve had about three hours’ sleep.”

“Sorry,” Tone said. “But I thought you should know.”

“How did you find me?”

“I wandered the streets until I found the cop that brought me here.”

“His name is Owen Bream and later he and I will have words about him allowing you to disturb my beauty sleep.”

Langford poured coffee for himself and Tone. “Will you testify in a court of law that you saw Lambert Sprague throw the bomb?”

“Yes, I will.”

“He’ll have a dozen witnesses who will say he didn’t. Each of them will swear on a stack of Bibles that he spent the night at home, planning charitable works.”

“How many people died in that explosion?” Tone asked.

“And in the resulting fire? At last count there were eighty-three dead, about twice that many injured and a third of those are burned too badly to survive.”

“Sprague’s as guilty as hell. Did you speak to him last night?”

“That I did. He was sitting down to dinner with his new lady friend and she swore he’d been home all night. So did several others.”

“You didn’t believe her?”

“It doesn’t matter. Suspecting a thing and proving it are different matters.”

“You always have the sinking of the Benton to hang over his head.”

“Yes, there’s that. Piracy on the high seas is a hanging offense, and sure, I could make things uncomfortable for him. But no one saw him attack that ship, and proving a charge of piracy could be difficult. I know it and, unfortunately, so do Sprague and his lawyer.”

Langford rose and took a wooden canister from a shelf. He opened the lid and asked, “Cigar?”

Tone accepted gratefully. “I haven’t had one in quite a spell,” he said.

“Tell me about yourself, Tone,” the sergeant said. “Specifically, tell me why you hated Joe Carpenter.”

Tone was surprised. “Who told you that?”

“Sprague and what’s-her-name, Miss Christian. They told me that you’d fallen in love with a whore who works at the Bucket of Blood, or did, and that Carpenter stole her away from you. When you began to vow revenge, Sprague said he kicked you out of his house. He says you’d talked about bombing the place.”

Langford puffed luxuriously on his cigar. “Did you throw a bomb through Joe Carpenter’s window last night?”

“Sprague and Chastity Christian are lying,” Tone answered angrily. “I’ve never even met Joe Carpenter or a whore who worked for him.”

The cop let that go and said, “You were born and raised in Ireland, haven’t done a day’s hard work since and have lived high on the hog up until recently. Way back, maybe in the old country, someone you loved died, your mother maybe or a sweetheart. And you’ve killed men, in Ireland and here. Am I correct so far?”

“How did you know—”

“I didn’t. It’s what you call police work. You’ve lost a lot of your brogue, but it surfaces now and then, especially when you’re angry. You don’t have the hands of a workingman and you had an expensive manicure fairly recently, so you haven’t been hurting for money. No matter how you try to hide it, there’s a hurt in your eyes that has been there for a long time. I’d say caused by the loss of a girl who was close to you. But there’s also a coldness that I’ve seen only once before, maybe ten years ago when I spoke with a man named John Wesley Hardin down Texas way at Huntsville Prison. He had a killer’s eyes.”

“I’ve heard of Hardin,” Tone said. “I’m nothing like him.”

Langford did not respond, and Tone said, “I’m a bounty hunter and none of the men I’ve killed have come back to haunt my dreams.”

The cop nodded. “In my line of work, I’ve learned to fasten the dead to the earth. I don’t search for them in my sleep either.”

He poured himself coffee and motioned with the pot. Tone nodded and Langford refilled his cup.

“Was I right? Did you kill a man in Ireland and have to leave in a hurry?” he asked. “Your sweetheart’s husband, maybe?”

“British soldiers.”

“Ah, it was the Troubles then?”

Tone nodded.

“And the girl?”

“Her name was Molly and she’s dead.” Tone tried his coffee. “I used to sing, but I don’t anymore. Not since she was killed.” He let out a cloud of smoke and spoke behind a shifting blue veil. “I’ve wasted my time coming here, haven’t I?”

“I don’t think you threw the bomb, Tone.”

“But my eyewitness testimony that Sprague did it won’t stand up in court?”

“Not a chance. Every man on the jury will believe a sweet young thing with a name like Chastity Christian over a bounty hunter with death in his eyes.”

Langford relit his cold cigar, taking his time. “Where will you go?” he asked finally.

“Back to Reno, pick up my life.”

“What about Sprague?”

“The hell with Sprague. He’ll no longer be my concern.”

“Men like Lambert Sprague are everyone’s concern.”

“Yeah, but we can’t touch them, Langford. They’ve got too much money and power.”

“There’s another way—a long shot certainly, but you might want to consider it.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Wear a blue suit.”

“Huh? I’m not catching your drift.”

“Join me, Tone. Become one of San Francisco’s finest.” Tone laughed out loud. “Me, a copper? That’ll be the day.”

“You’re a bounty hunter. It’s close.” Langford leaned forward on the table. “I’m good with a knife and you are a gunfighter. Between us both we can clean up the waterfront and get rid of Sprague and his kind once and for all.”

Tone looked at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“Langford, how long does it take to become a cop? Weeks, I imagine.”

“We can scrub around that. Especially when I tell them you’ve volunteered for waterfront duty. Trust me, you’ll be one of us in a day or two.”

Tone was still amused. “Hell, I’m a big enough target now. Wait until I’m walking up and down Pacific Street in a policeman suit. Every two-bit bushwhacker along the Barbary Coast will be gunning for me.”

Langford considered that, then said, “Do you think you’ll be safer in Nevada?”

“I’d be fighting on my home ground.”

The cop shook his head wearily. “Tone, Sprague won’t brace you out where the buffalo roam. His weapons are the bomb, the knife and the garrote and you won’t see him coming.”

For a few moments the cop was silent. Then he said, “When you signed on with Sprague, did he make you take an oath, an old-time pirate oath?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Then you’ve broken your vow, and he won’t rest until you’re dead. Sprague’s tentacles reach far, and there’s nowhere in the entire world that’s safe for you any longer. You’re also the only man who will swear in court that you saw him throw the bomb. For that reason alone, he can’t let you live.”

Tone opened his mouth to speak, but Langford held up a silencing hand. “Here’s how it will happen: One day a man, or a woman, will leave an envelope for you at the front desk of your fancy hotel in Reno. You’ll open it, and all it will contain will be a skull and crossbones drawn on a page torn from the Bible you held when you made your oath.” The man shrugged. “After that, measure your life in hours.”

“You trying to scare me into that blue suit, Langford?”

“No, but I’m telling you how it will be. No matter how you cut it, hard times are coming down, Tone.”