Bounty Hunter

Chapter 22

John Tone sat and considered his options. They were few.

He could head back to Reno, relax for a couple of days, then check through the latest reward dodgers. He could pick up the threads of his life again.

Sprague knew nothing of purple mountains, high mesas, thin-flowing streams and prairie lands that went on and on until grass and sky became one.

The man was a blue-water sailor, a sea-fighter, and Tone could lead him a merry chase.

Unless . . . he’d thought about relaxing for a couple of days, dining well, sleeping with a willing woman again. But suppose the skull and crossbones was delivered during those days? A small sigh escaped his lips. From now on there could be no relaxing. He would have to be on guard at all times, constantly checking his back trail, whether riding out on the long grass or walking down a city street. Until Sprague was dead, he would have no peace.

It was not a way for any man to live.

“The blue suit?” Langford probed, sensing the younger man’s troubled thoughts.

Tone smiled. “I shouldn’t even consider it, but here I am, like a fool, giving it some serious thought. I don’t much like the alternative, hearing a rustle in every bush and wondering if it’s Sprague.” His smile faded. “Although I could always go back to Ireland and fight the British.”

“You have a war to fight right here, Tone,” Langford said.

Tone poured himself more coffee. “Let me think about it for a couple of days.”

“Do you have a place to live?”

“As of right now, no.”

“You can bunk in my spare room. It isn’t fancy, but for a hunted man it’s the safest berth in San Francisco.” Langford stretched and yawned. “I’m going back to bed for a couple of hours. I’ll show you the room and you can make yourself to home.”

The room was sparsely furnished: an iron cot, a couple chairs and a closet for clothes.

Before he left, Langford looked Tone up and down and said, “I’d say six-four, two hundred and fifty pounds. Right?”

“Close enough.”

“Then I’ll see you later.”

The sergeant closed the door behind him, and suddenly Tone realized he was deathly tired. He pulled off his shoes and hung his guns on a chair. Then he lay on the bed and within minutes was asleep.

He dreamed of screaming people . . . with their hair on fire. . . .

“Wake up, Tone! Wake up, man, you’re having a bad dream!”

His eyes fluttering open, Tone saw Langford standing over him, his face concerned. “Wha-what time is it?” he asked.

“Almost four thirty. I leave for work in an hour.”

Tone sat up in bed. “Sorry. I was dreaming.”

“I just said you were and that’s why I woke you.” The big cop shook his iron gray head. “You were back at the Bucket of Blood, watching people die.”

“They were on fire. . . . All of them. The women’s hair . . .” Tone smiled slightly. “I don’t always call out in my sleep.”

“Good,” Langford said, returning the younger man’s smile. “I can’t abide a noisy houseguest.”

Tone swung his legs off the bed and looked at the sergeant. “Let me walk with you tonight. What do you call it? Doing your rounds?”

“It could be dangerous. You’re a marked man, Tone.”

“Hell, Langford, so are you.”

“The uniform gives me some protection.”

“Not from Sprague. If you push him too hard, he’ll try to kill you.”

“Tougher men than Lambert Sprague have tried that before. They’re dead and I’m still here.” Langford looked hard at Tone. “All right, but shave and clean up. I won’t have a scruffy-looking man patrolling with me.”

Tone rubbed his hand over his stubbled cheeks. “I don’t have a razor. Recently I seem to be making a habit of losing my luggage.”

“Use mine, then join me in the kitchen. I’ve got supper ready.”

When Tone sat at the table, Langford looked him over. “You’ll do,” he said. “But the mustache needs a trim. Let me see your fingernails.”

Tone did as he was told, spreading his fingers out on the table. “Good. I can’t abide an officer . . . man . . . with dirty nails. Let’s eat.”

Langford ladled beef stew onto Tone’s plate, then pushed a plate of San Francisco’s famous sourdough French bread in front of him.

“The bread was first baked during the Gold Rush,” he said. “Now the city ships sourdough starter all over the country. You’ve probably eaten bread in Reno that was made from it.”

“Maybe. But it wasn’t near as good as this. You bake it yourself?”

“Hell, no. I buy it from a baker. I can cook bacon and eggs, beef stew and coffee. That’s the limit of my culinary skills.”

“But you have a fine taste in cigars. I guess that makes up for it.”

“Hell, I don’t buy expensive cigars. When I’m running low I confiscate a few boxes from the waterfront saloons, on suspicion of smuggling, you understand. Sprague’s dives stock the very best brands and his bartenders have taken to hiding them when they see me coming.” Langford smiled. “Sometimes they need a little persuading to part with the odd box or two.”

Tone was hungry, the food was good, and despite his dreams the sleep had refreshed him. He laughed and it felt good.

Langford was not a man to linger over a meal. He ate quickly and encouraged Tone to do the same. When Tone pushed his plate away and finally declared himself satisfied, the sergeant poured them both coffee and offered cigars.

“I don’t feel so bad about smoking these,” Tone said, “now I know how you come by them.”

Langford winked. “There’s a little larceny in all of us.”

He looked at Tone, taking his measure. Then he said, “Bring your guns, but when we’re out on the street, follow my lead. If there’s shooting to be done, I’ll tell you when to make a play. Understand?”

Tone nodded. “You’re the boss.” He studied the glowing tip of his cigar and without looking up said, “You think we’ll run into Sprague’s men tonight, don’t you?”

The cop shrugged. “He wants you dead. It’s possible.”

Now Tone looked at the man. “No, you think it’s probable.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Tone. Let’s not sit here and build houses on it.”

Tone drained his coffee cup, then said, “I want to kill Lambert Sprague real bad.”

Langford smiled. “Oddly enough, so do I.”

“But you won’t.”

“When I gather enough evidence on him—and I will—I’ll arrest him and I’ll see him hang.”

Tone was silent and the cop said, “I really don’t want to know what you’re thinking, but I’ll ask it anyway: What the hell are you thinking?”

“I’ve decided to kill Sprague, first chance I get. It’s him or me.” He smiled. “Hey, did you see that?”

“See what?”

“My policeman’s suit just flew out the window.”