Bounty Hunter

Chapter 30

Between them, Tone and Langford carried the blanket-wrapped Evans into the street. The man was small and light, but their way down Rincon Hill was slowed by the steepness of the grade and the slick sidewalk underfoot.

A light drizzle was falling and the sky was as black as ink. Lightning throbbed in the clouds to the north and a rising wind tossed the tree branches, throwing sudden cascades of rain against the three men.

Evans’ head rolled and he groaned deep in his throat and Langford was alarmed. He glared at the man in his arms and growled, “I swear, if you die on me, I’ll kill you.”

He turned his head and looked at Tone. “Do you remember any of that stuff the nun told us about his care and feeding?”

Tone shook his head. “I wasn’t listening. I thought you were.”

“Hell no, I didn’t pay any heed to that stuff.” Langford was quiet for a while, then said, “We’ll feed him plenty of beef stew, whiskey and cigars. That’s good food for a sick man.”

“I recollect that the sister said something about chicken broth, soft-boiled eggs and custard,” Tone said, smiling, knowing what the big cop’s reaction would be.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“Damn your eyes, Tone, we don’t have any of that shit!” Langford roared. “He’ll eat what we eat.”

“Great, then your vittles will kill him quicker’n scat.”

Growling under his breath, Langford retreated into a sulky silence and didn’t speak again until they flagged down a cab and had Evans safely wedged between them.

“So far, so good,” the sergeant said. He glared at Evans. “Just don’t die on me, you son of a bitch.”

Evans opened his mouth and his breath smelled like death. “Where are you taking me?” he asked weakly.

“To my house,” Langford said. “You’ll be safe there.”

The little seaman managed to raise his head. “Who wants me dead?”

“The men who sank your ship,” the sergeant answered. “Now, don’t talk and waste what little strength you have left.”

Evans turned pleading eyes to Tone. “The pirates are trying to kill me?”

Tone nodded. “I reckon so, Bandy. You’re fast running out of room on the dance floor and we’re the only chance you’ve got.”

“But . . . but how did they know?”

Langford laughed. “Hell, man, by this time the whole damned Barbary Coast knows. You were picked up by whalers and like seafaring men everywhere, after they get a few grogs down ’em they talk.”

Still smiling cheerfully, he dug an elbow into Evans’ side. “Bandy, you’re a good man who can put the hemp around the neck of a blackhearted pirate rogue by the name of Captain Lambert Sprague, hell curse him. He’ll try to rub you out for sure.”

Evans was in a panic, his face ashen. “I know nothing! I didn’t see nothing!”

“Too late, Bandy,” the big cop said. “Now just relax and enjoy the drive. You’re safe and sound with us.” He beamed, put his huge arm around the little sailor’s quaking shoulders and hugged him close. “Safe as the snuffbox in your granny’s apron, my lad.”

Three minutes later, as the cab turned into California Street and the rain began in hammering earnest, the horse was shot down in its traces.

The dying Morgan rolled, kicking, to its right and tipped the cab violently over on its side. The driver was sent sprawling into the street and Tone, Langford and Evans were thrown together in a tangle of arms, legs and curses.

Bullets rattled through the thin wood of the cab’s bed, followed by a load of buckshot, and Evans screamed. Tone, a sharp stinging in his calves telling him that he’d been hit in both legs, pushed on the door that was now directly above him.

It refused to budge.

He lay on his back, putting all his weight on Evans and the cursing Langford, and kicked out hard. The door splintered off its hinges and thudded into the street. From somewhere Tone heard a woman scream, then another bullet slammed through the cab.

Standing on Langford, who was cursing even louder, Tone shoved his head though the door opening and looked outside, one of his guns drawn, up and ready in his right fist.

The three would-be assassins were already running, weaving their way through the people on the sidewalk, shoving both men and women to the ground as they stampeded toward a nearby corner.

Tone had no chance for a clear shot. There were too many people about. He watched the men disappear around the corner, then climbed out of the cab.

From inside, Langford roared angrily, “Damn you, Tone! You stood on my nose and broke it!”

Ignoring the enraged sergeant, Tone limped to the cabbie. The man’s neck was broken, his gray head lying on the street at an impossible angle, dead as he was ever going to be.

“Tone! Get me the hell out of here!”

After he picked up the cabbie’s top hat and placed it on the man’s body, Tone stepped back to the overturned hansom, pushing his way through a crowd of chattering gawkers. In the distance he heard a police whistle that was soon answered by another.

He looked into the cab. “You all right, Langford?”

“You stood on my nose, damn it! I think it’s broke.”

Tone smiled. “Take my hand.”

The big cop grabbed Tone’s outstretched hand and pulled himself erect. His nose was bloody and his mustache was already stained red.

“How is Evans?” Tone asked.

The little sailor was hunched over in a fetal position, whimpering. Langford was standing on him.

“I think he took some buckshot up the ass,” the cop said. “But I’ll get rid of it when we get him home.” He looked at Tone. “You didn’t shoot.”

“I was too late. I saw three men running for the corner, but there were a lot of people in between.”

“Did you recognize any of them?”

Tone shook his head. Langford stooped, and with one hand pulled Evans erect. He studied the man’s pale face and asked, “How badly are you hurt, Bandy?”

“I want to go back to the hospital,” the sailor whined. “I always told my ma that I’d die in my bed.”

“Did you get shot up the ass?”

“Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know. Please, I beg of you, take me back to the nuns.”

Langford spoke to Tone. “Help me get him out of here.”

As gently as he could, Tone lifted the man clear and leaned him against the bed of the cab. “Here, hold on to the wheel,” he said. He looked at the little man. “How are you feeling, Bandy?”

The sailor shook his head, his eyes pained. “You two are going to get me killed,” he said. “Take me back to the hospital, matey. I’ll take me chances with the pirates.”

“It was the pirates who just tried to kill you, Bandy,” Tone said. “They missed you, but murdered the cabbie.”

Evans saw the man’s body for the first time and he groaned. “I always said the Benton was a bad-luck ship and now I know it for sure.”

“What’s going on here?”

Tone turned and saw a policeman walking toward him, another at his heels. Rain drummed on their oilskin capes and the steel studs of their boots thumped on the slick roadway.

Langford, who had extricated himself from the cab, pushed past Tone and glared at the young cop. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.

The man’s eyes moved to the five-pointed sergeant’s star on Langford’s chest. “We got here as soon as we could,” he said defensively. “We were a ways off when we heard the shooting.”

“Then you should have come running,” Langford snapped, refusing to be mollified.

“What happened, Sarge?” This from the other officer, a middle-aged man with bulging green eyes and a ragged, pipe-stained mustache.

“We were set upon by assassins, that’s what happened,” Langford said. “Three damned amateurs, if you ask me. If they’d been professionals we’d all be dead by now.”

“The cab driver was killed when the cab turned over,” Tone said. “His neck is broken.”

The sergeant turned to Evans and felt his shoulders. “Soaked to the skin. He’s going to catch his death of cold.” He pointed at the younger cop. “You, give me your cape.”

With marked reluctance, the cop parted with his cape and Langford draped it over Evans. He turned to the two cops again. “There were three assailants, two firing revolvers, the third a shotgun. I have no description of the men, but you can ask around the crowd and see if anybody got a good look at them.”

“You’ve got a bloody nose, Sarge,” the older officer said. “It might be broke.”

“Don’t you think I already know that?” Langford said testily. “Now, get on with your investigation. You’ll need written statements from me and Mr. Tone here. I’ll bring those to the station later tonight.” He glanced at the dead cabbie. “And get that poor man off the street.”

Tone flagged down a cab and they bundled Evans inside. The little sailor didn’t look good; he was pale and drawn, his black eyes glazed and unfocused.

As they headed for his house through a pelting rain, Langford looked over Evans to Tone. “That ambush back there, was that what you meant by seeing the elephant?”

Tone shook his head. “We caught a glimpse of it, maybe. I believe there’s a lot worse to come.”

“I hope you’re wrong about that.”

“I wish to hell I was,” Tone said.

He looked at his legs. Both calves were bloody, but the buckshot had been slowed by the floor of the cab and none of his wounds were deep.

Beside him Evans was whimpering again and Tone told him to shut the hell up.