Bounty Hunter

Chapter 43

“I woke up and saw this nun bending over me, smiling,” Tone said. “I thought I’d died and had gone to heaven, and that pleased me. I always figured I’d end up in the other place.”

“Give it time, Tone,” Sergeant Langford said solemnly.

Tone sat higher on the creaking St. Mary’s Hospital cot. “I killed Sprague, didn’t I?”

“You killed him.” Langford shook his head, his eyes bleak. “The butcher’s bill was too high, John, all those dead officers. I talked to nine widows, and twice that many orphans, telling them how gallantly their husbands and fathers had died.” He sighed deeply. “It didn’t help much. Sprague was not worth one of those officers’ lives and they knew it.” The big cop managed a smile. “Benson was promoted posthumously to sergeant. His wife is very proud of him.”

Tone nodded. “He deserved it. The man had sand.”

He let a silence stretch between them, then said, “How long have I been out of it?”

“Nigh on three weeks. A few times we thought we’d lost you, but the nuns always pulled you through. Surprising, I guess, because when we brought you in you were at death’s door, all shot and cut to pieces.”

“Chastity Christian and Luther Penman got away clean, huh?”

“They did. But the woman didn’t last long. We found her body in a room at the Imperial Hotel. She’d been gutted and her tongue had been cut out because Penman had wanted to take his time with her.”

Tone shook his head. “Bad as she was, she didn’t deserve that. No human being should die that hard.” He looked at Langford. “And Penman? Did you get him?”

“He’s long gone, cleaned out the safe in his office and vanished. I’d guess he’s out of the country by this time.”

Langford closed his eyes, as though trying to get rid of an image he had not wanted to bring to mind, then opened them again. “On the wall above the bed where Chastity Christian’s body was found, he’d written, ‘Now jaunty Jack is off to have a jolly good time.’ ”

“Jolly good time . . . that’s an English expression, isn’t it?” Tone said.

The cop nodded. “Penman will go where there’s fog and whores, and what city fits the bill better than London town?”

“Jack the Ripper in London,” Tone said. “There’s a harrowing thought.”

“He won’t escape justice for long. Scotland Yard has an excellent detective branch and after his first murder they’ll catch him and hang him.”

“The sooner the better,” Tone said.

Langford pushed his chair away from the cot and got to his feet. “It’s been quiet around the waterfront since you’ve been gone, Tone. But you’ll be out in a couple of days and we’ve got another war to fight. We have to put the crawl on the Tong and run them out of the Barbary Coast.” The big sergeant smiled. “I’d like you to be at my side.”

“I’ll give it some thought.” Tone sighed. He looked around his tiny, bare room. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Three days later Tone lay on a new mattress in Langford’s spare room. Outside, rain lashed through the darkness and a keening wind tossed the trees, but lost in a volume by Mr. Dickens, Tone paid it no mind. He felt relaxed, perfectly at ease and comfortable, since the sergeant had spared no expense in his choice of bedding. There was a glass of whiskey at his elbow and a cigar waiting to be smoked, and Tone was eagerly anticipating both.

There was a tap on his door, and Langford, his hair much grayer since the sea fight, stuck his head into the room. “I’m going to bed now, Tone,” he said.

“Pleasant dreams, Thomas.” Tone smiled.

“I’ve brought you something.” Langford stepped inside and hung a blue uniform on the hook behind the door. “Later I can have it altered to fit you better,” he said.

After Langford was gone, Tone stared at the uniform for a long time. Finally he rose to his feet and padded to the door. He ran his fingers down the blue wool serge and lightly touched the patrolman’s copper badge.

It was a fine uniform, and one he’d be honored to wear.

Tone sat back on the bed and silently studied the blue tunic for many minutes, lost in thought.

He knew he’d never wear it.

The time of the bounty hunter was almost done and would soon go the way of the buffalo and the Indian. He realized that. The growth of cities, better law enforcement, the telegraph and the newfangled telephone were shrinking distances even across the vast western lands and, like his own, the days of the roaming outlaw were surely numbered.

But the West was a beautiful, mysterious woman singing her siren song to Tone. She was calling him home to the aloof mountains, the quiet forests and the limitless plains, seductively reminding him what it was like to watch the smoke of his fire rise like incense to pay homage to the stars. He recalled the play of sunlight on a trout stream, the rustle of aspens and the sigh of tall pines in the wind.

He could not turn his back on her. Not now, not ever. To do so would be to spit on his life.

The path he had chosen was one of flame-streaked violence and sudden death. He knew that one day he would end up with his face in the sawdust of a sod saloon in a one-loop town somebody had named Who-Gives-a-Damn. But that was his choice and he would accept its consequences.

Tone rose and dressed in his peacoat and watch cap. Langford had cleaned and loaded his guns and he dropped them into his pockets. He stepped quietly to the kitchen, hearing the cop’s soft snoring from the other bedroom.

Tone found pen and paper and wrote: Thomas, if you’re ever in Reno . . .

He had no need to write more. Langford would know.

Tone walked to the front of the house, stepped outside and quietly closed the door behind him.