Here we go into the homestretch. This is Day 7 - Part 2. Think of it as the last 15 minutes of a TV show where everything comes to a head. No telling what will happen, who will live and who will . . . go out for pizza. I'm pretty sure it's Joe's turn to pay. (I'm just bad.) :-D
Thank you for all your reviews. I truly appreciate them.
Onward ~
Chapter 9
"You're under arrest for the murder of four passengers and one driver along with the attempted murder of another passenger on the stage burned just west of Chance. I'm also addin' the murder of three passengers and two drivers on the stage ta the north," Trace recited as he stood outside the jail cell never taking eyes from the wretched cowboy inside whose mouth nearly dropped to the floor. "You're also charged with the murder and destruction of property from fifteen previous stages robbed and burned from California back ta Canada."
Trace stopped for a moment and watched the cowboy's color disappear and his hands begin to shake.
"Do ya have anythin' ta say for yourself? Any defense whatsoever?" He waited for half a tick then continued on. "I'm pretty sure you'll swing especially since ya ain't defendin' yourself."
Trace waited some more watching the cowboy's breaths come in gasps then lean over like he was going to puke. Shrugging, he turned and headed toward the outer office all the while talking over his shoulder.
"A course I don't believe ya was the one that come up with the plans and I could probably talk ta the judge but then that probably won't do much good since ya ain't talkin' ta me. A course if'n ya ain't . . ." His voice disappeared behind the door that was slowly closing on him.
"MARSHALL!" the cowboy screamed running toward the cell door, hands, face and upper body colliding with the bars. Trace stood for a moment on the other side, quickly wiping the smile from his face and stuck his head back in.
"Did ya call me?" he innocently asked.
"Marshall, ya cain't pin them murders on me. Not all of 'em anyways."
"Oh?" Trace said crossing arms over his chest.
The cowboy vehemently shook his head. "It weren't me that planned it. I . . . I was jest a participant is all."
"You just shot those people then?" Trace asked as the cowboy nodded.
"Somma them."
"And ya burned the stages after?"
"Me and Tig. That was our job."
"Tig?"
"Tig Martin. Ya done kilt 'im when ya got me." He watched Trace nod then rub his chin. "That'll mean I won't swing right? If I tell that. I'll jest be locked up fer good."
Trace glanced up. "Ah, no. By your own admission ya done killed almost twenty-five people. I'm not thinkin' a judge is gonna look kindly on that nor will those poor families left behind."
"But I can tell ya all sorts a things about the gang. Ain't that worth somethin'?"
"Here's the thing," Trace began stepping slowly toward the cell. "They're all dead so it don't mean nothin' ta no one who they was. Now, ya give me the name of the man who's still out there then I might be able ta do somethin' for ya."
The cowboy pushed himself away from the bars and started to shake his head. "I cain't. He'll kill me," he whined.
"All I'm seein' for you is the end of a rope so what's the difference?"
"Oh, there's a difference all right," the cowboy said. "Ya ain't seen what he can do when he's riled and me rattin' on 'im'll rile 'im good."
Trace threw up his hands and turned back toward the Sheriff's office. "Then I can't do nothin' for ya. Shame, too, 'cause sometimes when ya get life they let ya out for what they call good behavior. Ya might only serve five, ten years then ya'd be free, not havin' ta look over your shoulder for the rest of your days. But I understand savin' your own skin. Been there myself."
The cowboy watched Trace head back out, saw the door begin to close once again. "MARSHALL! I'll tell ya! I'll tell ya who's out there!" He saw the door stop then reopen, Trace giving him a steady gaze. "I'll tell ya but ya havta do somethin' fer me first." Trace's brows moved slowly up. The cowboy nodded. "I gotta have a gun or somethin' ta protect myself 'cause when he finds out I told . . ."
"If ya think I'm stupid . . ."
"I jest know what's gonna happen, Marshall, and I gotta be prepared. Keepin' me in this cell with that open winda overhead . . . well I'll be dead by mornin'. Ya gotta get me somewheres safe or ya won't have no witness."
Trace narrowed his eyes at the cowboy and flashed on the number of times he'd lost a witness when the bad guy merely shot through that small barred window and wondered who came up with such a silly thing.
Rubbing his neck, he turned toward the door. "Sheriff! Keys!" The ring of clinking keys came flying through the air and Trace easily caught it looking up at the prisoner. "Step back." Opening the door, he tried to ignore the smirk on the cowboy's face and the shiver that it sent through him. "Hands behind your back," Trace ordered slapping on the cuffs and yanking the cowboy from the cell, leading him past Pintz. "Sheriff, we'll be at Doc Bicks. Come and get me if somethin' happens I need ta know about."
"How will I . . ?" Pintz began.
"You'll know," was all Trace said as he pulled the cowboy toward the door then out onto the boardwalk.
Rapid glances side to side took in everything as they walked, the hackles on his neck rising. This was a bad idea making a walk like this, a walk that could end in a long box under a mound of dirt. But what options did he actually have? This cowboy could give him a name. Couple that with Adam's recollection of those spurs and it could all be over. He had to keep both men alive so he could get his hands on the demon that'd started all of this months before and, once that was done, he could go home, sit on his porch and put up his feet.
The thought brought a smile but he pushed it away. Those hackles were still up. Smiles wouldn't be around until they laid down flat again.
*The prompt here was 'you're under arrest'
BZBZBZBZBZ
"Hmm," murmured Davis Apple when his lantern caught sight of something leaning against the back wall of Darby's, a nice place to stay for an hour or two.
Davis was the caretaker, the keeper of all things Darby and it wouldn't do to have a stray whatever leaning against the back wall. It was unsightly and the ladies inside demanded that Darby's look nice front and back. Shaking his head, he limped over wondering why people were so careless with their stuff.
"They shouldn't have things if'n they cain't take care of 'em," he mumbled reaching out with his lantern to see a large wheel and axle caught in its light. "Durn thing's broke. Couldn't they burn it instead o' tossin' it aside like trash? Don't seem right."
His one-sided conversation continued as he placed the lantern on the ground and grabbed for the wheel only to drop to his knees then flat on his face, blood sliding down the side of his head to pool in the dirt beneath him. He didn't hear the jangle of spurs as they moved past his body nor much of anything else as his eyes slid shut.
BZBZBZBZBZ
"S-i-t d-o-w-n," Trace ordered enunciating each word as he pressed down upon the young cowboy's shoulder who cried out in pain but stood his ground.
It wasn't that he didn't want to sit he just hated giving in. Besides he was in a heap of trouble already for being captured and had to keep his head and concentrate on making sure his tongue kept still.
"Now."
The tone was deep and uncompromising and finally the cowboy gave in just as Hop Sing came into the room.
"Who this?" he asked.
"This here cowboy is a member of the gang that nearly killed your Mr. Adam," Trace explained noticing the dark gaze shifting from him to the cowboy.
"What his name?" Hop Sing asked those eyes making the cowboy nervous.
"Don't rightly know," Trace answered. "He won't tell me."
"If'n ya'd ask real nice I might jest tell ya." Trace glared at him.
"What your name?" Hop Sing asked.
"Bogg Stemple."
"Mista Stemple, you not nice man," Hop Sing gave him then headed off toward Adam's room as Trace tossed a smile after him.
"Where's the Doc?" Bogg asked holding his shoulder. "I'm thinkin' ya pulled my stitches."
"I gotcha outta that jail cell 'cause ya was afraid your Boss was gonna kill ya. Don't think ya've got anymore favors ta use. A course if'n ya tell me what I wanna know about who that Boss is I might see my way ta findin' the Doc for ya."
"I-I cain't. I done tol' ya he'll kill me."
Trace grabbed at the cowboy's shirt and pulled him close. "You killed those people on that stage; all your friends are dead and ya ain't smart enough ta plan nothin' so give me his name!"
Bogg glared at Trace and slammed shut his mouth until another painful cry escaped him when the Marshall yanked him to his feet.
"Tell me who was out there, Stemple, or I'll let you bleed ta death."
"I won't!"
"Tell me!"
"NO!"
Trace felt a strong hand on his arm and knew it was the bigger Cartwright. He hadn't even eard him come in and with him was probably the rest of his family. Carefully, he eased Bogg back onto the table and took a step back.
"That may be how they handle prisoners where you come from, Marshall," Leslie intoned, "but this isn't that place and right here, in my house, my word is law."
Trace chastised himself for not being more cautious. With everyone out of the house he knew he could get something from this murderer and hadn't even considered who would be walking through that door. He was so close he could feel it and standing around waiting just made him antsy. Taking a deep breath, he took another step back, anger surfacing at the small smile that curled Bogg's lips and he turned away, eyes falling on Adam sleeping quietly in his bed, Hop Sing sitting ramrod straight in a chair next to him with a rifle clasped tightly in his hands.
"How's your boy, Mr. Cartwright?" Trace asked not even looking at Ben even though he could feel his eyes boring into him.
"Holding his own," was all he gave him.
Trace nodded. "That's good . . . good," he answered rubbing his chin. "And you want ta keep him that way?"
"Of course."
Trace nodded again then turned capturing Ben with a hard look. "Then you need ta listen ta me. Your boy's in danger – in danger from the leader of the gang that nearly killed him. And Stemple here, he's the key. He knows what's waitin' out there."
"That may be," Ben began, "but denying him medical care isn't a way to get that information."
"With some men it is," Trace answered.
Ben couldn't really deny that but remained quiet.
Trace sighed. "I've got all'a two things here, Mr. Cartwright. One," he began holding up a finger. "Your son's testimony that there was a man with fancy spurs at his crash site and two," another finger appeared, "this here cowboy was caught in the act holdin' a gun ta someone's head and pullin' the trigger before I could stop him. That's it. That ain't much but it's all I have and I aim ta get the man in charge so he can't go out, raise another gang and start all over again. So if that means I havta manhandle this one I will and I'm within my rights as a United States Marshall."
"What about human rights?" Leslie asked working on Bogg's wound.
"Human rights is fine, Doc," Trace said as he turned toward Leslie, "if you're dealin' with a human. I don't call what Stemple and the rest of them that rode with him did as anythin' human. Should I describe for you some of the things I've seen these past months? True, I got ta the dead after they'd been left out in the air for a time but that don't change the fact that some of the ladies were tampered with and some of the men, well, they was torn apart and not by any bear or cougar, but a human animal. Whose human rights were violated then, Doc?"
Leslie remained silent, keeping eyes locked on Bogg's wound and digging a little deeper than needed to stitch shut the hole. "Sorry," was all he said when his patient let out a holler.
"So that's what I've been dealin' with these past months, Mr. Cartwright," he gave Ben fixing him with a look, "somethin' that ain't very far from my head even when I'm sleepin'. So denyin' this bastard a doctor 'til I can get some answers is far down my list of niceties. I'm sorry if'n that bothers you. I got over it after the second stage crash and you should'a gotten over it after your first night here when your son was screamin' in pain 'cause'a what Stemple and them others done ta him."
Trace pulled his gaze from Ben and stepped back toward Bogg watching his eyes move back and forth between himself and Ben then back again.
"What's the matter, Stemple?" Trace asked hooking fingers in his gunbelt. "Feelin' a little adrift now that ya've lost your corner man?"
Bogg's gaze settled on Trace and he let fly with a wad of spit that splattered onto his badge. Slowly the Marshall reached up and yanked the kerchief from about his prisoner's neck then very carefully wiped off his badge, tossing the soiled item back into Bogg's lap before leaning in close.
"You're stitched up now so we're goin' back ta that jail cell with the little winda wide open ta the night air and anythin' else that might like ta fly through."
"But he'll kill me and ya'll lose yer witness," Bogg countered.
"You ain't talkin' so what's the loss."
Bogg's brow furrowed then he sat back. "Doc, he cain't take me back there. No tellin' what he'll do ta me once we're alone."
Leslie tightened the bandage over Bogg's wound and stepped back, dipping his bloodstained hands in a white bowl.
"My duty is done, Mr. Stemple," he responded, grabbing a towel to dry off.
"What?"
"You were bleeding. Now you're not. The Marshall can do what he pleases with you now."
Bogg's brows flew up and desperate eyes searched for help. All he got were Cartwright glares and a small smile on the Marshall's face. Silence filled the room, a silence that bombarded his head as he slid off the table and backed away.
"Ya ain't takin' me back," he cried as the Marshall followed him.
"Just watch me."
Trace reached out just as the air shattered with a loud explosion that rattled the windows in the house.
"What the . . ?" Ben blurted rushing toward the front door to fling it open, his attention drawn to flames bursting out of a building at the end of the street.
"That's Darbys!" Leslie yelled before running back into his office and grabbing his bag, stuffing anything inside he could get his hands on. "We have to save the ladies!" he yelled rushing out between the Cartwright's leaving them standing at the door.
"Pa, we gotta fire!" Joe yelled from the street catching sight of his father.
"We'll meet you there!" Ben responded turning back into the room. "Hop Sing! Watch over Adam. Come on, Hoss!"
Bogg quickly moved forward to lean against the doctor's table as everyone began to leave. "Ya cain't leave me here with 'im!" he yelled pointing at Trace.
"Don't rightly care," Hoss gave him as he chased after his father wondering how they were going to put out the fire as another explosion ripped through the upper floors.
It was then, when Bogg realized that it was only him, the Marshall, that Chinaman and a burned up man left behind, that a smile lit across his lips. Trace's body grew rigid and a hand automatically hovered above his gun at the sight. When Bogg began to laugh he knew this was not going to turn out well.
"He's comin' fer you, Marshall," he began in a singsong voice. "Ya ain't got more than a few minutes ta keep breathin'. Any last words?"
Trace began hoisting his gun out of the holster. "How about I'll see you in hell?" he offered.
"That would be my line, Marshall," came a new voice from the door.
Spinning, Trace spied a smartly dressed stranger standing in the doorway holding a gun on him. He didn't hesitate but a second before pulling the trigger but even that was too late as smoke rose from the man's gun. The next thing he knew he was flung back against the doctor's table and dropped heavily, his gun sliding out from numb fingers when his elbow hit the floor followed by his back. The rush of breath forced from him pushed out a cough as he tried to grasp at his pistol mere inches away. The man closed the door and stepped closer, a very specific sound echoing about the room. Trace didn't have to see the spurs with the roses and vines to know this was who he'd been chasing all these months.
"I'm Drey Grisham. Nice to finally meet you after all this time."
He'd failed, failed to protect his witness and failed to finish this last assignment that he was sure would haunt him even in death. Glancing up, he looked into a long dark barrel then at the man behind it.
"Cain't say the same," Trace responded as Drey smiled.
"Too bad. You were a worthy adversary, Marshall. Someone to respect."
"Well, that just makes it all better," he sarcastically responded around a grimace.
"Drey, ya come fer me," Bogg interrupted moving around the table. "It was you weren't it? Startin' that fire? Smart move. Don'tcha think we oughta skedaddle quick afore they all come back?"
Bogg's sickly smile was ignored by Drey as he kept his eyes on Trace, carefully picking up the Marshall's gun and stuffing it in his belt.
"I did start the fire, Bogg," he finally answered. "I had to start a diversion."
"Ta rescue me right?"
Drey just smirked and gave a bit of a chuckle. "Now why would I want to do that?"
Bogg's grin began to fade. "But, Drey, yer – yer my brother."
"Just because your father married my mother doesn't make you my brother. Besides, you're too stupid to be kin. You got yourself caught and no telling what you've said to the good Marshall here."
"I ain't said nothin', Drey. Tell 'im, Marshall! Tell 'im I ain't said nothin'!"
Drey glanced over at Trace who'd managed to prop himself against the table, a bloodied hand holding his side.
"He ain't said nothin'," he said with a slight gasp.
Drey's smirk grew larger. "Well, isn't that grand."
"Ya believe 'im don'tcha?" Bogg begged, his eyes large and worried.
"Of course," came the over exaggerated answer. "Of course I believe you didn't say anything otherwise I'd be dead instead of you."
"Wha . . ."
The loud blast of a gun echoed about the room and Bogg fell backward, his head impacting a hard drawer followed by a silent fall to the floor. Glancing over the table, Drey noticed the boy still breathed and pumped two more rounds into his head. Satisfied he was now the only brother left in the Grisham family, he stood up straight and centered his attention back on Trace whose eyes had never left him.
"So now I'm in a quandary, Marshall," he began hoisting a hip onto the table. "Shall I sit here and tell you what I plan on doing to the witness in the other room before I take my time with you or should I just shoot the both of you and make my escape?"
Trace gave him a slight chuckle knowing it didn't matter how long he kept Drey here - no one would make it back in time. The only thing he had going for them was Hop Sing silently waiting in Adam's room with a rifle and by the time he could act, the Marshall knew he'd be dead. Drey Grisham was a murderer without conscience, without compassion and, frankly, he was amazed he was still sitting upright with breath in his lungs.
"Ya ain't got much time, Grisham," Trace began deciding to give it a try. "Pretty soon the fire'll be under control and all them Cartwright's'll be stridin' through the door and they're gonna be pissed that you killed their kin."
"Ah, I'll be long gone by then," Drey gave him. "Off to San Francisco for some fine clothes, a box of chocolates and on the lookout for a new gang since you killed all my men."
"Not all," Trace gave him with a nod toward Bogg's bloodied body.
"Very true," Drey agreed coming off the table and turning toward the hall behind him. "He was always a detriment to me, even when I was younger. Couldn't wait to kill him. Should've done it sooner." He stopped and looked at the three closed doors. "Hmm. I wonder which door. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.(4)"
"He didn't tell me nothin', Grisham," Trace tried, wincing as he sat up straighter. "And he ain't gonna tell you nothin' neither since he ain't been conscious since he was brung in."
Drey turned his head. "Odd," he said. "I was just at the Red Slipper and his entire family was there congratulating the doctor for saving him."
"Oh, he's still alive, just ain't awake."
"Which means he'll be awake at some point or they'd all be wearing black and crying their eyes out." He eyed Trace closely. "I've heard plenty of things about you, Marshall, but having a sense of humor wasn't one of them."
"Have you also heard that just 'cause I might be wearin' my gun in full view don't mean I ain't got another."
A derringer(5) appeared in Trace's hand and he fired. The shock on Drey's face as the bullet connected forcing him to his knees was missed as the Marshall scrambled for purchase on the bloodstained floor and launched himself at the man.
The fight for the gun moved in slow motion as bullet after bullet erupted over their heads, Trace losing count as he was losing that surge of energy that had propelled him forward in the first place. He was desperate to stop this but didn't have a clue how when serendipity struck - the front door whipped open and slammed into the sideboard unbalancing the punchbowl and sending it careening to the floor, the sounds of shattering glass filling the room and stilling the struggling duo on the floor.
Elation filled Trace at the sight before him and he forced out a yell. "SHOOT!"
It didn't take but a moment for Joe to respond, pulling his gun and firing, the impact slamming Drey against a door, startled eyes watching his gun fall from his hand then center on his killer standing ready to fire again.
Breath coming in fast gasps, it was hard for him to take in what had just happened. His world had been turned upside down once again even though he'd had everything planned. Never, not once had he thought it would end like this – crumpled against a door bleeding all over himself in a town buried in sand. No, he always thought he'd die in silk pajamas with an arm wrapped about a sweet honey and the morning sun shining on his face. That's what his lucky hat had been for – protection – and now there it was lying just out of reach, his own blood splattered across the crown.
He turned a glazed look to Trace. "I knew . . . I should've just . . . blown your head off," he confessed.
"You're right there, Grisham," Trace agreed propping himself against the opposite wall, a bloodied hand back to holding the wound in his side. "Instead you hadta talk my head off. One'a your faults I'm guessin'."
Drey gave a slight nod. "Never thought I had any but I . . . I guess you're not too old to find out . . . new things."
"Here's somethin' new," Trace began a smile coming to bloodied lips. "You're under arrest, Drey Grisham, for the attempted murder of Adam Cartwright and the murders of twenty-five innocent people along with the destruction of . . . of property not rightly yours."
Trace listened to Drey's weak laugh and watched him cough up blood, his thin breath coming quicker.
". . . too . . . late," was all he could get out before eyes rolled up and he fell limply to the floor.
"For you maybe," Trace whispered, feeling himself start to drift. "Not . . . for me." His head made a loud thump as it hit the floor.
"Marshall!" Joe called kneeling next to Trace as another sound from behind made him whirl, gun in hand, to see a wide-eyed Hop Sing peeking out the door, a rifle pointed at Number Three son.
"Safe to come out?" he asked.
Relief washed through Joe and he nodded. "Adam?"
"Sleep. Marshall need doctor."
"I'll go."
"You stay," Hop Sing said propping the rifle against the wall. "No telling how many bad men left out there."
With that he was gone leaving Joe to hold down the fort.
4 "Eeny, meeny, miny, moe", which can be spelled a number of ways, is a children's counting rhyme, used to select a person to be "it" for games and similar purposes. The rhyme has existed in variousforms since the 1850s, or perhaps earlier, and is common in many languages, with similar-sounding nonsense syllables.
5 In 1856, Henry Derringer came out with a new and improved small pocket pistol. This model was fitted for metallic cartridges and was more efficient than its predecessor
*The prompt for these sections was a a broken axle
Yahooligans! The bad guy is toast! When I first wrote this section I had Drey grab Adam and use him as a shield who then knocked over the punchbowl and Hop Sing saved him. Over my many rewrites I thought what I ended up with was better because it gave Trace closure and gave Joe the chance to save his brother. (Hop Sing saves Adam in another of my stories.)
The Epilogue will be up tomorrow. Thanks for reading and reviewing. :-D
