The Devil's Payroll Read online

  To my wife Emma, with love

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sun was reaching its zenith as John ‘Gentleman Jack’ Harrison rode into Brandon. Despite the scorching heat he wore a string tie and black frock-coat, for these were the clothes he was used to, just like the pearl-handled silver guns sitting snugly in each holster. Harrison held the reins lightly, his dark, hooded eyes scanning the dusty street. He slowed to a halt and removed his hat as a funeral procession passed by, the single mourner a striking red-haired woman who appeared dry-eyed and impassive as she walked behind the black carriage and plumed horses. Then, finding himself outside the town’s hardware store, he dismounted and tethered his horse. Stepping inside, he inhaled the cooler air and smell of wood-shavings.

  ‘Hot one, ain’t it?’ the storekeeper enquired as he looked up from his accounts.

  ‘It certainly is.’ He withdrew the poster he carried with him from inside his coat and unfolded it on the counter between them. ‘Have you seen this man around these parts?’

  The storekeeper looked at the drawing of Clay Barton below the words WANTED FOR MURDER DEAD OR ALIVE. $1000 REWARD and studied the well-dressed stranger more closely. This time he noticed the distinctive guns, while recalling that high-class drawl.

  ‘Say, mister, haven’t I read about you someplace?’

  Harrison sighed. The dime novel, telling exaggerated tales of his exploits, had apparently sold well but fame was a hindrance to a bounty hunter. He might need to rely on the element of surprise. ‘I’m sure you have but I wouldn’t believe a word of it if I were you.’

  Looking again at the poster the old man nodded slowly. ‘That fella was here sure enough but he high-tailed it after that shootin’ a couple of days back. Seems he ran into a man he owed money to who drew on ’im when he wouldn’t pay up. Your man drew faster but then left pretty quick.’

  Harrison jerked his head towards the window. ‘Is that why there’s a funeral out there?’

  The storekeeper grinned. ‘Pretty little thing, eh? I wouldn’t go gettin’ meself all shot up if I had her to warm the bed!’

  Harrison smiled in response. ‘Do you have any idea where Barton went?’

  The storekeeper shrugged. ‘Looked like he was ridin’ south but there’s not much between here and the Mexican border except Comanche, bandits and a few desert towns.’He paused for a moment, and then raised a crooked finger. ‘Nearest place is called Blue Water Spring, ’bout half a day’s ride from here. It’s nothin’ but a one horse town with a waterin’ hole and a whorehouse that calls itself a hotel.’

  He could reach that by nightfall. For a man on the run like Barton it might be a place to hide and rest up a while before making for the border. ‘Much obliged to you,’ Harrison said as he turned and headed for the door.

  ‘Wait up, mister!’ With surprising agility the stooped, elderly storekeeper scuttled from behind the counter and was at his side, the gaudy cover of Gentleman Jack, Scourge of the Outlaw by George Barrett visible in his gnarled hands. ‘C’mon, tell me afore ya go. Did you really do all them things it says in this here book?’

  ‘I’m afraid that Mr Barrett has a rather vivid imagination. I’ll shoot a man when I have to but only if he draws on me first. I’ve put an end to a few bank robbers but I’m no gunslinger,’ said Harrison drily. ‘As for the rest, I’m just a lonely widower and if the ladies swoon over me, I certainly haven’t noticed it. Does that answer your question?’

  The storekeeper mumbled his sympathies as he looked sheepishly at the floor, but Harrison was already outside, mounting his chestnut mare. The cemetery was at the end of town and the formalities had just been completed as he rode past.

  Slowing to a halt, he spied the widow leaving by the gate. ‘Pardon me, ma’am,’ he said as he raised his hat. She turned to face him and Harrison found himself gazing into a pair of wide ocean blue eyes. He hesitated briefly, his speech somehow arrested by their cool depths.

  ‘I’m John Harrison. The man who shot your husband was a cold blooded killer. He murdered a guard while escaping from prison in Arizona and I hope it will give you some comfort when I bring him to justice.’

  The woman smiled wryly. ‘I see. Is justice your only reward, Mr Harrison?’

  He stiffened slightly in the saddle. ‘It’s true I’ll get paid a thousand dollars but I only go after the worst killers.’

  Her smile vanished. ‘Well, my husband got a bullet in the gut and I didn’t even get what he was owed to bury him with, never mind no thousand dollars. I used my savings to give him the best farewell I could.’

  Harrison felt suddenly chastened by her remarks. ‘What was your husband called?’ he asked.

  ‘Joel Sloane. I’m Maggie Sloane by the way.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Sloane, I’ll see that a hundred dollars of that reward money goes to settle your costs. Would that help?’

  The smile she gave him then would have melted the heart of Lucifer himself. ‘That sounds like the sort of offer only Gentleman Jack could make. Here’s my hand on it.’

  He gently kissed her gloved fingers. ‘I’m cut from the same crooked timber as everyone else, Mrs Sloane. Don’t let any dime novel convince you otherwise.’ With that he was gone.

  The heat of the day burned itself out against an orange-red sunset as Harrison rode into Blue Water Spring. Raucous laughter and the tinkling sound of a piano guided him towards a clapboard house, painted gaudily in red.

  As he tended his horse in the stable at the side he noticed a pinto slumbering in the next stall, which fitted the description of the one Barton was riding when he was last seen. The battered sign at the front above the swing back doors creaked in the breeze and he saw the words JACKSON’S HOTEL. The mingled smells of stale liquor, cigar smoke and cheap perfume assaulted his nostrils as he stepped inside. Beyond the crowded saloon bar a staircase covered by a threadbare carpet led to the rooms upstairs. Amid the noise and smoke his entry was barely noticed and there, in a far corner of the room, lounged Clay Barton. The gaunt, unshaven features, disfigured by a jagged scar down the right cheek, tousled jet-black hair and narrow eyes swam clearly into focus as Harrison stepped nearer. Barton’s attention was clearly drawn to his blonde companion’s cleavage and he did not appear to notice that he was being watched.

  Turning to his left, he called the bartender over and ordered a whiskey. ‘Do you have a room for tonight?’ he asked.

  The man grinned, showing broken teeth. ‘Sure. Anything else you want?’

  Harrison threw some silver dollars down on the bar ‘A hot steak sent up to the best room you’ve got, the rest of that bottle and some information.’

  ‘First two no problem, but the third …’ The man shrugged. ‘That might cost more.’

  Harrison tossed a few notes from his billfold towards the man. ‘Tell me about Scarface in the corner over there. What room is he in?’

  ‘Number four, you’ll be a coupla doors down. He run off with your woman or somethin’?’

  ‘I’m paying so I’ll ask the questions, but not a word to Scarface, understand?’

  ‘Take it easy, mister, tombstones talk more than I do,’ said the bartender as he handed Harrison the key to room six.

  He had drunk nearly half the bottle before the steak arrived, brought up with potatoes and a pot of coffe
e by a young girl who was clearly disappointed when Harrison showed no interest in her services. The meat was tough, with some gristle, but he was hungry and wolfed it down before sloshing more whiskey into a cup of tepid coffee. It did not stop the nightmares though, beginning with that frantic ride back to Richmond after he had deserted his post upon seeing the flames.

  All was as it had been on that night until he reached what had once been his home. Instead of the blackened ruin he had encountered then, this time the house was still burning, engulfed by flames. He saw their screaming faces at the window before Elizabeth and Annie caught fire, the glass shattered and they fell towards him like human torches and he smelled their burning flesh.

  He awoke drenched in sweat, his mouth dry and his head heavy. Cursing, he got up and staggered over to the tin bath which the girl had filled for him hours before. Harrison gasped as he plunged into the now cold water, submerging his body. He soaped himself, washed off and dried his aching limbs with the frayed towel. Once dressed he felt better and he made his way to Barton’s room as dawn broke, dismissing the horrors of the previous night, as he habitually did, to concentrate on the job in hand.

  Harrison turned the knob slowly and found the door unlocked. Stepping inside he aimed his gun at the figure huddled under the bedclothes. ‘Time to wake up, Barton.’

  The blonde girl he had seen the previous night sat up and winked at him, the sheet barely covering her ample breasts. At the same moment hard metal prodded his ribs. ‘Drop the gun on the bed, mister, real slow.’ He obeyed the rasping voice and the other pistol was removed quickly from its holster and tossed in the same direction.

  ‘Throw ’em outside, Becky.’ The girl slid from the bed without bothering to cover her nakedness and dropped the weapons out of a window facing the street. She then stooped to pull on a purple dress, winking again at him as she did so.

  ‘You won’t get far, Barton. There’s a posse out looking for you.’

  He heard the killer snort contemptuously behind him. ‘Nobody in these parts cares about some dumb prison guard from Tucson. Now move, we’re goin’ downstairs.’

  Barton directed him through a back exit to the stables, Becky following behind. Harrison was told to halt and turn around under a cross-beam. Without taking his eyes off his prisoner, the outlaw took a length of rope hanging from a nail in the wall and tossed it over to the girl. ‘Tie one end over that beam, honey. There’s a stool there you can stand on.’

  Barton grinned wolfishly. ‘See, I got it all figured out. I plan the same end for you as you did for me. Becky here’s a real live guardian angel, been findin’ out from her friends here if anyone’s come lookin’ for me.’

  ‘You never said nothin’ about no killin’, Clay,’ said the girl nervously. ‘I might lie on my back for dollars but I ain’t never killed.’

  Seeing his chance, Harrison said, ‘If you do what he says you’ll be guilty of murder. That pretty neck of yours could get stretched too.’

  ‘You shuddup!’ Enraged at the prospect of having to merely shoot his enemy, Barton turned to the girl. ‘Do like I tell ya or you won’t get a cent!’

  The moment of distraction was enough for Harrison and he launched himself at his adversary, jerking the other man’s arm upwards as they crashed to the ground. The girl screamed and horses whinnied as Barton’s gun fired twice before Harrison bashed his opponent’s fist against a nearby post, sending the weapon spinning across the floor.

  Barton’s boot lashed out as he shouted in pain and Harrison staggered back, winded. He dodged the next blow as both men jumped to their feet but Barton grabbed a pitchfork and lunged viciously at him. The prongs stuck in the wall, splintering wood as Harrison twisted to one side. Abandoning his now useless weapon, Barton came at him with a punch to the jaw that sent him sprawling, but he rolled aside quickly, grabbed the man’s foot as he tried to stamp on his head and twisted hard. Harrison was on his feet as his opponent fell, punched him hard as he tried to get up and then brought his knee up into the fugitive’s groin. He stepped back as Barton charged at him like an enraged bull and clipped him neatly under the jaw. As he fell once more the outlaw’s head struck the edge of a water trough, and he lay still in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  Becky stood cowering in a corner and Harrison told her, ‘No one’s going to hurt you, it’s all right.’ He turned back to his prisoner breathing heavily from his exertions, as the girl fled. Within minutes, he had Barton tied on to the pinto, had retrieved his guns from the street and was heading out into the desert, whistling softly as he left Blue Water Spring behind him.

  It was not long before his prisoner stirred and, groaning as he sat upright, asked for water. Harrison held the bottle up to Barton’s parched lips and the man drank greedily.

  ‘If a man’s gonna hang I figure he’s a right to know who’s doin’ the hangin’. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m John Harrison but it’s the judge who’ll sentence you, not me. Besides, you put a rope around your own neck when you shot that guard.’

  Barton smiled. ‘That how you square your conscience, Harrison? Tell me, how much will you get for this job?’

  ‘A thousand dollars, all clean money and stolen from no one.’

  Barton chuckled, despite his predicament. ‘Ain’t no such thing as clean money. Anyhow, it all adds up to the years you’re stealin’ from another man’s life.’

  Harrison said nothing but got back on his own horse, jerked the rope which tied Barton’s mount to his and set off once more. His prisoner was keen to continue talking however.

  ‘Say, Harrison, how’d you like me to cut you in on a deal?’

  Now it was Harrison’s turn to laugh. ‘You’re hardly in a position to bargain.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, see. D’you know why I was in prison? Me and a gang o’ fellas robbed an army payroll. Hell, during the war I robbed banks for the Confederacy, so when we lost I figured I might as well steal for myself. Anyway, we all got shot up pretty bad but I escaped with this scar and a strongbox full o’ money and buried it near the border. Carryin’ it was slowin’ me up some and I figured I’d get caught if I didn’t hide it some place, then come back when it was safe.’

  ‘Let me guess. You got caught after you’d buried it and were on your way to collect when, unfortunately, I showed up?’

  ‘That’s the truth. I ran into a posse just as I was about to cross over into Mexico where the law can’t touch me. And you know what, I’m the only man alive who knows where that money is. Cut me loose and we’re partners. Fifty-fifty split. I don’t rightly know how much there is in that box but it’s at least a hundred times what you’ll get for my neck.’

  Harrison shook his head. ‘Even if I believed your story, Barton, how could I trust you? You’d slit my throat while I slept, steal my horse and then just dig up the loot by yourself. Besides, Comanches raid that border area and there are bandits rustling cattle who’ll shoot a man as soon as look at him.’

  ‘Then leave me tied up all the way. I don’t blame you for not trusting me, but the money’s there. It’s a lotta money and worth the risk for men who know their way around. Get rich or die tryin’, that’s what I say.’

  There was a wheedling, anxious tone to Barton’s voice. Was he telling the truth? Or was this the ploy of a man desperate to cheat the hangman’s noose, hoping to buy a little more time? Harrison decided to change the subject for a while. ‘Tell me, did you ever borrow money from anyone on the strength of that story?’

  ‘I’ve never told anyone else about that money, never!’

  ‘Then what about Joel Sloane, the man you shot in Brandon? I heard he drew on you after you refused to pay back the money you owed him.’

  They had just entered a steep canyon and Barton’s reply died on his lips as three horsemen approached, blocking the narrow path ahead. They were all Mexican; the one in the middle held the reins of a white mare in one hand and a pistol in the other. He leaned forward in the saddle as they
all came to a halt and pushed his sombrero back to reveal a fleshy, bearded face in which a wall eye was the most prominent feature.

  ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ said Harrison.

  The bearded man responded with a belly laugh which echoed around the canyon. Turning to the man on his left he said ‘How about that, Miguel? The man say he want no trouble, yet he tie his friend up like that.’ Shaking his head, he tutted in mock disapproval. ‘Well, we don’t want no trouble neither. We just want your horses and any money you got.’

  Miguel giggled as he added, ‘If they got plenty money, maybe we not kill them eh, Sancho?’

  Barton cut in. ‘Listen, I’m a wanted man, so if you let me throw in my lot with you—’

  Sancho kept his eyes on Harrison as he cocked his gun. ‘Enough words, gringos!’ He gestured for Harrison to dismount. ‘Don’t make me wait too long,’ he said.

  ‘Look, my prisoner’s worth a lot more to you than the horses or anything in the saddle-bags. If I prove it to you will you let me go?’ asked Harrison.

  ‘Go on,’ said Sancho as his one good eye narrowed suspiciously.

  ‘There’s something to show you in my inside pocket. If I move slowly, can I get it?’

  ‘No tricks,’ said the Mexican with a nod, raising his gun slightly.

  Harrison drew out the Wanted poster and handed it across. Sancho grinned as he scanned the contents and his companions leaned towards him. The split second in which they were distracted was long enough. Both guns slid from Harrison’s holsters and were fired in what seemed like one fluid movement as the first bullet went straight through Sancho’s heart. Miguel was reaching for his weapon when the second ripped into his lungs. The third man fired harmlessly into the air as two more bullets hit him squarely in the chest.

  Barton shook his head in amazement. ‘Never would have figured that,’ he remarked as Harrison dismounted in time to stop Miguel from reaching for the gun that lay nearest him. He placed his boot firmly on the barrel of the dying bandit’s weapon as he bent down to give him some water.