Ralph Compton - Bounty Hunter

“Not like mine.”

“No, nothing like yours.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died.”

Tone’s attention went back to the street. It had been a week since he’d taken the oath on Sprague’s ship and since then he hadn’t seen the man, or Penman either.

He’d spent his time exploring the waterfront, realizing just how far he was from his natural element, the wild western lands. Here, along the Barbary Coast, the arroyos were dark, rank alleys, the mountains the high, rickety buildings that rose on all sides of him, and the only streams were the rivers of bad whiskey and rum that flowed in the taverns.

And the sea was always there, making its presence known by sight, sound and smell, as alien to John Tone as the landscapes of the moon.

“What are you thinking about, John?” the woman asked.

“Nothing.”

“You must be thinking about something. Me, maybe?”

“Yes, you. I’m thinking about you.”

“What are you thinking? Do you want to try something new?”

“I’m thinking you’re the gabbiest whore I’ve ever met.”

“See, you’re being cruel again. Why do you never get far from your guns?”

“Because I may need them in a hurry.”

“Why would someone want to kill you, a poor sailorman?”

Tone smiled again and turned. “You ask too many questions.”

The woman was lying on top of the tumbled bed, naked as a seal, the coral tips of her breasts just visible in the darkness. She had a wide, inviting mouth that was smeared with scarlet and her eyes were half shut, languid with awakening desire.

Tone lay beside her and cupped a breast in his hand, caressing the silken skin with the ball of his thumb.

“You like sleeping with me, John, don’t you?”

“Sure I like sleeping with you.”

“Tell me why. Tell me why you like sleeping with me.”

“Because I don’t have to love a whore.”

Tone woke to darkness, all of his senses suddenly alert.

There it was again!

A soft creak on the shoddily built stair outside his room. Then another.

He reached out to the bedside table and picked up the long-barreled Colt. Beside him the woman was breathing softly, lost in dreams.

Tone rose, and on cat feet pulled on his nightshirt, then stepped into the shadows to the left of the window. Outside, the fog was thick and there was little light in the room. Fighting to control his rapid breathing, he raised the Colt and waited.

The door crashed into the room with such force, it was torn from its hinges.

On the bed, the woman shrieked.

Tone saw a bulky body directly in front of him. The man fired into the bed, fired again. The woman screamed louder.

Tone had waited to see how many assailants he was facing. There were two of them.

He fired at the man who’d shot into the bed. He heard a grunt and the huge body turned toward him. The man fired and the bullet crashed into the wall a few inches from Tone’s head. Tone blasted another shot at his assailant and the man staggered back, slamming into his companion. The second would-be assassin made an attempt to get to the doorway, but Tone shot twice, very fast, and the man went right on through, then tumbled down the stairs, slamming and crashing his way to the bottom.

Now Tone moved to his left, aware that he had only one shot left. He heard a groan and through the gloom saw that the man he’d shot was down on his hands and knees, coughing up blood.

“Stay there, you son of a bitch,” Tone said, “or I’ll blow your damned head off.”

He stepped to the bed, ignored the shrieking woman and found a match. He lit the gas lamp above the fireplace and a ghostly, pale blue light spread through the room.

Tone crossed the floor, hooked his bare foot under the wounded man’s chin and raised his face to his own. “Who are you?” he asked.

Blood filled the man’s mouth and his eyes were bright with pain. He tried to speak, but could not.

“Who sent you?” Tone said, anger flaring in him.

“You’re talking to a dead man, Mr. Tone. He can’t speak.”

Looking around, Tone saw Simon Hogg in the doorway. “You blowed his damned liver out,” Hogg said.

“Recognize him?”

Hogg, a big, bearded man with a mottled patch of blue skin on his right cheek where he’d once gotten too close to a firing gun, shook his head. “Never seen him afore, or the one at the bottom of the stairs either.”

“Is he dead?”

“As hell in a parson’s parlor.”

Tone kicked the kneeling man on the side of his head. His assailant fell on his side, coughing up blood. “Look at his feet,” Tone said.

“Texas, by God,” Hogg said.

Tone nodded. “He dressed himself like a sailor, but you can’t get a Texan to give up his boots.”

“Drover?”

“At one time, but look at his hands. This man hasn’t done any punching in years.”

The man on the floor rolled on his back. His breath rattled in his throat and his eyes turned up in his head as he died, a sight that made the woman scream and reach for her clothes.

“I’m getting out of here,” she yelled, jiggling into her dress. “John Tone, you’re not only cruel, you’re crazy.”

She flounced past him and walked out the door, assisted by a grin and a slap on the rump from Hogg. “She’ll be back,” he said. “Jennie Burns has seen worse.”

He looked at Tone. “Do you think he and the other one were sent by the six men who plan to kill the cap’n?”

“I’d bet on it, unless . . .” Tone hesitated. He nodded in the direction of the dead man. “Hogg, are you sure he’s not one of the six?”

“I’m sure. By all accounts they’re dangerous men, but they can afford to have their killing done for them. Besides, that man was way too young to have been in the war.”

“But how could they have known—”

“That you’re Cap’n Sprague’s sworn man?”

“Yes. How would the six men know?”

“Beats me, Mr. Tone. I sure as hell didn’t tell them. I’m a sworn man me ownself.”

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs and a huge man dressed in San Francisco police blue filled the doorway. He looked around him, his icy blue eyes missing nothing. “This your doing, Hogg?” he asked finally.

The innkeeper shook his head. “Not this time, Sergeant Langford. This man and one other attacked Mr. John Tone here, one of my guests.”

“I saw the one other on the landing downstairs. He’d been shot, but it was a broken neck that killed him.” He looked at Tone. “You’ve got some explaining to do, young man.”

As Hogg would tell Tone later, despite his weathered face and iron gray hair, Sergeant Thomas Langford was a police officer to be reckoned with. Like every officer assigned to waterfront duty, he’d been handpicked for his bravery, strength and huge size. He carried the regulation nightstick, heavy revolver and in a large outside breast pocket within easy reach of his hand, a bowie knife with an eight-inch blade.

At one time or another, Langford had used all three of his weapons, but he was an expert with the knife. A year before, after he was attacked by three burglars in a used-clothing store on Pacific Street, he’d drawn his knife and charged the men in the face of their revolver fire. Despite several wounds, Langford had decapitated one, cut the hand off another and sent the third man, badly slashed, screaming into the night.

Now he listened patiently while Tone recounted the attack and his desperate fight for his life.

When Tone was finished, Langford said, “Where is your ship?”

Tone looked helplessly at Hogg, and the man said quickly, “At the moment he’s between ships, Sergeant. Resting on the beach, you might say.”

“Do you always answer for him when he’s asked a question, Hogg?” Langford said.