Ralph Compton - Bounty Hunter

“Why . . . but why did you take time to steal the woman’s bracelet?”

“A trophy—what else? When I make a kill I always take a memento. Mickey probably gave the whore this.”

Almost breathless with excitement, Chastity lifted shining eyes to Tone. “Now I’ve got five kills. Wherever Western men gather, they’ll talk about me in the same breath as Hardin, Thompson and Hickok. Think about it: I’m only a woman, but I’m making history.”

Tone was too stunned to speak. Was this what a born killer sounded like? And was he disturbed because he was hearing an unsettling echo of his own arrogance?

Chastity Christian enjoyed the act of killing and she was a woman without a conscience. Where was his own conscience? He had always presumed it was dead and buried with Molly O’Hara. But had he killed it himself, much later, when he’d first taken up the gun and hunted men?

Tone had no chance to question himself further. Chastity pressed her body against his, her lips parted, scarlet and glistening, her pelvis grinding into his. “Take me home, Tone. Take me home now, and ride me like an unbroken mare. I feel wonderful!”

They walked back to the alley through the thickening fog and neither of them spoke. But Chastity’s shining eyes were everywhere, as though seeing her surroundings for the first time and in a different light. The woman was ecstatic, radiant and as beautiful as a fallen angel.

In bed, Chastity came to Tone willingly, eagerly, but before he could hold her he had to invade her, forced to penetrate a defensive bulwark of elbows and knees.

When Tone woke, Chastity was already out of bed. She sat at the dresser, where she’d just finished cleaning her derringer.

She saw that Tone was awake and smiled at him. “I asked Chang to bring us coffee.”

“How long have you been up?”

“About an hour. You were sound asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.”

Chastity rose to her feet, wearing only the pink Chinese tunic, her breasts unfettered. She sat on the bed and crossed her legs.

“We meet Mr. Sprague later today, remember?” she said. “At least you have good news to give him.” She leaned over and kissed Tone lightly on the mouth. “I suspect Luther will also be here to greet his boss.”

At that moment the woman looked so desirable that Tone reached for her. She evaded him and got to her feet. “The moment’s gone, Tone,” she said, smiling. “I needed it last night, but not today. Wait until I make my next kill, huh?”

Tone shook his head, the woman’s coldness again shaking him to the core. “Chastity,” he said, “there’s more to life than killing.”

“That, coming from you, John Tone, the famous bounty hunter? How many have you killed?”

“I don’t enjoy killing. Every one of those men were notified and I tried my best to take them in alive.”

Chastity no longer seemed cold, merely indifferent. “The dodgers on the first three men I killed said, ‘Wanted, dead or alive,’ so I took them in dead. What was wrong in that?”

“It’s the fact that you enjoy killing that’s wrong. Can’t you understand?”

The woman slowed her speech, as though she was talking to a child. “Tone, when I was eight years old I watched my father beat my mother to death in a drunken rage. He tried to beat me too, but I ran away. I told our local sheriff what had happened and he brought me back to our cabin. The sheriff—I remember his name was Hank Dillbury—looked at what my father had done to my mother. Then he looked at my father snoring in his chair, then at me.

“Dillbury drew his gun, pressed the muzzle against my father’s forehead and pulled the trigger. I saw it happen and I smiled and so did the sheriff.”

Chastity waved her hand dismissively. “Men kill each other all the time, Tone, and most enjoy it. I can tell you that Dillbury did. Why should a woman be any different?”

“When you killed Mickey Kerr, why did you have to shoot the girl?”

“She was about to scream. She would have told the others what had happened.” Chastity shrugged. “Besides, like my mother, she was a whore. Does anybody care about the death of a whore?”

“It seems that Sheriff Dillbury did.”

The woman laughed. “Hell, he was one of them who went at Ma every chance they got. Dillbury didn’t care about her. He was mad at Pa for killing his favorite poke.”

Chastity picked up the hammered-silver bracelet and pushed it onto her left wrist. She held it up so it caught the morning light and asked Tone: “You like?”

He was spared the necessity of answering when Chang scratched at the door. Chastity told him to come in, and the little man entered, a grin on his face and a tray in his hands.

“Did missy sleep well?” he asked.

“Well enough, Mr. Chang,” the woman answered.

The man set the tray, bearing a coffeepot and cups, on the dresser, then turned to Chastity again. “Mr. Penman was here. He say he going to the docks, come back later. Seemed very cross.”

“Thank you,” Chastity said. “That will be all for now.”

She poured coffee into the cups. “Better get dressed, Tone,” she said. “If Penman really is cross, our good news should cheer him up.”

Tone nodded, but said nothing.

Chapter 18

“Mickey Kerr was the least of them,” Luther Penman said. “During the late war he wasn’t even an officer, just an ordinary seaman with more brawn than brains.”

The lawyer opened his briefcase. “Nevertheless, you have a payment coming to you, Mr. Tone, less deductions for the guns you bought and miscellaneous expenses incurred while entertaining whores.”

Chastity gave Tone a sidelong look, half annoyed and half amused.

“Penman, I didn’t kill Mickey Kerr,” Tone said. “Miss Christian did. The money should go to her.”

“Perhaps, but Miss Christian has no contract with Mr. Sprague to cover that exigency. The fee is yours, Mr. Tone. You are free to pass it on to a second party as you see fit.”

When Tone handed Chastity the bundle of notes, she looked at it for long moments, a triumphant little smile on her lips. She then handed the money to Penman. “Invest this for me,” she said. “Opium, whores, slaves, whatever . . . I trust you to make the right decisions on my behalf.”

The lawyer nodded and shoved the money into his briefcase. “I declare, Miss Christian, you’ll be the richest woman in America one day.”

Chastity nodded. “That is my intention.”

Penman shifted his attention to Tone. His hard eyes searched the younger man’s face but slid away, baffled, as though he’d tried to read a message carved in stone and had failed.

“I have left a man at the dock,” the lawyer said. “He will tell us when Mr. Sprague’s longboat is in sight. He will have fighting men with him and the war against his five surviving enemies will begin in earnest.”

Again Penman sought Tone’s eyes, and again he turned away, seeing something in their blue depths that disturbed him. “Mr. Tone, you’re not having second thoughts, are you? You know what will happen if you break your sacred oath.”

“Don’t try to railroad me, Penman,” Tone said evenly. “I signed on with the brand to fight, and that’s what I’ll do.”

“Despite your rather colorful frontier language, I’m glad to hear that,” the lawyer said. “When the shooting starts, Mr. Sprague will expect you to be at his side.”

Tone nodded, his talking done.

“What now, Mr. Penman?” Chastity asked, filling in the silence.

“Now, my dear, we await Mr. Sprague’s arrival. In the meantime I suggest that you discard the Chinese garb and dress in your normal fashion. I fear that the time for disguises is past.”