Dead Man Walking Read online

  It had been easy enough to find out where Higgs lived. They’d just waited at the station – well, they’d waited in the saloon across from the station, nursing beers for as long as they could, watching Ned squirm, trying to find a comfortable position to sit. A fellow had been playing a piano and a poker game had been in progress, but the three of them had kept themselves to themselves, drinking and watching the clock behind the bar tick round. They took turns standing outside waiting for Higgs. Around five o’clock Ned saw the man walking out with a leather satchel in his hand. They’d followed him all the way home. Simple.

  ‘We’ll do it late,’ Red said. ‘When he’s gone to bed. He’ll be most vulnerable then.’

  They’d waited hours for Maxwell Higgs’ lights to all go off, but then, when there was just one light left burning and they were debating as to whether or not they ought to make their move, a fellow had walked up the street, opened the gate on Higgs’ little fence and rapped on his door. The boys had shifted backwards into the shadows of the tree-filled yard across the street, and had waited some more.

  The man was in there fifteen or twenty minutes, and it wasn’t long after he left that the last light went off.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Red said. It had been a day of waiting. They could manage five more minutes.

  ‘Who was that?’ Marion Higgs said. ‘I hope you told them how rude it is to be calling at such an hour.’

  She was in bed. A candle burned on the small table beside the bed. She had two pillows propping her not inconsiderable body into a comfortable position, and she had a book resting face down on her chest.

  ‘It was Ben Adams.’

  ‘That brute. He wouldn’t care whether he was the rudest man in the world or not.’

  ‘He’s not a brute and he’s not rude. In fact he’s a quiet—’

  ‘I know he’s quiet. But from what I hear he’s the cruellest man in Austin.’

  ‘He does what he needs to do.’

  ‘And what needed to be done in our house at midnight?’

  Maxwell Higgs took off his dressing gown and hung it on the back of the door.

  ‘He had some news he wanted to share.’

  ‘And it couldn’t wait until morning?’

  ‘He might be gone first thing in the morning. Tracking a man.’

  ‘Tracking a man? Now that does sound like something Ben Adams would get up early for. Who is this man?’

  ‘A fellow named Jim Jackson. A train robber. He’s come to Texas to try and break out some of his old gang from prison.’ He pulled the covers back on his side of the bed and climbed in. ‘With a bit of luck we’ll catch him in the act and—’

  ‘We’ll catch him? Are you going too?’

  ‘I’m speaking figuratively. We being the Railroad.’

  ‘Oh. That we. Anyway, darling, before you get too comfortable, you wouldn’t get me a glass of water, would you?’

  ‘Of course, darling.’

  Maxwell Higgs climbed out of bed and went downstairs.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Red Kelly said, pressing the barrel of his gun against the back of Maxwell Higgs’ neck.

  Higgs froze. One hand was on a jug of water he kept on the counter, and the other was holding the cloth they kept over the top of the jug to stop any spiders getting in there.

  ‘Put your hands in the air slowly,’ Red said.

  ‘Who are you?’ Higgs said, raising his hands.

  ‘That don’t matter.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Don’t turn around.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Those boys you had on display today.’

  ‘It wasn’t a display. It was—’

  ‘You had ’em on display.’

  ‘OK. OK.’

  ‘You said one of your guards shot ’em.’

  ‘You’re the feller was talking to me—’

  ‘I said don’t turn.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘What’s the guard’s name?’

  ‘I’m sorry. As I told you earlier, I’m not at—’ Higgs let out a hiss of pain as Red twisted the gun barrel into his neck.

  ‘Name. And where I can find him.’

  ‘I’m sorry—’ Red twisted the barrel again and this time Higgs’ pain was louder, a cry rather than a hiss.

  ‘Are you OK, Maxwell?’ a woman called from above. ‘It wasn’t another spider in the water was it?’

  Red Kelly looked around at Callum Short. ‘Seems like we have the fellow’s wife upstairs. Go on up and say hello.’

  ‘Wait,’ Higgs said. ‘Please. I can’t tell you the fellow’s name.’

  ‘Upstairs,’ Red said, nodding to Callum.

  ‘I don’t know the man,’ Higgs said.

  ‘That’s not what you told me earlier.’

  ‘Our guards. I don’t know every one of them. I swear.’

  Upstairs, Marion Higgs exclaimed, ‘Who are you? How dare you—’ Then her voice cut off abruptly.

  ‘What is he doing?’ Higgs said.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Red said, still talking to the back of Higgs’ head. ‘You were about to tell me the man’s name.’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘Fellow shoots two men on your railroad and you don’t know his name?’

  ‘Flanders. Daniel Flanders. That was his name.’

  ‘So you did know his name.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Please. I’ve told you his name now—’

  ‘Where can I find Daniel Flanders?’

  ‘I don’t know. Really. Honestly.’

  ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ Red Kelly said. ‘I’d like to meet your wife.’

  ‘Please, I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Upstairs. And if you try anything I’ll shoot you in the spine. You’ll never walk again.’

  Higgs turned and, with his hands in the air and his nightshirt billowing about his legs, he led Red Kelly upstairs.

  In the bedroom Callum Short had his revolver pointed at Marion Higgs. He had a finger over his lips indicating her to be quiet. She was still propped up in bed, her mouth open and her skin pale yellow in the flickering candlelight.

  When her husband shuffled into the room at gunpoint her mouth opened wider and then, his presence giving her the courage to find her voice, she said, ‘Maxwell, who are these men?’ She looked at Red. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Your husband couldn’t remember a fellow’s name,’ Red said. ‘Then he did. Right now he can’t remember where I can find that fellow, but he’s about to.’

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ Higgs said.

  ‘Cal’,’ Red said. ‘Grab that pillow.’ He nodded towards the pillow on the empty side of the bed.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Higgs said.

  ‘I’m probably going to shoot you in the back,’ Red said, ‘and leave you squirming on the floor in agony, praying that you bleed out quickly because of the pain. That’s if you try anything. On the other hand, if you tell me what I need to know then I’ll just go.’

  Callum slipped his gun back into his holster, walked around the bed, and picked up the pillow. Marion Higgs pulled the blanket up to her throat.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said. She looked at Higgs. ‘Do something.’

  ‘Over her face,’ Red said.

  ‘No!’ Higgs said.

  Callum was quick. He jumped on to the bed and, before Marion could move, he had the pillow pressed over her face. He climbed on top of her, using his own weight to hold her down as she thrashed and squirmed. One of her flailing arms caught Callum a heavy blow on the side of the head and knocked his hat off, but he kept pressing the pillow down.

  ‘No!’ Higgs said and jumped forwards. Red had hold of Higgs’ nightshirt collar but the shirt ripped and came loose in Red’s hand. A naked Maxwell Higgs launched himself at Callum Short, knocking him off the bed. Callum crashed into the bedside cabinet. The burning candle arced through the air and came to rest against the wall. On the bed Marion Higgs was gasping for breath
and weeping.

  Higgs, on his knees on top of Marion – just like Callum had been a moment earlier – turned and looked at Red.

  ‘You sonofabitch,’ he said.

  With the knocking over of the candle the shadows in the room had changed. Higgs’ face was in darkness. He turned to Marion and said, ‘Are you all right?’

  She sobbed and tried to breathe. She coughed.

  ‘Easy,’ Higgs said.

  On the far side of the bed Callum Short stood up. He still had the pillow in his hand. The candle was burning behind him, up against the wall. From where Red was standing Callum was just a silhouette. It was like watching a creature rise up out of the darkness, made more terrifying because you couldn’t see any details.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that, old man,’ Callum said.

  ‘Get away!’ Higgs said, turning his gaze from Red to Callum.

  Red ratcheted back the hammer on his Colt.

  ‘Time for me to shoot someone, I think. Maybe both of you. But who wants to go first?’

  ‘Tell . . . them,’ Marion Higgs said, her voice quiet and hoarse and broken by her snatched gasps for air. ‘Tell them what . . . they want to know. Tell them about . . . Jim Jackson.’

  It was lighter in the room now, as if the candle flame had grown larger.

  ‘Jim Jackson?’ Red said.

  Higgs rolled backwards on the bed. He snatched at one edge of the blanket, trying to pull it across his body to cover his nakedness.

  ‘You told us the fellow’s name was Daniel Flanders.’

  ‘It is. It was.’

  ‘You lied.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Cal, the pillow again.’

  ‘No!’ Higgs said, trying to untangle himself from the blanket and holding out his arms to push Callum away from Marion.

  Red stepped forwards and placed the cocked gun against Higgs’ head.

  ‘Just tell us all about this Jim Jackson and we’ll go.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Max!’ Marion said. The shadow of the pillow was over her face. ‘The room is on fire!’

  A quick glance was all Red needed. Yep, the candle had rolled up against the wall. The wallpaper had turned black and was now smoking. Actual flames were starting to curl upwards.

  ‘The house is on fire,’ Higgs said, looking at Red. ‘Please!’

  ‘Plenty of time to put it out,’ Red said. ‘I mean, you have a jug of water downstairs.’

  ‘Maxwell!’ Marion pleaded. ‘Tell them!’

  ‘The pillow, Cal.’

  ‘Tell them!’

  Outside, Ned Donovan, keeping guard with instructions to shoot into the night sky as a warning should Red and Callum need to get out straight away, thought he heard a gunshot from inside the house. He had one hand down the back of his breeches and was trying to work a piece of lead loose from the top of his thigh. The wound had scabbed over, but the metal was still in his leg and bothered him every time he touched it or sat on it. He had picked the scab off and was busy trying to squeeze the metal out. It hurt like hell and he knew he had another dozen or more other pieces in his flesh, some that he couldn’t reach very well, but he was darned if he was going to ask Red or Cal to do it. The noise from the house had been quiet and muffled and he’d been breathing noisily through clenched teeth when he had heard it. After brief consideration he decided it had probably been a window slamming.

  A moment later he heard another. This one, because he was paying more attention, was most definitely a gunshot.

  He stared at the house, wondering what was going on in there, and now he saw tendrils of smoke rising from one side, up on the first floor.

  He pulled his hand out of his trousers and drew his gun, holding it down by his side.

  The smoke was thickening.

  Red and Callum suddenly appeared along the side of the house, running. They nodded towards Ned to follow them, and then they were gone, into the darkness along the street.

  Ned ran after them, pausing only once to look back, and when he did he saw flames licking at the wall that a few moments previously had only been smoking.

  That was the thing about Red, he thought. If the fellow wanted something he would do anything.

  Anything.

  Chapter Ten

  Billy Burke, the young prison guard, found Webster T. Ellington by the gate. It seemed to Billy that Webster spent a lot of time by that gate, almost as if it was him rather than the prisoners that was imprisoned by it.

  ‘Captain wants to see you,’ Billy said.

  Webster spat tobacco juice on the ground. Billy knew that it riled Webster whenever someone used the word “captain” and it wasn’t him they were talking about. Webster had been a captain once. Still was as far as he was concerned. But the thing was, they had a real captain, too. And you had to call him by his proper title, no matter that it riled Webster.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Said there’s news from Austin that would interest you.’

  Webster glared at Billy.

  ‘Last time, and the time before, and the time before that, the news from Austin was that I was being moved from one camp to another. Usually somewhere hotter, or wetter, or colder. Or somewhere that stank more. I doubt this time will be any different.’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘It’s been nice knowing you, kid.’

  Billy watched Webster stomp off towards the house. That was where the captain lived and where he had his office. Webster’s shoulders were hunched over as if he had the weight of the world upon them.

  Billy looked across at the huts. It was eight-thirty in the morning. The prisoners were already two hours into their working day over in the forest, felling and cutting and digging and hauling. Most of the guards were down there with them. Billy had the job of keeping an eye on the half dozen men who were too sick to work. They were in the hut over there by the foul-smelling creek. One of them would be allowed out to empty buckets and get water, but the rule was, if you were too ill to work then you were too ill to walk around the compound.

  The one named Winters was in there.

  Winters only came to mind because Webster had a special hatred for the fellow. Webster told how Winters reminded him of another fellow. Billy had forgotten the other fellow’s name, but he was the cause of all Webster’s issues. And Webster often took out those issues on Winters, which was probably why he was lying up in his bunk right now, baking in the heat and counting down the minutes until water time.

  Billy looked back towards the house. It was a massive brick-built mansion that could have been accommodated all the guards’ living quarters, not just the captain and his family. Little Alfie – the captain’s son – was around somewhere. He was just six years old. The kid always had a big smile on his face and his hair stuck up all over the place. He loved to help out and do odd jobs around the camp, running this way and that, usually with his little dog close behind him. They let Alfie open and close the gates sometime when visitors arrived, and they let him replace the paper stack in the privy once all the prisoners had gone off to the lumber camp.

  Billy saw Webster now, coming back from seeing the captain, walking past the long bunkhouse where the guards lived. He was smiling and his shoulders no longer looked so hunched over.

  ‘Good news?’ Billy said when Webster had got back to the gate.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Webster said nodding. ‘An old friend is coming to visit.’

  ‘An old friend?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You’re pleased, I can tell. Is he a good friend?’

  Webster smiled.

  Chapter Eleven

  Prairie City was, Jim Jackson thought, anything but a city. It was a town, at best, and a small one at that. Whoever had named it must have been hoping for greater things. It had a main street lined by false-fronted buildings with facades that had either never been painted or that had faded in the Texas sun. The boardwalk was broken in places and the thoroughfare was carved with wagon rut
s. Clouds of dust swirled at ankle level. Main Street was criss-crossed with smaller streets, each lined with more plain timber businesses. Further out, there was no pattern to the buildings. They had seemingly been erected at random points wherever the ground was flat enough and solid enough to support them. A few miles to the west and north the green hills were thick with lumber, and from those hills a creek ran down to the eastern side of Prairie City. Someone had run clay pipes from the creek to the centre of town where it looked like a small pumping handle would draw water. But when Jim led his horse to a trough alongside the pumping handle he saw that the trough was dry. It was a few hundred yards to the creek. Maybe it was too much effort to pump that water. Prairie Creek had the air of a town where an awful lot of things were too much trouble.

  He followed the dry pipes over to the creek and watered his horse, and when she’d had her fill they came back into town. He looped the reins over the hitching rail outside an unnamed saloon and walked inside.

  He ordered a beer and the bartender poured it from a cask that sat on a chair behind the counter. The beer was warm and cloudy but it washed the dust from Jim’s throat.

  ‘You have rooms here?’ he asked.

  The bartender was tall and thin and had a bald head. He wore a white shirt and a blue vest. The shirt was dirty at the collar and cuffs.

  ‘Not here. There’s a hotel a little further along. I’m sure they’ll fit you in.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No idea how they make that place pay,’ the bartender said. He shrugged and pulled a puzzled expression as if the economies of his fellow businessmen were one of the great mysteries of life.

  ‘Not the sort of place that sees many visitors?’

  ‘Nothing here but lumber,’ the bartender said.

  ‘Uh-huh. Lumber.’

  ‘You don’t look like a lumber man.’

  ‘I’m visiting a friend up at Camp 13.’

  ‘Camp 13, huh?’ The bartender shook his head.

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. I’ve heard about it.’

  The man’s expression suggested that Camp 13 was just about the worst place on God’s own earth.

  ‘Not good?’