Dancing With Dead Men Read online

  He had made a lot of enemies over the past dozen years, and not all of them had been left dead behind him. The ones who were still alive would like nothing better than to put a bullet in him, and if word of his affliction spread in the right circles, men would be lining up to do just that. So far he had done everything in his power to keep his condition quiet, including paying all the doctors handsomely, but sooner or later the news would get out, and if Logan couldn't defend himself by then . . .

  That was why he was on a train bound for Hot Springs, gazing out the window beside him at Arkansas hillsides covered with beautiful red, orange, and gold autumn foliage.

  He sat alone on one of the uncomfortable bench seats with his cane and his hat beside him. He wore no gun; there wouldn't have been any point in it. His face was leaner than ever, his eyes set in hollow pits. Even though he knew he needed to keep his strength up, he hadn't had much of an appetite for a long time.

  "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" a woman's voice asked from the aisle.

  Logan turned his head to look at her. She was reasonably attractive, around thirty years of age, well-dressed and with a wedding band on her finger. He knew she felt sorry for him because he looked like a sick man. He wasn't, really, not any more. The fever and the cough were long gone. But the damage they had done still lingered and might from now on.

  He shook his head and said, "No, thank you." He knew he was being curt, but he couldn't help it. He didn't want anyone's pity, least of all that of a pretty woman. He could have played on her sympathy and gotten her to sit with him for the rest of the trip to Hot Springs, at the very least, but there was no point in it.

  She frowned and said, "Are you sure? You look so tired – "

  "Yes, madam, very sure," Logan said.

  "All right, then." She summoned up a weak smile. "If you change your mind, I'm sitting right up – "

  She stopped short again, this time because she was interrupted by the scream of the train's brakes locking down on the rails, which caused the car to lurch violently and nearly pitched the woman off her feet.

  The train's abrupt slowdown threw Logan forward, too. He put his right hand on the back of the seat in front of him to brace himself.

  "Oh, my Lord!" the woman exclaimed as she grasped a seat back, too, to keep herself from falling. "What's happening?"

  Logan knew the train wasn't supposed to stop again before it reached Hot Springs. Also, a scheduled stop would have been much more gradual. As the car continued shuddering and slowing down, he said, "Something must be wrong. You'd better go back to your seat, ma'am."

  Pale with fear, she did as he suggested. Logan stayed where he was and waited to see what was going to happen.

  Whatever it was, in his condition he couldn't do much about it.

  The train gave another lurch as it came to a complete stop. Logan looked out the window next to him and saw a heavily wooded slope rising only a few feet away. A glance out one of the windows on the other side of the car revealed similar terrain. The train hadn't stopped at a station somewhere, that was for sure.

  This car was about half-full of passengers, and all of them were excited, upset, and a little scared. People peered out the windows and asked questions. Logan heard the words "holdup" and "robbery" more than once.

  That seemed like a pretty strong possibility to Logan. He had never been a train robber, but his keen brain had no trouble figuring out how to go about stopping this train. All it would take was chopping through the trunk of a tall pine on each side of the tracks, leaving the trees still upright but ready to fall, and rigging ropes to topple them at just the right time, when the locomotive was still far enough away to stop in time but not so far back on the tracks that the engineer could stop and then reverse out of danger. One tree and the engineer might pour on the speed and try to blast through; two increased the risk of derailment too much to chance it.

  Then, once the train was stopped, masked men could rush out of the forest and board the engine, take it over at gunpoint, and then spread out through the cars to rob the passengers and loot the express car. A simple plan, and Logan had a strong hunch it was being carried out at this very minute.

  That hunch was confirmed a few minutes later when a man in a long duster and pulled down hat threw the door open at the front of the car and strode along the aisle with a gun in each hand. A red bandanna was tied around the lower half of his face, but what seemed to be genuine amusement sparkled in his eyes as he menaced the passengers with the weapons. A few women screamed, and several men cursed loudly and bitterly.

  "No need to take on so, folks," the bandit said in a clear voice that cut through the frightened hubbub. "My friends and I don't intend to hurt anybody unless we have to. Just quiet down and we'll all get through this as fast as we can."

  "I know that man," one of the male passengers said. "That's Jesse James!"

  Logan suppressed the impulse to shake his head. Even if the passenger was right, announcing it like that was a pretty foolish thing to do.

  But as it happened, the outlaw chuckled, evidently more amused than anything else. He said, "That's the price of fame, I suppose." Another masked, duster-clad man entered the car behind him. As the second outlaw took off his hat, Jesse James went on, "All right, folks, pony up. Wallets, watches, rings, and other valuables go into my brother's hat."

  Frank James moved along the aisle to collect the loot from the passengers. One man said, "I understand you boys have a grudge against the railroads, but why take it out on the passengers? We never did anything to you or your family."

  "That's true," Jesse admitted. "But you're riding on this train, and that supports the railroad. I hurt those money-grubbing scoundrels any way I can."

  "It's an outrage, that's what it is," the passenger grumbled as he dropped his wallet and watch into Frank James's hat.

  "Many things in life are, my friend," Jesse said.

  Frank came to the woman who had offered to help Logan. She quailed back against the seat and said, "I . . . I don't have anything."

  "Don't try to pull that, lady," Frank told her. "Those clothes you're wearing say different. Open up your handbag, or I'll just take the whole thing."

  The woman began to sob. Frank reached for her handbag.

  Logan leaned forward in his seat, without really thinking about what he was doing . . . or what he could do.

  Jesse was close by in the aisle. He swung his right-hand gun toward Logan and said, "Now don't go getting any ideas, friend. Chivalry can get a man killed."

  Logan looked down the barrel of the revolver and settled back against his seat. If he had still been the same man he was a year earlier, things might have been different. But . . . he wasn't.

  Frank James ripped the woman's handbag away from her, opened it, and took out a coin purse. He dropped that in his hat, rummaged through the rest of the bag's contents, and then tossed it disgustedly back on the bench beside her.

  Frank moved along the aisle to Logan's seat. He held out the hat and said, "Wallet in here, mister. And that better be all you reach for under your coat."

  "Don't worry," Logan said. "I'm not carrying a gun."

  He slid his wallet out of his pocket and dropped it in Frank's hat. Only about half of the money he had was in it; the other half was in his boot.

  Frank looked hard at Logan's cane, and after a moment Logan realized the outlaw was eyeing the silver decoration on the cane's handle.

  Jesse noticed, too, and said, "Forget it, Frank. I don't mind taking money from a cripple, but damned if I'm going to steal his cane."

  "An outlaw with scruples," Logan said.

  Jesse chuckled under the bandanna again and said, "It happens." He gestured with the right-hand gun. "Come on, Frank. Let's finish up here."

  Logan sat and looked down at the toes of his boots, glad that they hadn't hadn't searched him and found the rest of his money. He hadn't had much to start with. He hadn't been able to work since being stricken with the paralysis
in Aspen Creek, and months of living expenses with medical bills on top of them had eaten up most of his savings. But at least he wouldn't reach Hot Springs dead broke.

  He wasn't surprised that Jesse James claimed to have scruples, either. He had read about the James brothers and their cousins the Youngers. They claimed that through their outlaw exploits they were sticking up with the common folks against the railroads and the other big businesses and the carpetbaggers from up north. That was what they liked to tell people and they probably told themselves the same thing until they came to believe it. Logan had run into hired guns who were the same way, always telling themselves that they were in the right somehow.

  But the James boys and their cousins were just outlaws. Those hired guns were just killers. They could pretty it up all they wanted, but that didn't change the facts.

  When Jesse and Frank had taken everybody's valuables, they moved on to the next car. This one erupted with noise again as soon as the outlaws were gone. Women wailed as their husbands tried to comfort them. Men cursed and blustered about what they would have done, if only they'd had the chance.

  None of that was true, Logan thought. They had all had their chances, and they had stayed in their seats and handed over their money, just like him. They'd been scared to death.

  He wasn't scared. He would have almost welcomed a bullet from Jesse James's gun. He hadn't tried anything because the sheer hopelessness of the whole thing was overwhelming. He had never minded wagering his life, but he wasn't going to throw it away.

  The woman who had tried to befriend him earlier had her hands over her face as she cried. Logan put on his hat and picked up his cane. He levered himself to his feet and made his way up the aisle to her seat. As he sat down beside her, he said, "I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could have done to help."

  "Oh . . . oh, no," she said. "I never would have expected . . . I mean, you couldn't . . ."

  "No, I couldn't," he said. "There was a time I might have . . . but that's gone now."

  A few minutes later the train's conductor burst into the car to see if everybody was all right.

  "Those damned outlaws have ridden off," he reported. "We'll get moving again in a few minutes, as soon as a couple of trees are cleared off the tracks. Any able-bodied men want to volunteer to help, it'll be appreciated."

  "That lets me out," Logan said quietly. For some reason he was pleased that the conductor had confirmed his speculation about how the outlaws had stopped the train.

  The woman put a hand on his arm and told him, "Don't say that. It's not your fault."

  "No, I suppose not," he said. He didn't really believe in a man being punished for his sins, at least not on this earth. As for what might happen beyond it, he couldn't say.

  But maybe all those dead men dancing through his dreams were trying to tell him different.

  5.

  The town of Hot Springs lay in a winding valley that twisted between rugged, tree-covered hills. Logan had never been there before, and after growing up on the Kansas prairie and spending a lot of his time since then on the plains or in the semi-arid southwest, he found this Arkansas terrain to be beautiful. Many of the trees were pines or other evergreens, but there were trees where the leaves had turned color with the arrival of fall, so the slopes were a striking blend of different shades.

  The train station buzzed with talk about the robbery, as passengers getting off told the people meeting them about being held up by the notorious James-Younger gang. No one was there to meet Logan, of course, since he didn't know anybody here, so he limped through the station lobby without anyone stopping him. The woman who had talked to him wasn't getting off the train here; she had told him that she was headed on to Little Rock, where she lived with her husband. The mildly flirtatious conversation they'd shared had taken her mind off being robbed, so Logan supposed it had done that much good, anyway.

  He had only a small carpetbag, but handling it along with his cane in his one good hand made him move awkwardly through the depot. A porter offered to help him, but Logan shook his head. He had come to be stubborn about managing on his own.

  "Maybe you can tell me, though, where to find Dr. August Strittmatter's clinic," he said to the man.

  "Doc Strittmatter? That little foreign fella? His place is on Bathhouse Row, like all the others." The porter pointed. "Follow this street and it'll take you along the base of Hot Springs Mountain. That's where all the bathhouses are."

  Logan had figured the physician would have an actual clinic, rather than just a bathhouse, but he supposed the two things could be combined. It was the hot mineral springs that were supposed to do the patients the most good, after all.

  "What about a place to stay?"

  The porter grinned and said, "Plenty of hotels along the row, too, sir. Just the sort for a fine gentleman like yourself."

  Logan smiled. His clothes were still of good quality, but a fine gentleman needed money, too, and he had very little of that. He said, "Maybe someplace a bit more inexpensive . . ."

  "Oh," the porter said in obvious understanding. "In that case, there are some boardin' houses, and most of 'em are pretty nice. Just check a couple blocks over."

  Logan nodded and said, "Thanks. I'll do that."

  "I can get you a buggy – "

  "No, that's all right. I'll walk." He wanted to preserve as much of the money Frank and Jesse James had left him as he could.

  It was a beautiful autumn day as he walked out of the station, filled with warm sunshine and a breeze that held a hint of coolness. He turned and walked a couple of blocks, as the porter had suggested, then turned again and headed along the street.

  Most of the buildings appeared to be fairly new, which puzzled him at first until he decided that the town must have suffered a considerable amount of damage during the war. He hadn't really paid that much attention to the conflict after he left Kansas and headed west, but he supposed Union and Confederate forces had clashed quite a bit here in Arkansas, even if the destruction hadn't been as devastating here as it was further east in places like Georgia and Virginia.

  He came to a nice-looking three-story frame house with whitewashed walls and green painted trim around the windows. A neatly printed sign that read ROOMS was propped up in one of the first floor windows. The place looked as good as any, if he could afford it, Logan thought. He turned and went along a short flagstone walk to the steps that led up to a front porch.

  He had just started up those steps when the house's front door opened and a man stepped out. He saw Logan struggling to climb the steps while balancing both cane and carpetbag and said, "Here, let me give you a hand, partner."

  Out of stubborn habit, Logan said, "Thanks, but I can manage by myself."

  "Sure you can," the man replied, "but why should you when I'm right here?"

  He came down the steps and took Logan's carpetbag. Logan tensed, ready to take a swing at the man if he tried to run off with the carpetbag.

  That didn't seem to be the stranger's intention, though. He turned and fell in step beside Logan. He had a limp, too, Logan noticed as they both went up the stairs, but a much less noticeable one.

  "Rusty Turner's my name," the man introducted himself. He was older than Logan, probably in his late forties judging by the touches of gray in the curly red hair that must have given him the nickname "Rusty". Barrel-chested, he wore rough work clothes and had a battered old hat shoved back on his head. He went on, "You lookin' for a place to stay?"

  "That's right," Logan said.

  "Well, you won't find a better place than this. Miz Eastland keeps a clean house, and she's a mighty fine cook, too. Mighty fine. You ain't lived until you've tasted her buttermilk biscuits. 'Course, it don't hurt matters that she's a mite easy on the eyes, too. Just don't get no ideas. She can be pretty stand-offish with fellas who do. Can't really blame her, I reckon, what with ever'thing she's been through. That husband o' hers, he's a dadgum fool, if you ask me."

  Logan didn't recall aski
ng Rusty Turner anything, but that didn't seem to make much difference. He could already tell that the older man liked to run his mouth. Some men were like that, although Logan had never quite been able to comprehend why. He spoke when he had something to say. He certainly wasn't in love with the sound of his own voice.

  When they reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto the porch, Logan said, "I appreciate the help, Mr. Turner – "

  "You ain't told me your name yet."

  "It's Logan Handley." Logan didn't see what harm that would do. He had never been to Arkansas before, so he didn't expect to run into any old enemies here. Although anything was possible, he supposed. He went on, "I can take my bag now – "

  "No, that's all right, I got it. Come on. Let's go inside so you can say howdy to Miz Eastland."

  Arguing with Turner would be a waste of time, Logan decided, and it was easier to get around without having to carry his bag and handle his cane at the same time. So he just nodded and said, "Thanks," as Turner opened the door.

  They went into a foyer with a nice hardwood floor covered by a woven rug. To the right was a parlor that appeared comfortably but not fancily furnished with several armchairs, a divan, and a pair of rocking chairs near a fireplace. To the left of the foyer was a dining room dominated by a long table in the center, with a couple of china cabinets along one wall. Directly ahead rose a staircase leading to the second and third floors.

  A woman paused halfway down those stairs as Logan and Turner came in. The house was shadowy enough after being outside that Logan couldn't immediately make out any details about the woman except that she was tall and slender. As Rusty Turner closed the front door behind them, the woman resumed her descent.

  Logan's eyes adjusted to the light enough for him to see that she was attractive, in a somewhat severe way. Her dark brown hair was pulled behind her head and gathered at the back of her neck. She wore a plain gray dress, the sort of thing he might have expected to see a widow wearing after the first few months of mourning, but Turner had referred to her as Mrs. and mentioned her husband.