S. J. Lindstrom had aged dramatically during the last month. His face was furrowed with lines and creases that made him look old far beyond his fifty-four years. Grief was bringing him down, breaking him, changing him in both body and soul.
Jenna had been the jewel of his life. Lindstrom’s daughter had meant far more to him than his wealth or his land. And now she was gone. It didn’t seem possible to Lindstrom that his daughter, so beautiful, so young, could actually be lost to this life forever. She had been so much like his wife ... her mother was in the girl in so many ways ... and now they both were shadows of the past.
His mind ablaze with all he had lost, with all that would never be, S. J. Lindstrom rode into Lost Creek a bitter, vengeful man.
His first stop was the sheriff’s office. He nodded perfunctorily at Watts, who was sitting at his desk, and kept right on walking past the sheriff, opening the door to the back where there were four cells. Dave Bennett was locked up in one of those cells. There was something in the set of Lindstrom’s grim, haggard face that made Sheriff Watts jump to his feet and rush in quickly behind the grief-stricken father.
But Lindstrom’s gun was still in its holster. And Dave Bennett, weak from loss of blood, slept heavily in his cot, oblivious to the man who stood before him, staring at him through the iron bars, clenching and unclenching his fists.
Watts, gingerly, put his hand on Lindstrom’s arm. “Let’s talk in my office,” the sheriff tentatively suggested.
For a long moment Lindstrom didn’t speak, didn’t move; he just kept clenching and unclenching his fists.
“S. J.?” prompted the sheriff again.
“I’ll see that boy dead,” intoned Lindstrom, staring at Dave Bennett. “He killed my Jenna and he’ll die for it. I swear it.”
“Well, we’ve got him now,” said the sheriff, “and he’ll get what he deserves. Judge Morwood will see to that.”
Lindstrom suddenly turned and said to the sheriff, “When does Morwood get here? How far along is he on his circuit?”
“I’ve got the judge’s schedule in my office,” said Watts. “Let’s go take a look.”
This time Lindstrom was ready to leave. He followed the sheriff out of the back room and then stood in front of Nathan Watts’ desk, waiting.
“The schedule, sheriff,” Lindstrom barked irritably. “I thought you said you had it?”
“Just a minute,” replied Watts, fishing through a bottom drawer, “it’s somewhere in here. I saw it the other day. Ah ... here it is.”
“Well? When will he be here? Is it soon?”
“Pretty soon,” said the sheriff. “Barring any heavy snows, he ought to be in Lost Creek around mid-December.”
“Mid-December?” Lindstrom shouted. “That’s more than a month from now!”
“Calm down, S. J. It’ll all work out the way you want. It’s just gonna take some time. Besides, the Bennett boy has to heal up before the trial anyway.”
“I don’t like it,” muttered Lindstrom. “Too much time ... Bennett might escape. Something’ll happen and he’ll get away.”
“He won’t escape,” said the sheriff. “Don’t worry about it. Like I said before, we’ve got him and the judge’ll take care of the rest.”
“At least that one other, Winslow, is dead,” hissed Lindstrom. “Half the job is done. I heard it was a bounty hunter that killed him and brought Bennett in. Is that right?”
“Sure is. Feller’s name is Bledsoe. I told him about our reward and he said you could find him over at the saloon.”
“He earned his money,” said Lindstrom. Then, more harshly, he added, “I only wish he’d killed them both.”
The King’s High Saloon was unusually busy for a Thursday night. But then this was the day that Bobby Winslow was killed and Dave Bennett brought in to jail. The saloon, naturally, was the place to meet and talk. After a few drinks, a man was liable to work himself up to an ironclad opinion on the guilt or innocence of Dave Bennett. Most folks figured the kid was guilty, but that wasn’t based on any hard evidence. If S. J. Lindstrom was sure of it, though, that was good enough for them.
Chappee King, a short, fat man in his mid-forties, tended the bar, marveling over the extra business that a little excitement always brings. King, despite having crossed the ocean nearly two decades before, still had a strong cockney accent. He greeted almost everyone with the salute of, “Hello, old chap,” hence the name “Chappee.” But on this night, when S. J. Lindstrom stepped up to the bar, Chappee King only nodded respectfully and said, “I’ve got a good whiskey that just came in, sir. Can I pour you a stiff one?”
Lindstrom shook his head. “I’m looking for a man named Bledsoe. A bounty hunter.”
“That’ll be your man, sir,” said King, pointing. “At the corner table; the feller sitting by himself.”
“Good. Bring that bottle of whiskey you just spoke of over to his table after I sit down with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bledsoe picked out Lindstrom as soon as the older man walked into the saloon. It wasn’t the fact of his age, however, that gave Lindstrom away. It was the stern, no-nonsense look on his face that told the bounty hunter that this was the man he was waiting for.
Lindstrom came straight toward his table after talking to the bartender. Bledsoe watched him, sizing up the rich man who was supposed to fork over fifteen hundred dollars, wondering if, now that the deed was done, the rich man would try to weasel out of paying the reward money. It was just like rich folks to do something like that. There was more than one occasion in Bledsoe’s career when someone had tried it—and failed. Ultimately, Bledsoe always got his money, one way or another.
“You’re the bounty hunter,” Lindstrom stated brusquely, standing in front of Bledsoe’s table.
“And you’re the man who’s gonna pay me fifteen hundred dollars,” stated the bounty hunter, challenging Lindstrom at the very outset to state his intentions. “Isn’t that right?”
“If we’re going to talk about money,” the older man retorted, “why don’t you ask me to sit down?”
Bledsoe kicked a chair out from the table.
Lindstrom sat down, unruffled by the bounty hunter’s attitude. “Your manners are poor, Mr. Bledsoe,” he said quietly, “but your aim, it would seem, is quite good. I am pleased that at least one of the two murderers you caught was not brought back alive.”
“I don’t care about manners or fine talk,” Bledsoe shot back. “What about the money?”
Just then Chappee King arrived with a full bottle of scotch and two clean glasses. Both men remained silent as the saloon keeper poured the drinks.
“Would you like anything else, sir?’ asked Chappee.
“Yes. Mr. Bledsoe, here, is to be my guest in your establishment for as long as he stays in Lost Creek. Anything he orders is to go on my bill.”
“Yes, sir,” said King, a touch of surprise showing in his voice.
“Leave us alone now.”
Chappee King quickly withdrew as the two seated men picked up their shot glasses.
“That’s mighty generous of you,” said Bledsoe. “But it ain’t nothin’ like fifteen hundred dollars. I don’t buy off that easy.”
“I’m not trying to buy you off, Mr. Bledsoe,” said Lindstrom. “I’m trying to thank you, but you’re a very distrustful man. Perhaps that is as it should be in your profession.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” persisted the bounty hunter. “What about the fifteen hundred? Are you gonna pay it or not?”
“Certainly,” said Lindstrom quickly and easily. “In fact,” he went on, “had both men been brought in dead, I’d have given you a five hundred dollar bonus.”
Now, besides the cracked head, Bledsoe had the thought of being cheated out of an additional five hundred dollars to fan his hatred of Hunter.
Lindstrom went on to ask the bounty hunter how he had tracked and caught Winslow and Bennett. He wanted every detail, to savor, however vicariously, the bittersweet taste of revenge. He especially wanted to hear how Bledsoe had killed Bobby Winslow. How was Winslow standing when the bullet struck him? How did he fall? Did he scream? What did he say before he died? To all of these questions Bledsoe gave answers based only partially on the truth. He added to the narrative little touches he knew the older man wanted to hear. Perhaps, he thought, there might yet be an extra bonus in this if he told the story in just the right way. Even when he spoke of Dave Bennett, Bledsoe was able to make his story play well by eliminating some of his own more embarrassing moments and, of course, by blaming Hunter for the fact the Bennett wasn’t killed.
Bledsoe’s comments about Hunter had the desired effect. Lindstrom was enraged at Hunter’s interference, but had nothing but praise for Bledsoe. And in the end, there was, in fact, a kind of bonus for the bounty hunter ...
“I want you to stay in Lost Creek,” said Lindstrom. “I’ll pay you fifty dollars a week to stay here until the trial is over.”
“What about the fifteen hundred? Am I supposed to wait until after the trial to get it?”
“Not at all,” replied Lindstrom. “I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock in front of the bank. You’ll be paid in cash right then and there.”
“And you’ll pay me fifty dollars a week until the trial,” Bledsoe said softly, ruminating over this new proposal. “How long are we talkin’ about? When is this trial gonna take place?”
“It should start in about five weeks ... mid-December. That’s two hundred and fifty dollars for you, Mr. Bledsoe, and you don’t have to do a thing for that money except to sit around and relax.”
“What’s the catch?”
His face set in hard lines, his eyes shining with an almost religious intensity, Lindstrom leaned over toward the bounty hunter and hoarsely whispered, “If somehow the court should set Bennett free, I’ll pay you well to kill him.”
Lindstrom leaned back, pausing for a moment, letting Bledsoe think about the proposition.
Bledsoe had done that kind of work before. It was always profitable. And usually quite easy. “Will you do it?” asked Lindstrom.
The bounty hunter poured himself another drink and said: “Sure.”