Free Death In Helltown by John Legg Page B

facing.
    Bloodworth glanced around the room. “Any of you boys know which horse is his?”
    “Sorrel gelding tied to the hitchin’ post on the other side of the alley,” a man said. He jerked a thumb in the right direction.
    “Obliged.” Bloodworth holstered his pistol.
    “You want help getting’ his carcass across the saddle?” the same man asked. When Bloodworth glanced at him, surprise in his eyes, the man added, “I don’t know about these other fellahs, but I don’t take kindly to shootin’ down a woman. We’re tough men, used to hard doings, and maybe we’ve done some wicked things, but killin’ women ain’t what most of us consider bein’ a hard man is.”
    Murmurs of agreement circled the room.
    “I’ll get his horse,” another man said.
    A third said to the bartender, “Alf, get this man a beer. Or whiskey, if he prefers. I’ll pay.”
    Bloodworth was only a little surprised. Most of these men were Texans, cattle drovers, who came here to this section of the city to raise hell. They were not dainty fellows. They were giving to rough language and rough actions. But they were not, by and large, stage robbers and killers. Still, it was some surprising that they reacted the way they had. Bloodworth was glad for it, though.
    The bounty man slid his pistol into the slim jim cross-draw holster and gratefully accepted the beer Alf set on the bar. He downed it in three large gulps.
    “Whiskey?” Alf asked.
    Bloodworth nodded. “Just one.” He swallowed that down, and by then the man who had gone to get Tucker’s horse was back. He and two other’s grabbed the body and carted it outside, as Bloodworth followed. They tossed the corpse over the saddle and tied it down.
    The first one who had spoken held out his hand. “Name’s Tom Dayton.”
    Bloodworth shook it. “Harlan Bloodworth.”
    “This is Bill Jordan and Bob Ward,” he added, pointing to his two companions.
    Bloodworth nodded and shook those men’s hands.
    “You hungry, Mr. Bloodworth?” Dayton asked. “Me and the boys’ll spot you a meal down at Baker’s.”
    “You boys’re bein’ mighty kind,” Bloodworth said a bit warily. “It has me curious as to your motive.”
    Dayton laughed. “Hell, Mr. Bloodworth, we just want to get you out of town before you start raisin’ more hell and killin’ or lamin’ some others of us.”
    Bloodworth hesitated, then decided the men were joshing him, though he also suspected there was more than a kernel of truth to the statement. “Well, in that case, Mr. Dayton, I will take you up on your offer.” As they turned to head up the street, Bloodworth asked, “Is Baker’s food edible?”
    Ward chuckled. “Can’t rightly say if it’s tasty.” A grim split his face. “Tell true, most of us’re pretty well in our cups when we set to feedin’ there.”
    “But ain’t a one of us come down ill or died from chowin’ down there,” Jordan threw in with a wide grin.
    “A man can’t ask for no more,” Bloodworth said with a nod.
    Ten minutes later, joined by the others, he was gnawing on a stringy, slab of rare beefsteak with potatoes on the side. Corn came next, followed by peach cobbler and two cups of black coffee strong and thick enough to float a good size horse.
    Finally he pushed back from the table. “Weren’t bad, boys. I’ve had better here and there, but I’ve had a hell of a lot worse.” He grinned. “Especially my own cookin’.” He rose. “Well, boys, it’s time I was on the trail. I’m obliged for all your help and your kindness. I wish you all well.”
     
     

Chapter Eleven
     
    Bloodworth stopped in front of Marshal Redmon’s office and dismounted. The lawman came out, eyes flat. Bloodworth untied the ropes holding Ed Tucker’s oiled-cloth body and hauled it down into the dirt between the horses.
    “Ed Tucker,” Bloodworth said. “The last of the killers.”
    “You sure?”
    “Yup. One other was wounded when he run off from the stage. I found him a