Empty Coffins

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Jake Denholm considered himself the luckiest man in Waco. Not only did he have pocketfuls of cash, he also had evaded all the lawmen who tried to capture him. He had shot one, a sheriff’s deputy out in Big Spring. He even slipped by those pesky railroad dicks in Dallas. As far as Jake was concerned, he was free and clear.

Jake studied himself in the glass reflection of the Little Elm Saloon. What he saw made him think no one could possibly identify him. His clothes were not fancy, even though he had the cash to buy the best clothes the town had to offer. His brown shirt was dirty, giving him the air of a ranch hand newly arrived in town to burn a few bucks playing poker. The work pants were equally nondescript. His boots were scuffed and he told himself that the first order of business after he crossed the border into Mexico was a complete overhaul of his clothes.

He scratched his chin, his fingernails rasping on the three-day scuff of whiskers. His blue eyes sparkled under the brim of the old, beat-up hat that had seen much better days. He took off the hat and inspected it. The brim showed the white stains of years of sweat and toil, the ribbon fraying at the edges, the inner lining long since gone. This was a good hat, and it had one more ride. He ran his fingers through his scraggly hair, unkempt and long down to his shoulders. He idly considered visiting a barber before he departed on the southbound train to San Antonio, Laredo, and freedom, but discarded the idea almost as soon as it entered his mind. He didn’t want anybody even having a passing thought that he might be the same Jake Denholm who ran guns from Fort Worth to Big Spring.

Jake chuckled at the thought of how thoroughly he had outwitted the star packers. They were all down in Big Spring or somewhere along the westbound track to New Mexico and beyond. The clues he had left along the way—and the dead body to reinforce the point—was a grand scheme.

“You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” he told his reflection. He put his hat back on and pulled the brim down low. He pointed at his reflection, his forefinger extended like a pistol, his thumb in the air. At the pull of his thumb trigger, Jake made a soft gun sound. “Damn lucky.”

He lowered his hand and brushed the cold iron of his Colt revolver. The worn oak of the butt had also seen its fair share of duty. His fingers touch the smooth metal of the trigger and down to the cylinder. Sure, the gun was merely a tool for someone like Jake, but he had begun to think of it as an extension of himself. Like a judge with a gavel or a lawyer with his words, Jake’s gun was justice. It delivered him from evil and showed him freedom.

Satisfied with the way he looked, filled with the finest whiskey his money could buy, and emboldened by relating his tale to a fellow drinker at the saloon who listened with rapt attention, Jake Denholm stepped off the boardwalk and made his way down the street. The townsfolk were going about their mundane, daily lives. Women walked up and down the boardwalks, ducking into shops and buying essentials. The men driving the passing wagons had their lives already dictated to them. They couldn’t get out of their lives if they wanted to. Jake chuckled to himself. He smiled, beaming at what he had taken from life, and turned his face up to the sun.

Jake didn’t see the man who stepped up to him until the stranger put his arm around. “You look like a man who has the world by the horns.” The accent was pure Irish. “I bet I can beat you.”

Halting abruptly in his stride, Jake shrugged off the man’s hands. Instinctively, his hand reached for his gun. His palm rested on the weapon as he studied the newcomer.

The man sported a thick red beard and sideburns. He wore a brown suit with a plaid vest that was a size too small for him, but he wore it like it was the best suit in the world. Atop his head sat a brown derby. The evidence of old dents being fixed were obvious. The man’s shoes were polished and they caught and reflected the sun. The man’s eyes sparkled in the late afternoon light. More to the point, he wore no holster on his leg.

“What do you want?” Jake muttered. His palm still graced his pistol.

“The name’s Seamus O’Grady,” the stranger said. The lilt of his accent sounded odd to Jake’s ears. Out of place here in Waco, Texas. “And I’d like to offer you a wager.”

Jake wet his lips. If there was one thing he liked more than running guns and earning money, it was winning money out of the pockets of suckers like this Irish dude. A part of his mind sounded an alarm. All he had to do was make his way to the train station a few blocks away, board the train, and get out of town. Another part of his mind made his mouth say, “What kind of wager?”

The Irishman’s mouth, hidden behind the thick whiskers, creased into a grin. In a meek manner, O’Grady backed up a step. He gestured over to the boardwalk in front of a tailor’s shop. A barrel rested on its end, the top serving as a makeshift table upon which sat a sign advertising a sale. O’Grady walked around the barrel, turned, and faced Jake. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out three playing cards. These cards were slightly bent long ways so that when the Irishman removed the sign and placed the three cards on the table, their faces were raised off the surface of the table. All three cards were lined up, like three rectangles, the blue backs of the cards a stark contrast to the brown of the barrel.

O’Grady lifted the first card to reveal an ace of spades, the black symbol large on the face of the card. The second card was the king of diamonds, while the third was the ten of hearts.

Jake squinted his eyes. “What’s the wager?”

“Find the ace.”

O’Grady began to shift the cards around. He picked up the first card while simultaneously picking up the third. He switched their places, then repeated the movement with the third and the second card. After a few more shifts, the idea was that Jake was supposed to identify the ace after having watched O’Grady shuffle the cards.

“First, let’s practice.” O’Grady stopped and held out his hands. “Where’s the ace?”

Jake pointed. O’Grady turned over the card. It was the ace of spades.

“Very good, sir. Very good.” O’Grady turned the ace back over and shuffled the cards again. While he did so, he started talking. “I’m making my way down to Mexico,” he began. “Things aren’t looking for good for me here in Texas. I’m, um, what you could call a little light on greenbacks. I don’t have a proper job so I’m having to play this game to earn money to get me out of the country.”

Jake barely heard the Irishman talk. His concentration was solely focused on the cards. “What kind of trouble?”

“The law. They’re looking for me, and well, look at me. I’m an Irishman in Texas. You don’t get more out of place than that.” O’Grady stopped shuffling and presented the cards to Jake.

The outlaw paused a moment and chewed the inside of his cheek. With nearly the same confidence, he pointed to the card that now sat on his right.

O’Grady overturned the card. The ace of spades.

Jake actually barked out a laugh.

O’Grady inhaled deeply. “Now, how about that wager? I need some money to get out of the country. I’ve been askin’ around, but no one wants to deal with an Irishman. So I’ve resorted to this. I have a few dollars, but I’m needing some more. How about we make a wager? Five dollars.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of paper greenbacks. He peeled one off and placed it on the table next to the cards.

Studying the single bill, the rational part of Jake’s brain again implored him to walk away. He had more than enough money. When he got across the border, his American money would go a long way. But the other part of Jake’s mind, the one that couldn’t resist a good wager, overruled logic.

The outlaw pulled out his larger wad of cash and plunked down his own five.

“Say, that’s a mighty large amount of money,” O’Grady said, whistling under his breath. “Where’d you get it?”

“None of your damn business. Let’s play.”

Shrugging, O’Grady started to shuffle the cards. He seemed faster this time, but Jake’s eyes followed. After nearly ten seconds, O’Grady stopped.

Jake pointed to the middle card. O’Grady revealed the ace. The Irishman cursed, eyed Jake, and then placed another fiver on the barrel. “Again?”

“Sure.” Jake removed one of the five dollar bills and left the other one. O’Grady pulled another from his stack of money and the process repeated itself two more times. Jake won every time.

O’Grady cursed under his breath. He scratched his forehead, slightly tilting back his derby. “I’m not gonna win any money losing like this.” Thinking of something, he snapped his fingers. “Why don’t we increase the wager?”

“No way,” Jake said. “It would be like taking candy from a baby.”

“So confident are ye?” There was a glint in O’Grady’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Then let’s do something really big.” He reached in and placed all his money on the barrel. “Let’s bet everything.”

A muscle in Jake’s cheek twitched. That rational part of his brain started screaming. It told him he didn’t need to do this. He already had more money than he needed. Just walk away.

Jake’s hand reached into his pocket, grasped the wad of money, and placed it on the barrel. “Let’s do it.”

O’Grady nodded sagely. He made a big show of stretching out his shoulders and neck, as if he were about to start a game. He adjusted his jacket and brought his hands to the cards. He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. With a last glance up at Jake, he said, “Okay, let’s do this.”

The Irishman started moving the cards. This time, he was fast. Very fast. In fact, he was faster than Jake had ever seen it. Panic charged through him as he kept his eyes trained on the cards.

As he shuffled the cards, O’Grady started talking. “I’m not sure if you realize this or not, but you made three mistakes.” His hands kept flying from card to card. “The first mistake was the theft of the guns themselves. That’s a bad idea, especially considering the guns were the property of the US Army. They don’t take kindly to their weapons being used against them.” After a pause, he continued. “The next mistake was the murder of the deputy out in Big Spring. He was a friend of my commanding officer. As soon as you did that, Jake Denholm, one way or another, you were gonna be tracked down.” He tut-tutted his mouth.

Jake was so fixated on the cards that O’Grady’s words slowly filtered into his brain. He frowned. How did this Irishman know about the guns? How did he know his name? Jake wanted to look at the Irishman but he knew if he took his eyes off the cards he would lose. Involuntarily, he eased his hand down to his gun and rested his palm on the handle.

“Your third mistake,” O’Grady continued, “was playing with me. You see, I knew you couldn’t resist making a wager. It’s in your nature. Hell, I even bet my partner that you’d fall for this little ruse. You can’t refuse a good wager.” He stopped and presented the cards. “And here we are.”

The words finally registered in Jake’s head. With a confused expression, Jake tore his gaze from the cards and turned furious eyes on O’Grady. What he saw surprised the hell out of him.

O’Grady now held a pistol aimed at Jake’s midsection.

“My commanding officer,” O’Grady began, “really wants you to try and resist arrest. That’ll give me all the reason in the world to ventilate you.”

Curiously, O’Grady’s accent had disappeared. Now, he sounded completely American.

“My partner here thinks you’ll come quietly.”

At that, a man walked out of the tailor’s shop and came to stand next to O’Grady. He, too, held a pistol aimed at Jake. The man looked familiar. It took Jake a moment before he realized this newcomer was the man back at the Little Elm Saloon, the one to whom Jake related his story.

Jake studied the man who he no longer took to be an Irishman. O’Grady held his gun in his left hand. The gun didn’t waiver at all. It remained steady, its black eye staring at him. Thoughts of prison and the hangman’s noose flooded into his mind. Other thoughts of Mexico and freedom began to fade. The seething hot anger at this man cheating him out of everything he had worked for made his lose all control.

“Who the hell are you?” Jake yelled.

The man formerly known as O’Grady took off the derby hat and tossed it casually aside. Next he reached up and, to Denholm’s astonished eyes, peeled the beard off his face. The face underneath was handsome in a suave manner with a well-defined chin and jawline. The mouth was curled in a grin of amusement. Finally, he pulled open his suit jacket and revealed a shiny silver star pinned to his vest.

“The name’s Calvin Carter. This is my partner, Thomas Jackson. We’re railroad detectives, and you’re under arrest for gunrunning and the murder of Deputy Randy Meyer.”

White hot rage took over all thought in Jake’s mind. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he knew he wouldn’t live, but he sure as hell would never be arrested.

His hand tensed over the grip of his pistol. He yanked it upwards, but it never cleared leather.

The guns from both detectives spoke loudly. Two nearly simultaneous booms filled the air. Flame geysered from the barrels. And two slugs slammed into Jake Denholm’s body, throwing him backward. The lifeless corpse fell down the steps and landed in a heap on the dirty street.

***

Calvin Carter held out his right hand, palm up. “Pay up.”

Grudgingly, Thomas Jackson shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a ten dollar bill. He slammed it into Carter’s hand.

“How’d you know he’d take the bait?” Jackson asked.

Carter put his Colt back into the shoulder holster positioned inside his coat and under his right arm. He preferred a shoulder holster because it often put people off guard if they didn’t see a holster strapped to his leg. His partner was the complete opposite. “Show the iron and make’em know I’ll use it” was one of Jackson’s familiar sayings.

The townsfolk who witnessed the altercation looked at the two detectives warily. A woman shielded the eyes of her two young daughters as they passed by the corpse lying in the street. A cow puncher dressed in ragged range clothes looked on laconically, a large wad of tobacco wedged in his cheek. Occasionally he launched a thick, brown stream of spit through the air and onto the ground.

“You have to know people, Tom,” Carter said. He scooped up the money from the top of the barrel. He folded the greenbacks and slipped them into his jacket pocket. He took the three playing cards and also secreted them back into his pockets. “Jake Denholm didn’t become a thieving murderer by chance. He was molded that way. He planned out every step. He may not have matched my wits, but he certainly bested the local lawmen in west Texas.”

Jackson moved down to inspect Denholm’s body. He put a finger on the man’s neck to verify no pulse coursed through the outlaw. “I know a few sheriffs who might dispute your claim.”

“And yet, here we are. We found our man, gave him a chance to come peaceably, and, when he refused, brought him to justice. Now have some spare time on our hands.” He rubbed his hands together and looked up and down Fourth Street. His heart beat faster when he spied a particular sign. He motioned Jackson who stood and followed his partner’s gaze.

“What?” Jackson said.

“The McLelland Opera House is staging Julius Caesar. The Colonel is certainly not going to make us take the evening train back to Austin. I’ll treat you to a little whiskey, a little Shakespeare, and a whole lot of culture.” He held up the ten dollar bill he had just won.

Jackson looked at Carter with skepticism on his face. “You’re going to buy us tickets with my money?”

“My money,” Carter replied. He slipped his pocket watch out of the vest pocket and checked the time. “We have just enough time to make a report to the local sheriff, send a telegraph down to Austin, and grab some dinner.” The prospect of seeing theater made his pulse quicken. As a former actor, he cherished the theater and made all efforts to see as much as he could when he wasn’t acting as a railroad detective.

A particularly attractive woman strolled near him. Her brunette hair was pulled up into a bun on the back of her head. The top of her dress was open, but a collar of delicate lace obscured most of her exposed flesh and tantalized Carter at the same time. She wore a brown full dress, snug at the waist and full along the legs. The shape of her made Carter start to think of other things.

He bounced on his heels and stood just a little bit straighter. He tipped his nonexistent hat to her. “Good afternoon, ma’am.” He also offered her his best grin.

The woman looked him up and down, never breaking stride. She arched an eyebrow and sniffed. Within moments, she had passed him and kept walking down the street.

Shocked at the rebuff, Carter turned and caught Jackson’s bemused expression. Carter took a look at himself and only then realized he was still in the “Seamus O’Grady” costume of ill-fitting and mismatched clothes.

“Actually, we’ll need to make one additional stop. I have to change.”