Hunt the Beast Down

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  Hunt the Beast Down

  Spectros, Book Three

  Paul Lederer writing as Logan Winters

  CHAPTER 1

  The milky fog drifted eerily across the dark seas. The deep inlets along the rugged Oregon coast were invisible to the eye, detectable only by the slight rush of cooler air which swept from them. The ship moved ghostlike through the twisting fog, the tall masts hung with damp, dripping sail.

  Ranks of dark, ragged pines jutted up along the shoreline. There was hardly a sound but the creaking of rigging, the sound of the black hull of the schooner cutting the sea, and farther away the quiet lapping of waves against the rocky beach.

  “Can’t run in any closer,” Prouty said, leaning beside the blond man at the rail.

  “I know,” Featherskill answered. “I appreciate what you’ve already done.”

  “No sign of a ship, or anything else,” Lem Prouty said, stoking his pipe. The white-haired sailor shook his head, peering through the dense fog as the silent ship ran parallel to the pine-studded cliffs.

  “He’s shaken me,” Featherskill admitted. “There’s a hundred inlets, he could have slipped into any one of them in this fog.”

  “You been chasing him long?” Prouty asked.

  “Long?” Featherskill asked, tugging at his black hat, the one with the silver conchoes decorating the band. “I guess so—a long time.”

  A long while. From Natchez to Denver, Mexico to Montana. A long while. The fog slipped past, cottony damp forms twisted by the changing wind currents flowed over the schooner. Well, the man was gone.

  He had put that ship into one of these inlets, or possibly put it out to sea, though that seemed unlikely. There were no silver mines in the ocean.

  “This man,” Prouty asked. “You never did tell us what he done, just why are you after him?”

  “He’s a killer,” Featherskill said simply. The rest of the story he did not tell. It was seldom believed, and difficult to explain.

  “What’s the nearest port?” Ray Featherskill asked.

  “Bear Harbor. Not much of a town, but…”

  “That’s fine,” Ray interrupted. “If you could put in there.”

  “It’s your money, Featherskill. If it’s Bear Harbor you want …”

  “It is.” The blond man stood at the rail, searching the fog shrouded cliffs.

  “You’re going after him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must want him bad,” Prouty said, with a shake of his head. He tucked his pipe away in his pea jacket. “I’ll tell the helmsman to put into Bear Harbor.”

  Ray nodded absently, his thoughts elsewhere. The Oregon coast, hardly silver country, yet Blackschuster had an uncanny nose for silver. It was his constant pursuit and he collected odd tales and old maps, scraps of information from everywhere, some extracted unwillingly, no doubt.

  What information the man may have come across in San Francisco, there was no telling. Only one thing was certain—silver was involved. Ray had tracked him this far, once sighting the sloop Blackschuster had hired. He doubted Blackschuster could realize who was in the black schooner abaft as they followed the coastline northward.

  Now they had sailed past Blackschuster; hopefully the man had dismissed the black schooner. But, knowing the caution innate in the man, Ray somehow doubted it.

  The doctor must be notified.

  Blackschuster had run out of country. There was nowhere to flee now but into the sea itself.

  “Bear Harbor,” Prouty said, pointing through the dense morning fog toward a distant reddish light. “Hope you find what you’re looking for there, cowboy.”

  Prouty looked the kid up and down. Six feet one or so, well muscled, the blond man had cool blue eyes, a face the ladies might admire and a brutal-looking blue steel Colt hung low on his hip. “And I’m glad I’m not the man you want,” Prouty added.

  There was something about this one a man wanted no part of. Wherever that gun had been, Prouty would have bet that it had seen some use. He nodded, blinked and smiled as the kid slipped him a handful of gold coin—more than they had agreed upon.

  “Luck to you, Featherskill.”

  Ray nodded and took the stubby hand Prouty profferred. Luck—he would need it. He stood watching astern as the fog swallowed up the vast sea behind them.

  The low sloop rested in a narrow inlet between upthrust cliffs. The lantern hanging from the boom had been extinguished, and the sloop rolled silently in the dark water.

  “What’s he waiting for?” Shaugnessy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Hines said. The schooner was long gone, they had seen its black silhouette drifting northward past the mouth of the timbered inlet an hour earlier.

  “He gives me the willies,” Shaugnessy muttered. “Him and that scarred-up cutthroat with him. And that cargo hold. What do you figure they stored there?”

  “Sh!” Hines put a finger to his lips. The big man in the black cape paced slowly back and forth along the deck, hands behind his back.

  It was something to think about. The fat man and this dark faced man with the gold earring had loaded the ship themselves. Why? There was only one reason that made sense. It had to be something worth plenty. Gold, maybe.

  “I been thinking,” Shaugnessy whispered as they leaned across the rail side by side. He glanced across his shoulder. The big man was at the stern now. “Nobody would ever know what happened out here. There’s no town nearer than Bear Harbor. We say the men fell overboard, if anyone ever asked. Which ain’t likely. Secretive as these fellows were, I doubt anybody knows where they are at all.”

  “You think it’s something valuable then?”

  “Hell, yes. Most of the time that scarred-up fellow stands at the hatch, arms crossed, those eyes glittering. What else would men be so almighty cautious about?”

  Hines took off his stocking cap and wiped back his thin reddish hair, glancing around as he did so. The fog moved silently past as the sloop drifted at anchor.

  “I don’t know…”

  “We should at least have us a look,” Shaugnessy hissed, gripping Hines’s forearm tightly. “It could be the chance of a lifetime!”

  Hines glanced around again nervously. There was something he didn’t like about any of this. The big man never spoke, moving around like a bulky shadow. They should never have taken this charter.

  Shaugnessy’s sharp face was next to his, eyes insistent. “Well?”

  “We could at least take a look,” Hines agreed reluctantly.

  Shaugnessy patted his arm and turned casually from the rail, noticing that the big man was still aft, speaking to his friend. Shaugnessy nodded his head toward the hatch and produced a pistol.

  “Go on down. If there’s any trouble, well…” he motioned with the pistol.

  Hines hesitated then lifted the hatch, sliding silently into the hold as Shaugnessy stood beside the mast, arms crossed, pistol hidden.

  It was dark as sin and Hines had to light a match. He crept forward, pausing as a rat scuttled across the deck. The cargo the fat man had brought on board was forward and he worked through the coils of rope, bales of hides and crates until he reached the unmarked box. He took the stubby candle there and lit it.

  Hines glanced around nervously and took a crowbar to the crate, prying it op
en. The nails screeched intolerably in the darkness. For no reason at all Hines’s face trickled with perspiration.

  For no reason. He lifted the lid to the crate, allowing the crowbar to clatter to the deck. He held the candle up and saw, in the flickering glow, a swatch of deep blue velvet covering an irregularly shaped packet.

  Gingerly he folded back the velvet, his hand trembling as he did so.

  “Sweet Jesus.” It was a casket. A casket of crystal.

  She lay there. A young woman in white, hands crossed delicately. She was utterly beautiful with long dark hair and a perfect figure. She was dressed in white and her breast rose and fell evenly as she breathed gently in and out.

  “She’s alive!” Hines gasped. His hands shook violently. The candle flickered as he stood transfixed, eyes on the girl who slept in the casket.

  “Shaugnessy?”

  There was a small sound behind him, the even fall of footsteps.

  “Shaugnessy, it’s a woman in a casket. And she’s alive!”

  Hines turned, lifted the candle and strangled on a curse. It was not Shaugnessy, but the scarred-up man. Hines dropped the candle, struck out with a foot and screamed, but it was no use.

  The man was all over him like a vicious cat. A knife flashed over his head and struck flesh. The candle flickered once on the deck and went out as Wango stood over the dead sailor, blood staining the blade of his knife.

  Blackschuster stood in the hatchway as he emerged. A gap had broken in the foggy skies and a single star glinted as the big man with the lantern in his hand watched Wango ascend the steps.

  “Does she sleep, Wango?”

  “She sleeps, sir,” the man with the scar-tortured face assured him.

  “The damned fools,” Blackschuster said. “The damned fools.”

  Wango walked backward to the rail, dragging his burden. He grunted with the exertion and threw it overboard. A muffled splash followed. Hines drifted slowly up the inlet, eyes open to the night.

  A moment later there was a second splash and the night was silent. The fog drifted slowly past as the sloop weighed anchor in the hidden inlet, slipping soundlessly into the open sea beyond.

  CHAPTER 2

  The sun was a brilliant rose-colored promise beyond the eastern mountains when Ray Featherskill walked up the empty wharf toward the town of Bear Harbor. A boy raced up the cobblestoned Front Street with a hoop, a white dog yapping at his heels, and a delivery wagon rumbled uptown, but for the most part it was quiet.

  The fishing fleet was out, and Bear Harbor was a fishing town. When the men were at sea the town’s heart seemed to skip a beat and she waited apprehensively, silently.

  At the south end of the piers a hundred head of bawling steers waited in pens for their first and last sea voyage to San Francisco or Portland.

  “Where can I get a bite of breakfast?” Ray called out to a passing wagon. Two farm kids, legs dangling, watched him curiously from the tailgate.

  “Granma’s!” Two small pointing fingers stretched downtown.

  Ray waved and turned that way. Bear Harbor sat in a valley nestled among rising, green hills where forests of pine and cedar grew densely. There were splashes of poppy and bluebell along the meadows beyond the town which was composed of perhaps fifty buildings, most of them white with red tile roofs.

  Ray found the place, a squat, neat building with the smell of bacon and fresh baked bread coming from it and a hand lettered sign. ‘GRANMA’S’

  He pushed through the door and sat at the first table, setting his satchel beside him. There was no one else in the place but a sailor of some years who sat hunched over his coffee near the back of the room.

  “Well, hello, cowboy!” A matronly woman with red cheeks and a wide smile stood in the doorway to the kitchen, hands on hips. “I’m Granma!” she boomed. She snatched up a napkin and a pot of coffee and walked to where Ray sat waiting.

  “I’ll take some of whatever you got,” Ray said. “I’ve got a big hunger on me.”

  “We got eggs, taters, side beef, ham and grits,” she said counting dubiously on her fingers. “Plus some hot rolls and fresh clover honey. You still want some of each?”

  “Some of each,” Ray smiled, “and a pot of coffee. I just came ashore, and I got to admit I don’t eat well on ship.”

  She smiled, shrugged and looked him up and down. No sailor, not with that Texas hat and boots, and he wore a handgun. She turned and walked into the steamy kitchen where the copper pots hung in neat rows and the smell of frying ham filled the neat, white room.

  “The whole breakfast, Matilda,” she told a short, dark woman who brushed back a strand of hair and nodded. “For the cowboy out front.”

  Granma stepped out the back door and nudged the man who dozed on the bench in the alley.

  “Find Sam Duggan,” she said to the sleepy eyed man. “Tell him it looks like another one just hit town.”

  Ray tilted back in his chair, enjoying his third cup of coffee. The restaurant was still quiet. A businessman had come in for coffee and rolls then left. Ray had seen no telegraph wires, but there was a packet ship at the wharf. A letter to San Francisco could reach Spectros in two days by sea.

  “How was it?” Granma asked. The woman scooped up the plates, balancing them on her forearm.

  “Real fine. Couldn’t eat another bite. Any chance you’ve got stationery and pen?”

  “I have,” she answered cheerfully. “Writing home?”

  “Sort of.” Ray scratched out a note and returned the pen, leaving a large tip.

  It was full daylight when he walked out into the streets of Bear Harbor once more. A three-master sailed majestically out to sea, cutting a narrow white wake across the placid blue of the harbor.

  He found a boy sitting on the sea wall and pressed a quarter into his hand, giving him the letter for the packet ship.

  What he needed now was a horse, and he walked the streets until he found a livery where he dickered with a dull-eyed man over a hammer-headed roan of five years or so.

  “I’ll throw in a saddle for five bucks unless you’re toting one.”

  “No,” Ray said. “Let’s have a look at it.”

  “Out back,” the man said, nodding his head. “Have your look-see.”

  Ray slapped the roan on the flank and stepped out of the dark, horse smelling barn into the bright sunlight. He was met by a fist which took him from his feet.

  The fist landed flush on his jaw and Ray went down hard, his head spinning. He managed to roll aside just as a boot swung at his head, and he caught it, swinging it upward as he came to his knees.

  There were three of them and the ugly club in the thin man’s hand showed they meant business.

  “Take him!” their leader, a dark-haired man in a red silk shirt shouted angrily. Yet Ray wasn’t out of it yet. From his crouching position he leaped at the red silk shirt, butting the attacker in the belly.

  He grunted and rolled back, clutching his stomach, fighting for breath. A club whizzed past Featherskill’s ear, landing heavily on the collarbone. Ray winced with pain but managed to jab out with a left which took the thug square on the nose, splitting it, showering Ray with blood.

  He tried to step back, to gain room to fight, but they had him pinned against the stable wall. He knew by the absence of the familiar weight that his holster was empty. They stepped toward him, the man with the split nose thwacking his heavy club against his palm as he circled warily.

  “You’re going to be sorry you took this job, cowboy,” the man in the silk shirt said. Then he lunged and Ray managed to grab the incoming man’s shirt, tugging him down as he brought his knee up hard.

  He felt the club thud against his ribs, then again strike his shoulder. The stable yard swam with lights. Ray’s shirt was torn open, sweat trickled into his eyes. He was cornered, and he knew it.

  “I’ll kill you for this,” the man with the club muttered. He had a crooked mouth and jug ears. The blood still flowed freely from his broken nose.


  One of them went for Ray’s knees, taking him to the ground. He managed to hook twice to this attacker’s ear, but the club caught him at the base of the skull and he sprawled face down in the yellow dust.

  “You’ve bought it,” red shirt said softly, viciously, swinging a boot at Ray’s skull.

  Featherskill felt his head explode, a loud humming filled his ears. He rolled over, took another kick to the ribs and managed to get to hands and knees. Yet he could not rise and again he was knocked flat.

  “That’s enough!”

  Featherskill heard the new voice, yet through the perspiration, the fog of pain, he could not be sure of what he was seeing.

  “I said that’s enough, Rafer Jacklin!”

  Ray blinked and came to his knees, weaving as he fought for breath. She stood there pretty as any saving angel, a twin-barreled express gun in her hands.

  “Are you all right, Mr…?”

  “Featherskill,” Ray staggered to his feet, sweeping back his hair. His pantleg was torn open and there was a stabbing pain in his side. Deliberately he walked to where his Colt lay in the dust and holstered it. His hat was crumpled, dusty, but he managed to form it some.

  Then, still holding his side he walked to the man in the red shirt, the one called Rafer Jacklin, and with the full force of his shoulder he back-handed him across the mouth, splitting a lip.

  “I don’t ever want to see you again, mister,” Ray warned him. “Any of you. You had no call to do this—but I’ll have a good enough reason if I catch any of you boys on my trail.”

  “We’ll be seeing you again,” Jacklin sputtered. “You best keep your eyes open.”

  The stable man had come to the back door, puzzled, eyes wide. “Miss Talleyrand!”

  “Just a minute, Ruben. I’m not quite through here. Rafer Jacklin, I’ll repeat what Mr. Featherskill here said,” the young woman said, the express gun punctuating her words, “you come around again—anywhere near—and it’s war with me as well.”

  She paused, took a deep breath and tossed her pretty blonde head. “Now get!” she said and she eared back the hammers on the shotgun.