Gut-Shot (12 page)

“My name is Sir Arthur Ward and this lovely young lady is my adopted daughter, Ruth,” the Englishman said. “I can't tell you how nice it is to meet you, Mr. Flintlock.”

“Call me Sam now we're acquainted,” Flintlock said. “This feller here with his eyes popping out and his chin hitting his belt buckle is Jamie McPhee.”

“How droll,” Ruth said, smiling. “‘Chin hitting his belt buckle.' How exquisitely whimsical.”

“Very pleased to meet you too,” McPhee said, blushing.

His eyes were fixed on Ruth, like a man who'd never met a stunningly beautiful, eighteen-year-old Chinese girl before in his life.

“May we come inside?” Sir Arthur said. “The night grows cool.”

Before Flintlock could speak, McPhee said, “Yes, yes, please do.”

“More tea, Sam,” Sir Arthur said, lifting the pot from the table.

Now pushing sixty, the Englishman remained a handsome man with sky blue eyes, thick yellow hair, graying at the temples, and a clipped mustache in the British military fashion. He wore a bright red Chinese robe decorated with blue dragons and a peculiar, at least to Flintlock, round hat with a tassel in the same shade as the robe.

“Yeah, please. It's good,” Flintlock said.

“It's Chinese green tea,” Ruth said. “Excellent for the health of your heart.”

Flintlock smiled. “You don't think me a violent ruffian any longer, Miss Ward, huh?” he said.

The girl had the good grace to blush. “First impressions are often misleading,” Ruth said. “I took you for a typical frontier tough. But now I think you have a little more breeding than that.”

“I was raised by mountain men,” Flintlock said. “They didn't have any breeding, at least none that showed.”

“How interesting for you, Sam,” Sir Arthur said. “You must have learned a great deal. Those lads were an intrepid, well-traveled bunch, and very brave.”

“I learned that a mountain is always farther away than it looks. It's always higher than it looks and it's always harder to climb than it looks.”

The Englishman laughed. “Is that all?”

“No, I learned other things, but the man who taught me most of what I know was only slightly less stupid than myself.”

Another laugh, then Sir Arthur said, “I'm sure you sell yourself short, Sam. And your teacher.”

They sat in the luxurious cabin where the Englishman and his daughter made themselves quite at home after supplying tea, a teapot and tiny porcelain cups that all but vanished in Flintlock's big hand.

“Forgive me for asking this, Sir Arthur, but why are you so oddly dressed?” McPhee said, his face guileless.

The Englishman smiled. “It's quite a boring story, I'm afraid.”

“We'd still like to hear it,” Flintlock said, shifting in his chair as he glanced at Sir Arthur's gaudy robe.

“Well, let me start by saying that I've always had a keen interest in the culinary arts and when the British army posted me to China at the end of the Second Opium War I fell madly in love with Oriental cooking,” the Englishman said. He poured more tea, then continued, “I was ordered to Kowloon as the adjutant of the 45th of Foot and there, insofar as my duties would allow, continued my studies: rice, soy and noodles mostly, but also herbs and seasonings.”

“It was during Sir Arthur's time in Kowloon that he adopted me from the Moonlight Camellia Blossom,” Ruth said.

Entranced, McPhee said, “How beautiful. That was the name of the orphanage?”

“No,” the girl said. “That was the name of the whorehouse.”

“Indeed,” Sir Arthur said. “Well, shortly after I adopted Ruth my regiment received orders to ship out for India. Now, though Indian cuisine has its charms, it lacks the delicacy of flavor one finds in the Chinese, so I resigned my commission at once and went on with my exploration of Oriental culinary arts.”

The Englishman glanced down at his robe. “This was given to me by the famous Chinese chef Wang Qiang after he sampled my winter melon soup. There was a rumor current in Hong Kong that when Wang realized he could never match my artistry he committed suicide.”

“We don't know if that's true or not,” Ruth said. “Certainly, after he tasted Sir Arthur's soup Wang Qiang was never heard of again.”

Jamie McPhee was fascinated. His fixed gaze caressed every delicate feature of Ruth's face and lingered on her beautiful almond eyes.

Sam Flintlock, however, whose culinary taste ran all the way from fried steak to salt pork and beans, was less than enthralled. “So how come you're here . . . um . . .”

“Arthur is just fine, Sam. I inherited my knighthood, you know. And I've done nothing much to deserve it since.”

“Not much call for Chinese grub around these parts,” Flintlock said.

“Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Mr. Flintlock,” Ruth said.

Sir Arthur smiled. “After I thought I'd learned all I could in Cathay, Ruth and I decided to travel to the United States, where people are much more adventurous about food than they are in England.”

“Are they?” McPhee said, eager as a boy.

“That has been my experience, dear chap,” Sir Arthur said. “I worked as a chef in New York—”

“And did very well, I must say” Ruth said.

“In a modest way, you understand,” the Englishman said, nonetheless nodding as though his daughter had more fairly stated the case. “But I never lost my sense of adventure and the lure of the wide-open Western territories beckoned.”

“Not the Oklahoma Territory,” Flintlock said. “Folks around here don't cotton to Chinese grub.”

“But that's where you're wrong, Mr. Flintlock,” Ruth said. “As soon as the tracks arrive, Sir Arthur will prosper.”

Flintlock's face showed his puzzlement. “I'm not catching your drift, young lady,” he said.

“New railroads are being built all over the West, Sam,” Sir Arthur said.

“And for the past few years we've followed the tracks,” Ruth said.

The Englishman read Flintlock's face and said, “My dear sir, who lays the railroad tracks? Why, the Chinese of course. And the Paddies too, certainly, and believe it or not your typical Irishman has a strong liking for Oriental cuisine.”

“I heard a rumor about a railroad being built way out here,” Flintlock said. “But it's only a big story. You took a long trip for nothing.”

“I can assure you that the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe plans to lay tracks in a month, if the Union Pacific doesn't beat them to it,” Sir Arthur said.

An alarm bell started ringing at the edge of Flintlock's consciousness.

“Who told you this?” he said.

“My father has shares in both companies and they keep him well informed,” the Englishman said. He smiled. “My aged parent does not approve of my lifestyle, so in answer to your question, my younger brother told me. As well he might. He runs the family estate in Kent and fervently desires to keep me well away.”

“Through the rather miserable stipend he allows father and me,” Ruth said.

“Five hundred pounds a year is nothing to be sneezed at, my dear,” Sir Arthur said.

“You should have ten times that, Father,” Ruth said. “The estate prospers.”

“You will stay in Open Sky until the railroad crews arrive, Sir Arthur?” McPhee said.

“I've heard of that particular town,” the Englishman said. “But no. I heartily dislike the confinement of hotel rooms so we'll find a pleasant place to camp and there we will wait.”

“Around here?” McPhee said, hope shining in his eyes.

“Yes, if we can find a peaceful place near water,” Sir Arthur said.

Flintlock hadn't been listening until that last. Now he laid down his cup, his face solemn.

“Arthur, you've told me what someone else has already told me, and if what you and him say about the railroads is true, and now I got no reason to believe it isn't, there won't be a peaceful place around these parts,” he said.

“And why not, for heaven's sake?” the Englishman said.

“Because I believe somebody is trying to start a range war, and we'll be right in the middle of it,” Flintlock said.

“Nobody knows better than me that we took a big loss when the barn went up, boss,” Frisco Maddox said. “But nobody in town blames it on Brendan O'Rourke.”

“Of course they don't,” Trace McCord said. “Hell, O'Rourke's cook got shot. I've threatened to plug a trail cook plenty of times, but I never actually did it.”

“I reckon whoever burned our barn also shot the Circle-O cook,” Maddox said.

“Jeez, Frisco, I could never have worked that out by myself,” McCord said. “For God's sake, don't state the obvious.”

“Sorry, boss. But try as I might, I can't get a handle on who it could be.”

“O'Rourke's just mean enough to shoot his own cook,” McCord said. “The man burned the biscuits or something.”

Maddox smiled. “But you don't really believe that, do you?”

McCord shook his head. “No, I guess I don't.”

The rancher stood in the stirrups and studied the land around him.

“The range still looks good on account of the rain we've had. If we don't get a bad drought we'll have calves on the ground.”

“Seems like,” Maddox said, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he stared against the glare of the sun into distant shaggy acres where placid Herefords grazed.

Then after a few moments, “You should have brought the boy, boss.”

“He's worthless, Frisco. I know it, you know it and he knows it. Sometimes I think I should've drowned him at birth or after he killed his mother with worry and grief.”

“Harsh words, boss,” Maddox said. “You can't blame Steve for what happened to Martha. She was very sick.”

“You've told me that before, Frisco. Don't tell it to me again.”

McCord took a silver cheroot case from his shirt pocket, selected one and then passed the case to his foreman.

The two men smoked in silence for a spell, then Maddox said, “I got an idea, boss.”

“About what?”

“About Steve.”

“I thought we'd done talking about him.”

“Just one more thing.”

“Then say it. I'll half listen.”

“I got kinfolk who have a ranch down on the Rio Grande near Laredo way. It's a fair-size spread, about a hundred thousand acres with good summer grazing and some broken land for winter pasture.”

“How many cattle?”

“In a good year, a cow and calf to five acres.”

McCord nodded, approving. Then, “So what's all this got to do with Steve?”

“Cousin Judd Rawlings hires only vaqueros coming across the border from Mexico. They're good cattlemen, fast with the gun and blade, as rough as cobs and as tough as they come.”

“I'm still not catching your drift, Frisco.”

“Boss, we send young Steve down to Webb County and cousin Judd puts him to work with his vaqueros. They'll make a man of him quicker than . . . well, in no time. Depend on it. Steve will be a better hand with cattle and an hombre with bark on him when he rides back to Oklahoma after say, three, four years out on the range.”

“Like finishing school, huh?”

“You could say that. But with no book learning and a sight tougher teachers.”

“He's had enough book learnin' already,” McCord said.

The big rancher was silent for a while, turned in on himself, and Maddox said, “It was only an idea.”

“No, it's a plan,” McCord said. “I've been around vaqueros once or twice and they don't take any damned sass or back talk.”

“That has also been my experience,” Maddox said.

“How do we play it?”

“It's easy, boss. I write Steve a letter of introduction to cousin Judd, put the boy on a good hoss and point him south. Texas is hard to miss.”

Trace McCord kneed his mount into motion.

“Then write your letter, Frisco. He'll leave tomorrow at first light and I'll be rid of him.”

 

 

Steve McCord let his Winchester's sights drift away from Frisco Maddox's chest.

It would be a sure shot all right, and Maddox was a broad target, but the young man hesitated to pull the trigger. Frisco had always been kind to him and had even encouraged his poetry. The big foreman often acted as a barrier between himself and his father when Pa went off on a rant and threatened to have him horsewhipped for some perceived offense or other.

It would be a real pity to kill Frisco, even though it could start the range war he needed.

But there were other considerations.

A narrow trail led up the crest of the rise where he lay, and if Pa let Frisco lie on the trail and followed the smoke drift he could get to the top of the ridge in a couple of minutes.

Steve shook his head. Too close. He wouldn't shoot today. It was too risky.

He let the sights slide back to Frisco. It was a good feeling to have a man's life, all he was and all he was planning to be, right in the palm of his fist.

All he had to do was squeeze . . . the trigger, that is . . . and poor Frisco would soon be making his excuses to Saint Peter at the gate. That last made Steve smile. He was highly amused, and such a fine feeling it was . . . the power over life and death.

His pa kicked his horse into motion and Steve laid the sights on him. But only for a moment.

“You have to wait your turn, Trace,” he whispered. “The time isn't right.”

He and Lucian Tweddle hadn't yet worked out the details of his takeover of the McCord ranch, but he knew how it would end. After Pa realized he'd lost everything, Steve would put a bullet into his guts then piss on him as he lay screaming on the ground.

The youngster flopped onto his back and watched clouds, baby clouds, he imagined, chase one another across the flat, blue expanse of the sky.

He picked a pimple on his chin until it bled and slowly came to a decision.

It was time to talk to Lucian again. He needed his advice . . .

On who lived and who died.