Authors: William W. Johnstone

Gut-Shot (16 page)

BOOK: Gut-Shot

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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Frank Constable had an excellent view of the street from his office window. A man who slept little, he'd already been behind his desk when Sam Flintlock rode out early that morning.

He'd not gone to Clifton Wraith's burial, preferring to remain home with his Bible and his thoughts. But Marshal Tom Lithgow had told him about the funeral and the Pinkerton's last words.

Guilty big man . . .

Those three words had haunted him.

Why had the Pinkerton refused more of Dr. Thorne's morphine, choosing to die in agony only to utter such a meaningless clue?

Guilty big man . . .

Constable had just read Isaiah 9:2 when the meaning of the words dawned on him.

The people who walk in darkness
will see a great light;
Those who live in a dark land,
the light will shine on them.

And Frank Constable, attorney-at-law, had seen the light.

Guilty big man . . .

Lithgow had flippantly told Sam Flintlock that Open Sky had any number of big men, most of them guilty of something. And as an attorney, Constable knew that was true.

But Wraith had desperately endured his pain long enough to tell Flintlock that Jamie McPhee was innocent of the murder of Polly Mallory and that a big man was the real killer.

Big man . . .

Clifton Wraith meant a
notably
big man. A large man . . . huge . . . immense . . . hulking . . . vast . . . colossal . . .

There were muscular males in town, but none of those proportions. But there was one who did measure up . . . a man who was the mother lode of bigness . . .

The grossly obese Lucian Tweddle!

Now, with the patience of the aged, Frank Constable kept a close eye on the street. He had no specific reason for doing so, only a hope that something might transpire that could lead him in the right direction.

He needed proof of Tweddle's guilt, evidence that would stand up in court. The rambling words of a dying man were not enough for a murder conviction.

Then, on what was to be the last day of his long life, Constable caught a break.

He saw Pike Reid, that venomous piece of filth, ride out of an alley and swing into the street. Fifteen minutes later Lucian Tweddle left the same alley, stepped laboriously onto the boardwalk and headed in the direction of the bank, beaming, touching his hat to the ladies he passed, hand extended in a warm handshake to their menfolk.

He looked what he wasn't . . . a respectable, prosperous businessman on his sunny way to his office.

Frank Constable pondered that. He decided that Reid and Tweddle using the same alley was too much of a coincidence. Back there, behind the main drag, there was nothing but a scattering of shabby shacks, storage buildings and cactus.

The lawyer smiled. And Nancy Pocket.

The young whore was the attraction. He was sure of it. Though Reid and Tweddle made for strange bedfellows. Too strange for Constable not to be intrigued.

Did Nancy know anything about Polly Mallory's murder?

A man will sometimes confide in a whore with all the fervor of a repenting sinner. Had Lucian Tweddle?

It was a long shot, and the lawyer knew it. But it was better than sitting in his office twiddling his thumbs while he waited for others to make a move.

Constable rose to his feet, put on his hat and grabbed his dragon cane. He carefully locked the office door behind him and stepped onto the boardwalk.

The morning was hot and a haze of yellow dust hovered over the street. A dray trundled past followed by another drawn by an ox team, and a steady clang-clang-clang of a hammer came from the blacksmith's forge. Over at the general store the proprietor had hung red, white and blue bunting to attract attention to the sign in his window that declared:

S
ILK
P
ARASOLS
$2.
All boots and shoes at cost.

The new day smelled of dust and the heavy odor of ancient manure drifting from the cattle pens. Heat lay on everything and everyone, dense and draining, and legions of fat blue flies buzzed lazily behind the store windows.

Constable crossed the street, his cane raised like a weapon, his thunderous eyes ready to intimidate any teamster who might take it into his head to drive too close to him.

He safely made it to the alley and a few moments later tapped the silver dragon on Nancy Pocket's door.

“Come in, Mr. Constable,” Nancy Pocket said.

And when the lawyer stepped into the cabin she smiled and said, “What can I do for you today?”

“Information, dear lady,” Constable said. “Come now, I'm too old for anything else.”

The woman looked disappointed. “What kind of information?”

“The kind that deals with murder.”

“I don't know nothing about murders.”

“A double negative. What a pity,” Constable said. Then, “I'm here to talk about the death of Polly Mallory.”

“I told Marshal Lithgow all I know. She was pregnant.”

“Who was the father?”

“How should I know?”

“Was it Lucian Tweddle?”

Nancy looked like a wounded bird staring at a snake.

“Well, speak up, woman,” Constable demanded.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Nancy said.

“Did Lucian Tweddle murder Polly Mallory when she told him she was pregnant? The truth now. Be frank. Be brief. Above all be honest.”

“Get out of here,” Nancy said. A pulse throbbed in her slender throat. “Now!”

“I can read the truth in your face.”

“Get out!”

The woman made a dive for the door but Constable stepped in her way. “If you're covering up a murder, I'll see you hang with Tweddle,” he said.

Nancy's shoulders sagged. Tears sprang into her eyes. “I don't want to hang. All right, I'll tell you all I know,” she said.

“I thought you might,” Constable said. “And afterward we'll talk with Marshal Lithgow.”

The lampblack that darkened Nancy's lashes mingled with her tears and gave her panda eyes. She dashed the mess way with the base of her thumb and said, “I must get a handkerchief.”

“Please do, and try not to distress yourself so much,” Constable said, with all the warmth of a prosecutor addressing a witness for the defense.

“I'm so sorry,” the woman said.

“No need to apologize for a display of female emotion,” the lawyer said. “Distressing as it is.”

Nancy stepped to her tiny dresser, opened the top drawer and when she turned she pumped two .41 bullets into Frank Constable's thin chest.

The rounds tore great holes through the lawyer's frail body and he fell back against the door, his face almost dreamlike, like a man who'd just taken his first step into a nightmare.

Tendrils of smoke rose from the barrels of Nancy's derringer and she stared at Constable in horror. “I'm . . . I'm sorry,” she whispered.

But Frank Constable didn't hear.

He was already dead.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

When Pike Reid stepped through the doors of the Gentleman's Retreat he almost collided with a drunken reveler, both his arms around a giggling girl, one of them holding a fizzing bottle of champagne. But before the laughing, singing towhead lurched away Reid thought he recognized him. He looked like young Steve McCord.

A moment later he dismissed the thought from his mind.

Trace McCord would never allow his son to visit a cathouse, and besides, the word around town was that Steve mooned around writing sappy poems and his inclinations did not run toward ladies.

Reid shook his head. It sure looked like him, though.

His attention was distracted by the large and imposing figure of Madame Josette, who stepped toward him in some kind of flowing, flapping robe that made her look a frigate under full sail.

“Monsieur Reid!” Josette cried, still at a distance.
“Quel plaisir de vous revoir!”

Reid had time to say, “Huh?” before Josette's massive arms enfolded him and hugged him to her huge breasts.

A moment later, six inches taller and two hundred pounds heavier than the scrawny, gasping deputy, she held him at arm's length and smiled.

“I said, âHow nice to see you again.'”

“Yeah, you too, Josette,” Reid said. “Here, did I catch sight of young Steve McCord when I came in?”

The woman put a finger to her lips. “Some gentlemen wish to remain anonymous at Josette's place.”

She hugged Reid again, not as close this time. “I've been keeping a sweet girl just for you. She's come all the way from France by way of Tangiers.” Josette's hands fluttered like released white doves. “Her name is Lulu Le Mer and she's as pure as milk . . . 'ow you say . . . in a bucket.”

“Josette, I'm here on business,” Reid said.

The woman scowled and shoved the deputy away from her. “Then why are you wasting my time?”

“I'm here on Lucian Tweddle's business.” Josette sighed and blinked. “Oh,
mon Dieu,
the fat man is not threatening to foreclose on me again.”

“No, not this time.”

“Then what is your business?”

“I'm looking for Hank Stannic.” Then, for insurance, “On Mr. Tweddle's account.”

“He's not here,” Josette said.

“Then where is he?”

“Je ne sais pas.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don't know.”

“Mr. Tweddle won't be happy.”

“Come with me,” Josette said.

She led Reid to a large, comfortable room furnished with overstuffed chairs, sofas and small tables. A bar had been set up opposite the door where a small, neat man with pomaded hair and scarlet arm garters stood polishing a glass.

The young puncher Reid had seen earlier sprawled on a velvet sofa, nuzzling his girls. He laughed too loudly and seemed half drunk.

Before the deputy could take a good look, Josette propelled him to the bar.

“Drink?” she said.

“Whiskey,” Reid said.

The tidy bartender filled a shot glass and placed it in front of Reid.

“Charlie, this fellow is looking for Hank Stannic,” Josette said.

Charlie hesitated and the woman rolled her eyes. “Lucian Tweddle,” she said.

The young man on the sofa leaned forward, suddenly alert. But nobody noticed.

The bartender nodded, his face empty. “A couple of months ago Stannic was managing a stage stop for the Butterfield Overland Mail up by Bandy Creek. He's living there with an Osage woman and has three, four kids by her.”

Reid drained his glass then grinned. “A stage robber working for Butterfield. That's rich.”

“Maybe he got religion,” Charlie said. “A dollar for the drink.”

“It's all right, Charlie,” Josette said. “
C'est sur la maison
.”

“Whatever you say, ma'am,” Charlie said, looking displeased.

“Hey, did I hear somebody mention Lucian Tweddle?”

The youth had gotten off the couch and now stood, legs apart, in the middle of the floor.

Pike Reid didn't like what he saw.

The kid was a poseur. His hand hovered close to his holstered Colt and his expression was both arrogant and belligerent. Reid figured Steve McCord, now he could see that it was indeed he, had once read a dime novel about a famous shootist and decided,
Gee, I could do that
.

But it didn't make the young man any less dangerous. The kid was on the prod, anxious to add to his score, if he had one.

Josette drained the tension out of the air. “All of us here are friends of Mr. Tweddle,” she said.

“How about him, Josette?” McCord nodded at Reid, besides himself the only man present who carried a gun.

“I'm a friend of Mr. Tweddle,” the deputy said.

“I asked the lady,” McCord said.

Reid twigged it then. Urged on by alcohol, the kid was hunting trouble and he wanted it real bad. He needed to kill a man so folks would look up to him and say as he passed, “There goes Steve the Kid, the famous pistolero.”

“Deputy Reid and Mr. Tweddle are very good friends,” Josette said.

That gave the young man pause. The last thing he wanted right now was to upset the banker. He needed Tweddle . . . at least for a while.

“That's just as well for you, mister,” he said to Reid.

Reid fought when he had to and killed only when the money was right. He'd gunned five white men and had nothing to prove.

“No hard feelings, huh, kid?” he said.

“Don't call me kid,” McCord said.

“Then it's Steve. That set all right with you?”

“How do you know my name?”

Reid knew he was about to score a hit. “Everybody knows your name, Mr. McCord.”

That did it. Steve smiled and said, “Buy you a drink . . . ah . . . ?”

“Pike. That's my handle as ever was. But I'll have to refuse the drink.”

He watched a scowl about to be reborn on the young man's face and said quickly, “Mr. Tweddle wants me to bring in Hank Stannic.”

“The outlaw?” Steve said. He searched his memory. “Ran with John Wesley Hardin for a spell?”

“That's him, though I've just been told he's going straight.”

The young man's eyes flicked to the bartender then back to Reid.

“He's a gun?”

One of the young women pulled on Steve's arm and whined, “Come back to the sofa, honey.” He pushed her roughly away. “I said, is he a gun? How does he stack up?”

Reid smiled inwardly. It was obvious that McCord was eager to measure himself against a gunman of reputation who once rode with Wes Hardin.

“He's good,” he said.

“How good?”

“I'd say at least a dozen men are pushing up daisies who found out the hard way just how good Hank Stannic is with a gun.”

“I want to meet him. I'll ride with you.”

“Sure thing,” Reid said. “But ain't your pa expecting you back at the ranch?”

“He can go to hell,” Steve McCord said.

Pike Reid was surprised at the bitter hate the kid conveyed in just five words.

That was a thing Mr. Tweddle should know.

BOOK: Gut-Shot

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