Authors: William W. Johnstone
Gut-Shot (20 page)
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The Circle-O ranch was bathed in moonlight and sleep, a tranquil oasis of moonlight, stars, and blue shadow in the middle of a rugged and often cruel land.
Hank Stannic and the three riders with him were in the hills now, sitting their horses on the rise where Steve McCord had lain when he assassinated the ranch cook.
There was no need for words. Every man present had already been briefed by Stannic, a simple order to “Stampede the horses and then kill every damned human that moves.”
The gunman noted that the windows of the house were dark, silvered by the moon. Asleep. Unseeing. Finally Stannic grunted, kicked his horse forward and descended into shadow and mist-filled hollows. The others followed.
When he was less than twenty yards from the corral, Stannic drew rein and pulled his Colt. “Ready?” he whispered.
Steve McCord looked eager, his eyes glittering. Holloway and Trent had been there before and had adopted an air of professional detachment.
“Then let's get it done.”
Stannic shrieked a rebel yell and set spurs to his horse.
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“Jesus, Mary and Joseph and all the saints in heaven, what is that, Brendan?” Audrey O'Rourke said, sitting bolt upright in bed.
“Night riders!” her husband yelled. He threw the blanket off his hairy legs and sprang to his feet. “Stay there, Audrey,” he said. “Don't move.”
O'Rourke, thin, wiry and tough as hickory, grabbed his hat and gun belt from a rack beside the door. As guns banged outside the old man buckled his Colt over his long nightshirt and hurried outside.
A chaotic, flame-streaked scene greeted him.
Terrified horses galloped past the ranch house door, followed by a shadowy rider who yelled and fired his revolver into the air. O'Rourke took a shot at the man, then beat a hasty retreat back inside as bullets splintered wood and shattered glass around him.
“Brendan, are you hurt?” his wife said. Like her husband she still wore her nightdress, but she had a Winchester in her hands. Years before she and Brendan had fought off Comanches together and the old ways died hard.
“Stay inside, woman, or I'll be taking a stick to you,” O'Rourke said. He replaced the round he'd fired and filled the empty chamber that had been under the hammer.
“Indeed I will not, Brendan O'Rourke,” the woman said. “Our home is under attack and my place is by your side.”
“Stay here, wife!” O'Rourke said.
He rushed into the roaring, blazing night.
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Steve McCord dropped a man who ran out of the bunkhouse and he winged another right behind him. Hit hard, the puncher dived back through the door.
Young McCord grinned and looked around him. God, he was good! Maybe the best there ever was!
Stannic's horse reared as he drew rein alongside. “Slick is down,” he yelled. “I think old man O'Rourke shot him.”
What Stannic didn't anticipate was that three or four punchers had spread their blankets outside, taking advantage of the fine weather away from the smelly, stifling confines of the bunkhouse. He'd downed one but the others had steadied and were getting their work in and now bullets zinged close.
Stannic thumbed off a couple of shots then swung his horse away. “Let's get the hell out of here!” he said.
But Steve McCord ignored him. Just ten yards ahead of him was the plump form of old lady O'Rourke, her white nightdress standing out like a beacon in the darkness. She carried a rifle, but clutched it to her chest. In the gloom and noise of the gun battle she flustered around like a mother hen, seemingly uncertain of what to do next or in what direction to move.
McCord grinned and viciously spur-raked his horse.
The pained animal jumped forward and McCord saw the pale, startled blur of Audrey O'Rourke's face. From somewhere in the dark, a man yelled, “No!”
McCord fired. The bullet crashed into the old woman's chest and she collapsed against the doorframe and blood bloomed on her breast like a ghastly corsage.
Audrey O'Rourke stared at the young man, her face full of wonderment. “Steve . . .” she whispered. “How could you . . . how . . .”
Now belted, angry men ran toward McCord, shooting. The young killer turned his mount on a dime and galloped away, bullets chasing him. In the darkness the Circle-O punchers scored no hits.
Steve McCord was highly amused. He'd killed the old biddy, he was sure of that, and the hands had gotten a good look at his face. When he heard the happy news, Mr. Tweddle would be so pleased.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“You're the only damned gun for hire around, that's why,” the puncher named Rick Walsh said, his face angry. “And my arms are getting tired.”
“Just keep them up there until I say you can put 'em down,” Sam Flintlock said. His cocked Colt was pointing at the young puncher's belly. “All this happened last night, huh?”
“Yeah. Night riders attacked the ranch. Mrs. O'Rourke is in bed, like to die, and we got two men killed and another wounded. One of the night riders is dead.”
“And you say Trace McCord's son led the raiders and shot the old woman?”
“That's what I say because that's what I know.”
“Who is the dead raider?”
“I don't know. I never seen him before.” Walsh worked his cramping, blood-drained fingers. “Why are you such a mean, nasty son of a bitch, Flintlock?”
“I guess because I was raised by one o' them. All right, you can take down your mitts now.”
Flintlock lowered the hammer on the Colt and laid it on the table beside him.
“How did you hear about me?” he said.
Walsh rubbed his numbed hands together. “Everybody knows you're the gun hired to protect Jamie McPhee when decent Christian folks planned to hang him,” he said.
“Is that what they are, huh?”
“I reckon.”
“Who sent you?”
“I told you. Mr. O'Rourke himself.”
“Why doesn't he do his own shooting?”
“Because the Circle-O can't go up against Trace McCord and his hired guns. Not if we want to keep breathing, we can't.”
“You ride for the brand, Walsh. You fight its wars.”
“I'm no gunman. None of us are gunmen.”
“How many hands does O'Rourke have left?”
“Counting me and the old manâand before you say anything, I aim to stickâwe got seven. Eight if Rube Elliot is still kicking.”
“How many riders does McCord count?”
“More'n twenty. McCord's foreman, Frisco Maddox, is the best of them with the iron.”
“I've heard of him,” Flintlock said. “He got the name Frisco because he worked as a police officer in San Francisco's Barbary Coast red-light district for a spell. He killed nine badmen in the line of duty, or so they say.”
“Well, you can see what we're up against,” Walsh said.
“You ever come across an English feller by the name of Sir Arthur Ward? He's a white man but wears them heathen Chinese robes.”
“Can't say as I have.”
“He's got a real pretty daughter, so if you ever met him you'd remember.”
Walsh consulted a watch he took from his shirt pocket. “Where are we headed with this, Flintlock?” he said.
“I want your boss to meet Ward before he goes off half-cocked and attacks the McCord ranch.”
“Damn it, man, he's already half-cocked. If Ma O'Rourke dies he'll kill the McCords, father and son, or die in the attempt. We're talking war here.”
“A war is what I'm trying to prevent,” Flintlock said.
“You're a gun for hire. Why do you care who fights and who dies? You'll still get your wages.”
“I've got reasons of my own.”
“Then you'll sign on with Mr. O'Rourke?”
“On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“O'Rourke listens to what Sir Arthur Ward has to say before he makes a move against Trace McCord. He won't believe it coming from me, but maybe he'll heed the Englishman.”
“O'Rourke is Irish. He doesn't like the English. One time he told me that.”
“He must listen or he'll be destroyed. It's a simple yes-or-no choice.”
“Where is this Sir What's-his-name?”
“His wagon is probably on your range somewhere. Find him.”
“I'll tell Mr. O'Rourke what you said. But if his wife dies, all bets are off.”
“Then say a prayer, Walsh,” Flintlock said. “If you don't know how ask Brendan O'Rourke to teach you.”
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“A beefsteak with you, Mr. Flintlock, and perhaps you'd care to make a trial of Mrs. Grange's curried kidneys?” Dr. Isaac Thorne said.
“Only coffee, thanks,” Flintlock said.
Dr. Thorne looked disappointed.
“How are you feeling, McPhee?” Flintlock studied the young man across the breakfast table. McPhee was pale, but the fever flush had left his cheekbones and his eyes were clear.
“I'll live,” he said.
Flintlock thanked Mrs. Grange after she filled his coffee cup, then said, “I need you to ride with me.”
“Hell, Sam, we just got here.”
“I know, but circumstances have changed.”
Flintlock told him about the visit of the Circle-O puncher and the raid on the ranch house. “Two dead and Mrs. O'Rourke likely to join them,” he said.
“How do you plan to play this, Sam?”
“We go talk with Brendan O'Rourke and try to stop a range war.”
“I don't think Mr. McPhee is fit for travel,” Doctor Thorne said. He used his napkin to dab curry sauce from his chin. “An excellent dish. Ah, it takes me right back to Mangalore and my days with the old 51st of Foot.
“Are you fit to ride?” Flintlock said.
“I don't . . . I mean, I think so,” McPhee said.
“If my plan works out, Sir Arthur Ward will be at the Circle-O with his daughter,” Flintlock said.
McPhee looked across the table at Thorne. “I reckon I can ride,” he said.
“On your own head be it, young man,” the doctor said. “I can't guarantee your recovery. You need rest and lots of it.”
“Sam, I'll ride with you,” McPhee said.
Flintlock smiled. “I thought a mention of Ruth Ward might do the trick.”
McPhee shook his head. “It's not because of Ruth,” he said. “It's because I won't leave you to face this fight alone.”
Dr. Thorne slammed a hand on the table so hard the crockery jumped.
“'Pon my soul, young man!” he exclaimed. “That's damned British of you. Well said.”
Flintlock drained his cup then rose to his feet. “Your hoss is outside, McPhee,” he said. Then to Thorne, “Doc, where does the woman live who last saw Frank Constable alive?”
“Nancy Pocket? Why, she conducts business out of a shack behind the Rocking Horse saloon.”
Flintlock nodded and the physician said, “You may be treading on dangerous ground, Mr. Flintlock.”
“I reckon I'm doing that already,” Flintlock said.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“You won't find her there.”
Sam Flintlock turned away from the shack door and said to the old woman who'd just spoken, “Where is she?”
“Wouldn't you like to know,” the woman said.
She was a skinny old hag with a thin bird's beak of a nose and muddy brown eyes.
“Has she left town, ma'am?” Jamie McPhee asked.
“And wouldn't you like an answer to that?”
Flintlock reached into his pocket and found a five. He held it up where the woman could see it. “This loosen your tongue?”
The woman's skinny arm flicked out like a snake's tongue and she grabbed the bill.
“Mr. High-and-Mighty took Nancy into his house.”
“Who is he?”
The old woman stepped closer, then whispered, “Lucian Tweddle, the banker.” Her breath smelled of gin.
“I used to do for her, you know, clean up this place,” she said. “No longer.”
“What's your name, ma'am?” Flintlock said.
“Mrs. Drabble as ever was. Mr. Drabble, God rest his drinking soul, has been in the grave this past twenty year.”
“Mrs. Drabble, who killed Frank Constable?” Flintlock said.
The crone smiled, revealing few teeth and those bad. “He killed himself, the lawyer did.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Like you, he asked too many questions.”
“Did Nancy Pocket kill him?”
The woman swung a skinny fist, as though trying to punch Flintlock in the chest.
“Open your eyes and look around you, fool. He was shot twice in the back and didn't see it coming, huh?” The woman turned away, muttering to herself. She stopped and called over her shoulder, “You're an even bigger idiot than the town marshal.”
But Flintlock understood the woman perfectly.
Garbage and empty whiskey bottles littered the area around the shack and there was at least thirty yards of open ground between it and the next tar-paper hovel where Mrs. Drabble stood fumbling with a key.
It was hard to believe that Frank Constable did not hear or see the approach of his killer.
He'd been shot at close range, Doc Thorne reckoned. And he didn't see it coming? Mrs. Drabble had said, scorn in her voice. Flintlock looked at McPhee. “What do you think?”
“I think Mr. Constable was shot in Nancy Pocket's cabin and staggered outside,” the young man said.
“Then who shot him?”
“Nancy, obviously.”
“Or someone who was with her that day.”
“Why would banker Tweddle take her under his wing?” McPhee said.
Flintlock smiled. “A nice way of putting it. You mean under his belly.”
“Maybe he knows Nancy killed Mr. Constable and wishes to protect her,” McPhee said.
“Or he did it and taking her into his home is his way of making sure she stays quiet.”
“But why would Nancy murder Mr. Constable in the first place?”
“Because she was trying to protect somebody.”
“Tweddle?”
“Maybe. But I'm starting to smell a mighty big rat,” Flintlock said.
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Trouble showed when Flintlock and the ailing McPhee rode back into the main street, busy now with pedestrian and wagon traffic as the morning progressed. Dust churned up by steel-rimmed wheels hung like a yellow mist and drifted onto the boardwalk, clinging to the hems of women's dresses and the cuffs of men's pants.
Marshal Tom Lithgow, the scowling Pike Reid beside him, stood on the corner of the boardwalk as the two riders left the alley.
“Hold up there, Flintlock,” Lithgow said. “We have business to be settled.”
Flintlock drew rein. “What's on your mind, Lithgow?” he said.
“I'm in a mind to arrest yon Jamie McPhee.”
“On what charge?” Flintlock said.
“For the murders of Clifton Wraith, Pinkerton, and lawyer Frank Constable.”
Flintlock shook his head. “That's ridiculous, and you know it. Who's paying you to do this, Lithgow? Lucian Tweddle maybe?”
That hit the lawman hard and it showed in his stiff face. “Nobody pays me, Flintlock. Now, McPhee, get off that horse. You're under arrest.”
Now people had stopped to watch, sensing trouble. Most recognized McPhee and their muttered conversations took on a dark, angry edge.
“We won't be arrested today, Lithgow,” Flintlock said. “Now step back and give us the road.”
It might have ended right there and then in a Mexican standoff, but Pike Reid, seeing an advantage for Tweddle, decided to push it.
“McPhee, git off that hoss or I'll shoot you off it,” he said.
“Pike, I wouldn't do that if I was you,” Flintlock said.
“You stay out of this, Flintlock. This is between me and McPhee.”
“Let it go, Pike,” Lithgow said. “There are too many innocent people in the street.”
But as intent on his prey as a cobra, Reid didn't listen. He badly wanted a kill, especially in front of the whole town, and the hated and reviled McPhee was a made-to-order target. Hell, after the smoke cleared he'd be a gold-medal hero.
Flintlock tried to end it. “Pike, don't do this,” he said. “McPhee is wounded and he isn't going anywhere.”
The crowd was hushed now. Scarcely breathing. Eyes big. Waiting.
Pike Reid shucked iron.
Drawing from the waistband, Flintlock was faster, the split second difference that separated the professional from the amateur. Hit twice in the chest, Pike Reid's thin body shuddered under the impact. Like a groggy prizefighter his legs turned to jelly and he staggered back a few steps then fell . . . at the polished toes of Beau Hunt's elastic-sided boots.
“Lithgow, don't try it!” Flintlock yelled. He was on edge, aware of Hunt.
The marshal let his gun hand fall to his side. “I ain't that ambitious, Flintlock,” he said.
“We're riding out of here,” Flintlock said. “Me and Jamie McPhee.”
“I'm not stopping you,” Lithgow said. “Not today.”
Beau Hunt stepped from the saloon doorway to the edge of the boardwalk. He smiled.
“You got your work in real fine, Sam,” he said. “Fast on the draw and shoot.”
Then, resplendent in gray broadcloth, snowy linen and bright brocade, he looked down at Pike Reid and shrugged. “But then, he wasn't much, was he?”
“You taking a hand, Beau?” Flintlock said.
“As the good marshal said: No, not today.”
Flintlock nodded, then kneed his horse forward. McPhee, ashen and frail, followed.
The crowd gawking gathered around the body of Pike Reid. None made any move in the direction of Flintlock and his charge.
“Fine day, Marshal,” Hunt said, lighting a long cheroot.
“For some maybe,” Lithgow said. “Not for me.”
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