Authors: William W. Johnstone
Gut-Shot (28 page)
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Lucian Tweddle was concerned. A real man had just spanked his protégé and he saw a major part of his plan and maybe even his future empire crumbling. Somehow he had to salvage this disaster.
As for Steve McCord, he'd lost most of his swagger and somehow the gun he wore no longer looked intimidating.
“Damn it, I told you not to brace Maddox,” Tweddle said. “He's a man-killer from way back.”
“It was him who braced me and then he showed me pa's will. What was I supposed to do?”
“Did you examine the will?”
“No. It was dark, remember?”
“It's no matter, we can challenge it in court, Steve. Maybe a judge will allow you to take possession until the matter is settled.”
“Frisco said he'd kill me on sight.”
“You can shade him. Your timing was off, just a little.”
“No, I can't shade him. He's too fast.”
“Then, if Maddox needs killing, I'll do it myself.”
“You kill Maddox? That I have to see.”
“Don't underestimate me, Steve. Don't ever do that at your peril.”
“Then what about Flintlock? He's probably even faster than Frisco on the draw.”
“My concern right now is the McCord ranch. We can deal with saddle tramps like Flintlock later. Still, you'd better stay the night here as a precaution.”
“I need a drink,” McCord said. “Damn, I need a drink bad.”
“Help yourself. You know where the whiskey is.”
Tweddle, his massive belly a huge mound under his bathrobe, sat in his chair and considered his options.
Have Steve contest the will?
No. It could take months, maybe years, and the railroad wouldn't wait.
Kill Frisco Maddox?
Risky, but it was a way if all else failed.
Offer Maddox a partnership with the O'Rourke range as bait?
Now that was a real possibility.
Of course, Tweddle realized he'd need to dispose of Steve McCord, a small matter that he could settle tonight.
But he instantly dismissed that idea.
No, he must talk with Frisco Maddox first and settle the deal. Then get rid of Steve.
The fat man smiled to himself.
Yes, that was the way to handle this difficult situation.
He'd ride out to the McCord ranch tomorrow.
Maddox was a pragmatic man. He'd see reason.
Steve McCord was surly.
A full glass of whiskey in hand, he scowled at Tweddle.
“What are you hatching in that brain of yours, Lucian?”
“I will ride out to your ranch”â
your
ranch, such a nice touchâ“and demand to see your father's will.”
your
ranch, such a nice touchâ“and demand to see your father's will.”
“And if it's legal?”
“I will tell Maddox we're disputing the content of the will and that he must vacate the property until the matter is settled in court.”
“Will he go for it?”
“He won't have any choice. Not when I threaten him with a battery of out-of-town lawyers.”
Steve McCord's face regained some of its viciousness. “There's treed rises all around the ranch house,” he said. “I could lay for him and kill him the first chance I get.”
“That remains a viable possibility, Steve. But let's try it legally first.”
“Whatever you say, Lucian.”
McCord knew that his standing with the fat man had slipped since Frisco had put the crawl on him. It would take time, and maybe a killing or two, to regain his previous status.
Flintlock! Yeah, that was it! If he gunned Sam Flintlock, Tweddle would be impressed. How could he fail to be?
That was the answer.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
In the thin gray of dusk, Sam Flintlock strapped his blanket roll in place behind the saddle and slid his Winchester and Hawken into their boots.
His few possessions were in his saddlebags along with clean socks and underwear.
He mounted and looked around him at what had been Brendan O'Rourke's Circle-O, now a place of the hurting dead, empty, echoing with a dreadful silence. Superstitious as all cowboys were, the hands had decided to leave and winter on the grub line rather than remain where ghosts walked, and Flintlock did not blame them.
He mounted and sat his horse for a while, head bowed, thinking.
Frank Constable's place must look just like this ranch. It too lay abandoned and desolate, his barn and infernal machine destroyed, and all the old man's dreams of journeying to the moon on a steamship with Jules Verne had died with him.
Deep in his gut, Flintlock believed he could have prevented all this death and desolation. But he'd laid back. Let it happen. He tilted his head and looked at the amber sky where the first sentinel stars were posted, a vast, empty space inside him.
“God forgive me,” he whispered aloud.
Old Barnabas perched on top of a hayrick beside the ranch house, knitting needles click-click-clicking in his hands and a ball of bright green yarn at his feet.
“Lookee, boy,” he said. He held up about five feet of the knitting. “I'm making me a winter muffler fer ol' Genghis Khan. He's an ornery cuss, always wanting to massacree folks, but he feels the cold something terrible.”
“There ain't any winter in hell, Barnabas,” Flintlock said.
“So you say, but I say different.”
Barnabas paused his needles. “Didn't do so good this time around, did you, boy?” he said.
“I reckon not. A lot of fine people dead.”
“And you let it happen, Sammy.”
“I could have done better. I was dealt a lousy hand but I could have played my cards better. I think that.”
“And now you're going to make amends, right?”
“That's the plan, Barnabas.”
“Shoot straight and fast, boy, like I teached you, even though you were an idiot and couldn't remember anything.”
“I'll try to remember this time.”
“Afterward, like a good boy, you go help your mama down there in the bayou and have her give you your name. You hear what I'm saying, boy?”
“I will, Barnabas. You can depend on it.”
“I asked that heathen Injun O'Hara to help you, but I don't know if he will. He don't like you much, says you're too easy to kill, even for a white man. Well, I got to go.”
Now Flintlock saw only a hayrick in the gloom . . . then the ball of green yarn came bouncing toward him. He leaned from the saddle, picked it up and shoved it into his saddlebags.
“For your ma,” Barnabas said. His hollow voice seemed to come from the far end of a long tunnel. “Tell her I think about her every now and then.”
Flintlock kneed his buckskin into motion and rode through shadows under a somber sky that brought him no comfort.
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Sam Flintlock planned to be in Open Sky just before dawn.
Taking his time, he spent the witching hours when the night was at its darkest hunched over a small fire near a stream that ran brown from silt. But the coffee tasted just fine.
Flintlock's head nodded, but he woke with a start when a man's voice rang out from the darkness. “Hello, the camp!”
He recognized the voice immediately. “Dave Glover, what the hell are you doing out here?” he yelled.
“Is that you, Sam'l Flintlock?”
“Yeah, it's me.”
“You got coffee and smoking tobacco?”
“I got both.”
“Then I'll come in.”
Glover led his mule into the glow of the firelight. The man looked older, as though his years had suddenly caught up with him.
“What are you doing wandering around at this time of night?” Flintlock said.
“I could ask you the same question.”
Flintlock smiled faintly. “I'm a lost soul, I guess.”
“Me too, Sam'l. My house fell down. The whole thing just crashed to the ground”
“Where's your woman?”
“The house fell down on top of her. I buried her a two-week ago.”
“Damn, I'm sorry to hear that. She was a real nice lady, comfortable if you catch my drift.” Flintlock shook his head. “You're a crazy old coot an' no mistake. I told you not to build a house where there was never a house before. Help yourself to coffee.”
“You got the makings?”
Flintlock tossed over tobacco and papers and after Glover had settled, he said, “Sorry about your loss, Dave. I truly am.”
“Thank'ee kindly. I can always build another house, but I'll never find another Miss Maybelline Bell. She was one of a kind.”
“Hard thing to lose a good woman.”
“Ah, well, she made me happy fer a spell. You ever been happy fer even a little while, Sam'l?”
“Looking back, no. Can't say as I have. Not happy like feeling good about everything happy.”
“I didn't think so. It's left a mark on you. Lines on your face, scars on your soul.”
Glover smoked and drank coffee for a while, studying Flintlock with shrewd eyes. Then he said, “Got your hair tied back.”
“My hair is as it's always been.”
“No, it ain't, Sammy. It's tied back.”
“Whatever you say.”
“What I mean is, I reckon you got revolver fighting in mind.”
“I've got killings in mind, Dave.”
“You lost your way, Sam. For a while you did. You tried to ride a more peaceful trail, but in our world there ain't any of those, not fer rannies like us.”
“It was that obvious, huh?”
Glover said nothing. He stared into the fire where the embers glowed red.
“I plan to even things out this morning,” Flintlock said. “Make it right.”
“I recollect Billy said that, said it right afore he shot Sheriff William Brady in Lincoln back in '78.”
“Yeah, I guess he did. But we all had a hand in that killing, Dave. Our hearts were bad that day because we were hurting over John Tunstall.”
“I had no hand in that killing. My Henry jammed. You recollect?”
“No. I reckon I don't recollect that.”
Glover drained his cup then threw the butt of his cigarette into the fire. He rose to his feet.
“I got to be moving on, Sam'l,” he said. “I'm headed into the Sans Bois, do some trappin' and a little prospecting, maybe.”
“Bide awhile, Dave. Spread your blankets by the fire and warm them old bones of your'n.”
The old man shook his head. “You reckon you're on a high lonesome, boy, but you're not, you're surrounded by ghosts. They tell me I'm not welcome here and that I got to line out.”
Flintlock nodded. “Then so long, Dave.”
“Yeah, you too, Sam. So long.”
Glover gathered the reins of his mule and without another word stepped into the crowding darkness.
The fire crackled and flames danced as a wind rustled in the trees. Sam Flintlock pulled his knees to his chest, bowed his head and became one with the night.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Sam Flintlock rode into Open Sky after dawn. The sky was ablaze with scarlet and the air was clear, the morning coming in clean.
A stray dog skulked along the boardwalk past the darkened stores then stopped and studied Flintlock for a moment before deciding he was of no interest and moved on.
The false front of the Rocking Horse saloon was draped in black bunting for the death of Maisie May and the town had a drab, weatherworn appearance in the harsh light of morning like a tired old whore gazing into a cruel mirror. A north wind blew strong and lifted skeins of dust from the street and the hanging store signs banged back and forth on their chains.
Lucian Tweddle's house was the biggest in town, built on a shallow hill with shade trees along the driveway. For a fat man it was an easy downhill walk to the bank, slightly more strenuous on the return.
Flintlock led his horse along the driveway to the front door.
He listened for a while and heard activity inside, the low hum of men's voices interrupted by a cigar smoker's rumbling cough. Tweddle was to home all right, but the other man's identity was a mystery.
Flintlock hoped it was Steve McCord. His presence would make things a lot simpler.
He tried the door handle. Locked. And maybe bolted. No doubt the same with the windows.
On cat feet, Flintlock walked wide around the house, intending to try the back door. But he stopped at a large flagstone patio flanked by a pair of marble statues of Greek nymphs with small breasts and generous hips and thighs.
The ornate French doors that opened onto the patio were locked, behind them a large formal dining room. As far as Flintlock could tell only one lock closed the doors from the inside, unless there were bolts he couldn't see. There was only one way to find out.
He pulled his Colt, measured his kick then struck out with his booted right foot.
The doors, manufactured for show not security, crashed open. Glass shattered and splintered wood flew in every direction.
Flintlock stepped through the wreckage, tossed aside a door that angled on one hinge across his path, and quickly crossed the dining room.
He almost collided with Steve McCord.
Shocked, the man took a step back. He had shaving soap on one side of his face and a razor in his right hand. He wore only his hat, underwear and his holstered Colt.
“Flintlock!” he yelled. Then his hands dropped to the buckle of his gun belt. He let belt and holster thud to the floor, and shrieked, “I'm out of it!”
“Way too late for that,” Flintlock said. He fired twice into McCord's chest and didn't wait to see the man drop.
Flintlock stepped into the hallway and yelled, “Tweddle!”
“In here, Mr. Flintlock,” the fat man called out, his tone calm. “Join me for coffee and pastries and a man-to-man talk in the parlor.”
Flintlock followed Tweddle's voice and stopped at the partially opened parlor door.
“Come in, come in, Mr. Flintlock, and welcome,” the fat man said. “I am unarmed.”
Flintlock pushed the door all the way open with the muzzle of his revolver and warily stepped inside. Tweddle sat in a leather armchair like an obese, smiling toad. He was fully dressed and wore English riding boots as though he planned to take to the trail that morning.
“I take it young McCord is dead?” he said.
Flintlock nodded. “Dead as he's ever gonna be.”
“Good. He was a bad apple, take my word for that. Coffee? Pastry?”
Flintlock shook his head. “Not today, Tweddle.” “Well, don't stand on formality, man, take a seat. We have business to discuss. Fortunes to be made with you at my side.”
“The only business I have with you is in my right hand, Tweddle.”
“Oh, let's not be tiresome, Mr. Flintlock. I plan to make you a rich man.” He slapped his hands together. “What do you think of that, my buck?”
But Tweddle had made a fatal mistake that morning. He should have armed himself.
The man who faced him was what Sam Flintlock had trained himself to be . . . a cold, efficient and soulless man-killer.
And he demonstrated that now. “Tweddle, I still got three unspent cartridges in this gun. One is for Beau Hunt, one for Brendan O'Rourke and the third for his wife. You're gonna get all three in your fat gut.”
Tweddle was afraid, but he retreated into bluster. “I'm unarmed, Flintlock. Kill me and you'll hang.”
“I'll take my chances,” Flintlock said.
He fired three times.
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The morning was bright and the sun beamed, happy to create a brand-new day.
Sam Flintlock carefully closed the front door of the house behind him and swung into the saddle. A crowd of people had gathered, whispering to one another, as they stared at the house and the approaching rider.
Among them stood the tall figure of Marshal Tom Lithgow.
As Flintlock rode close, he touched his hat brim. “Morning, Marshal,” he said.
Smiling, Lithgow returned the courtesy. “It's over, isn't it?” he said.
Flintlock drew rein. “It's over. Play it any way you like, Tom.”
“Thieves fell out over the spoils and killed one another. That's the truth of it as far as I'm concerned.”
“I'm moving on now, Tom,” Flintlock said. “Headed down Louisiana way.”
“Ride easy, Sam,” Lithgow said.
“You too, Tom. Ride easy.”
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