Kill Crazy (10 page)

“But Cindy is,” Meagan said.

“Cindy?” The smile on Duff's face was replaced by an expression of surprise. “And why would you be for bringing up her name, I'm asking you.”

Meagan chuckled. “Don't play coy with me, Mr. Duff MacCallister. You know full well that you find her to be a most attractive woman.”

“Aye, that I do,” Duff confessed. “And how can I not be thinkin' Cindy is pretty, when 'tis like my own dear Skye, she looks. But, lass, that is as far as it goes.”

Meagan reached across the table again, but this time it wasn't to slap Duff's hand. This time it was to lay her hand on his.

“Yes, from the way you have described Skye, I thought Cindy might look like her,” Meagan said.

“Meagan, 'tis nae need for you to be jealous, now,” Duff said.

“I'm not in the least jealous, Duff MacCallister. I know why you may feel attracted to her.”

“I am nae attracted to her. I was drawn to her looks only, lass. 'Tis as if she is a living likeness, but that is all.”

“I understand, Duff MacCallister. And I like to think that our relationship is secure enough that no explanation is necessary.”

“And 'tis probably wrong of me to so often bring up Skye's name in front of you.”

“Don't be silly, it isn't wrong at all. You loved Skye, dearly. Can't you see that that is one of the things I find most endearing about you? When a man commits himself heart and soul to a woman, it is only natural that the love doesn't go away just because the woman has died.”

“You're a good woman for knowin' that, Meagan.”

As Duff sat at the table with Meagan, his attention was drawn to another table in the restaurant, one that was occupied by four men.

“Meagan, don't look directly, but there are four men at that table in the corner. Would you be for knowing any of them?”

Meagan dropped her napkin, and as she bent down to retrieve it, she looked at the four men Duff had mentioned.

“I don't think I have ever seen any of them before,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“I don't know,” Duff replied. “There's just something about them that seems a mite curious. But I can nae put m' finger on the why of it.”

Chapter Thirteen

After finishing their meal the bank robbers had gone to the Wild Hog Saloon, where at the moment the four men, Johnny, Evans, Calhoun, and Short, were occupying a table with three women: Kathy, Annie, and Betty. Short was the one who was without a female companion.

“We need us another whore,” Short said.

Kathy, one of the three girls who was sitting at the table, frowned. “If you want a whore, you might try one of the cribs outside,” she said.

“Wait a minute. Ain't you done said that you women was goin' to spend the night with us?” Short said. “Why do you think we come here instead of Fiddler's Green if it wasn't for that here you can take the women up to their rooms?”

“Not if you use that kind of language, you can't.”

“What kind of language is that?”

“You said you needed another whore. We aren't whores.”

“Well, dammit, if you ain't whores, just what is you would call yourself? What kind of language is it that you're a-wantin' me to use?”

“We are ladies of the evening. Hostesses, who allow gentlemen to engage our services,” she said.

“You tell 'em, Kathy,” Betty said.

“All right, well, we need another one of them ladies of the evenin' who will let us engage her services,” Short said.

“That's more like it,” Kathy said, allowing the smile to return to her face. “Suzie will be here soon.”

“That's what you said a while ago, only she ain't here yet,” Short said. “What's takin' her so long?”

“Relax, cowboy,” Annie said. “You've got all night.”

“Yeah,” Short said with a ribald smile. “Yeah, that's true, ain't it? I got all night.”

“Only it ain't goin' to take me all night,” Evans said.

“Me neither,” Short added. “I'll bet you I'll be about the quickest you ever seen.”

The three women exchanged smiles.

“How long has it been since you have been with a woman?” Betty asked.

“A long time,” Short said. “It's been so long since I had me a woman that I don't hardly even remember.”

“Well,” Kathy said. “That doesn't speak well of the woman you were with. We promise you, you will remember tonight. Right, ladies?”

“Right,” the other two said.

“Son of a bitch, if you don't quit talkin' about it, I ain't likely to even make it up to the bed,” Short said.

The women laughed again.

 

 

Duff walked Meagan home from the restaurant.

“I have a bottle of Scotch in my apartment, if you would like a drink before your long ride out to your ranch,” Meagan invited.

“Scotch, is it? 'Tis good to see that you have learned to appreciate the drink.”

Meagan chuckled. “I have no appreciation for it whatsoever,” she said. “But I know you have a taste for it, so I keep some for you. I'll have a glass of wine.”

Meagan led the way up the outside stairs, then unlocked the door to her apartment. Just inside the door was a lantern, and she lit it, filling the room with a golden bubble of light.

“How are my cattle doing?” Meagan asked. She had recently invested some money in the ranch, so she was now half owner of the outstanding herd of Black Angus cattle that populated the fields of Sky Meadow.

“My cattle are growing fat, while yours are growing thin,” Duff replied.

“How do you know which cattle are mine and which are yours?”

“Because yours are thin,” Duff said, laughing.

“You may be Scot instead of Irish, but you do have a bit of the blarney in you,” Meagan said.

Meagan put two fingers of Scotch into a tumbler, then poured wine for herself. Carrying the drinks over to the settee, she handed Duff his drink, then sat beside him. The amber fluid in Duff's glass caught the light from the lantern and glowed as if lit from within.

“Is it true that the robbers got all the money?” Meagan asked.

“Aye. Over forty thousand dollars.”

“Thankfully, I keep half of my money in a bank down in Cheyenne,” Meagan said. “I've always believed the old adage, you shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket.”

“Aye, 'tis a good policy to follow,” Duff said. “I've not lost as much as some of the others in town . . . Mr. Matthews, Mr. Guthrie. Even Biff was hurt by the robbery.”

They talked a while longer, speaking of cattle and business, sharing stories from their past and talking of mutual friends, such as Elmer and Vi. But there were always, just beneath their conversation, words that were not spoken, words that Meagan so wanted to say and wanted to hear even more.

But if he didn't speak how he felt about her, he did let it be known by the way he looked at her, the way he treated her, and his occasional touches, intimate without being compromising. And for now, Meagan was satisfied to take what she could from him.

Duff finished his drink, then put the glass down and stood up. She stood as well.

“I'd best get back to the ranch,” he said, starting toward the door. She went with him, and just before he left, he put his finger to her chin, then turned her face toward his so that they were but a breath apart. “Take care, Meagan, that you not put yourself in danger. I don't know what I would do if something should happen to you.”

“I am always careful,” she said.

Still holding his finger under her chin, Duff leaned forward, closing the distance between them. He kissed her, not hard and demanding, but as soft as the brush of a butterfly's wing.

When the kiss ended, Meagan reached up to touch her own lips, and she held her fingers there for a long moment. She knew that the kiss had sealed no bargain, nor, by it, had he made any promise to her. It was what it was, a light, meaningless kiss.

No, it wasn't meaningless. She had very strong feelings for Duff, and she knew that he had strong feelings for her. She knew, too, that it wasn't because his heart was too full of Skye. He had told her that he had accepted her death, was ready to get on with his life, and Meagan believed him. But what he wasn't ready to do was love another woman, then lose her as he had lost Skye. Meagan knew that was what he meant when he said,
“Take care, Meagan, that you not put yourself in danger. I don't know what I would do if something should happen to you.”

With a smile and a nod, Duff walked down the steps, mounted his horse, and rode away. She stayed on her balcony, watching him until he disappeared in the dark. Overhead, a meteor streaked through the night sky.

 

 

Three blocks away, upstairs in the Wild Hog Saloon, Johnny Taylor lay in bed staring at the moon shadows on the ceiling. Finally, he sat up and looked back at the whore who was sleeping beside him. She was snoring loudly as she inhaled, and her lips were flapping as she exhaled.

Provocative clothing, the artful use of makeup, subdued lighting, and the effect of a generous consumption of liquor had made Kathy sexually appealing downstairs in the saloon. But now, a little line of spittle hung from her lips, and the cover was down, exposing a large, pillow-like breast that was lined with blue veins, and much of her sexual appeal was gone.

Johnny got up in the middle of the night and, leaving the whore in bed behind him, went downstairs and let himself out into the dark. He wasn't sure exactly what time it was, but he knew that it was after midnight. The town was exceptionally quiet, too late even for late-night revelry from any of the saloons. He walked down the street, staying on the boardwalk close against the buildings, lost in the shadows.

Locating the marshal's office, he walked across the street, then went between two buildings into the alley behind the jail. He could smell the pungent odor of the several outhouses that lined the alley. He was startled when the door of a nearby outhouse slammed shut and, looking toward it, he saw a man, wearing a sleeping gown, scurrying back into his house.

Johnny stood quietly in the shadows for a moment longer until he was calm again, and then he picked up a rock and tossed it in through the barred window. When he got no response, he tossed another one through, then another one.

“Stop throwin' them rocks in through the winder!” Emile shouted angrily from inside.

“Keep it down, Emile,” Johnny called out in a harsh whisper.

A moment later Emile's face appeared in the window. “Johnny? Was that you throwin' them rocks?”

“Yes, that was me—who'd you think it was? Now keep it quiet,” Johnny said again.

“I know'd all along that you was goin' to be a-comin' for me,” Emile said. “How are you goin' to do it?”

“I ain't quite come up with a way, yet. But I'll get you out of here.”

“You better get me out. They're talkin' about hangin' me, Johnny. I heard the deputy say they was goin' to start in a-buildin' the gallows in the next day or so.”

“You ain't had no trial yet, have you?”

“No, there ain't been no trial.”

“Well, they ain't goin' to hang you 'til they have a trial and find you guilty, so that gives me some time to come up with some idea about gettin' you out.”

“You're goin' to do it, ain't you, Johnny? Get me out, I mean. 'Cause I tell you the truth, I'll do whatever I have to, to stop from hangin'.”

“Don't you go talkin' to nobody about anything, you hear me.”

“Well, you just get me out, is all I got to say.”

“If I can't get you out before the trial, I'll get you a real good lawyer. We've got lots of money now. I hung on to your share for you. The others wanted to go ahead and divide it up, but I wouldn't let 'em do it.”

“You're a good brother, Johnny. Just don't let me hang.”

“Who you talkin' to back there, Emile?” Johnny heard a voice call from the front of the building.

“I ain't talkin' to nobody, 'ceptin' myself,” Emile replied as Johnny darted quickly down the alley, then up between the hardware store and the apothecary.

Chapter Fourteen

When Johnny returned to the room, he saw, in the moonlight, several sheets of stationery on the chest of drawers and that gave him an idea. Lighting a candle, he wrote a note, then folded it double and blew out the candle.

The whore was still sleeping, so he slipped out for one more errand. Moving stealthily through the dark, he found the office of the
Chugwater Defender
, the town's only newspaper. Looking around to make certain he wasn't seen, he slipped the note under the front door.

When he came back in this time, he woke up Kathy.

“Where you been, honey?” she asked. “I thought you'd done run out on me.”

“I went out back to take a piss,” Johnny said.

“Well, my goodness, you didn't have to do that. I've got a chamber pot, right here in the room.”

“I don't like to piss in front of a woman.”

Kathy laughed. “Honey, after last night, I've done seen ever'thing you've got, and you've seen ever'thing I've got, so why get so bashful all of a sudden?”

“It's just the way I am,” Johnny said.

“We still got a couple of hours 'til daylight,” she said. “You comin' back to bed?”

“Yeah, I might as well.”

“You got 'nything left for me?” she asked. “You did pay for all night, you know.”

Johnny smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I reckon I got somethin' left for you.”

 

 

The next morning Johnny was awakened by a knock on the door.

“Go away!” Johnny called, sleepily. Angrily, groggily, he threw one of his shoes, and it hit the door with a loud thump, then slid to the floor.

“Damn, Johnny,” Al Short called through the door. “You still a-goin' at it in there? Whooee, if you are, you got to be some kind of a man.”

Short's calls awakened Johnny, and he got out of bed to go relieve himself. Remembering that the whore had said she had a chamber pot, he pulled it out from under the bed, then began to pee, actually managing to get some of it into the pot.

“Hold on, hold on, I'm takin' a piss in here!” he said. “Quit makin' such a racket.”

“Can we come in?”

Johnny padded over to the door barefoot, and in his long johns. By now Kathy was awake as well, and when she saw four men coming in to her bedroom, she suddenly got shy and jerked the quilt up to cover her naked breasts.

“Damn!” Evans said. “Your'n sure has got bigger tits than mine did.”

Johnny started putting on his pants.

“What are you doin' in here so early?” he asked.

“It ain't all that early, Johnny,” Calhoun said. “It's damn near nine o'clock, and we was gettin' hungry for breakfast.”

“All right,” Johnny said, pulling on his boots. He put on his shirt and tucked it down into his trousers, then strapped on his gun. “Let's go get somethin' to eat.”

“Will I see you again, Johnny?” the whore asked.

Quickly, and unexpectedly, Johnny turned and swung a wicked backhand slap at her. The slap popped loudly, and Kathy cried out and put her hand to her lip, which began to bleed.

“Who give you permission to call me that?” he asked. “That ain't my name, anyhow.”

“I—I didn't mean nothin' by it,” she said, her voice quaking with fear. “I just heard them callin' you that, so I figured that was your name. I was just tryin' to be friendly, is all.”

“Well, you heard it wrong. What they called me was Donnie. That's my name, ain't it boys?”

“Yeah, Donnie,” Calhoun said. “That's what I called him. I called him Donnie, I didn't call him Johnny.”

“So you just forget that name, you hear me?” Johnny challenged.

“Yes, sure, Donnie, of course I will. I'm sorry I made a mistake callin' you the wrong thing. I didn't know it would make you so mad.”

Johnny looked at her for a moment, and then he took out his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and gave it to her.

“What's this for?” she asked. “It only cost three dollars for the whole night and you done give that to me.”

“This is just my way of tellin' you I'm sorry I hit you,” Johnny said. “I didn't have no call to do that.”

A broad smile spread across her face. “That's all right, Donnie,” she said. “I shouldn't have made you mad. It was all my fault.”

“Come on, boys. Let's get some breakfast,” Johnny said. As they left, Kathy held the twenty-dollar bill out, staring at it as if unable to believe her luck.

 

 

The four men did not return to the City Café, but took their breakfast of biscuits, bacon, and coffee downstairs in the Wild Hog Saloon.

“You know what? We shoulda maybe et our breakfast over to the City Café,” Short suggested. “I bet you we could get us a pile of pancakes over there, and I can't hardly remember the last time I had me a pile of pancakes.”

“We don't have time,” Johnny said. “We've got to be out of town before the newspaper comes out.”

“Before the newspaper comes out? What for?” Evans asked.

“On account of 'cause they's goin' to be a letter in the newspaper that's goin' to set this town on its ear. Only, for it to work good, we're goin' to have to be clean out of town.”

“What does the letter say?” Evans asked.

Looking up, Johnny saw a boy of about twelve come into the saloon, carrying a stack of newspapers. The boy put a few of the new papers down, then picked up the remainder of the older papers. That done, he took money out of a can, then went on to the next stop on his route.

“The paper's out,” Johnny said, getting up from the table. “We'd best be getting on our way.”

“I ain't finished my breakfast yet,” Short protested.

“Take your biscuit and bacon with you,” Johnny said.

“I ain't drunk my coffee yet.”

Johnny picked up Short's cup of coffee, then carried it over and poured the rest of it into a spittoon.

“What coffee?” he asked

On the way out, Johnny grabbed a newspaper, and left a coin in the can. Not until they were a good distance out of town, did they stop long enough for the others to read the paper.

“Damn, Johnny, what for did you write that? I mean you done told 'em your name and ever'thing,” Calhoun said.

“They already knew my name. And I done this to make 'em scared about what might happen if they don't let Emile go.”

“What will happen?” Evans asked.

“I don't know, I ain't figured it out yet,” Johnny admitted.

 

 

Less than one hour after the letter appeared, Marshal Ferrell showed up at the office of the
Chugwater Defender
with the paper in his hand, folded in such a way as to highlight the letter.

“Charley, let me ask you something. Why in the Sam Hill did you print this?” Ferrell demanded.

“It's news,” Blanton replied. “And my job is to print the news.”

“Yeah, well, your job isn't to print demands from outlaws, is it?”

“It is, if it is news,” Blanton argued.

“This here isn't news,” Ferrell said, emphasizing his comment by shaking the newspaper.

“It might not be good news, and as you said, it might even be a demand from outlaws, but it is news,” Blanton insisted. “And as long as I'm editor of the
Defender
, and unless you have taken it upon yourself to overthrow my right of freedom of the press, then I intend to print anything I find newsworthy.”

“Get down off your high horse, Charley,” Marshal Ferrell said. “I'm not challenging your right to freedom of the press.”

“I didn't think you would,” Blanton said.

“I would like to find out about this letter to the editor though. Where was it mailed from? Can I see the postmark?”

Blanton shook his head. “You can't see the postmark because there isn't any.”

“What do you mean, there isn't any? Where did you get that letter then if it wasn't mailed to you?”

“When I came to work this morning, I found a piece of paper folded over and shoved under the front door. I unfolded it, and there was the letter.”

“May I see the letter, please?” Ferrell asked.

“Yeah, I don't see why not,” Blanton replied. “I left it back in the composing room.”

Blanton went back to the composing room, where he found the little piece of paper lying alongside the drawers of type.

“Here it is,” he said, coming back to the front with the paper in his hand. He held it out toward the marshal, who took it from him.

“Hmm,” Ferrell said, pointing to something at the top of the page. “I wonder what this is.”

“What?”

“This little curve mark here, at the top of the page. It looks like there was a picture of something there that got torn off.”

Blanton examined the paper more closely, then he chuckled. “I'll be damned,” he said. “I don't know why I didn't notice it before, but I know exactly what that is.”

“You do?”

“I do indeed.”

“Then what is it?

“It is the bottom part of a pig's foot. The Wild Hog Saloon has stationery with the symbol of a Wild Hog on the top,” Blanton said. “The reason I know this is because I'm the one that printed up the stationery for Mr. Jones.”

“You're sure?”

“Damn right, I'm sure. I told you, I'm the one printed it up in the first place. And look here, you see this tiny skip here in the bottom part of the pig's foot? That's 'cause it was that way in the woodcut.”

“Interesting,” Marshal Ferrell said.

“More than interesting, I would say. I think it means that whoever sent this letter is more than likely over at the Wild Hog,” Blanton said.

“Not necessarily,” Ferrell said. “But seein' as this paper for sure came from there, then it is a lead.”