Kill Crazy (12 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Harper dismounted in front of Fiddler's Green, tied his horse off, then automatically lifted his pistol from the holster about an inch before dropping it back down. That kept the gun loose in the holster, making for a quicker, smoother draw.

Harper had been born in New York City. He had no idea who his father was, his mother was a prostitute who had died of puerperal fever three days after giving birth to her second illegitimate child. The child had died as well, and Harper, who was twelve years old at the time, had been on his own.

He'd earned a living by running errands for the criminal element of the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and he'd killed his first man when he was fourteen, taking the job for one hundred dollars. It had been exceptionally easy. Because he'd been only fourteen his target, Guido Costaconti, who had been himself an assassin, had taken no notice of the young towheaded and barefoot boy who'd been coming toward him, carrying a bag.

“What you got in that sack, boy?” Costaconti had asked. “It wouldn't be a piece of pie, would it? Yeah, I'll bet that's it. It's a piece of pie that your mama made for you, ain't it? I tell you what. You just give that pie to me, and that way I won't have to box your ears.” Costaconti had laughed out loud.

Harper had walked up to within two feet of him, then reached his hand down into the bag.

“That's a good boy,” Costaconti had said, holding his hand out. “Give it to me.”

Harper had pulled a pistol from the bag, pointed it at Costaconti, and pulled the trigger. Costaconti had been dead before he'd even realized he was in danger.

Harper had gotten such a thrill from that killing that he would have done it for nothing, and over the next four years he'd become one of the most successful assassins in the city. He'd had to leave when the city got too hot for him.

He'd gone west and learned the art of the fast draw. Now he was very skilled at it, but, as he'd told young Toomey, being fast isn't the most important thing about being a gunfighter. The most important thing was to have a willingness, almost an eagerness, to kill. And that, Harper did have.

Now he was in Chugwater to kill Duff MacCallister. He had never seen Duff MacCallister, so he wouldn't be able to recognize him on sight. But he was told that MacCallister was a good friend to the owner of Fiddler's Green, so his plan was a simple one. He would wait here until MacCallister showed up.

 

 

His strange, brooding appearance was off-putting to all the bar girls except for one. He had bought drinks for Cindy Boyce at least three times during the day, though he'd had drunk nothing but coffee. Now he was sitting with Francis Schumacher.

“So, you know who I am,” Harper said.

“I know. I used to be a lawman.”

“That don't mean anything. I don't have any dodgers out on me.”

Schumacher chuckled. “No, you don't,” he said. “And I've always wondered how someone like you could avoid it.”

“Someone like me?” Harper replied with a challenge to his voice.

“Yeah,” Schumacher said, not backing down. “Someone like you. Someone who has the reputation you have, but has managed to stay off wanted posters.”

“Because I've been careful,” Harper said. “Very careful.”

Schumacher glanced up at the clock, and saw that it was nearly two.

“I've got to go,” he said. “I have a friend in jail, and the only time I can visit with him is between two and three in the afternoon.”

“You used to be a lawman, and you have friend in jail?”

“Yeah,” Schumacher answered. “Funny, ain't it?”

 

 

“How can you stand to sit at the same table with him?” Nell asked.

“He's no bother,” Cindy said. “All he does is drink coffee and talk.”

“There is something about him that frightens me,” Nell said.

“And I don't trust a man who doesn't drink anything but coffee,” Mattie said. “There's something mighty strange about that.”

“Well, at least you don't have to worry about him getting drunk and angry,” Cindy suggested with a smile.

“I don't know,” Nell said. “I agree with Mattie. I'm not sure I trust someone who doesn't drink either.”

“What does he talk about?” Mattie asked.

“He doesn't talk much at all,” Cindy said. “I think he must be a friend of Mr. MacCallister's.”

“Wait a minute,” Nell said. “Are you saying he is a friend of Duff MacCallister?”

“I guess he is. He has asked about him a few times.”

“I can't see someone like that being a friend of Duff MacCallister,” Nell said.

“Me either,” Mattie added.

“Well, all I know is he is looking for Duff MacCallister,” Cindy said.

Out at Sky Meadow, the day's work was done, supper was over, and while several of the cowboys had ridden into town, there were three who stayed behind. One was lying on his bunk, while the other two were sitting across a small table playing cards. Dale and Ben were playing poker with Poke and Vaughan, two of the other cowboys who worked at the ranch. They were playing for pebbles, not for money, but that didn't lessen the intensity of their game. When one of them took the pot with a pair of aces, the other one complained.

“What the hell, Poke? How did you come up with that ace?” Dale asked.

“That was easy,” Poke answered. “I just took it from Meacham's boot when he wasn't lookin'.” Meacham was the one lying in the bunk.

“What do you mean? Are you saying Meacham keeps an ace in his boot?”

“Oh yeah,” Poke said. “Meacham always has an ace in his boot. I ain't never know'd him to do anythin' honest when he could cheat. Ain't that right, Meacham?”

“That's right,” Meacham answered without protest or embarrassment. “But don't let Poke fool you none, Dale. He's just as bad.”

“Hell, Dale cheats as much as I do,” Poke said.

Dale laughed. “I reckon we all cheat,” he admitted. “It don't matter much if I get caught cheatin' for pebbles. But if I ever get real good at it, I'm goin' to go into one of them big gamblin' tables down in Cheyenne 'n' win my fortune.”

“I wouldn't advise that,” Poke replied. “Cheatin' among us, when we ain't playin' for nothing more 'n pebbles, is one thing. But cheatin' in a real game is liable to get a fella killed.”

The cards were raked in, the deck shuffled, then dealt again.

“You think Mr. MacCallister will be able to make our payroll this month?” Dale asked as he was dealing.

“Sure, why not?” Poke asked.

“Well, from what I heard, he had a lot of money in the bank that got stoled.”

“Mr. MacCallister is a smart man,” Meacham said. “It wouldn't surprise me none if he didn't have money in half a dozen banks.”

“Lord, wouldn't it be good to have that much money?” Dale asked.

“No. When you got money, you got responsibility,” Meacham said.

“What does that mean?” Dale asked.

“It means you got more 'n yourself to look out for. Now you take us. Only worry we got is where are we goin' to get our next meal. Well, that ain't no worry. Come mealtime we just walk over to the cook shack and eat. Where are we goin' to sleep? Well, this bunkhouse is here. We've each got a bunk, blankets, a pillow. We don't even have to furnish our own horse. And we get forty dollars ever' month.

“But where do all those things come from? They come from Mr. MacCallister. He had to build the cook shack, he has to keep it supplied with food, and he has to pay the cook.

“He had to build the bunkhouses, he had to buy the beds, and in the wintertime he has to make sure we have enough wood to burn. He furnishes the horses we ride, and the tools we use. That's responsibility.”

“Damn,” Dale said when Meacham finished his lecture on responsibility. “I guess if you put it that way, I'm glad I don't have a lot of money.”

“Where is Mr. MacCallister, tonight?” Poke asked.

“I don't know. I saw him ride out a while ago. He's goin' into town, I reckon,” Dale said. He chuckled. “I've heard that he is sweet on that lady that owns the dress emporium.”

“Yeah, well, have you ever seen her?” Meacham asked. “She is one pretty woman.”

“Yeah, she is,” Poke said. “I wish he would go ahead and marry her and bring her out here, so I'd have me a pretty woman to look at.”

“What are you talkin' about?” Dale asked. “If he was to marry her, you wouldn't have no right to be a-lookin' at her.”

“Hell, Dale, what are you sayin'? That I ain't got the right even to look at a pretty woman?” Poke asked.

“Oh,” Dale said. “Well, I reckon if you put it that way, well, yeah, sure, you got the right to look at her. I mean as long as you know she ain't for you.”

“She's a rich woman that owns her own business, and, from what Elmer says, has an interest in the cattle that's out here on the ranch. I make forty dollars a month and found. Do you think I don't know she ain't for me? Show me your hand.”

Dale put down three nines, and, with a smile, Poke put down three queens.

“Damn,” Dale said as he watched Poke rake in the pile of pebbles.

 

 

When Duff dismounted in front of Fiddler's Green, Biff met him on the front porch.

“Duff, before you go in, I think you should know that there's a man in there who has been asking about you,” Biff said.

“Do you know him?”

“I don't know him, but someone told me that his name is Harper.”

“Harper? And could you be for telling me if that his surname, or his Christian name?”

“I've never heard his first name, but I have heard of him, Duff. They say he is a hired killer. I don't like it that he is asking for you.”

“And where would this gentlemen be sitting?”

“He's in the table nearest the stove. That way he can see the front and the rear door, and he is studying everyone who comes in.”

“What about the stairs? If he is watching both doorways, he can nae also be watching the stairs.”

“No, he can't see the stairs,” Biff agreed. Biff smiled. “And there's a ladder lying on the ground behind the saloon. Climb up to the last window on the left. I know it isn't locked, and it opens onto the end of the upstairs landing.”

Moving around to the back of the saloon, Duff saw the ladder Biff had told him about. It was lying in the weeds up against the back wall of the establishment. Duff leaned it up against the last window on the left, then climbed up.

Testing the window, he discovered that it wasn't locked, so he slid it up, then climbed in.

Walking toward the front, he stepped up to the banister that provided a safety rail between the upstairs landing, and the main floor below. Looking out over the room, he saw the man Biff was talking about. He studied him for a moment and saw the way he was sitting so as to provide quick access to his pistol. The man was staring intently at the only two entrances to the saloon.

Or, at least, he was watching the only two entrances he knew about. Harper had no idea that the man he was searching for so diligently had come into the saloon through a back window.

Duff started down the stairs, moving slowly, deliberately, and quietly. Within a moment, he was standing less than three feet behind Harper. That was when he noticed that Harper was drinking coffee only. He waited until Harper lifted the cup to his lips. That effectively occupied his gun hand.

“My name is Duff MacCallister,” Duff said. “I am told that you are looking for me.

“What the hell?” Harper shouted. Standing up quickly and spinning around, Harper's hand dipped toward his pistol, but he never reached it. Duff was so close to him that he laid Harper out with one powerful punch. With Harper lying unconscious on the floor, Duff picked up his pistol, then searched him quickly for a second weapon.

Biff came over to look down at Harper.

“Have you ever seen him before?” Biff asked.

“No.”

“Then, if you've never run into him before, whatever he has against you isn't personal—and that makes it worse. From what I've heard of him, he's a hired killer. That means someone may have hired him to kill you.”

Duff picked up Harper's pistol, removed all the bullets, then put it back in Harper's holster.

“Tell me, Biff, would you be havin' an idea as to what we do with him now?”

“I don't know. I'd say have the marshal throw him in jail, but I don't know as he can do that. Harper hasn't done anything yet.”