Larkspur (23 page)

“Whoa now!” Dillon stepped down from his horse. “Let go of him. He had horses to sell. We bought ’em. You got a thing to say, say it to me.”

The man ignored him and spoke sharply to the old man, emphasizing his words with a slam against the wall.

“Give back the money or I’ll wring yore scrawny neck.”

“Maybe your ears are plugged up.” Dillon’s voice was equally sharp. “I said back off.”

The man spun around in a crouched position. His face resembled that of a snarling wolverine. His hand hovered over the gun on his thigh. He only had to bend his elbow to grasp the butt.

“Ya stickin’ yore nose in,
boy?”

“You might say that,
shithead.”

“Ya know who I am?”

“Reckon I do. Just now figured it out. You’re a two-bit gunslinger named Greg Meader. Seen that ugly face of yours on a poster down in Oklahoma Territory not more than a week or two ago.”

“You wantin’ to try me,
boy?”

“No, but reckon you’re itchin’ to try me. So make your move.”

Meader bent his elbow. Before his hand grasped his gun butt he was looking into the business end of Dillon’s gun. He choked with surprise and fear. He stared blindly at the tall, light-haired man and waited for the bullet that was sure to come. It was beyond belief how fast he had drawn the gun. Meader had outdrawn every man he had ever challenged—until now.

“You got a horse here?” Dillon asked calmly.

Meader nodded, his mouth so dry he couldn’t speak. He didn’t dare take his eyes off Dillon.

“Get on it before I change my mind. I don’t like your face and I don’t like you. You’re nothing but a cocky little bully who picks on a smaller, weaker man. Ride out, or I’ll kill you and collect the reward.”

“What’s . . . what’s stopping ya?”

“The crooked marshal, Lyster. The money would go in his pocket unless I hang around for a month or two to collect it. And I’m not doing him any favors.”

“Get the horses,” Meader said over his shoulder to the other man.

“Do they owe you for board?” With his eyes still on Meader, Dillon spoke to the liveryman.

“Two bits.”

“Pay up.”

Meader tossed a coin into the dirt at the man’s feet.

Cleve and Dillon watched the two men mount tired, underfed horses.

“I ain’t forgettin’ you.” Meader’s eyes glowed with pure hatred.

“You’d better not if you want to live. I’ll be coming to collect that reward.”

“What’s yore name?”

“Bertha Mae Sutton.”

“Bertha Mae Sut—? That’s a woman’s name.”

“Yeah. I’m a woman dressed up like a man. Ain’t that a lark? You’ve been outdrawed by a woman. I’ll spread the word that Bertha Mae backed down Greg Meader. You’ll be the laughing-stock in every saloon in the West.”

Spitting on the ground at Dillon’s feet, Meader put his heels to his horse’s flanks and gigged him cruelly. The tortured animal squealed in protest, then took off at a run.

The liveryman’s eyes went from the stubble of whiskers on Dillon’s chin down his six-foot, muscular, rock-hard frame. Then the old man began to chuckle.

“Ah . . . shoot!” He slapped his hat against his thigh.

Dillon grinned. “Throws ’em off every time.”

Cleve removed his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and slapped it back on his head.

“I’m getting too old for this, Dillon. I just got a couple hundred more gray hairs.”

“You hadn’t ort to a worried. He was just a show-off.” Dillon laughed, then said, “A man with two guns is usually a lefty. His left holster was more worn than the right. I was watchin’ his left hand.”

“Do you get many like them?” Cleve asked the liveryman.

“Lately I do.”

“Meader was in the eatery this morning with a man called Mike Bruza. Know him?”

“He’s a mean ’un. Got about as much sense as a loco steer. Just right, though, fer what he’s used fer.”

“We didn’t aim to cause you trouble,” Dillon said. “But I wasn’t giving up this horse. He’s a beaut.” He rubbed the buckskin’s nose and the horse nuzzled his shoulder.

“Feller gets used to trouble these days.”

“Did you know the old man who was killed last night?” Cleve asked. “We heard talk about it this morning.”

“Ever’body knew Cletus Fuller. He was a old-timer ’round here. Give ya the shirt off his back if ya asked for it.”

“It was a mean way to kill a man in order to rob him.”

“Bullfoot! Cletus didn’t have nothin’ to be robbed of.”

“Someone must have had it in for him.”

“Mister, there be two sides in this here town. A man’s either for the big muckety-muck or ag’in’ ’im. Me, I be doin’ my dangest to straddle the fence.”

“Good idea.”

“You plannin’ on stayin’ long?” the liveryman asked hopefully.

“Long enough to buy some land. Who do we see?”

“Harrumpt! Ain’t but one man to see. Forsythe.”

“Is he the only land man? How about the banker?”

“Banker don’t go to the outhouse without askin’ Forsythe. There ain’t a lot of sellin’ goin’ on, ’cepts
to
Forsythe. He’s buyin’ up ever’thin’ in sight.”

“Must have a lot of ready cash.”

“Don’t need a lot at what he’s payin’.”

“Where can we find him?”

“He’s got a land office up over the bank. What I hear is he does most of his business at home.”

“Where is that?”

“A street over. Big house with two brick chimneys. Fanciest house in town. Ya can’t miss it.”

“You got a couple of stalls we can rent?”

“Ya bet. Bring ’em on in.”

After leaving the livery, Cleve and Dillon walked back up to the main street, crossed over and headed for “the fanciest house in town.”

*  *  *

In the fanciest house, Kyle Forsythe stood before Marshal Lyster and Mike Bruza, who were seated in two wooden chairs next to the wall of his study. Forsythe was at his best when he was on his feet looking down at his underlings. His anger was directed at Mike.

“Goddammit! I told you to leave the Gates girl and her brother alone. As soon as Del’s back is turned, you’re over there. What the hell did you do to her?”

“I asked for coffee. She threw the pot at me.”

Kyle’s lips curled. “I suppose that was all there was to it.”

“All that mattered.” Mike grimaced when his burned back touched the back of the chair.

“I doubt if Del will think it was all that mattered.” Kyle sat down in the swivel chair by the rolltop desk, leaned back and laced his fingers over his abdomen. “You know what happened to Cliff Miller.”

“That killer shot him in the back.”

“You’re wrong. He got it right between the eyes where you’ll get it if you bother Bonnie Gates. Del’s got a hard-on for that woman.”

“Goddammit! It was her fault. I’ll be walking spraddled for a month. If I hadn’t moved back when I did, the bitch would’a ruint me.”

“What a pity. You’d have to give up screwing that skinny whore down at Flo’s.”

“The closer the bone the better the meat, I always say. A man takes his pleasure where he can get it.”

“Don’t expect me to interfere when Del comes looking for you.”

“I can handle ’im.”

“Like you handled old Fuller?” Kyle’s hands went to the arms of the chair and he sneered at Mike.

“I didn’t do that.”

“Who did?”

“Greg Meader. I told him to find out what the old man knew about where that Anderson woman went. He got hisself carried away and went too far.”

Kyle looked at Mike without speaking for so long that the man began to fidget. Finally he spoke to Lyster.

“What about the two gunmen at the café?”

“They won’t give no trouble. I told ’em to get outta town.”

“Who were they?”

“Texans riding through, I think.”

“I don’t pay you to think.”

Lyster’s jaws turned red under the rebuke.

“They’re gone. I saw them ride out.”

Kyle lifted the lid of his cigar box, let it fall and shouted: “Ruth!”

“Yes.” The woman’s voice came from outside the door.

“My cigar box is empty.”

“I’ll get another one.”

A minute later, Ruth DeVary came into the room, keeping her back turned to the men in the chairs, she set a box of cigars on Kyle’s desk. He looked up at her and smiled.

Ruth left the room quickly, her eyes down, her head turned to the side. Both she and Kyle failed to see Mike’s elbow nudge Lyster.

“All right.” Forsythe left the word hanging and lit a cigar. “What do we have?”

Mike answered. “Fourteen men waiting over near Cedar Bend. With me, Greg Meader and Lyster, seventeen.”

“If I ride out to the Larkspur who’ll keep peace here?” Lyster blustered.

Forsythe ignored him. “We’ll wait till Del gets back. He’s worth ten of your so-called gunmen.”

Mike’s face reddened and he ground his teeth. “If he don’t have his mind on pussy,” he muttered.

The loud clap of the brass door knocker sounded. Forsythe gave Mike a disgusted look and shouted:

“Ruth, see who it is.” Then, “You two get out of here. And stay away from the Gates woman and her brother. I don’t want any trouble with Del. It seems I’m going to have to depend on him to get things done.”

*  *  *

Dillon’s mind was too occupied to notice and appreciate the deer heads etched in the thick beveled glass of the double door. He was searching his memory for information about the man he was about to meet.

“The bastard!” Dillon muttered.

Cleve looked at him sharply. “Want to back out? This isn’t something you have to do.”

“Hell, no! I want to see the son of a bitch.”

“Don’t forget the job we have to do.”

“I’ll give nothing away . . . yet.”

The door opened. A neatly dressed woman stood there. Both men were startled to see that she had a dark bruise on her cheekbone and the corner of her eye was swollen shut. However, she smiled and greeted them politely.

“Good morning.”

“Mornin’, ma’am.” As Cleve spoke, they took off their hats. “We’d like to see Mr. Forsythe about buying some land.”

“Won’t you step in. He’s busy at the moment, but you can wait here in the foyer and I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Ruth opened the door and stepped back to allow them to enter. Cleve and Dillon shared a questioning look. After closing the door she walked down the hallway that divided the lower floor of the house and stopped at an open doorway. She hesitated, evidently waiting for her presence to be acknowledged.

“Someone to see you about buying some land, Colonel.”

“Send them in. These
gentlemen
are leaving.”

The woman beckoned. Dillon and Cleve walked down the hall and were about to step into the room but the doorway was blocked by Marshal Lyster. Mike Bruza stood behind him.

“Hello, again,” Dillon said pleasantly. Then to Mike, “How are your burns? That hot coffee didn’t get to your little old peanut, did it?”

“None a yore goddamn business!”

“Well, then, how about your back?” Dillon raised his brows.

“Listen to me, you smart-mouthed—”

“I thought I told you fellers to get outta town.” Lyster interrupted with a rasp of authority in his voice, his eyes darting to Forsythe, who was still seated in the swivel chair.

“Ya
advised
us,” Cleve said calmly. “Is it against the law not to take yore advice?”

“We don’t put up with slick gunmen in this town.”

“We understand that, marshal,” Dillon replied, with his hands at his waist. He teetered back on his heels and grinned down at the shorter man. “That’s why we ran Greg Meader out of town for you. Did you know that his face is on a wanted poster?”

“Not on any poster I’ve got.”

“Too bad. There’s a two-hundred-dollar reward—dead or alive.”

“Then why didn’t you kill him?”

“You’d a liked that. When the reward came in a couple months from now you’d a had yourself a high old time on money I earned.”

“I’ll be keepin’ my eye on both you fellers,” Lyster said threateningly, and moved to go out the door. “One wrong move, and I’ll lock you up.”

“You’d better get ya a better jail than what you got.”

“It’d hold you.”

Cleve knew Dillon continued to bait the marshal because he was nervous about facing Forsythe.

“I’d not mind a bit being locked up with Miss Gates. You goin’ to put us both in that little old cracker box?”

“What about Miss Gates?” This came from the colonel, rising from his chair. “You threatening to jail Miss Gates?”

“Naw. He’s . . . just shootin’ off his mouth, Colonel.”

“Get out . . . both of you. I’ll see to you later if Del don’t beat me to it.”

Cleve’s eyes honed in on Forsythe. He saw only a faint resemblance between this man and the Yankee captain who had been in charge of the troops assigned to guard Judge Van Winkle some eighteen years ago when his train joined the freight-wagon train crossing Indian Territory. Forsythe was heavier now; his hair was thinner on top and gray at the temples, as were his mustache and short beard. Cleve doubted if the man remembered him. At that time Forsythe had considered himself far above the freighters and had paid them scant attention.

Cleve glanced at Dillon. He was looking at everything in the room,
except
Forsythe.

“Name’s Stark.” Cleve held out his hand. “The young feller here is my sidekick. He and Bruza didn’t hit it off too well this mornin’.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Stark. You, too, young man. Have a seat.”

Dillon was staring out the window and never offered his hand. He remained standing while Cleve took the chair vacated by Lyster.

“The marshal told me about the set-to at the café. Bruza gets to feeling his oats at times.”

“Where we come from ladies are treated with respect.”

“And where is that?”

“We came up from Kansas.”

Kyle glanced at Dillon standing beside the window and frowned.

“I invited you to sit down.”

“I choose to stand.” Dillon bit out the words, turned and stared at Kyle with hard blue eyes.

“Then suit yourself.”

“I usually do.”

Kyle looked at him for a moment with a look that had intimidated men much older than this one. It didn’t work. Dillon stared back. Kyle shrugged and turned to Cleve.