Gut-Shot (10 page)

After the smoke cleared, Sam Flintlock said, “The safest place in the whole territory was right here beside you.”

“I didn't hit it with five shots?” Jamie McPhee said.

“I don't know where the bullets went, but none come near the pine.”

McPhee was crestfallen. “Geez, I thought for sure I'd hit it.”

“Anybody ever tell you that you close your eyes when you pull the trigger?” Flintlock said. “And you hold the Colt like a maiden aunt?”

“That bad, huh?”

“Maybe the worst I've ever seen and I've seen plenty of bad, most of them dead now.”

McPhee swallowed hard. “Could be it was the gun,” he said. “Can you hit with it, Sam?”

Without a word Flintlock took the Colt and reloaded with rounds he took from a deerskin pouch that hung on his belt.

He raised the big revolver and fired. Thinking back on it later, McPhee couldn't remember hearing individual shots, just a continuous roll of gun thunder that lasted a second or two.

The pine jerked, splintered and then fell over. McPhee whistled between his teeth then did a little dance. “Huzzah for the man in the buckskin shirt! I've never seen the like.”

“And me only half trying,” Flintlock said.

“Five shots just like—”

“Six. I loaded six. So it wasn't the gun.”

“Just like, like lightning. Can you teach me how to shoot like that?”

“I can teach you how to hold and shoot a firearm, but I can't teach you how to do it like me. It's a skill you're born with and maybe one man in a thousand has it.”

McPhee shook his head in wonder. “Then you're just a natural-born shootist.”

“Something like that and I'm glad you appreciate it. Now let me tell you something, Mr. Bank Clerk, I'm scared right now of the hard times coming down, so imagine how scared you should be.”

“I can take care of myself. I'll manage,” McPhee said, his face stiff, defensive.

“No, you won't manage. You'll die. You heard Wraith, this thing hasn't even begun yet. Understand me? I think the wheels will be set in motion real soon.”

Flintlock read the young man's eyes and decided McPhee wasn't catching his drift.

“I believe you didn't kill Polly Mallory,” he said. “For one thing, I don't think you've got the nerve for it. But the man who did has plenty of nerve and he'll make his move soon. He has to kill you, McPhee, and he needs to make a show of doing it legally.”

“Then he'll know where to find me,” McPhee said.

Horn Tate and Willie Litton were blunt instruments, and thus they suited Lucian Tweddle's purposes perfectly. Dull, brutish, violent and drunken, the pair killed with the lead-filled sap, the billy club and their own bare hands.

“Glad you could come, gentlemen,” Tweddle said, slightly amused that the last word of his sentence was so badly misused. “I trust your recent business trip out of town was a successful one.”

Tate, whose coarse black hairline began just above his eyebrows, grinned. “Successful enough, boss. But robbing two by twice sodbusters don't return much of a profit. You need a killing done?”

“Not quite. But it is a distinct possibility for the future,” Tweddle said.

He sat forward in his chair, his great belly hanging between his thighs like a sack of grain. He looked like a great bullfrog.

“I want you to set a fire,” he said.

“Burn down this stink-hole town?” Willie Litton said. “I'm all for that.”

“No. Not Open Sky, you idiot,” Tweddle said. “My business interests are here.”

“Nobody likes me in this town,” Litton said. “They hate me, especially the women.”

His black eyes were never still and when he stood, as he did now, his hands hung in front of him, the thick fingers curled like meat hooks. “Miss Polly never liked me,” he said.

“Yes. She was lacking in good taste, that one,” Tweddle said, his face straight.

“I liked her a lot,” Litton said. “But she wouldn't give me the time of day.”

He was four inches over six feet and his shoulders and chest were massive.

“What do you want burned, boss?” Horn Tate said.

“A barn, I think. Yes, that will do nicely, a barn full of hay and horses.”

“Where?”

“At Trace McCord's home ranch.”

Tate winced like he'd been punched. “Boss, Trace McCord is a hard man. If we get caught he'll hang us.”

“I know,” Tweddle said. “That's why the job is worth a thousand dollars.”

The banker let the two thugs stew on that for a while. He reached into his desk and produced a bottle and glasses. He poured the cheap rye he kept for low-class guests and smiled at them like an obese cherub.

“Well, Mr. Tate? Mr. Litton? Have you reached a decision?”

“Boss, why can't we just kill somebody like we done the last time?” Tate said. “Break somebody's neck for you, huh?”

“You can and you will. But burn the barn first. A thousand dollars, gentlemen. How much whiskey and whores does that buy?”

Tate rubbed his mouth, his eyes working. Finally he said, “All right, we'll do it.”

“Do you agree, Mr. Litton?” Tweddle said.

“Sure. Why not?” Litton said.

“Indeed, why not?” Tweddle said.

He glanced out his office window and smiled when he saw dear Mrs. Barrett on the opposite boardwalk, pretty as a picture with sunlight tangled in her corn-silk hair and a shopping basket over her arm. Her shapely body moved with that languid elegance only the true Southern belle possessed and when she smiled at friends and neighbors, her white teeth flashed. The girl had traded Tweddle mattress time for his promise not to foreclose on their mortgage, with her husband's blessing, he supposed.

The banker's smile faded. He still planned to foreclose.

The young lady had lacked a bed partner's necessary enthusiasm and inventiveness. That was as unfair as it was unforgivable. Tweddle felt cheated. Mrs. Barrett had promised much and delivered little and that was so unjust. The uppity bitch had taken advantage of him.

“When do you want it done, boss?”

“Huh?” Tweddle said, his mind still in bed with Mrs. Barrett.

“When do you want the barn fire?” Tate said.

“Oh, tonight will be fine,” Tweddle said.

“That soon?” Tate said.

The banker's eyes hardened. “I said tonight will be fine. Is there anything about that simple sentence you don't understand?”

Tate took a gulp of his whiskey. “Whatever you say, boss. Whatever you say.”

“Now we'll move on to the next item on the agenda,” Tweddle said. He leaned his elbows on the table and clenched his fists, an aggressive posture that Tate believed could only signal a killing. It did.

“This Jamie McPhee person has to die, Horn,” the banker said.

“The one that done fer Miss Polly?” Willie Litton said.

“Are there two men by that name in this town?” Tweddle said.

Litton had proven himself to be a reliable dark-alley killer, but sometimes the man's stupidity irritated Tweddle.

“I liked her,” Litton said. “I called her my Miss Pretty.”

“Yes, we know, Willie,” Tate said. He laid his empty glass on the desk. “Where is McPhee, boss?”

“I don't know. But that O'Hara breed is hanging around town, so when you leave, send him to me. He'll find McPhee for you. He says he can smell a white man at a mile.”

“Sounds easy, boss,” Tate said.

“No, it ain't easy. A gun by the name of Flintlock is with him.”

Horn's eyes widened. “Sam Flintlock, the bounty hunter? Got a tattoo of a big bird on his throat?”

“I've only seen the gentleman at a distance,” Tweddle said.

“And that's a good place to keep him,” Litton said. “He's pizen.”

“He scare you that badly?” the banker said.

“He's as mean as a teased rattlesnake, boss,” Tate said. “And he steps from one side of the law to t'other as it pleases him an' he picked up some right unfriendly habits along the way.”

“And he's good with a gun I take it?” the banker said.

“Chain lightning with the Colt's gun. Yeah.”

“So you're afraid of him and don't want to take the job?”

“I didn't say that, boss. Me an' Willie ain't met a man yet we can't kill.”

“Can you kill Flintlock?”

“Sure we can. May take a day or two longer, is all.”

“My main concern is with McPhee. He's the one I want dead first,” Tweddle said. “Don't waste too much time on the kill.”

“We'll get him,” Tate said. “You can depend on Willie and me.”

The banker lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair. He looked smug and self-satisfied, a man who knew how to operate.

“One more thing,” he said. “I presume you'll kill McPhee and Flintlock at a distance, yes?”

Tate nodded. “We have our ways, me and Willie. An' that's one of them.”

“That's all good and well, but I want one of you to take a bullet,” Tweddle said.

“Huh?” Tate said, surprised.

“Make it look good, you understand?”

“Boss, I ain't catching your drift,” Tate said.

“You and Willie, just a pair of innocent sportsmen, were deer hunting when McPhee bushwhacked you and shot . . . well, one of you,” Tweddle said. “Wounded, you had no choice but to return fire and kill him.” The banker smiled and squeezed his cigar. “Nobody's going to ask questions after that. No second-guessing. The young man's guilt will be obvious, his death cut-and-dried and I'm well out of it.”

“But why do we need to get shot?” Tate said.

“To make it look good, of course, Mr. Tate.” The man blinked, his mouth hanging open. “Well, I can understand that,” he said. “I guess.”

“Only one of you, Mr. Tate,” Tweddle said. “It doesn't have to be a serious wound. I suggest you simply lay the muzzle of your rifle against the meat of Willie's shoulder and pull the trigger. All we need is a grazing wound.” He waved a dismissive hand. “A mere scratch you understand.”

“Why me?” Why not Horn?” Litton said. “How come I always get the dirty end of the stick?”

“Because I'll pay you a thousand dollars for the kill and extry five hundred dollars for the inconvenience of the wound, Willie. I can't say fairer than that. Think of the whores, man.”

“Why do you want this man McPhee dead so bad, boss?” Litton said. “Were you sweet on Miss Polly?”

Tweddle's anger surged. Cigar smoke flared out of his nostrils and mouth like incense pouring from the statue of a fat Oriental monk.

“That's none of your business, damn you!” he said.

“We'll take on both jobs, boss,” Tate said, real quickly. “The McCord barn goes up tonight and then we go after McPhee. Ain't that right, Willie?”

Despite his size and hulking presence, Litton was intimidated. He knew how deadly Lucian Tweddle could be if he took a dislike to a man.

“Sure we will, boss,” he said. “The barn goes up tonight and when we kill McPhee I'll take the wound for the extry five hunnerd.”

“Good, then we're in agreement,” the banker said. “Now get out of here, both of you. And when you see the breed O'Hara tell him I want to talk with him.”

After the pair left, Tweddle sniffed. Damn, they stunk up the place.

The
Territorial Times
was the most widely read newspaper in Open Sky and the news of the McCord ranch barn blaze made front-page news.

Two men read the newspaper that morning, one with anger, the other with growing concern.

Lucian Tweddle was enraged.

He sat behind his desk and squeezed his morning cigar, his small, yellow teeth bared in a snarl. Damn it! This was not at all what he wanted. The stupid newspaper should have placed the blame for the fire squarely on Brendan O'Rourke and his Circle-O, obviously a savage act of retaliation for the killing of their ranch cook. But since O'Rourke was a wealthy and influential man, the nonentity Jamie McPhee was an easier and less litigious target for the rag's editor.

However, despite his frustration, Tweddle knew he'd overreached and made a bad mistake. He'd acted way too hastily.

Trace McCord wouldn't link the burning barn to O'Rourke either. Why should he?

Tweddle knew he should have cast more shadows of suspicion into the minds of both ranchers before he'd made his move. Better if he'd ordered Tate and Litton to kill a Circle-O drover out on the range somewhere, then a few days later burn the McCord barn.

That would have been . . . what was the phrase? . . . oh yeah, a casus belli, a justification for war, and then McCord and O'Rourke, each blaming the other, would have at it.

Tweddle cursed under his breath. Yes, he'd made an amateur's mistake. He would not make another.

The banker had trouble moving his massive bulk and it took him several tries before he managed to heave himself out of his chair.

Life was unfair to him, always had been, and now with this setback Tweddle felt he needed a shoulder to cry on. He needed Nancy Pocket. Whores slept late, but he'd wake her.

Nancy had been in the profession long enough that she didn't care if he abused her. She knew he needed a release from his business worries and if he slapped her around a bit, well, she understood. God knows, he paid her plenty to take a few bruises.

Tweddle smoothed his fussy little waxed mustache and was about to take his hat from the rack when the office door opened and a clerk stuck his head inside.

“There's a person named O'Hara here to see you, Mr. Tweddle,” the man said.

Irritated, the banker said, “Show him in.” Then, when O'Hara appeared, “You should have been here yesterday.”

The breed made no answer.

“Did Horn Tate tell you what I want?”

“He did. How much?”

“Fifty now. Fifty when Jamie McPhee is dead.”

“Hundred now. Hundred when McPhee is dead.” O'Hara's face was impassive as though carved out of mahogany like a cigar store Indian. He wore two guns, butt forward in flapped cavalry holsters, a buckskin war shirt, beautifully braided and beaded, and over that a black frock coat, frayed at the collar and cuffs.

“I could hire another damned Indian for fifty cents a day,” Tweddle said.

O'Hara nodded. “Then hire one.”

The breed turned to leave but Tweddle stopped him.

He'd already made one hasty mistake and didn't want to make a second.

“All right, O'Hara, a hundred now and the rest when McPhee is dead.”

“In gold,” O'Hara said.

Tweddle sighed and waddled to the office safe. He opened the steel door, removed a box and, his hand like a pudgy bear claw, scooped out a few coins. He piled the five double eagles on his desk then used a wooden pointer to slide them toward O'Hara. Touching a breed's hand would have horrified him.

O'Hara, well used to such things, smiled slightly as he picked up the coins.

“How will you play this, O'Hara?” Tweddle said. “Well and soon, I hope.”

“I told Tate where to meet me,” O'Hara said.

“Spare me the details. Just make sure he finds and kills McPhee.”

O'Hara turned and left.

The breed would do his job, Tweddle knew that, so now it all depended on Tate and Litton. He smiled and saliva gathered at the corners of his wide mouth. It was high time to wake Nancy Pocket.

 

 

Clifton Wraith folded the newspaper and placed it on the table beside him, his appetite for the bacon and eggs on his plate suddenly gone. He stared intently at the cascade of headlines about the barn burning, as though by sheer willpower he could change them.

But the Pinkerton recalled a verse he'd memorized about such a thing, penned by the poet Mr. Edward FitzGerald:

What was done was done and he couldn't undo any of it.

“It's just a terrible business, isn't it?”

The teenaged waitress, the belle of the Longhorn Café, glanced at the newspaper as she refilled Wraith's coffee cup.

“I hope they catch that awful Jamie McPhee,” she said. “He always looked shifty to me, hunched over at his desk in the bank from dawn to dusk, never seeing the light of day.”

“It is indeed a terrible business,” the Pinkerton said. “All those fine horses killed. A real tragedy.”

The waitress, Wraith believed her name was Evangeline, held the pot in front of her like a shield and said, “A most singular thing is that McPhee danced in the flames with demons as the horses burned and there were devil horns on his head. A customer told me that.”

Evangeline fluttered her beautiful blue eyes, then, “I'm so afraid.”

“I'm sure you'll be quite safe in town, young lady,” Wraith said. “Marshal Lithgow and his deputies are standing a most vigilant guard.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” the girl said. “But all the same I'll sleep with my holy rosary under my pillow tonight.”

She carried her sooty coffeepot to another table and left Wraith to his worries.

Of course it was nonsense that Jamie McPhee had burned the McCord barn. He was with Sam Flintlock, a man who came straight at an enemy with a gun in his hand. He wouldn't sanction something as . . . treacherous.

The Pinkerton poked at his eggs with his fork. But how about the crusty old Comanche-fighter Brendan O'Rourke? No. The rancher was cut from the same cloth as Flintlock. If he had a beef with Trace McCord he'd come a-shooting. Then who?

Wraith let go of his fork and heads turned in his direction as it clattered onto his plate. He didn't notice. The Pinkerton was deep in thought, sure the murders of Polly Mallory, the Circle-O cook and the barn fire were related. His gut instinct told him that one man was behind all three events, and it wasn't Jamie McPhee. The young man wasn't smart enough and he didn't have the sand for such violence. Wraith figured he must look for a man who was ruthless, a born killer with a cool, calculating, scheming mind without conscience, a man who'd much to gain if this part of the territory erupted into open war and terrorized the population. . . people like Evangeline with her rosary.

“You don't like your breakfast?” the girl asked him.

The Pinkerton blinked like a man waking from sleep. He smiled. “It's just fine. I'm not hungry, I guess.”

Evangeline nodded, and put her hand on Wraith's shoulder. “We're all upset,” she said. “This town won't be the same again until Jamie McPhee is caught.”

“Until somebody is caught,” Wraith said.