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Authors: William W. Johnstone

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BOOK: Gut-Shot
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CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Brendan O'Rourke read the words for the dead from the Book, then the people who stood around Beau Hunt's grave sang “Shall We Gather at the River?” led by the rancher's strong baritone.
Ruth Ward didn't know the words, but her soft sobs provided a poignant counterpoint to the male voices.
Flintlock considered the hymn a crackerjack send-off for Beau and later thanked O'Rourke for choosing it. But as he stood beside the grave in a summer rain, Flintlock figured he'd buried a lot of folks since he'd arrived in the Oklahoma Territory and there were more to come. When he got to Louisiana he'd strip buck-naked and jump into a bayou and wash the stench of death off him.
“The death shadows are gone from Mrs. O'Rourke's face,” Sir Arthur Ward told him after they'd all gone inside for coffee and breakfast. “I think she'll recover just fine.”
“Good to hear,” Flintlock said. “We take up the search for Steve McCord later today.”
“Do you think you'll find him?”
“He's a needle in a haystack. This is a open, wild country.”
“You need a native guide,” Ward said.
“The Apaches are all gone and ol' Geronimo is penned up in a Florida swamp where he'll probably die of fever.” Flintlock considered that, then, “I wonder if O'Hara is still around.”
“I haven't a clue, old chap. He's an element of nature that native, and he comes and goes with the wind. God knows where he is.” He looked toward the cabin, then said, “I thought the funeral went well, all things considered.”
“Seems like. I reckon Beau would say that we did our best for him.”
“Ruth said even in death he was very handsome.”
“Yeah, he was all of that.”
“It's too bad.”
“Man who lives by the gun knows the odds,” Flintlock said. “Beau Hunt's luck ran out is all. It happens to all of us sooner or later.”
O'Rourke had been spending time with his wife, now he stepped out of the ranch house door and called out, “You'll ride with us today, Flintlock?”
“Sure I will. I wouldn't miss it.”
“How is Mrs. O'Rourke?” Sir Arthur said.
“She seems much better. I'm sure she recognized me this morning. She smiled at me.”
“Glad to hear it,” Flintlock said.
“Finish your breakfast, then saddle up,” O'Rourke said. Then to Ward, “Will you stay a few days, see my wife through?”
“Of course I will.”
“Then I'm beholden to you, Chinaman,” O'Rourke said.
“Let me ride with you,” Sir Arthur said. “Mrs. O'Rourke will be just fine until I get back.”
“Can you shoot?” the rancher said.
“Yes, I can shoot. I have a Martini-Henry in my wagon, but I'll need to borrow a horse.”
“I never met a Chinaman who could ride.”
“Well, you've met one now.”
“All right, pick out a mount from the corral. But be quick, now.”
 
 
It was one o'clock in the afternoon when Sam Flintlock rode out with Brendan O'Rourke and the others. The old rancher said they'd hunt until it grew dark and then return, hopefully with a captive Steve McCord.
Jamie McPhee said he felt well enough to go, but Flintlock persuaded him to stay behind and guard the womenfolk. “If it comes down to it, let McCord get real close and then gut-shoot him with the 10-gauge, one barrel and then t'other.” Flintlock said. “On no account get into a revolver duel. He'll kill you.”
McPhee saw the logic in that, and staying close to the exotic and beautiful Ruth Ward had its appeal. But as far as the shotgun was concerned, how close was real close?
 
 
The rain that had begun in the morning settled in for the day and by four in the afternoon was a steady downpour. A thin mist hung around the trees and ashen clouds loomed above the hill where Beau Hunt's grave was marked by a simple wooden cross.
Ruth and Isa Mae, clearing the way for women's talk, had chased Jamie McPhee out of the house and he consoled himself by working around the barn.
But after an hour of sweeping and hanging horse tack back in place, he saw a rider come out of the trees and stay close to the shelter of the rise before angling toward the ranch house.
McPhee grabbed the Greener and stepped to the open door of the barn. Lightning flashed among the clouds but there was no sound of thunder. The gray day was as dark as twilight.
As the rider drew closer, McPhee realized it was a woman riding a bay horse. She wore a hooded black cape against the rain but he saw no sign of a rifle. Warily he left the barn and walked closer, the shotgun ready.
Then McPhee recognized the pretty, angular face of Nancy Pocket. With only a couple yards' distance between them, the woman drew rein.
“Miss Pocket, what are you doing here?” McPhee said.
“I might ask you the same question,” Nancy said. “Is Brendan O'Rourke to home?”
“No. He's out scouting for Steve McCord. Him and Sam Flintlock.”
“That's what I wanted to talk to him about.”
“Can I help?”
“I have a message for him,” Nancy said.
“You can give it to me and I'll deliver it for you.”
The house door opened and Ruth stood looking out into the rain. “Who is it, Jamie?” she said.
“Her name is Nancy Pocket and she has a message for Mr. O'Rourke.”
“Don't stand out there in the rain, Nancy,” Ruth said. “Come inside at once and have a nice cup of tea and a scone.”
“No thanks, honey,” Nancy said. “I'll deliver my message and then be on my way.”
She opened her cloak and revealed a swollen belly. “This is part of it,” she said.
“You're . . . you're with child,” McPhee said.
“Aren't you a clever boy? Yeah, I'm pregnant, that's a natural fact. Bad news for a whore, huh?”
McPhee had no answer for that and let the hiss of the rain fill in the silence.
“Well, it ain't bad news after all,” Nancy said. “The baby's father is Steve McCord and he wants to turn himself in and then make a life for me and his child.”
“Then he can come here and surrender,” McPhee said.
“No, he can't. Steve is frightened, scared of what might happen to him. He'll give himself up to Brendan O'Rourke but only if he meets him alone.”
“I don't quite understand,” McPhee said. “Meet Mr. O'Rourke where? When?”
“Tomorrow morning at sunup. He should be at the ruined trading post near Courthouse Gap. O'Rourke will know where it is and I'll be there to make sure Steve gets a fair shake. I want a husband, not a dead man.”
Nancy swung her horse away, an unlikely Madonna in the rain. “That's the message, McPhee,” she said. “Make sure O'Rourke comes alone or Steve will light a shuck and none of us will ever see him again.”
 
 
Nancy Pocket was pleased. Things had gone very well.
Despite the objections of Frisco Maddox, Trace McCord had readily agreed to a meeting in Red Oak, where he would accept his son's surrender.
But he was skeptical that Steve had had the cojones to sire Nancy's baby.
 
 
“Someone else fill your belly and you decided to blame it on the boy?” he said.
Nancy shrugged. “A lucky shot, Trace.”
“Steve doesn't have it in him,” McCord said. “You know I'm cutting him off without a penny, don't you? If he doesn't hang, that is.”
“I don't care about money. I love Steve and I want to marry him.”
McCord laughed out loud. “Nancy, the only thing you've ever loved in your life is the dollar bill. Where will you live?”
“I don't know. After the baby is born, Albuquerque maybe.”
“And become a dutiful little wife and mother with a picket fence and your hands in the bread dough?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Both McCord and Maddox laughed. Then Maddox said, “Why doesn't Steve just ride into Open Sky and give himself up to Tom Lithgow?”
“Because Steve is terrified. He told me that when Lithgow hears about how he accidentally shot Mrs. O'Rourke, the marshal will string him up without a trial.”
“He could be right about that,” Trace McCord said, grinning.
“Will you meet him, Trace?” Nancy said. “Steve means the whole world to me and I want to be his wife.”
Still grinning, McCord turned to Maddox. “Frisco, did you ever think you'd hear a whore talk that way about Steve?” he said.
“Never. I didn't think I'd hear any woman talk that way about Steve.”
The whole thing was so bizarre, so ridiculous, that Trace McCord was highly amused.
“All right, tell him I'll be at the stage stop in Red Oak at one tomorrow,” he said. “If I'm still in a good mood, I may even let him live.”
“Trace, if I tell Steve that, he won't show up,” Nancy said.
“Hell, woman, I'm only joking,” Trace McCord said.
But Nancy didn't believe him.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The rain continued as Nancy Pocket rode into Open Sky just as the clock in the spire above city hall chimed midnight. Lamps glowed in the Rocking Horse but the saloon seemed empty and quiet. Nancy couldn't remember if this was the night the chess club met, but if it was, that explained the silence.
She put up her horse at the livery and paid fifty cents to have the bay rubbed down and another two bits for oats.
Pulling her hood over her head again, Nancy walked through the teeming night toward Lucian Tweddle's house. She never made it. Herm Holloway was hunting for a woman.
A huge man, made terrible by darkness and rain, he watched Nancy leave the livery stable and walk purposely, her skirt and white petticoats hiked up above her ankle boots as she picked her way through mud and puddles.
Standing in the shadow of a shop doorway, Holloway touched his tongue to suddenly dry lips. He recognized the woman. She was the whore Nancy Pocket who'd sold herself to Tweddle, the fat man. Holloway grinned. Well, Tweddle wouldn't grudge him a little taste.
He stepped off the boardwalk and angled toward Nancy who walked with her head lowered against the downpour. But when the woman glanced up and saw Holloway she stopped, her face registering alarm.
“Good evening, missy,” Holloway said.
“What do you want?” Nancy said.
“You know what I want. The question is—am I gonna get it?”
“Not tonight, I'm busy. Now, will you step aside and give me the road.”
“Just a few minutes of your time. A knee-trembler against a wall, huh? I'll give you three dollars.”
“You're drunk,” Nancy said. “Get out of my way.”
“Pretty, pretty girl. You're going nowhere until I finish with you.”
“I swear to God I'll scream,” Nancy said.
Her hand reached inside the pocket of her riding dress and closed on her derringer.
“You'll scream all right, missy, but for another reason,” Holloway said.
He reached out and grabbed the woman by the shoulders.
“You come with me, little lady,” he said. “We got to attend to business.”
Herm Holloway stood three inches over six feet and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds and the bullet he took to the belly didn't drop him.
The derringer's .41 rimfire in his guts would kill him eventually, but way too late for Nancy Pocket.
Knowing he had his death wound, Holloway roared like a great wounded bear and pulled the ax from his belt. Nancy saw the danger, took a step back and brought up the belly gun again.
She fired. A second hit. But to Holloway's left shoulder.
He shrugged off the wound and swung the ax with tremendous, skull-splitting force.
Her head cleaved in twain, Nancy died instantly. She made no sound.
She dropped to the ground, her face a frozen mask of terror, the pearl-handed derringer still in her hand. Her hand, slim and white, slowly opened and the little pistol dropped into the mud.
Herm Holloway stood over Nancy's lifeless body for a moment, a tic working in his left eye. He'd seen gut-shot men take agonized days to die and knew what horrors lay in store for him.
Holloway tossed the bloody ax away. He drew his Colt, shoved the muzzle into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Lucian Tweddle heard the shots, loud in the midnight silence.
Two sharp reports separated by a couple of seconds, possibly the venomous
crack! crack!
of a derringer. Then seconds later the unmistakable boom of a heavy revolver.
Tweddle shook his head, his blue jowls jiggling.
No, it couldn't be Nancy's gun he'd heard. Or could it? Had she been followed?
Tweddle laid his brandy glass on the table beside him and listened into the night.
Moments passed, then he heard the yells of men and among them he thought he recognized the marshal's voice.
He struggled to his feet. Worried now. If it was Nancy, was she still alive? She was a tough whore. She could live long enough to tell him what had happened at the McCord and O'Rourke ranches.
Tweddle waddled to the door then peered outside. Damn this incessant rain. He saw a man in the distance, a shadow in the darkness. “You there!” he called out.
The man turned his head, saw who hailed him and walked in Tweddle's direction.
“What happened?” the fat man said. “I heard shots and I fear they've made me very afraid.”
“The whore Nancy Pocket has been killed, Mr. Tweddle.”
The banker almost reeled in shock. “Is she dead?”
“Head split wide open with an ax.”
“Who did it?”
“The marshal says it was the outlaw Herm Holloway did for her and Nancy done for him. Holloway has been hanging around town recent, him and Hank Stannic.”
“Are you sure Nancy is dead?” Tweddle said, his mind working. “Say she yet breathes.”
Oh please, let her live long enough to talk. This is so unfair, so inconsiderate and so typical of the cheap little tramp.
“I don't know how dead she is, Mr. Tweddle. Marshal Lithgow has sent for Doc Thorne.”
“Quickly now. Tell Tom Lithgow to bring Nancy here. The poor little thing shouldn't lie out in the rain. Dr. Thorne can examine her here.”
“I sure will, Mr. Tweddle. You're a very kind man.”
The man walked quickly away but Tweddle remained at the door.
“Live,” he whispered into the rain-needled darkness. “Give me two minutes . . . just one . . . live, you damned slut . . .”
Moments later dark shapes moved toward Tweddle in the gloom, splashing through mud as they carried a blanket-draped burden. “Bring her in here!” Tweddle yelled. Then, “Please tell me poor Nancy is still alive?”
No one answered that question. There was little need as the soaked blanket slid from Nancy's body as the carried her through the parlor door. Tweddle stifled the shriek that sprang to his lips when he saw the dead woman's head. It had been split open like a ripe watermelon.
“Where do you want her, Mr. Tweddle?” Tom Lithgow said.
Tweddle was horrified.
Not on my Persian rug . . . not in my kitchen . . . not on my beautiful Italian couch . . . not in my bed . . . not anywhere in my house!
The marshal saw the banker's confusion, put it down to shock, then said, “On the floor, boys.”
“Wait!” Tweddle said. He kicked the Persian rug aside. “Now put her down.”
The floor was oak, but he could always replace a few bloodstained floorboards later if he had to. After Nancy was placed on her back and the blanket covered her face, Tweddle said, “Did she say anything before she died? Did she ask for me?”
Lithgow shook his head. “She was dead when we got there. The way I see it, Herm Holloway tried to rape her and Nancy shot him. After he murdered her, he was so horrified by what he'd done, he put his gun in his mouth and scattered his brains.”
“The damned, low-down piece of trash,” Tweddle said. His face was black with anger. “I hope he roasts in hell.”
“I don't reckon there's any doubt about that,” the marshal said.
Dr. Isaac Thorne arrived dripping rain. He wore a vast, black oilskin with the words
SS Daisy
in yellow on the back.
“Marshal, the dead man was shot in the belly,” he said. “I believe he realized what suffering was in store for him and decided to destroy himself. Now, let's see here . . .”
Thorne took a knee beside the body and pulled the blanket away from Nancy's face. “Oh my God,” he whispered, aghast. He examined the massive head wound with a trembling hand. “Split open by a sharp-bladed instrument,” he said. “Death would have been instantaneous.”
“Would this do the job?” Lithgow asked, showing the ax Holloway had used. “There's still blood where the handle meets the blade.”
Dr. Thorne gave the weapon a cursory glance. “Yes, that's obviously what killed this poor, unfortunate night creature.”
He looked up at Tweddle, his lips white. “Sir, for the love of God, a glass of brandy, pray you.”
Despite his inner turmoil Tweddle played gracious host. He poured brandy while Lithgow helped the portly and shaken physician to his feet.
“Thankee most kindly,” Thorne said as he accepted the drink. He met Tweddle's eyes. “She did not suffer. Her vile murderer killed her with one mighty blow.”
The banker's face did not change expression. Impassive as the Sphinx, he said, “Marshal Lithgow, now you must remove the body.”
A cold statement, the lawman thought. Made by a man who didn't give a damn for the girl, his only apparent interest was in what Nancy might have said before she died.
“We'll keep her and Holloway at the Rocking Horse icehouse overnight and I'll see to the burials tomorrow morning,” Lithgow said.
“Take her now, if you please,” Tweddle said. “I feel faint at the dreadful sight of her.”
 
 
After everyone had gone Lucian Tweddle lit a cigar and collapsed into his chair, his face troubled. This was a pretty kettle o' fish and no mistake. What damned messages had Nancy delivered? Both? None?
Had she done the dirty on him and gone into cahoots with McCord and O'Rourke to save her own neck? Or had she faithfully delivered both invites to a murder like a good little whore?
Tweddle had questions with no answers and that troubled him.
It was time to talk with Steve McCord again. Together they'd work something out.
Tears dampened the fat man's eyes. Everybody wanted to frustrate him, keep him down, believing him too uppity for a man of humble origins. Well, he'd show them, by God. This was only a temporary setback. He'd rise up again.
Then a sudden thought, like scum drifting to the surface of a pond, made him smile.
BOOK: Gut-Shot
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