Authors: William W. Johnstone
Gut-Shot (25 page)
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
“Why does he want to surrender to you, O'Rourke?” Sam Flintlock said. “Why not Trace McCord?”
“Because he's afraid of his father,” the rancher said. “I can think of no other reason.”
“And with good cause, I imagine,” Jamie McPhee said.
“It's likely a trap,” Flintlock said. “If young Steve McCord is in cahoots with Lucian Tweddle they've got together and laid plans to gun you.”
“I aim to go, Flintlock,” O'Rourke said. “If he shows up, I'll bring him in.”
“I can't talk you out of it?”
“Not a chance.”
“Go with him, Flintlock,” Sir Arthur Ward said.
“He said to be there alone and unarmed and that's what I'll do,” O'Rourke said. “I don't want McCord to cut and run.”
Flintlock smiled. “He's too bullheaded to listen, Arthur. Mr. O'Rourke will go his own way.”
“Damn right,” the rancher said.
Flintlock rose to his feet and stretched. “I'm going to turn in,” he said. He glared at O'Rourke. “Tomorrow promises to be a busy day.”
“Ruth, we should also retire to our wagon,” Sir Arthur said.
“Isa Mae, did you make up the bed in the spare room?” O'Rourke said.
“I sure did, Mr. O'Rourke,” the girl said, pausing with tray in hand.
“Miss Ruth, you're welcome to the room,” the rancher said.
“I'm sure my daughter would appreciate a real bed,” Sir Arthur said.
“Thank you, Mr. O'Rourke,” the girl said. “It's very kind of you and I gladly accept your offer.”
“Isa Mae will see to you,” the rancher said, brushing off the compliment. He needed no thanks for what he considered was simply Western hospitality.
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Sam Flintlock headed for the barn, deciding to forgo the bunkhouse with its smells of soiled clothing, ancient sweat and dead men. He made himself comfortable enough in the hayloft and lulled by the tick-tick-tick of rain on the roof was asleep within minutes.
He woke hours later with a knife blade at his throat and a whisper in his ear.
“I could have carved out a chunk of the thunderbird real easy, Flintlock.”
Flintlock's eyes flew open and his hand groped for the Colt he'd laid at his side.
“Is this what you're looking for?” O'Hara said. The revolver he held up gleamed in the darkness.
“Damn you, O'Hara,” Flintlock said. “I'm gonna put a bullet in you for sure.”
“Empty talk, Flintlock, to a man who's got a knife at your throat and a pistol pointed at your gut.”
“Give me a shave while you're there, O'Hara. I could use one. Not too close now.”
The breed flashed a rare smile and got to his feet. He slid the knife back into the sheath and tossed Flintlock's Colt onto the hay beside him.
“You're an easy man to kill, Flintlock,” he said. “I think you're in the wrong line of work.”
“It's because you're a damned Injun,” Flintlock said. “Injuns are forever sneaking up on folks. What the hell time is it?”
“It's about four. In the morning, that is.”
Flintlock was irritated. Damn, the breed could have cut his throat easily. “Why are you here, scaring the hell out of good white Christians?”
“Got news from Open Sky.”
“About Steve McCord maybe? Or is it Tweddle?”
“McCord is on the brag, calls himself a gunfighter. Says he's going to kill you next, which, all things considered, he shouldn't find too difficult.”
“One creak of the ladder, O'Hara, and I'd have scattered your brains.”
“Injuns, even half-Injuns, don't creak ladders.”
Flintlock's fingers strayed to the pocket of his buckskin shirt. It was empty.
“Damn,” he said.
O'Hara threw down a Bull Durham sack and papers.
“Your tobacco is damp,” Flintlock said, head bent, as he built a cigarette.
“Been riding all night in rain.”
Flintlock handed the makings back and O'Hara said, “Nancy Pocket was killed in the night by Herm Holloway. She got two bullets into him, one in his gut and then he killed himself.”
“She was here earlier today,” Flintlock said, stunned. “Delivered a message from Steve McCord.”
“What kind of message?”
In the dark O'Hara looked like something wild blown in from the Great Plains on the wind, more Indian than white man, more savage than civilized.
Flintlock told him about the arranged meeting with O'Rourke and the breed considered that for a while, his black eyes intent. Finally he said, “Steve McCord got drunk in the saloon last night, told Maisie May he's going to be filthy rich soon. Him and his partner.”
“Lucian Tweddle?”
“He didn't say.”
“How do you know this? Were you in the saloon?”
“I don't drink with white men. Maisie herself told me.”
O'Hara smiled his fleeting smile. “People don't know it, but Maisie is part Cherokee.”
“You redskins have got to hang together, huh?” Flintlock said.
“Nobody else will hang with us, even you Flintlock.”
“Hell, I don't mind Indians, a few of my worst enemies were Indians. They're all dead now, but you catch my drift.”
O'Hara stepped to the ladder. “Don't let O'Rourke go to the meeting place this morning. Steve McCord will kill him.”
“His mind's set on it and he's a mighty stubborn man.”
“Then you be there too, Flintlock. And don't let anybody sneak up on you.” He shook his head. “I thought old Barnabas taught you better than that.”
“Why are you doing this, O'Hara? You're not beholden to me.”
“Strangely enough, I like you, Flintlock. Though why you've lived this long is a mystery to me. Barnabas tried to explain it to me. He says the Great Spirit appointed special angels to look after idiots.”
“Why don't the old coot stay in hades where he belongs?” Flintlock said, even more irritated. “He's always wandering around, him and his cronies.”
“Let me tell you something, Flintlock. The devil has ten thousand buffalo, each one as big as a steam locomotive,” O'Hara said. “They have eyes like green emeralds and wherever they tread the ground trembles and grass flames under their hooves.” O'Hara took a couple of steps down the ladder until only his head and shoulders showed. “Barnabas herds them.”
After O'Hara disappeared into darkness, Sam Flintlock thought long and hard.
Lucian Tweddle and Steve McCord had forged a relationship from hell and their plan was diabolically simple. Gun two ranch owners, take over their ranges and sell the right-of-way across the land to the railroad. Millions of dollars would be involved. Even split two ways, Tweddle and Steve McCord could live like kings for years.
But how to prove all this? How to prove any of it?
Flintlock believed Steve was the weakest link. He could make him talk.
In the past Flintlock had seen the remains of men who'd been worked over by Apaches. Good ol' Geronimo was a master of the art. He could keep a man alive for days, burning and cutting just enough to draw out the torment. The lessons Flintlock had learned from the old reprobate could be applied to Steve McCord. First he'd tell what he knew and then beg for a merciful death.
But would a confession obtained by unspeakable torture hold up in court?
No. A judge would frown on it for sure, pat Lucian Tweddle on the back and set him free.
Flintlock peered through the rain-beaded glass of the skylight window at a rectangle of black sky. The night seemed endless. Restless rats rustled in the corners and shared their lodging with eight-eyed spiders.
A thought crept up on Flintlock like a dark assassin. He considered its implications.
There was a way he could end it and only the guilty would suffer. It was a risk, but then any bold endeavor was associated with risk. Flintlock smiled to himself.
And it was what Barnabas would do.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Half drunk, Steve McCord stood on Lucian Tweddle's doorstep, rivulets of rain running from the shoulders of his slicker. Behind him lightning shimmered inside the clouds and thunder growled low and angry, like an aggressive hound dog.
When Tweddle answered, McCord said, “You heard?”
“Come in, you fool,” the banker said. He let McCord inside then stuck his head out the door. Open Sky was shrouded in darkness. Nothing moved and only the hissing downpour and the distant thunder made any sound.
Tweddle closed the door and said, “Yes, I heard. They brought Nancy's body here and she bled all over my damned floor.”
He told McCord to hang his slicker in the hallway then ushered him into the parlor.
“What do we do now?” the youngster said. He toed a dark stain in the floorboards. “Is that where she lay?”
“Yes. Drink?”
“Sure, Lucian. I could use one. It's a miserable night out.”
Tweddle poured whiskey, handed a glass to McCord and sat in his chair. “Nothing has changed,” he said.
“We don't even know if Nancy delivered the messages. I can't kill men who ain't there.”
“She delivered them, all right.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the whore was scared I'd tell Tom Lithgow that she killed Frank Constable. She knew she'd hang. She spoke to your pa and O'Rourke, depend on it. She wouldn't have shown her face in town otherwise.”
“Why did big Herm chop her, do you know?”
“He tried to get something for free that he could have bought for two dollars.”
“I never done her,” McCord said. “Ah well, it's too late now.”
“You didn't miss much.” Tweddle squeezed his cigar. “Drink up, then go find Hank Stannic. As far as I know he's still in town.”
“He's lost both his boys,” McCord said. “Makes him kinda shorthanded, don't it? And besides, I'm not your messenger boy, Lucian.”
“No, Steve, you're not my servant. But I've been feeling a trifle unwell recently and don't want to venture outdoors on such a rainy night.”
“What do you want Stannic for? I can handle any gun work that comes along.”
“I know. However, I'm prepared to lose Stannic, but not you, Steve.”
As Tweddle expected, his words mollified McCord.
“I'll find him if he's in town,” he said. He drained his glass and stood. “Why Stannic?” he asked again.
“He's good with a gun,” Tweddle said.
“Not as good as me,” McCord said. He looked defiant, like a callow boy boasting in the company of belted men.
“Of course he's not, Steve. After all, you're the man who killed Beau Hunt.”
“And don't you forget it, Lucian.”
“I won't,” the fat man said. “I will never forget it.”
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After Steve McCord stepped back into the rain, Lucian Tweddle stubbed out his cigar and walked to his bedroom. He unlocked the lid of the large, dome-topped steamer trunk that stood at the bottom of his bed and opened the lid. After rummaging through a pile of worn-out nightshirts, he extracted an oilskin-wrapped bundle tied with string.
Tweddle laid the package on the bed and untied the string.
He unwrapped a pair of beautiful 1851 model Navy Colts in .36 caliber, both adorned with yellowed ivory handles. Tweddle smiled as men always do when they fondle a fine firearm, then, with marvelous speed and dexterity, he spun the big revolvers and let the butts slap back into his hands.
The banker believed he'd killed eighteen white men with the Colts, though Bloody Bill himself once told him that in his estimation he'd gunned two score. Eighteen or forty, it didn't matter. The main thing was that Tweddle planned to add a few more very soon.
He stepped back to the trunk, checked his supply of powder, ball and caps, then replaced the Colts. There were two belts and holsters with the revolvers, but Tweddle didn't even try them. He'd been as lean as a lobo wolf during the war and knew they wouldn't meet around his middle as they once did.
The banker sighed. Eating too much rich food made a man fat . . . yet another example of the unfairness of his life.
Tweddle closed the lid and stepped back to the parlor, where he lit another cigar and poured himself a whiskey.
Come the daylight, he'd take matters into his own hands and resolve this problem once and for all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The next day, just before sunup, three men rode separate trails through morning mists.
One was Lucian Tweddle. The second Brendan O'Rourke. The third, at a discreet distance behind the old rancher, Sam Flintlock reined in his eager buckskin to a walk.
Tweddle was determined. O'Rourke was wary. Sam Flintlock was both those things.
Steve McCord had not found Hank Stannic and when Tweddle entered the young man's hotel room he found him too stinking drunk to ride that morning. Tweddle had some long riding to do and in his present state McCord would only have slowed him down.
His plan was to meet O'Rourke at the old trading post near Courthouse Gap and kill him. Then head for Red Oak and do for Trace McCord. To meet the men in fair fight did not enter Tweddle's thinking. Somehow he'd find a way to kill them both without any real risk to himself.
Damn! He'd not ridden a horse in quite some time and the saddle galled him. Steve McCord galled him too.
But these were minor discomforts compared to the money that was at stake. Two quick kills and then he'd be on easy street.
The thought pleased Tweddle so much, he felt like singing.
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Brendan O'Rourke genuinely believed that Steve McCord would surrender and take the consequence for his actions. The Chinaman said Audrey would not die, and O'Rourke felt more inclined to be charitable. Fair was fair, and he'd settle for a sentence of thirty or forty years behind bars for McCord. He'd explain his change of heart to the young man and was sure he'd jump at the chance.
After all, a spell in prison was a hell of a lot better than the rope.
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Flintlock was relieved that O'Rourke never checked his back trail and the rain had laid the dust. But the downpour showed no sign of slacking and for the first time since it had begun, thunder banged closer. A keening wind stirred the pines and once he passed a small cattle herd huddled among their trunks, their shaggy brown and white shapes almost invisible in the mist.
Courthouse Gap lay in hill country two miles north of Blue Mountain.
According to O'Rourke an Irishman named Kelly, with more faith in Apaches than good sense, had built a post near the gap and for a while traded peacefully with the warlike local tribes.
But in those times it didn't take much to irritate an Apache and Kelly's thumb on the scale was more than enough. The post was burned down with Kelly inside and the consensus among the Indians was
good riddance
.
good riddance
.
That had been in the early 1870s and now all that remained of the Kelly store was a scorched fieldstone fireplace and a few charred logs.
But in a remote wilderness of mountains and forest it was an excellent spot to meetâand to commit murder.
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Lucian Tweddle had forgotten how heavy a pair of Colts were. After an hour of riding the big revolvers dragged down the pockets of his caped greatcoat and added to his discomfort. As a young man he'd carried two or even three brace of revolvers, but those days were long gone.
His rented grade horse had a rough gate and its McClellan saddle was designed to favor the mount, not the man. Tweddle's great buttocks bounced so hard his jowls juddered and the teeming rain added to his misery, dripping off the brim of his derby hat.
Angry that circumstances had forced a man in his position to such a ridiculous course, Tweddle rode with grim, enduring determination. He knew the stakes were high and he was about to play his last hand. And by God, he would make sure it was a winner.
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The black and silver rosary in Brendan O'Rourke's left hand clicked with each whispered Hail Mary as he neared Courthouse Gap, riding through a rainy half-light before the dawn.
Half a mile to his north wound the tortuous course of Fourche Maline Creek, where a tribe of warlike Old Ones once prospered then disappeared hundreds of years before the Caddo moved into the area. It was said that if a man was quiet he could hear the battle chants of ancient warriors in the wind, but O'Rourke heard nothing but the fall of the rain and the steady plod of his horse.
He admitted to himself that he was scared, a ridiculous emotion for a man of his years. But suddenly he valued his life highly, not for himself but for his wife. Audrey would need a lot of care and he wanted to be around to give it to her.
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The wind had picked up and drove the rain among the trees with a sound like a forlorn whisper. The sky was as black as spilled ink and every now and then a fork of lightning cracked and the air smelled of electricity.
His eyes on the trail ahead, Sam Flintlock listened to the wind and his thoughts strayed to what O'Hara had told him about Barnabas and the devil's buffalo herd. He guessed Ol' Scratch liked his buffalo meat. Roasted of course, the only way it could be served in hell.
A volley of revolver shots rang through the solemn silence of the dawn.
O'Rourke was in trouble!
Flintlock drew the Colt from his waistband and kicked the buckskin into a gallop. The destroyed post swung into his vision, then fleeting images he tried to take in at a glance . . . a horse standing head-down near the ruin . . . a gray-haired man sprawled at its feet . . . a drift of gray gun smoke.
Flintlock heard the departing beat of a running horse, but reluctantly drew rein. His first duty must be to O'Rourke. But when he took a knee beside him he saw that the old man was dead, his chest shattered by bullets. A black rosary lay in his outstretched left hand.
Sam Flintlock was stunned. It seemed that he had badly underestimated Steve McCord's skill with a gun.
From what he could put together from the rain-smeared tracks, McCord had fired from horseback and at least six rounds had hit O'Rourke's chest dead center. By any measure it was excellent shooting by a man who knew his trade.
McCord called himself a gunfighter and it seemed that's what he wasâa natural-born shootist. Flintlock had seldom seen the like in a man so young. Bill Bonney maybe? Or Beau Hunt? McCord could be their equal, or even better than either of them.
Flintlock didn't know the how or the why of the thing, but Steve McCord had transformed himself into an elite shootist who could take his place among the most dangerous men on earth.
He rose to his feet. The hoof beats had faded into distance and he stared into the rain and made up his mind that tracking the killer was both dangerous and useless. Steve McCord had grown up in this country and probably knew it like the back of his hand. He could lose a pursuer easily among the rugged hills and tree-lined valleys.
And if he chose, set an ambush.
Despite being raised by mountain men who'd taught him the ways of the rifle, Flintlock was a draw fighter. In a saloon or in the street a fast gun had its advantages. But in a wilderness like the one that surrounded him, it was a skill that counted less than a dog turd on an ant nest.
Flintlock shoved the Colt back into his waistband. A man who carries a gun has to know his limits, and Sam Flintlock had just discovered his.
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