Gut-Shot

by William W. Johnstone

“Don’t mind if I do, boss,” Frisco Maddox said.

  Scowling, McCord poured whiskey into his foreman’s glass.

  “How could I have spawned that, Frisco?” he said, jabbing his cigar in his son’s direction. “Just . . . tell me how. Hell, he doesn’t even look like me.”

  The big foreman hesitated for a moment, then said, “He’s shaping up, boss.”

  “Damn it, man, he writes poetry,” McCord said. “Who the hell writes poetry and shapes up?”

  “I don’t know, boss.”

  “Me neither.”

  Something mean stabbed in McCord’s belly and something mean twisted his handsome face.

  “Say us one of your poems, boy. Let Frisco hear it.” Steve McCord was twenty years old but he still looked like an undersized boy with his pale skin and hair and joyless face. His fingers were long and thin and he played the violin quite well.

  “I can’t remember any poems, Pa.”

  “Sure you can, boy,” McCord said. Then, his eyes slits, “Say us one. Now!”

  The youngster swallowed hard, then in a small trembling voice, said, “I rise from sleep and find the whole world gone. Vanished. Overnight. And I am left alone in darkness—”

  “Hell, that ain’t poetry!” McCord said. “Poetry rhymes. Any fool knows that.”

  He shifted his attention to his foreman.

  “Frisco, say a poetry that rhymes.”

  “Boss, I—”

  “A poetry that rhymes, Frisco. That’s a damned order.”

  “All right, boss. I remember one from my first time up the trail when I was a younker.”

  “Then let’s have at it,” McCord said. “Just so long as it rhymes.”

  Maddox coughed then said:

  Dirty Mary worked in a dairy,

  Dick pulled out his big canary.

  “Oh what a whopper,

  Let’s do it proper.”

  Trace McCord slapped the arm of his chair and roared with laughter.

  “Hear that, boy? It rhymes. Now that’s what I call real poetry.”

  Suddenly enraged, he drew back his arm and with all the strength that was in him threw his Irish crystal whiskey glass at his son’s head.

  The boy ducked and glass shattered against the wall.

  “Write poetry! You damned simpering weakling you can’t even do that right. Get the hell out of my sight.”

  The youngster beat a hasty retreat out the door and into the hallway. His boots sounded on the stairway as he rushed to his room. Upstairs a door slammed shut.

  McCord shook his head. “Frisco, I’m young yet,” he said. “I must sire another son. This time his mother won’t be around to spoil him as Martha did Steve. She turned him into a girly boy, by God.”

  “Give the kid time, boss,” Maddox said. “He’s still learning to hold his own as a man.”

  “He’ll never be a man,” McCord said. “I need a son who will grow to manhood, and quick.”

  “It’s a pity Polly Mallory didn’t work out, boss,” Frisco said.

  “Yeah. That ended badly. Bitch.”

  McCord sat in thought for a few moments, his face working.

  Then he said, “Once all this falderal over the girl’s murder dies down, we’ll move against Brendan O’Rourke and the Circle-O. I need that winter grass.”

  Maddox looked troubled. “O’Rourke is a stubborn old Irishman, boss. He won’t move without a fight.”

  “Of course he won’t. That’s why we’ll drive him out or kill him, whatever is the more convenient.”

  Maddox bit his lip. He liked the wiry, cantankerous old rancher, and his wife made the best bear sign and flapjacks this side of the Arkansas line.

  Frisco Maddox played for time. “You’re right, boss. We’ll let the fuss over Polly Mallory go away then make our move. The law is too riled up at the moment and we could attract unwelcome attention.”

  McCord accepted that at face value, then said, “What do you know about this Sam Flintlock ranny?”

  “Ran with some hard cases in his time, including that Kid Antrim in the New Mexico Territory. Sells his gun. Raised by old mountain men and talks to the ghost of his grandfather.”

  “So he’s crazy.”

  “Yeah. Like a fox.”

  “We have to see Jamie McPhee hung, Frisco,” McCord said. “Better for everybody. There’s too much restlessness around and it makes me uneasy.”

  “Pity Sam Flintlock is in the way.”

  “Can you take him?”

  “He’s tough and he’s fast.”

  “Can you take him?”

  “On a good day, yeah.”

  “Make sure all your days are good days until Sam Flintlock is buried.”

  McCord picked up another glass and filled it with bourbon.

  “Get out of here, Frisco,” he said. “I need time to think.”

  The big foreman stepped to the parlor door, but McCord’s voice stopped him.

  “Look around, Frisco, see if there’s a suitable brood mare I can breed with. No whores, though. I want a gal with good bloodlines.”

  “Like Polly Mallory?”

  “Yeah, but less damned uppity.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, boss.”

  “And Frisco . . .”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  Trace McCord’s smile was thin. “Remember, no whores or married women. Those will come after I tie the knot.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The shattered window in Sam Flintlock’s room was a source of great distress to hotel proprietor Hans Albrecht and now he hinted darkly of eviction followed by legal action.

  “Hell, I didn’t break the window,” Flintlock said. “Your townies did.”

  “But they were shooting at you, mein Herr,” Albrecht said. “That much is clear.”

  He was a plump, self-important man dressed in checked pants and a collarless white shirt, a kitchen-stained apron covering his front.

  Then, to reinforce his indignation, he said, “The whole window must be replaced. Mein Gott, meine Frau and meine Kinder will starve. Do you know how much glass costs?”

  “How much will it cost?” Jamie McPhee said.

  The German was horrified when he saw the wanted young man for the first time.

  “I don’t know you,” he said. His eyes popped out of his head. “You’re not in my hotel.”

  “Yeah, he is. He’s standing right there in the corner,” Flintlock said.

  “Nein! Nein! I don’t see him!” Albrecht said, squeezing his eyes shut. “He’s in Timbuktu, not here in my hotel.”

  “There are none so blind as those who will not see,” McPhee said, smiling.

  Albrecht looked blindly around him. “Who said that? Wer sagt das?”

  The little German might have kept up the charade of denying the existence of a guest who was right in the room with him had not a sharp rap on the door interrupted him.

  Flintlock pulled his Colt and said, “Who’s there?”

  “Open up!”

  A man’s voice. Thin, reedy, but authoritative.

  “My next move is a bullet through the door,” Flintlock said. “Identify yourself.”

  “This is Frank Constable, attorney-at-law. Open the door, you mannerless lout.”

  Flintlock, gun in hand, cautiously pulled the door open and a small, quick, darting man stepped inside.

  Immediately Hans Albrecht’s attitude changed from stubbornness to one of fawning, bowing servility. “Herr Constable, how pleasant it is to see you,” he said. “You honor my poor establishment.”

  “What’s amiss here?” the lawyer snapped.

  No one answered.

  “Come now, speak up and be succinct,” the lawyer said. “I have no time to dilly-dally.”

  “Herman the German here—”

  “My name is Hans, Herr Flintlock,” Albrecht said.

  “Wants me to pay for the window his cronies shot out.”

  “I am a poor man, Herr Constable,” the proprietor said, spreadin
g his hands. “A window means a great deal to me and meine Kinder.” He patted his round belly. “Look at me, fading away from a lack of food.”

  “Send the bill to me, Mr. Albrecht,” the lawyer said. “Speak at once, fellow. Is that suitable?”

  “Yes, Herr Constable. Meine Frau will be—”

  The lawyer clapped his hands. “Go! Schnell! Schnell!”

  As Albrecht bowed his way out of the door Flintlock kicked it shut and to his joy heard a Teutonic yelp of pain.

  “You are the thug I’ve hired to guard my client,” Constable said. “Speak up, man. Are you?”

  “Yeah. I’m the thug.”

  “You have a neck made for a noose.”

  “It seems so does your client.”

  The lawyer was shocked. “No! That will not do! I will not tolerate humor in any form, Mr. Flintlock. I detest it. It is the sign of a weak mind. Jokes should be banned from this country and the people who tell them.”

  Constable was a tiny, birdlike man and his pale face had splotches of brown all over like a sparrow’s egg. He wore a Prince Albert frock coat of the finest broadcloth, a scarlet cravat and carried a silver-topped cane in the shape of a Chinese dragon. The dragon had two fine rubies for eyes.

  “Your lives are in the greatest danger,” he said. “The doomsday clock is ticking.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Flintlock said without smiling.

  “It is therefore a matter of the greatest moment that you leave Open Sky just as soon as it’s feasible. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Speak up, now.”

  “But how, Mr. Constable?” McPhee said. “The hotel is under constant watch. There are armed men everywhere.”

  “Mr. Flintlock is not the only ruffian in my employ,” the lawyer said. “I have arranged for horses to be brought to the waste ground behind the hotel tonight.”

  “When?” Flintlock said.

  “At the darkest time of the night when the restless dead walk,” Constable said. “Midnight by the clock.”

  Anticipating Flintlock’s next question, he said, “You will be guided to a place south of here named Bobcat Ridge. I have a cabin there that you will find comfortable.”

  “Grub?” Flintlock said.

  “All you’ll need. The cabin is well supplied.”

  “Good fishing?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Flintlock. The cabin was a place of business not pleasure and will be again. Besides, you will have no time to fish. You must be on constant guard.”

  Then, a glint of pride in his eyes, Constable gave Flintlock more information than the moment required.

  “I spent my three years in the cabin attempting to perfect an infernal machine, a weapon that utilizes the elemental powers of steam and fire. Oh, it is a terrible weapon.”

  Realization dawned on McPhee’s face. “That’s why folks say the ridge is haunted by a fire-breathing dragon.”

  “Like this one.” Constable held up his cane. “Yes, quite so. And it made me happy to hear such stories. They kept the curious and the thrill seekers away.”

  Like a man warming to a favorite subject, the lawyer said, “A year ago, almost to the day, I had a conference in Paris with the prophet Mr. Jules Verne, that genius of science and the literary pen. He assured me that one day soon, without doubt before the end of this century, the same steam power that drives our great locomotives across the endless prairie will also take us to the moon. Mr. Verne invited me join the first lunar expedition and, gentlemen, such times we’ll have.”

  Tapping his cane on his gloved hand for emphasis, his eyes as wild as those of an Old Testament prophet, Constable was almost shouting.

  “By the year 1900, no later, steam shovels will mine the moon’s surface, steam hammers will crush its ores and steam interplanetary ships will carry its riches back to earth. Should the miners encounter hostile Moonlings, steam-driven infernal machines like mine, roaring fire, will keep the lunar savages at bay. I believe—”

  Constable abruptly stopped talking and blinked a few times.

  “But I digress,” he said. “In this parlous present, I should not talk of an astounding future.”

  “Suits me fine,” Flintlock said. He angled McPhee a look that said louder than words, Your lawyer is nuts.

  But Constable seemed to have regained his usual composure. “Before I leave, Mr. McPhee, I must say a word.” He took just a single step toward the door, then stopped and removed an envelope from his pocket.

  “For you, Mr. Flintlock, a month’s wages in advance. I hope you’re worth it.”

  Before Flintlock could answer, the lawyer turned his attention to McPhee again. “Sir, my efforts on your behalf should not be construed as a belief in your innocence. I don’t know if you murdered Polly Mallory or not.” Constable’s thin face was grim. “Do we understand each other?”

  The young clerk looked shocked and opened his mouth to speak, but Constable silenced him by raising his cane like a fence picket.

  “As a member of the legal profession, I could not remain idly by and see a man railroaded into a noose without proof of his guilt. And there for now matters must stand.”

  “What about the real murderer of Polly Mallory?” McPhee said.

  “If he or she is to be found, I will find him.” The lawyer touched the brim of his derby hat and gave a little bow. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  After the lawyer left McPhee said, “He thinks I’m guilty.”

  “He says he doesn’t know,” Flintlock said.

  “Do you think I murdered Polly?”

  “I already told you, what I think doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m sorry I got you into this, Sam.”

  “You didn’t get me into anything.” Flintlock waved the envelope Constable had given him. “I’m doing it for wages.”

  “Well, I swear that I didn’t kill her.”

  “You swore me that already.”

  “The question is: Who did?”

  “And the answer to that,” Sam Flintlock said, “is that it’s none of my damned business. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “Until you’ve convinced yourself of my innocence,” McPhee said.

  “Now that may take time,” Flintlock said. “Providing, of course, we live that long.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Young Steve McCord rode his horse into the pines then swung out of the saddle. He tethered the black to the slender trunk of a sapling and slid a new .44-40 Winchester from the boot.

  From now until the job was done he’d go on foot.

  The afternoon had not yet started its slow shade into evening and the sky was still blue, now bannered with cloud the color of polished brass. The young man climbed the timbered rise to a bench of shale rock that overlooked the Circle-O home ranch and bellied down to wait.

  Old Brendan O’Rourke’s place lay among shallow, rolling hills covered with good grass and here and there stands of piñon and juniper flourished. A windmill turned slowly in the languid summer breeze and the horses in the corral grazed on recently thrown hay. The cookhouse fire was lit for supper and rising smoke from its iron chimney tied bows in the air.

  The ranch seemed deserted and still, and young McCord’s frustration grew. He needed a target. Now, before it grew too dark.

  Long minutes passed then the cookhouse door opened and a red-faced, big-bellied cook stepped outside and threw a basin of scraps to the ducks that congregated nearby.

  The cook wiped off his sweating face with the bottom of his apron and stared at the sky.

  Kill the cook?

  The twenty-year-old weighed that option.

  Good cooks were hard to find and this one had a lot of gray in his hair and might prove difficult to replace. But would his death be enough to start a war?

  Would killing a Circle-O puncher be better? Or putting a bullet in Frisco Maddox’s skull better still?

  But Steve liked Frisco. The big foreman had always stood up for him when his father went into one of his rag
es.

  Anyway, Frisco was nowhere in sight. But the cook was.

  Steve McCord grinned. A bird in the hand . . .

  No bacon, beans and biscuits for the Circle-O hands tonight!

  He centered the rifle sights on the cook’s broad chest.

  The man seemed to be singing . . . or was he calling out to the ducks? Not that it mattered a damn. He was going to die real soon.

  Steve McCord took up the slack on the trigger, let his breath out slowly and fired.

  The cook took the hit square in the chest. He fell hard, probably dead when he hit the ground.

  Now to give them something to think about and keep their heads down.

  McCord triggered shots into the ranch house, the bunkhouse and dropped a couple of horses in the corral. The cow ponies dropped kicking and screaming.

  He grinned, watching men run hither and yon like disturbed ants, diving for cover, calling out to one another. A few punchers fired shots at shadows but none came near him.

  Yee-hah! He’d sure played hob. But now it was time to light a shuck.

  Steve McCord scrambled down the slope, mounted his horse and headed at a canter in the direction of Open Sky.

  He checked his back trail but saw no rising dust.

  It would take the Circle-O a while to mount a chase and by then he’d be long gone. Besides, he was riding across rough and broken country just north of Limestone Ridge and it would take an Apache to track him.

  The youth rode into Open Sky just as dusk fell and both sides of the street were ablaze with light that cast orange and yellow color so vividly on the boardwalks that Steve fancied he was riding past spills of wet paint. He reminded himself to include that allusion in his next poem. Maybe an ode about killing a man and how good—no, satisfying—it felt.

  Oil lamps glowed behind the windows of the First Bank of Open Sky as the boy drew rein and looped his horse to the hitching rail.

  A tall, gangling youngster dressed in dusty range clothes, he took the steps up the bank and walked inside. A bell jangled above his head.

  A teller looked up from a ledger and said, “He’s expecting you. Go right inside.”

  Steve McCord opened the gate at the end of the counter and walked to the back office.