“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.
CHAPTER TWENTY
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.
ARSON IN THE NIGHT
A Dastardly Deed at
The McCord Ranch
EIGHT HORSES DEAD IN BLAZE
Empty Coal Oil Can
Found at Scene
Marshal Lithgow Vows
To Arrest Culprit
THE TIMES asks the question boldly and fearlessly: Was last night’s barn fire at the McCord ranch more revengeful mischief perpetrated by that ravening wolf in the clothing of a white man, to wit, the murderer of
MISS POLLY MALLORY?
How else to explain the tragedy that took place?
Could anyone else but the monster Jamie McPhee commit such a crime? We think not. And to damn McPhee further, the fire was set only days after young Steve McCord saw the man shoot Max Bender, the Circle-O ranch cook, and leave him dying and
WELTERING IN HIS BLOOD.
Oh, how McPhee, that callous killer, must have laughed when the witching hour approached and he heard the screams of eight fine
THOROUGHBRED HORSES
as they burned to death in the devouring flames that engulfed the McCord barn, aye, and for a while threatened to spread to the very ranch house itself. After the flames were quenched it was seen that the barn was a total loss and our intrepid reporter found Mr. Trace McCord and his loving, supportive son
TOO UPSET TO SPEAK.
But our bold local lawman, Marshal Tim Lithgow, was much more vocal as he condemned the crime as “the wanton act of a desperate criminal out for revenge.” When asked by our scribe if Jamie McPhee—oh, how we need to rinse out our mouths whenever we mention that vile name—was the offender, the marshal said, “There can be no other. It was he who used
DEADLY COAL OIL
to set the blaze and within a very few minutes burn the barn to the ground.” Marshal Lithgow says McPhee is in the company of a
DESPERATE CHARACTER
who goes by the name of Samuel Flintlock and is well known to law enforcement agencies throughout the Territory. But be warned: Both McPhee and Flintlock are armed and dangerous, so let Marshal Lithgow and his gallant deputies handle their arrest and bring them in to face the “tender mercies” of the hangman.
THE TIMES raises our collective hat to our lionhearted lawmen and we declare most fervently, “Up and at ’em, lads!”
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:
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The afternoon sky tinted red when Horn Tate and Willie Litton met O’Hara on the bend of a small creek midway between Dripping Vat Mountain and the eastern slope of Bobcat Ridge.
“We seen your smoke just like you laid it our fer us, O’Hara,” Tate said. He shoved a pint bottle of whiskey in the breed’s face. “Want a slug or three?”
The breed grunted, ignored the bottle, and poured water from his canteen over his small, signal fire.
“You will kill McPhee and Flintlock today?” he said finally.
“Just lead us to them,” Tate said. “We’ll get the job done.”
“It should be easy. They’re sick,” O’Hara said. “Both very sick.”
Tate frowned. “Sick with what?” he said.
O’Hara shrugged. “Bad food, maybe. Tainted water. Both bring on the fevers.”
O’Hara’s fingers moved to his throat. “Flintlock has a thunderbird here. The thunderbird is the messenger of God and it carried bad medicine to him, maybe so.”
“Here, it ain’t catchin’, is it?” Litton said, his simian face worried.
“No. But now you can kill McPhee and Sam Flintlock as they lie abed.”
“They’re asleep, like?” Litton said. “Down with the fever?”
O’Hara nodded. “Asleep all the time. You can cut their throats”—he drew a forefinger across his neck and smiled—“and they’ll never wake up.”
Tate and Litton exchanged glances.
“We caught us a break, Horn,” Litton said. “Now we don’t need to stake out the cabin until we can get a shot.”
“Injun, are you sure Flintlock is sick?” Tate said. “You wouldn’t be joshing me now, would you?”
“He will die soon, and McPhee with him,” O’Hara said.
Tate’s gaze searched the breed’s face, but the man’s features were set and hard, like chiseled stone. “Then let’s get it done,” Tate said. “We can be back in Open Sky by dark and hit the saloons one by one.”
“With two thousand dollars to spend,” Litton said. “Man oh man, we’ll be like kings.”
“Add another five hundred added to that, Willie,” Tate said.
“You be real careful when you do it to me, Horn,” Litton said. “I don’t want plugged too serious with all that dough to spend.”
“A scratch, Willie. That’s all. I promise. You know I can shoot real good.”
Litton smiled and nodded. “Yee-hah!” he yelled. “Then let’s go an’ cut some throats.”
O’Hara pointed the way and the two thugs, whooping and hollering, kicked their horses into a gallop. Then they broke into song, bellowing “Dirty Dolly and Her Mama” at the top of their lungs.
There was no breeze and smoke rose straight as a string from the cabin chimney. The day was shading into evening but inside the lamps remained unlit and the glow of burning logs cast scarlet shadows on the windows .
“Not too sick to light a fire,” Horn Tate said, his face sour. “I don’t like the look of that.”
“I guess McPhee lit the fire,” O’Hara said. “Flintlock is so sick he can’t get out of his bunk. He lies there hoping for death to take him.” He placed a hand on his belly, bent over and made retching sounds. “Flintlock sick as a poisoned pig.”
The three men sat their horse within the pines and Tate, always careful and suspicious, studied the cabin.
“I don’t see any sign of life,” Litton said.
“Me neither,” Tate said. “But the smoke still bothers me.”
“You can deal with McPhee if he’s still on his feet,” O’Hara said.
“Damn it. I’ll say it again: Are you sure about Flintlock?” Tate said. “Is really as sick as you say? I don’t want to bust in there and find him standing.”
“He’s a dead man,” O’Hara said. “Don’t let a dead man put the crawl on you, Tate.”
Tate’s anger flared and his eyes got ugly. “Nobody, and I mean nobody, puts the crawl on Horn Tate,” he said.
He swung out of the saddle and drew his Colt. Litton, his grinning face eager, followed suit.
“Hell, I’m gonna enjoy this,” Litton said.
“Yes,” O’Hara said. “Enjoy it well.”
O’Hara, still mounted, rode after the two men at a discreet distance, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth. He watched Tate and Litton step quietly to the door.
As far as O’Hara could tell, they hadn’t been seen.
The sky was hung with red, jade and amber bunting and among the pines an early owl hooted and fussed. The thin air smelled of wood smoke and the coming night.
Horn Tate held his Colt at shoulder level, the muzzle pointed upward. He leaned back, raised his booted right foot and kicked in the cabin door. Roaring, he rushed inside and Litton followed.
A second ticked past . . . then another . . .
Boom!
O’Hara smiled. He recognized the emphatic statement of a Hawken. It was a devastating weapon in the close confines of a cabin.
Inside furniture crashed and glass shattered. A man yelled. Then followed the rapid, racketing roar of revolvers. A shriek of pain . . .
And afterward a hollow silence.
A few moments passed and a mist of gray gunsmoke drifted out of the cabin door.
Horn Tate emerged clumsily from the smoke like a man with his legs entangled in a rope. He clutched at his belly and his eyes moved to O’Hara.
“Gut-shot,” he said, black blood in his mouth.
Tate dropped to his knees, his face a twisted
mask of agony, his eyes still on O’Hara. “You sold us down the river,” he said. “You damned, lying half-breed.”
“Never trust a part-Pawnee,” O’Hara said. “His Indian half will lie to a white man every time.”
Tate cursed and tried to raise his Colt but the effort was beyond him. He pitched forward and fell onto his face, all the life that was in him gone.
Sam Flintlock stepped out of the cabin, gun in hand. He saw O’Hara and scowled. “You in on this?” he said. “Say you are and I’ll drop you right where you stand.”
“I led them here, Flintlock, to open the ball,” O’Hara said. “I figured even you could finish it.”
“Damn you fer a low-down skunk, O’Hara. You could have gotten me killed,” Flintlock said. “Those two boys busted in without a howdy-do hunting for my scalp.”
“Seemed like, when I spoke to them,” O’Hara said. “They seemed quite keen to put a bullet into you. Where’s the other one?”
“Inside, dead. When I saw his drawn iron I scattered his brains with the Hawken, then I done for t’other with the Colt.”
“Is McPhee hurt?”
“Yeah, he’s hurt, hurt that the chessboard got upended when he was winning for a change.”
“So that’s why you were so quiet,” O’Hara said. “Playing checkers while you should have been out scouting around.”
“It was chess. Who hired them, O’Hara?”
“I’m tired of saving your skin, Flintlock. I think you should get out of the bodyguard business. I think you might prosper in the hardware business, selling nails and stuff.”
Gut-Shot Page 10