McCord took a silver cheroot case from his shirt pocket, selected one and then passed the case to his foreman.
The two men smoked in silence for a spell, then Maddox said, “I got an idea, boss.”
“About what?”
“About Steve.”
“I thought we’d done talking about him.”
“Just one more thing.”
“Then say it. I’ll half listen.”
“I got kinfolk who have a ranch down on the Rio Grande near Laredo way. It’s a fair-size spread, about a hundred thousand acres with good summer grazing and some broken land for winter pasture.”
“How many cattle?”
“In a good year, a cow and calf to five acres.”
McCord nodded, approving. Then, “So what’s all this got to do with Steve?”
“Cousin Judd Rawlings hires only vaqueros coming across the border from Mexico. They’re good cattlemen, fast with the gun and blade, as rough as cobs and as tough as they come.”
“I’m still not catching your drift, Frisco.”
“Boss, we send young Steve down to Webb County and cousin Judd puts him to work with his vaqueros. They’ll make a man of him quicker than . . . well, in no time. Depend on it. Steve will be a better hand with cattle and an hombre with bark on him when he rides back to Oklahoma after say, three, four years out on the range.”
“Like finishing school, huh?”
“You could say that. But with no book learning and a sight tougher teachers.”
“He’s had enough book learnin’ already,” McCord said.
The big rancher was silent for a while, turned in on himself, and Maddox said, “It was only an idea.”
“No, it’s a plan,” McCord said. “I’ve been around vaqueros once or twice and they don’t take any damned sass or back talk.”
“That has also been my experience,” Maddox said.
“How do we play it?”
“It’s easy, boss. I write Steve a letter of introduction to cousin Judd, put the boy on a good hoss and point him south. Texas is hard to miss.”
Trace McCord kneed his mount into motion.
“Then write your letter, Frisco. He’ll leave tomorrow at first light and I’ll be rid of him.”
Steve McCord let his Winchester’s sights drift away from Frisco Maddox’s chest.
It would be a sure shot all right, and Maddox was a broad target, but the young man hesitated to pull the trigger. Frisco had always been kind to him and had even encouraged his poetry. The big foreman often acted as a barrier between himself and his father when Pa went off on a rant and threatened to have him horsewhipped for some perceived offense or other.
It would be a real pity to kill Frisco, even though it could start the range war he needed.
But there were other considerations.
A narrow trail led up the crest of the rise where he lay, and if Pa let Frisco lie on the trail and followed the smoke drift he could get to the top of the ridge in a couple of minutes.
Steve shook his head. Too close. He wouldn’t shoot today. It was too risky.
He let the sights slide back to Frisco. It was a good feeling to have a man’s life, all he was and all he was planning to be, right in the palm of his fist.
All he had to do was squeeze . . . the trigger, that is . . . and poor Frisco would soon be making his excuses to Saint Peter at the gate. That last made Steve smile. He was highly amused, and such a fine feeling it was . . . the power over life and death.
His pa kicked his horse into motion and Steve laid the sights on him. But only for a moment.
“You have to wait your turn, Trace,” he whispered. “The time isn’t right.”
He and Lucian Tweddle hadn’t yet worked out the details of his takeover of the McCord ranch, but he knew how it would end. After Pa realized he’d lost everything, Steve would put a bullet into his guts then piss on him as he lay screaming on the ground.
The youngster flopped onto his back and watched clouds, baby clouds, he imagined, chase one another across the flat, blue expanse of the sky.
He picked a pimple on his chin until it bled and slowly came to a decision.
It was time to talk to Lucian again. He needed his advice . . .
On who lived and who died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“You have to admit, Sam, what Sir Arthur did with some scrag ends of beef and a few herbs and peppers was almost miraculous,” Jamie McPhee said. He shook his head in wonder. “What an elegant meal! Fit for an emperor.”
“It was all right, I guess,” Sam Flintlock said. “Now turn the salt pork before it burns and cut them green parts off.”
The morning sun bladed into the cabin and made dust motes dance, and outside the shadow of a hunting hawk flashed across the open ground like an obsidian arrowhead.
McPhee flipped over the slices of pork, then talking through a smile said, “Of course, the presence of beautiful Ruth added immensely to the dining experience.”
Flintlock, more than a little hungover and sour, grunted, “Be glad the subject of Polly Mallory never came up.”
McPhee frowned. “Sam, I’m sure Ruth would have listened and then told me she was certain of my innocence.”
“Maybe,” Flintlock said. He stood behind McPhee. “Now remove the salt pork and cut out them green spots like I already told you then crack six eggs into the fat.”
“How come you never cook?” McPhee said.
“Because bad cooks have delayed human development long enough and I got no desire to add to it.”
McPhee, his voice heavy with a sigh, said, “How do you want your eggs?”
“Done,” Flintlock said.
After breakfast Sam Flintlock took his coffee outside and sat in the sun, the thunderbird tattoo across his throat vivid in the morning light.
From the warehouse barn he heard the rat-tat-tat of a small hammer as McPhee tried to get the infernal machine’s steam engine working. The young man had said at breakfast that steam engines would one day power hansom cabs and the like, replacing horses. Recalling that idiot remark, Flintlock grumpily shook his head as he built a cigarette.
As though anything would or could ever replace horses. They’d still be dropping turds by the ton on our city streets a hundred years from now. Flintlock drew deep on the cigarette and leaned his throbbing head against the cabin wall. He closed his eyes and let himself drift.
The rap of McPhee’s hammer receded . . . the burned-out cigarette dropped from Flintlock’s fingers . . . jays quarreled in the trees . . . a deer nosed through the pines, lifted its head then turned and bounded away . . . lazy flies droned . . .
And Sam Flintlock dreamed of running with horses.
Horses!
Flintlock woke with a start and grabbed the rifle he’d propped beside his chair.
A dogcart drawn by a lathered gray skirted the tree line and jolted over rocky, broken ground, coming toward him at a smart canter. The small, slight figure of Frank Constable was up in the seat, cracking a whip over the gray’s back. The man looked grim.
After he drew rein, the lawyer looked down at Flintlock. “Trouble,” he said.
“Light and set,” Flintlock said. “I’ve got coffee on the bile.”
“No time,” Constable said. “Get your horse. Don’t dillydally now.”
But Flintlock was not a man to be rushed. “Explain yourself,” he said.
The lawyer clicked his tongue in irritation. “Clifton Wraith has been shot,” he said. “He’s asking for you.”
“Where is he?”
“Open Sky of course. At the hotel.”
“He hurt bad?”
“How bad is a bullet in the belly, Mr. Flintlock? Now saddle up. There’s no time to be lost. The man’s at death’s door and suffering terribly.”
“I’ll get my horse,” Flintlock said.
As he passed the open door of the building that housed the infernal machine, he yelled, “McPhee! Get out here!”
The young man ran after him, shouting questions.
Flintlock answered only one.
“Cliff Wraith has been gut-shot.”
“Oh God, no,” McPhee said.
“Oh God, yes. Help me saddle my hoss.”
A couple of minutes later Flintlock and McPhee stopped at Constable’s wagon.
“Mr. Constable, can it be true?” the young man said, his face pale.
“Think,” the lawyer said. “Would I drive all the way out here to tell you a thing that wasn’t true? Use your head, boy.”
“Rifle,” Flintlock said.
McPhee passed the Winchester to Flintlock, who slid it into the boot under his knee.
“What is to become of me?” McPhee said. “Mr. Wraith was the only hope I had of clearing my name. I’m in terrible trouble.”
“Don’t build houses on a bridge you haven’t crossed yet, Mr. McPhee,” Constable said. “You must go to ground while we’re gone. Come now, Mr. Flintlock. Let us cast the die.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The sun was at its highest point in the sky and the day was already hot when Sam Flintlock followed the dogcart into Open Sky. He hadn’t mentioned the burned body in the barn, figuring to hold that for later.
“You go on into the hotel, Mr. Flintlock,” Frank Constable said. “Room 12. I’ll follow shortly.”
Flintlock had expected open hostility from the citizens of Open Sky, but it seemed that every woman and able-bodied man in town had crowded into the Rocking Horse saloon. Judging from the press of people at the door, inside was standing room only.
Flintlock nodded in the direction of the saloon.
“Is that about Cliff?”
“Hell no,” Constable said, his face bitter. “It’s about Beau Hunt. The fools are watching him partake of lunch, as they did his breakfast.”
He looked at Flintlock with lusterless eyes. “A Texas draw fighter attracts an adoring crowd while a better man than he lies dying alone and in pain,” he said.
Flintlock swung out of the saddle. “It’s always the way of it,” he said. “Even a cold-blooded killer like Wild Bill Longley drew a crowd of admirers everywhere he went.”
But Flintlock had talked into the wind.
Constable had already wheeled his cart around . . . and cut off a brewer’s dray to the belligerent curses of its red-faced Teutonic driver.
After he stepped into the hotel lobby Flintlock stood for a few moments to let his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. He was still nearly half blind when the clerk said, “What can I do for you?”
“Room 12,” Flintlock said.
“Upstairs, last door on the left. But you can’t go in there. Marshal Lithgow is interviewing the wounded man.”
Flintlock nodded and began to climb the stairs.
“I said you can’t go in there,” the clerk said.
When Flintlock turned, his Colt was in his hand at eye level. “Are you going to give me trouble?”
The clerk, scowling and officious until then, went rag-doll limp. “You have no trouble with me,” he said.
“Glad to hear it,” Flintlock said.
Behind the door of Room 12 Clifton Wraith lay on the brass bed, his teeth gritted against pain that was beyond pain and well nigh impossible to bear.
Marshal Tom Lithgow sat in a chair beside the bed, his face drawn as he watched a man dying hard. The room smelled of blood and a man’s guts.
When Sam Flintlock stepped inside, Lithgow’s gaze went to the Colt in the other man’s waistband and then to eyes turned to stone. “He’s been asking for you,” the marshal said. “He’s had morphine but it don’t do a whole lot for a gut-shot man.”
Flintlock nodded. “Who did it?” he said.
“I don’t know.”
Flintlock sat on the bed. It squealed under his weight. Across the road at the saloon a woman laughed.
“I’m here, Cliff,” he said. Then, “It’s Sam Flintlock.”
Wraith raised his right hand. It had no fingernails. “Sam . . .”
“I’m listening, Cliff.”
“They hurt me real bad, Sam.”
Flintlock glanced at Wraith’s bloody hand. “I know they did,” he said.
“Who done this to you?” Lithgow said. “Give me names, by God. I’ll gut shoot every last mother’s son of them.”
“Sam . . . listen . . .”
“Go ahead, Cliff.”
“The boy . . . Jamie . . . innocent . . .” Blood filled Wraith’s mouth.
“Easy, Cliff, easy,” Flintlock said. “Say it slow.”
“Guilty . . . big man . . .”
Wraith’s back arched as a wave of pain hit him.
“Oh, merciful God,” he whispered. “Sweet Jesus, let this cup pass from me.”
Flintlock held Wraith’s hand. “I know McPhee is innocent. Now pass on, Cliff,” he said. “Just let yourself go.”
“Get . . . big . . . man . . .”
“Who is he?” Flintlock said.
“O Jesu!” Wraith shrieked, his eyes wide.
And then his soul rushed from him.
Flintlock raised cold eyes to the marshal. “Don’t say a word, Lithgow. Not a word. Not yet. Not if you value your life.”
The lawman turned away from the bed, stepped to the window and opened it wide.
“For Clifton Wraith’s spirit to pass,” he said. After several minutes ticked away, Flintlock rose from the bed and pulled the bloody sheet over Wraith’s face.
He spoke to Lithgow. “You heard him.”
“About McPhee. Yes.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I guess a dying man will tell the truth,” the marshal said.
“A dying Pinkerton will tell the truth.” Lithgow said nothing.
“What does ‘guilty big man’ mean?” Flintlock said.
“I don’t know. This town has plenty of big men, most of them guilty of something.”
“Was Cliff tortured and killed in town? They pulled out his fingernails.”
“No, not in Open Sky. A couple of drovers found him on the trail a mile west of here and brought him in,” the marshal said.
Flintlock’s face hardened. “Who do they work for, Tom?”
“Nobody. Just a couple of scrawny young punchers riding the grub line.”
“I’ll talk to them anyhow,” Flintlock said. “Maybe—”
Someone tapped on the door. Flintlock answered it.
A man of medium height, grossly obese, stood sweating in the doorway. He was dressed in fashionable gray; a red cravat pinned in place with a diamond added a splash of gaudy color.
“My name is—”
“Come in, Mr. Tweddle,” Lithgow said.
When Flintlock stepped aside, Tweddle waddled into the room, trailing an odor of sweat and cologne behind him like the track of a snail.
“Sam, this is Mr. Lucian Tweddle, the town’s banker,” Lithgow said.
Flintlock took an instant dislike to the man, his porcine face and crafty little eyes, but he managed a polite nod and a “Howdy.”
“I know who you are, Flintlock,” the banker said, looking the other man up and down with obvious disapproval and dislike. “I’ve heard the name before.”
“What brings you here, Mr. Tweddle?” Lithgow said.
The fat man was an important and wealthy member of Open Sky society, so the marshal’s tone had been suitably respectful.
“I just heard about poor Mr. Wraith’s murder and I was told you were investigating, Marshal. Naturally I came over right away. In recent weeks Clifton and I had become friends.”
Tweddle’s eyes moved to the bed where Wraith lay as still as a marble effigy on top of a tomb. “Is that he?” Tweddle’s face was anguished. “Oh, say that it’s not Clifton.”
He stepped to the bed and quickly twitched the sheet from the dead man’s hollow, shadowed face.
That action surprised Flintlock. In his experience when someone, especially a friend, uncovers a dead man’s face, he d
oes it slowly, tentatively, with reverence, as though a little afraid of what he’s about to see. Tweddle had no such reservations. He flicked the sheet from Wraith without a second thought, surely the action of a hard, unfeeling man and not the grieving friend he pretended to be?
“Yes, it’s Clifton and cruelly done to death,” Tweddle said.
He replaced the sheet with the same quick motion and looked at Lithgow. “We need a quick arrest on this, Tom,” he said.
The marshal nodded. “I’ll find the killer, Mr. Tweddle. You can count on it.”
“His identity is patently obvious, is it not?” the banker said.
Lithgow and Flintlock exchanged puzzled glances, a thing Tweddle noticed.
“Come now, Tom,” he said. “Everyone in Open Sky knows that Beau Hunt rode into town yesterday and immediately afterward Wraith was murdered. Hunt is a hired killer well known to the law in Texas so the connection is plain to see.”
No Clifton this time, Flintlock noted. Just the coldly spoken Wraith.
“I’ll talk to him, Mr. Tweddle,” Lithgow said.
The lawman didn’t lack sand but he seemed ill at ease. As Flintlock did, Lithgow knew the Beau was a man to be reckoned with.
“Talk be damned,” Tweddle said, anger in his pouched, piggy eyes. “Arrest him on a suspicion of murder, Tom. Root him out of the saloon where he holds court, at gunpoint if need be. And then make him tell you who hired him. Hunt’s kind will always spill the beans to save their own necks.”
“I figured the killer was Jamie McPhee,” the marshal said.
“Not this time. My bank clerks don’t have the money to hire Texas draw fighters,” Tweddle said. He hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest and looked pompous. “Someone else in this town has an agenda, the one who had Wraith murdered.” The fat man gestured impatiently. “Arrest Hunt and force him to tell you who hired him. Do your duty, Marshal.”
Flintlock realized Tweddle was railroading Lithgow into bracing Beau Hunt. He didn’t know why this should be, but he decided to put a stop to it.
“I’ll talk to him,” he said.
The banker’s eyes spat hate. “This is the marshal’s business and none of yours, Flintlock,” he said.
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