Gut-Shot

by William W. Johnstone

“Knows how to make an entrance, don’t he?”

  “Yeah. The Chinaman’s got style,” Flintlock said.

  “It may be your style to kidnap honest people and drag them across the prairie at gunpoint, but it’s certainly not mine,” Sir Arthur Ward said.

  “This is an outrage,” Ruth said. “And one that will not go unpunished, Mr. O’Rourke, depend on it.”

  “I reckon it’s better than the alternative,” the rancher said.

  “And what is that, pray?” the girl said.

  “If you hadn’t showed up when you did, I would’ve hung these two,” O’Rourke said, waving to Flintlock and McPhee.

  “Thuggish behavior and thuggish threats, sir,” Ruth said. “You should be ashamed to call yourself a gentleman.”

  “Ruth dear, that will be quite enough,” Ward said. “We are under Mr. O’Rourke’s roof, remember.” Then, to the rancher, “Come now, sir, speak up. What is your reason for bringing us here? And why do you sit in darkness like melancholy Achilles in his tent?”

  “In darkness, because my wife lies dying in the next room,” O’Rourke said. “As for my reason for bringing you here, best you ask Flintlock.”

  As Ward’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, the shattered panes in the windows and walls pockmarked by bullets became apparent. “What happened here?” he said.

  Using as few words as possible and sensing O’Rourke’s growing impatience, Flintlock told him.

  The Englishman was horrified. “My dear sir, you surely don’t think that I—”

  “The raid was led by the son of a rancher by the name of Trace McCord, a man who has long envied my winter grazing,” O’Rourke said. “I believe he now plans to take it by force. It was his son who shot my wife.”

  “Abominable,” Sir Arthur said, his handsome face frozen in shock. “Dastardly behavior.”

  “Father and son, damn them, will hang from the same tree,” O’Rourke said.

  For a moment there was a minor distraction. Isa Mae shyly touched the shoulder of Ruth’s vibrant green Chinese robe and said, “Pretty.” And Ruth smiled at the girl.

  Flintlock said, “Sir Arthur, tell O’Rourke about the railroad.”

  The man seemed puzzled.

  “That’s why you’re here,” Flintlock said.

  Ward stared into the baffled face of the old rancher. “Mr. O’Rourke, a railroad, probably the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe, plans a depot in Open Sky. The most direct route for the track is across your land and Trace McCord’s. The company will pay big money for the right-of-way as you’ll no doubt learn soon.”

  “And McCord wants it all,” O’Rourke said.

  “I don’t know about that, sir,” Sir Arthur said.

  “Why are you here, Chinaman?” O’Rourke said.

  “I’m British actually. Railroad crews need fed and I will feed them.”

  “Sir Arthur is a famous chef,” McPhee said, looking to Ruth for approval. Then he winced, this time hunting sympathy. He got neither.

  “O’Rourke, somebody wants it all, but I don’t think it’s McCord,” Flintlock said.

  “So why did he send his son to raid my ranch last night?” O’Rourke said.

  “Because if Trace McCord was behind it he would have come himself with all his riders and wiped you out,” Flintlock said. “He isn’t the kind to send a boy to do a man’s job.”

  He tried to meet the rancher’s eyes in the growing darkness but failed.

  “I’ve no doubt McCord wants your range and is planning to take it,” Flintlock said. “But I don’t think you can lay the blame for last night at his feet.”

  “What the hell are you telling me, Flintlock? To fall over and play dead?” O’Rourke said. “You want me to go to McCord and say, ‘Your son shot my wife, but all is forgiven.’ No sir. I bear a noble name and it’s not in me to grovel at the feet of any man.”

  “O’Rourke, there’s a third party who wants a war between you and McCord and he tried to start it last night. After the shooting is over, he aims to move in, take both ranches and become rich on railroad money.” Then, in a sudden moment of inspiration, “That’s why Beau Hunt is in Open Sky, to take care of any opposition that might be still standing.”

  One of the punchers snorted a laugh. “Beau Hunt wouldn’t be caught dead in a hick town like Open Sky.”

  “I’ve spoken to him and big money lured him,” Flintlock said. “He was hired by Lucian Tweddle.”

  “You’re saying the banker is behind all this trouble?” O’Rourke said.

  “That’s my belief,” Flintlock said.

  “Was the damned sodomite Beau Hunt the one who shot my cook?”

  Flintlock shook his head. “No. Hunt doesn’t shoot ranch cooks.”

  O’Rourke lapsed into silence. Then, “Flintlock, I’ve listened to you and the Chinaman—”

  “British, old chap, actually,” Ward said.

  “And I think there’s truth in what you say about the railroad and maybe Lucian Tweddle. But Steve McCord shot my wife last night and I aim to find him and hang him.” He rose to his feet. “Abe, go rouse Cole and Dick. You and them saddle up,” he said. “Roy, you stay here and guard the prisoners.”

  “I am not your prisoner, sir!” Sir Arthur said.

  “You’re my prisoner until I say you ain’t,” O’Rourke said.

  “Where are you headed?” Flintlock said.

  “The McCord ranch. If Trace is hiding that murdering son of his, I’ll know it.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Flintlock said.

  “Why?”

  “Another way of proving my bona fides.”

  O’Rourke thought that through, then said, “All right, you can ride along. Roy, give him that old Hawken of his. It’s the only gun you get until I feel I can trust you, Flintlock, an’ that may be never.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The evening was drawing in and Lucian Tweddle was once again at home entertaining in his lamp-lit parlor. The room smelled of cigar smoke and good whiskey and a faint reminder of Nancy Pocket’s perfume lingered in the air.

  “So you shot the old O’Rourke lady, young Mr. McCord?” he said.

  “Put two bullets into her.” Steve grinned. “What made it more fun was that she recognized me, stupid old—”

  “McCord, circumstances force us to breathe the same air,” Beau Hunt said. “But I will not listen to you make sport of an old woman’s death.”

  Hunt was angry, a stark contrast to his usual cool, professional demeanor, and Tweddle read the warning sign.

  “Of course, let us be done with that sorry subject,” he said. “Mr. Stannic, we lost one of our own?”

  “Yeah, Slick Trent is no longer with us.”

  “And that Flintlock creature gunned down Pike Reid this morning,” Tweddle said. He looked as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.

  “I saw it,” Hunt said. he smiled. “Flintlock’s good. Real good.”

  “Slick and Pike will be greatly missed,” Tweddle said with a straight face.

  Stannic shrugged as though the matter was not worthy of further discussion.

  “How long before O’Rourke retaliates against Trace McCord?” Tweddle said.

  “Maybe he’s retaliated already,” Stannic said. “We could be sitting here talking about dead men.”

  “My pa ain’t dead until I put a couple of bullets into him,” Steve said, grinning.

  “Mr. Hunt, what’s your take on the matter?” Tweddle said.

  “I go with Stannic. Both ranchers are hotheads and I reckon the ball has already opened.”

  “I need to know for sure,” Tweddle said. “Have they destroyed themselves? I want an answer.”

  Nancy stepped into the room, smiled at the men present and her silk dress whispered as she walked to Tweddle, kissed one fat jowl, then stood behind him.

  The banker sat in thought for a while, pudgy hands folded over the great swell of his belly. Nancy played with a thin strand of his hair.

  “I�
��ve made up my mind. Mr. Hunt, you will accompany Mr. McCord and scout both ranches. Any survivors you see, especially Trace McCord and O’Rourke, you will kill immediately.” Tweddle smiled. “Is that clear?”

  “Now I start earning my money, huh?” Hunt said.

  “Yes. And when you bring this affair to a successful conclusion you will find me more than generous.”

  “We’ll move out at first light,” Hunt said.

  “Wouldn’t it be most unfair if it’s not all over by now?” Tweddle said. “I mean, tiresome.”

  “One way or another it will be over,” Hunt said.

  “And I get dibs on Daddy,” McCord said.

  His face was alight and it was then Beau Hunt realized that Lucian Tweddle had created a monster.

  “Mr. Stannic, you and Mr. Holloway will remain in town,” the banker said. “Depending on what Mr. Hunt tells me on his return, I may have further needs of your services.”

  Tweddle smiled. “Keep your ax sharp, Mr. Holloway.”

  “It’s sharp enough. I buried it in a drover’s skull at the O’Rourke place.”

  “Crackerjack!” Tweddle exclaimed. “Is that not crackerjack, Nancy?”

  The woman nodded and smiled. “It is indeed,” she said faintly.

  “Good. Now serve another round of drinks, woman. I’ve got thirsty men here. Cold buttermilk for Mr. Hunt, of course.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Midnight moonlight bleached out the land around the McCord ranch house.

  The house was in darkness but for a lamp that glowed yellow behind a single-hung window to the right of the door. The charred wreckage of the burned barn had been cleared away but the rising wind sounded like the whinny of dead horses.

  Sam Flintlock sat his buckskin to the left of Brendan O’Rourke, the three other riders formed up to his right.

  For long moments the old rancher sat in silence and stared at the house, like a dark knight wary of entering the cave of the Holy Grail. Finally he threw back his head and yelled.

  “Trace McCord! Be a man worthy of his name and show yourself!”

  Insects chirped in amethyst shadows and among the tall grass small things scurried and squeaked. A minute passed . . . then two . . .

  The lamp in the house was extinguished, then the front door opened silently on oiled hinges.

  From the bunkhouse the silhouettes of belted men stepped through the night, two score strong, and confident of their strength.

  “Who wakes a man at this time of the night?”

  Trace McCord stood outside his doorway, a rifle in his hands.

  He wore a dull red smoking jacket, eyeglasses pushed high on his forehead. He blinked away the printed pages of Sir Walter Scott and concentrated on the angry men who faced him.

  “It is I, McCord, Brendan O’Rourke, whose sleep your riders disturbed last night with fire and sword.”

  McCord took a step forward. “What the hell are you talking about, O’Rourke?”

  Flintlock saw McCord’s hands deploy in a skirmish line. He reckoned the tall, significant figure directing them must be Frisco Maddox.

  “Last night,” O’Rourke said, “your son led night riders to my home. They killed two of my men and your son shot down my wife on her very doorstep.”

  “That’s a damned lie,” McCord said. “Steve is by now halfway to Texas to live with kin.”

  “Who are you to call me a liar, McCord? My ancestors were great lords when yours scraped plows across their mean acres in Tyrone and Armagh. Your son was seen and by others beside my wife.”

  Then, after a moment, “It is you who is the damnable liar, Trace McCord.”

  The fuse was in place and needed only a match to light it.

  Flintlock, a named fast gun, armed with a Hawken that lacked powder and ball, knew he would be the first target. Twenty against five, one of them unarmed, were not odds to his liking.

  The atmosphere around Flintlock was tense, stretched tight like a rubber band ready to snap.

  Frisco Maddox, aware that he sat on a powder keg, remained perfectly still, his hand away from his gun, and called out to O’Rourke, “Is Audrey dead?”

  “No, but she lies at death’s door.”

  “I’m moving, O’Rourke,” Maddox said. “No guns.”

  “Then move and be damned to ye,” the old rancher said. “We will not shoot.”

  Maddox stepped beside McCord. “Steve didn’t go,” he said.

  “That’s nonsense,” McCord said. “Of course he went. He knew there was no longer a home for him here.”

  “Audrey O’Rourke saw him. She wouldn’t make that kind of mistake.”

  “In the dark?”

  “Steve had to get close, make his shot count.”

  “Shots, damn you,” O’Rourke said. “He shot my wife twice, once when she was already falling. What kind of a man does that? Where is the honor in that?”

  McCord said, “I told you, he’s . . .” His voice faltered, grew weaker. “Bound for Texas.”

  “Steve didn’t go, boss,” Maddox said again. “He turned back.”

  “Trace McCord, is the murderer of my wife in your home?” O’Rourke said.

  Suddenly McCord seemed years older. “No, he’s not.” He waved a hand. “Search the place if you want.”

  “Your word is enough,” O’Rourke said. The old rancher’s saddle creaked as he leaned forward, his eyes on McCord’s face. “When did you hear about the railroad?” he said.

  McCord didn’t hesitate. “What railroad?”

  “Flintlock,” O’Rourke said.

  “The Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe plans to lay rails to Open Sky,” Flintlock said.

  “Across my land?” McCord said.

  “Yours and O’Rourke’s. There will be big money involved in contracts for the right-of-way.”

  “I didn’t know any of this,” McCord said.

  “Maybe your son does,” Flintlock said.

  Frisco Maddox spoke. “What’s your drift, Flintlock?”

  “If your boss and O’Rourke fight a war, Lucian Tweddle is ready to step over the dead and take over both ranges. He’ll make a fortune from the railroad contract and he’s got Beau Hunt on the payroll to make sure things go smoothly.”

  “Where is Beau Hunt?” Maddox said. “He’s a weapon of war.” The big foreman seemed alarmed.

  “He’s in Open Sky, biding his time. When Steve inherits your ranch, Tweddle will use him for a spell and then order Hunt to get rid of him. O’Rourke’s spread is even easier. A banker can forge papers to say he’s foreclosing on a delinquent loan.”

  “Lucian Tweddle, the banker? I find that hard to believe,” McCord said.

  Flintlock’s smile was far from friendly. “You make a habit of calling folks a liar, McCord?”

  “I believe Flintlock,” O’Rourke said. “And I heard about the rails from another source. I think Tweddle tried to start trouble between us when he burned your barn, McCord. But it didn’t work that time.”

  The old rancher sat back in the saddle, his talking done.

  “Is it war between us, O’Rourke?” McCord said.

  “Find your son, turn him over to me,” O’Rourke said. “And there will be no war.”

  “If my son shot down your wife, I’ll hang him myself.”

  “No. A man should not kill his own blood.”

  “Flintlock, can you prove what you say about Lucian Tweddle?” Maddox said.

  “Not a word of it.”

  “Then find proof.”

  “Clifton Wraith the Pinkerton found proof, and look what happened to him. And then Frank Constable was killed. I think he found proof just like Wraith did.”

  “All that was to do with the murderer Jamie McPhee and you know it, Flintlock,” McCord said.

  “Lucian Tweddle discovered Polly Mallory was pregnant and murdered her,” Flintlock said.

  “Can you prove it?” McCord said.

  “Nope.”

  “Then you’re blowing empty wo
rds.”

  To O’Rourke, McCord said, “I disowned my son. He was no good, a weakling. I sent Steve to Texas and hoped he’d never come back. Now I plan to wed again and have a son I can be proud of.” His face looked like a carved rock in the moonlight. “So yes, O’Rourke, find him. Find him and hang him and from this night on there will be peace between us.”

  “There is blood on the moon and none of this bodes well,” O’Rourke said. “Neither of us will enjoy peace, Trace McCord. I see death for both of us and it is a stark, cold vision.”

  “Then so be it,” McCord said. “Let the cards fall where they may.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  A weapon of war.

  It was an odd statement to make about a man, but Beau Hunt fit the bill. Frank Constable would have pegged him a flesh-and-blood infernal machine, even deadlier than his original.

  As Flintlock rode back to the Circle-O he considered the man.

  Hunt’s sexuality had always been in question. He liked women and women liked him, yet there was no account of him ever dallying with a member of the fairer sex. Even Maisie May, the delectable songstress at the Rocking Horse saloon, had failed to attract his attention.

  Was that why he’d turned himself into a war gun? To compensate for what others viewed as a lack of manliness? Flintlock shrugged off the question.

  Whatever his motives, Beau Hunt was a dangerous man and a deadly killer, the fastest man with Sammy Colt’s gun that had ever lived or would ever live. But no matter the peril, Flintlock realized he could not toss his gun away and kneel and kiss the ground in front of such a man.

  Those who beat their swords into plows will plow for those who didn’t. When the time came, and it would, he’d need to handle Beau Hunt.

  As to how, Flintlock had not a clue.

  Brendan O’Rourke returned to a house ablaze with lamplight. Incensed, he swung out of the saddle and barged inside. “Who did this?” he roared. “Damn you, Roy, was it you?”

  The puncher nodded in the direction of Sir Arthur Ward.

  “Ask the Chinaman.”

  “I’m British actually,” Ward said.

  “What do you mean by this?” O’Rourke said. His angry gaze locked on Isa Mae, now wearing Ruth’s beautiful blue robe she’d admired. “You’ve turned my house of sorrow into an Oriental brothel.”