“Hell, look around you,” Wilson said. “Everybody’s out looking for young Steve. Well, me and Slim found him.”
“What happened?” O’Rourke said.
“We told Steve we were taking him back here to the ranch.”
“And?” O’Rourke said.
“And? The only and is that Steve McCord drew down on us, first him and then Hunt. Hunt shot Slim and Steve shot Hunt. End of story.”
Wilson shook his head. “No, that’s not the end of the story. Steve told me to spread the word that he’s the man who killed Beau Hunt. He says he wants to be known as a gunfighter.”
“I don’t where he come up with that handle, but I’ve got another name for him—a damned murderer,” Flintlock said.
Wilson nodded. “He didn’t give Hunt an even break, that’s for sure.”
Flintlock caught a glimpse of old Barnabas. The wicked old rogue sat on the V of the ranch house roof, wearing a strange hat with a red, white and blue cockade that had settled over his eyebrows and pushed out the tops of his ears. Barnabas glowered at Flintlock and stuck out his tongue.
“Mount up, boys,” O’Rourke said. “We’ll head back to the Circle-O. I don’t want to leave my wife with that crazy Chinaman for too long.”
“He’s a crazy Englishman, actually,” Flintlock said. But he was talking to the ass of O’Rourke’s horse.
After the others had gone and Stump Wilson had disappeared behind the ranch house again, Flintlock rode closer to Barnabas.
“What have you got on your head?” he said.
“It’s called a bicorn, you ignoramus,” Barnabas said. “Napoleon loaned it to me.”
“It’s too big for you.”
“I know that. Boney is just a little feller but he’d got a head like a nail keg. All them brains, I guess.” Barnabas shook his head, but the hat stayed in place. “He’s always playin’ with them tin soldiers of his. Of course, they melt pretty soon, but he somehow always finds more.”
“Why are you here, Barnabas?”
“Your ma is in Louisiana.”
“I know. You already told me that.”
“There’s a rich Coonass down that way who plans to get rid of folks living along the bayous, especially the swamp witches that the folks look up to and respect. Your ma is one o’ them, boy.”
“When I’m all through here, I’ll head that way.”
“And you’ll be too late by then,” Barnabas said.
The old mountain man removed Napoleon’s hat, scowled at it, then placed it back on his head. He looked like a bearded toadstool. “You split-ass down there, boy, and quit being an idiot,” he said.
Wilson reappeared and stared hard at Flintlock. “Who are you taking to?” he said.
“Myself,” Flintlock said. “I do that by times.”
There was no one on the roof.
“Hell, it smells like hell around here,” Wilson said, making a face. “Stinks like the sulfur poultice my ma used to put on my chest when I was a younker.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was just talking to myself about,” Flintlock said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
His face stricken, Lucian Tweddle couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was just too much to grasp all at once. Then, after a struggle, “You killed Beau Hunt?” he said.
Steve McCord grinned. “I sure did. He drew down on me and I plugged him square.”
“Oh my God,” Tweddle groaned. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed into his be-ringed, chubby fingers. “All my plans . . . destroyed. This is so unfair, so unmerited. I deserve better than this.”
“Hell, don’t worry about it, Mr. Tweddle.” The young man grinned. “You’ve still got me, and I’m all you need. I’m what folks will call a gunfighter.”
Tweddle stared at McCord through his open fingers, saliva on his thick lips. “You fool. Your pa, Frisco Maddox, Flintlock, even Tom Lithgow, any one of them can eat you alive.”
McCord’s grin slipped. “Yeah? Well, tell that to Beau Hunt.”
“You shot him in the back, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“You’re a damned liar.”
Tweddle saw the truth in McCord’s face. “Beau was worth a hundred of you,” he said. “No, a thousand of you.” He shook his head. “You damned little pipsqueak you may have done for me.”
“Hell, when the word spreads that I killed Hunt, I’ll be the big man around town,” McCord said. He had an angry red pimple on his chin. “I’ll be the cock of the walk and the likes of Flintlock and Lithgow will be too scared to brace me.” He leaned forward in his chair. “With me at your side with my gun, you’ll be able to do anything you want in Open Sky, Mr. Tweddle. Don’t you see that?”
“There’s no range war, damn you,” Tweddle said. “Without a war I can do nothing.”
He glanced out his office window into the bank to make sure no one was within earshot. All the clerks were bent over, their steel pens scratching across massive ledgers. “Does anyone suspect you work for me?” he said.
The skin of McCord’s face tightened to his skull. “I don’t work for you,” he said. “We’re partners, remember?”
“A slip of the tongue. But answer my question.”
“Nobody knows we’re partners.”
“Good. Then let’s keep it that way.”
Tweddle sat in silence for a while. His huge bulk looked uncomfortable in his chair. Finally he said, “Guns. Maybe I can salvage everything with hired guns, wipe out both McCord and O’Rourke and grab the land.”
“You’ll need an army,” Steve said, smirking. “How many? Two score, three? Where are you going to find that many guns around these parts?”
Tweddle blinked, as though he realized the hopelessness of his task. There weren’t that many hired guns in the Oklahoma Territory.
Steve McCord grinned. “What happens to a snake when you cut its head off? The rest of it dies, huh?”
“What’s your drift?”
“If I kill my father and O’Rourke, the fight is over. Their hands will pack up and leave.”
“How do you hope to accomplish that?” Tweddle said.
“Easy. I send a note to dear papa and tell him I want to turn myself in and to meet me in a certain place but to come alone. O’Rourke gets the same note, but at a different place and time.” Steve sat back in his chair, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. “I kill them both on the same day, drag their bodies together and make it look like they met on the trail and shot one another.”
Tweddle felt a surge of hope. “What about Flintlock? He’s a meddlesome troublemaker.”
“I’m a gunfighter and faster than he’ll ever be. I can take care of Flintlock and that whelp Jamie McPhee.”
Tweddle sat in thought for a moment, then banged his fist on the desk.
“It just might work,” he said. “With their bosses gone, why would the punchers fight?”
“They won’t, not after I take over the McCord ranch—”
“And I foreclose on the Circle-O,” Tweddle said, his eyes alight.
“See, the death of Beau Hunt changes nothing,” Steve said. “Not when I can step into his shoes so easily.”
“I’ve underestimated you, Steve. And since we’re partners, you may call me Lucian.”
McCord grinned. “Lucian, we’re gonna be real cozy, you and me.”
“And rich on railroad money,” Tweddle said.
Steve frowned as a disturbing thought struck him.
“What’s the matter?” Tweddle said.
“My pa is arrogant enough to believe the note and he’ll probably have it in mind to kill me, but what about O’Rourke? He’s a cagey old coot.”
“There won’t be a note,” Tweddle said, smiling.
“I don’t get it.”
“Nancy Pocket will be our messenger. She’s an actress, that one.”
“No note?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Explain it to me.”
Twe
ddle affected a woman’s voice. “Oh, Mr. McCord, I am with child and I will be undone if you do not reconcile with your son. He wants to turn himself in so we can wed. But he’s so frightened that you must meet him alone . . . Do you savvy?”
“Damn, that’s good, Lucian. Real good. Will Nancy do it?”
Tweddle’s grin was nasty. “I’ll beat her to a bloody pulp if she doesn’t.”
“Lucian, I don’t want to do that,” Nancy Pocket said.
“Why not, my dear?” Lucian Tweddle said. His voice was soft, silky, like the purr of a hearthside cat.
“They won’t believe me. Brendan O’Rourke certainly won’t.”
“You can act, Nancy. A whore acts all the time.”
“Lucian, it won’t work.”
“It will work. Pad your belly out with a pillow or something, look like you’re far gone with child. Men get all tongue-tied around pregnant women. They’ll listen.”
“Trace McCord has bedded me before. He won’t believe that his spineless, poetry-writing son could knock me up.”
“Then, like father, like son. He’ll believe you if you act well enough.”
“And O’Rourke?”
“Did he ever bed you?”
“No. But he’s a grim old sourpuss, drinks prune juice and reads his Bible.”
“From what I can tell about him, he’s an old-school gentleman. Just get his sympathy, Nancy. Plenty of salty tears.”
The woman poured herself a drink and the crystal decanter clinked as she settled it back in the rack. “No, I won’t do it, Lucian,” she said.
“Oh, but you will, my dear.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I will beat you severely and drag you by the hair to Marshal Lithgow and tell him you tried to murder me like you did Frank Constable.”
Tweddle steepled his fingers in front of his smiling face. “Who will Lithgow believe? A respectable banker who helps pay his wages or a two-dollar-a-bang whore whose been had by every man and boy in town?”
The girl looked stricken. “Lucian, I killed the lawyer for you. It was all for you.”
“You murdered Constable to save your own skin. So make up your mind. Do you act the part of an undone female or hang? Answer me you damned slut.”
Nancy spat words like venom. “Lucian, sometimes I hate your guts.”
“I’m happy with that so long as you fear me. Now, for the last time, will you do as I say?”
The woman nodded, tears bright in her eyes. “I’ll be gone all day and into the night,” she said.
“Do you expect me to care?”
Nancy made no answer.
“Good, then it’s settled. Now go find a pillow and ride out to the McCord and O’Rourke spreads,” Tweddle said. “I’ll tell you what to say.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Brendan O’Rourke read the words for the dead from the Book, then the people who stood around Beau Hunt’s grave sang “Shall We Gather at the River?” led by the rancher’s strong baritone.
Ruth Ward didn’t know the words, but her soft sobs provided a poignant counterpoint to the male voices.
Flintlock considered the hymn a crackerjack send-off for Beau and later thanked O’Rourke for choosing it. But as he stood beside the grave in a summer rain, Flintlock figured he’d buried a lot of folks since he’d arrived in the Oklahoma Territory and there were more to come. When he got to Louisiana he’d strip buck-naked and jump into a bayou and wash the stench of death off him.
“The death shadows are gone from Mrs. O’Rourke’s face,” Sir Arthur Ward told him after they’d all gone inside for coffee and breakfast. “I think she’ll recover just fine.”
“Good to hear,” Flintlock said. “We take up the search for Steve McCord later today.”
“Do you think you’ll find him?”
“He’s a needle in a haystack. This is a open, wild country.”
“You need a native guide,” Ward said.
“The Apaches are all gone and ol’ Geronimo is penned up in a Florida swamp where he’ll probably die of fever.” Flintlock considered that, then, “I wonder if O’Hara is still around.”
“I haven’t a clue, old chap. He’s an element of nature that native, and he comes and goes with the wind. God knows where he is.” He looked toward the cabin, then said, “I thought the funeral went well, all things considered.”
“Seems like. I reckon Beau would say that we did our best for him.”
“Ruth said even in death he was very handsome.”
“Yeah, he was all of that.”
“It’s too bad.”
“Man who lives by the gun knows the odds,” Flintlock said. “Beau Hunt’s luck ran out is all. It happens to all of us sooner or later.”
O’Rourke had been spending time with his wife, now he stepped out of the ranch house door and called out, “You’ll ride with us today, Flintlock?”
“Sure I will. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“How is Mrs. O’Rourke?” Sir Arthur said.
“She seems much better. I’m sure she recognized me this morning. She smiled at me.”
“Glad to hear it,” Flintlock said.
“Finish your breakfast, then saddle up,” O’Rourke said. Then to Ward, “Will you stay a few days, see my wife through?”
“Of course I will.”
“Then I’m beholden to you, Chinaman,” O’Rourke said.
“Let me ride with you,” Sir Arthur said. “Mrs. O’Rourke will be just fine until I get back.”
“Can you shoot?” the rancher said.
“Yes, I can shoot. I have a Martini-Henry in my wagon, but I’ll need to borrow a horse.”
“I never met a Chinaman who could ride.”
“Well, you’ve met one now.”
“All right, pick out a mount from the corral. But be quick, now.”
It was one o’clock in the afternoon when Sam Flintlock rode out with Brendan O’Rourke and the others. The old rancher said they’d hunt until it grew dark and then return, hopefully with a captive Steve McCord.
Jamie McPhee said he felt well enough to go, but Flintlock persuaded him to stay behind and guard the womenfolk. “If it comes down to it, let McCord get real close and then gut-shoot him with the 10-gauge, one barrel and then t’other.” Flintlock said. “On no account get into a revolver duel. He’ll kill you.”
McPhee saw the logic in that, and staying close to the exotic and beautiful Ruth Ward had its appeal. But as far as the shotgun was concerned, how close was real close?
The rain that had begun in the morning settled in for the day and by four in the afternoon was a steady downpour. A thin mist hung around the trees and ashen clouds loomed above the hill where Beau Hunt’s grave was marked by a simple wooden cross.
Ruth and Isa Mae, clearing the way for women’s talk, had chased Jamie McPhee out of the house and he consoled himself by working around the barn.
But after an hour of sweeping and hanging horse tack back in place, he saw a rider come out of the trees and stay close to the shelter of the rise before angling toward the ranch house.
McPhee grabbed the Greener and stepped to the open door of the barn. Lightning flashed among the clouds but there was no sound of thunder. The gray day was as dark as twilight.
As the rider drew closer, McPhee realized it was a woman riding a bay horse. She wore a hooded black cape against the rain but he saw no sign of a rifle. Warily he left the barn and walked closer, the shotgun ready.
Then McPhee recognized the pretty, angular face of Nancy Pocket. With only a couple yards’ distance between them, the woman drew rein.
“Miss Pocket, what are you doing here?” McPhee said.
“I might ask you the same question,” Nancy said. “Is Brendan O’Rourke to home?”
“No. He’s out scouting for Steve McCord. Him and Sam Flintlock.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to him about.”
“Can I help?”
“I have a message for him,” Nancy
said.
“You can give it to me and I’ll deliver it for you.”
The house door opened and Ruth stood looking out into the rain. “Who is it, Jamie?” she said.
“Her name is Nancy Pocket and she has a message for Mr. O’Rourke.”
“Don’t stand out there in the rain, Nancy,” Ruth said. “Come inside at once and have a nice cup of tea and a scone.”
“No thanks, honey,” Nancy said. “I’ll deliver my message and then be on my way.”
She opened her cloak and revealed a swollen belly. “This is part of it,” she said.
“You’re . . . you’re with child,” McPhee said.
“Aren’t you a clever boy? Yeah, I’m pregnant, that’s a natural fact. Bad news for a whore, huh?”
McPhee had no answer for that and let the hiss of the rain fill in the silence.
“Well, it ain’t bad news after all,” Nancy said. “The baby’s father is Steve McCord and he wants to turn himself in and then make a life for me and his child.”
“Then he can come here and surrender,” McPhee said.
“No, he can’t. Steve is frightened, scared of what might happen to him. He’ll give himself up to Brendan O’Rourke but only if he meets him alone.”
“I don’t quite understand,” McPhee said. “Meet Mr. O’Rourke where? When?”
“Tomorrow morning at sunup. He should be at the ruined trading post near Courthouse Gap. O’Rourke will know where it is and I’ll be there to make sure Steve gets a fair shake. I want a husband, not a dead man.”
Nancy swung her horse away, an unlikely Madonna in the rain. “That’s the message, McPhee,” she said. “Make sure O’Rourke comes alone or Steve will light a shuck and none of us will ever see him again.”
Nancy Pocket was pleased. Things had gone very well.
Despite the objections of Frisco Maddox, Trace McCord had readily agreed to a meeting in Red Oak, where he would accept his son’s surrender.
But he was skeptical that Steve had had the cojones to sire Nancy’s baby.
“Someone else fill your belly and you decided to blame it on the boy?” he said.
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