Gut-Shot

by William W. Johnstone

  Nancy shrugged. “A lucky shot, Trace.”

  “Steve doesn’t have it in him,” McCord said. “You know I’m cutting him off without a penny, don’t you? If he doesn’t hang, that is.”

  “I don’t care about money. I love Steve and I want to marry him.”

  McCord laughed out loud. “Nancy, the only thing you’ve ever loved in your life is the dollar bill. Where will you live?”

  “I don’t know. After the baby is born, Albuquerque maybe.”

  “And become a dutiful little wife and mother with a picket fence and your hands in the bread dough?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  Both McCord and Maddox laughed. Then Maddox said, “Why doesn’t Steve just ride into Open Sky and give himself up to Tom Lithgow?”

  “Because Steve is terrified. He told me that when Lithgow hears about how he accidentally shot Mrs. O’Rourke, the marshal will string him up without a trial.”

  “He could be right about that,” Trace McCord said, grinning.

  “Will you meet him, Trace?” Nancy said. “Steve means the whole world to me and I want to be his wife.”

  Still grinning, McCord turned to Maddox. “Frisco, did you ever think you’d hear a whore talk that way about Steve?” he said.

  “Never. I didn’t think I’d hear any woman talk that way about Steve.”

  The whole thing was so bizarre, so ridiculous, that Trace McCord was highly amused.

  “All right, tell him I’ll be at the stage stop in Red Oak at one tomorrow,” he said. “If I’m still in a good mood, I may even let him live.”

  “Trace, if I tell Steve that, he won’t show up,” Nancy said.

  “Hell, woman, I’m only joking,” Trace McCord said.

  But Nancy didn’t believe him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  The rain continued as Nancy Pocket rode into Open Sky just as the clock in the spire above city hall chimed midnight. Lamps glowed in the Rocking Horse but the saloon seemed empty and quiet. Nancy couldn’t remember if this was the night the chess club met, but if it was, that explained the silence.

  She put up her horse at the livery and paid fifty cents to have the bay rubbed down and another two bits for oats.

  Pulling her hood over her head again, Nancy walked through the teeming night toward Lucian Tweddle’s house. She never made it. Herm Holloway was hunting for a woman.

  A huge man, made terrible by darkness and rain, he watched Nancy leave the livery stable and walk purposely, her skirt and white petticoats hiked up above her ankle boots as she picked her way through mud and puddles.

  Standing in the shadow of a shop doorway, Holloway touched his tongue to suddenly dry lips. He recognized the woman. She was the whore Nancy Pocket who’d sold herself to Tweddle, the fat man. Holloway grinned. Well, Tweddle wouldn’t grudge him a little taste.

  He stepped off the boardwalk and angled toward Nancy who walked with her head lowered against the downpour. But when the woman glanced up and saw Holloway she stopped, her face registering alarm.

  “Good evening, missy,” Holloway said.

  “What do you want?” Nancy said.

  “You know what I want. The question is—am I gonna get it?”

  “Not tonight, I’m busy. Now, will you step aside and give me the road.”

  “Just a few minutes of your time. A knee-trembler against a wall, huh? I’ll give you three dollars.”

  “You’re drunk,” Nancy said. “Get out of my way.”

  “Pretty, pretty girl. You’re going nowhere until I finish with you.”

  “I swear to God I’ll scream,” Nancy said.

  Her hand reached inside the pocket of her riding dress and closed on her derringer.

  “You’ll scream all right, missy, but for another reason,” Holloway said.

  He reached out and grabbed the woman by the shoulders.

  “You come with me, little lady,” he said. “We got to attend to business.”

  Herm Holloway stood three inches over six feet and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds and the bullet he took to the belly didn’t drop him.

  The derringer’s .41 rimfire in his guts would kill him eventually, but way too late for Nancy Pocket.

  Knowing he had his death wound, Holloway roared like a great wounded bear and pulled the ax from his belt. Nancy saw the danger, took a step back and brought up the belly gun again.

  She fired. A second hit. But to Holloway’s left shoulder.

  He shrugged off the wound and swung the ax with tremendous, skull-splitting force.

  Her head cleaved in twain, Nancy died instantly. She made no sound.

  She dropped to the ground, her face a frozen mask of terror, the pearl-handed derringer still in her hand. Her hand, slim and white, slowly opened and the little pistol dropped into the mud.

  Herm Holloway stood over Nancy’s lifeless body for a moment, a tic working in his left eye. He’d seen gut-shot men take agonized days to die and knew what horrors lay in store for him.

  Holloway tossed the bloody ax away. He drew his Colt, shoved the muzzle into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Lucian Tweddle heard the shots, loud in the midnight silence.

  Two sharp reports separated by a couple of seconds, possibly the venomous crack! crack! of a derringer. Then seconds later the unmistakable boom of a heavy revolver.

  Tweddle shook his head, his blue jowls jiggling.

  No, it couldn’t be Nancy’s gun he’d heard. Or could it? Had she been followed?

  Tweddle laid his brandy glass on the table beside him and listened into the night.

  Moments passed, then he heard the yells of men and among them he thought he recognized the marshal’s voice.

  He struggled to his feet. Worried now. If it was Nancy, was she still alive? She was a tough whore. She could live long enough to tell him what had happened at the McCord and O’Rourke ranches.

  Tweddle waddled to the door then peered outside. Damn this incessant rain. He saw a man in the distance, a shadow in the darkness. “You there!” he called out.

  The man turned his head, saw who hailed him and walked in Tweddle’s direction.

  “What happened?” the fat man said. “I heard shots and I fear they’ve made me very afraid.”

  “The whore Nancy Pocket has been killed, Mr. Tweddle.”

  The banker almost reeled in shock. “Is she dead?”

  “Head split wide open with an ax.”

  “Who did it?”

  “The marshal says it was the outlaw Herm Holloway did for her and Nancy done for him. Holloway has been hanging around town recent, him and Hank Stannic.”

  “Are you sure Nancy is dead?” Tweddle said, his mind working. “Say she yet breathes.”

  Oh please, let her live long enough to talk. This is so unfair, so inconsiderate and so typical of the cheap little tramp.

  “I don’t know how dead she is, Mr. Tweddle. Marshal Lithgow has sent for Doc Thorne.”

  “Quickly now. Tell Tom Lithgow to bring Nancy here. The poor little thing shouldn’t lie out in the rain. Dr. Thorne can examine her here.”

  “I sure will, Mr. Tweddle. You’re a very kind man.”

  The man walked quickly away but Tweddle remained at the door.

  “Live,” he whispered into the rain-needled darkness. “Give me two minutes . . . just one . . . live, you damned slut . . .”

  Moments later dark shapes moved toward Tweddle in the gloom, splashing through mud as they carried a blanket-draped burden. “Bring her in here!” Tweddle yelled. Then, “Please tell me poor Nancy is still alive?”

  No one answered that question. There was little need as the soaked blanket slid from Nancy’s body as the carried her through the parlor door. Tweddle stifled the shriek that sprang to his lips when he saw the dead woman’s head. It had been split open like a ripe watermelon.

  “Where do you want her, Mr. Tweddle?” Tom Lithgow said.

  Tweddle
was horrified.

  Not on my Persian rug . . . not in my kitchen . . . not on my beautiful Italian couch . . . not in my bed . . . not anywhere in my house!

  The marshal saw the banker’s confusion, put it down to shock, then said, “On the floor, boys.”

  “Wait!” Tweddle said. He kicked the Persian rug aside. “Now put her down.”

  The floor was oak, but he could always replace a few bloodstained floorboards later if he had to. After Nancy was placed on her back and the blanket covered her face, Tweddle said, “Did she say anything before she died? Did she ask for me?”

  Lithgow shook his head. “She was dead when we got there. The way I see it, Herm Holloway tried to rape her and Nancy shot him. After he murdered her, he was so horrified by what he’d done, he put his gun in his mouth and scattered his brains.”

  “The damned, low-down piece of trash,” Tweddle said. His face was black with anger. “I hope he roasts in hell.”

  “I don’t reckon there’s any doubt about that,” the marshal said.

  Dr. Isaac Thorne arrived dripping rain. He wore a vast, black oilskin with the words SS Daisy in yellow on the back.

  “Marshal, the dead man was shot in the belly,” he said. “I believe he realized what suffering was in store for him and decided to destroy himself. Now, let’s see here . . .”

  Thorne took a knee beside the body and pulled the blanket away from Nancy’s face. “Oh my God,” he whispered, aghast. He examined the massive head wound with a trembling hand. “Split open by a sharp-bladed instrument,” he said. “Death would have been instantaneous.”

  “Would this do the job?” Lithgow asked, showing the ax Holloway had used. “There’s still blood where the handle meets the blade.”

  Dr. Thorne gave the weapon a cursory glance. “Yes, that’s obviously what killed this poor, unfortunate night creature.”

  He looked up at Tweddle, his lips white. “Sir, for the love of God, a glass of brandy, pray you.”

  Despite his inner turmoil Tweddle played gracious host. He poured brandy while Lithgow helped the portly and shaken physician to his feet.

  “Thankee most kindly,” Thorne said as he accepted the drink. He met Tweddle’s eyes. “She did not suffer. Her vile murderer killed her with one mighty blow.”

  The banker’s face did not change expression. Impassive as the Sphinx, he said, “Marshal Lithgow, now you must remove the body.”

  A cold statement, the lawman thought. Made by a man who didn’t give a damn for the girl, his only apparent interest was in what Nancy might have said before she died.

  “We’ll keep her and Holloway at the Rocking Horse icehouse overnight and I’ll see to the burials tomorrow morning,” Lithgow said.

  “Take her now, if you please,” Tweddle said. “I feel faint at the dreadful sight of her.”

  After everyone had gone Lucian Tweddle lit a cigar and collapsed into his chair, his face troubled. This was a pretty kettle o’ fish and no mistake. What damned messages had Nancy delivered? Both? None?

  Had she done the dirty on him and gone into cahoots with McCord and O’Rourke to save her own neck? Or had she faithfully delivered both invites to a murder like a good little whore?

  Tweddle had questions with no answers and that troubled him.

  It was time to talk with Steve McCord again. Together they’d work something out.

  Tears dampened the fat man’s eyes. Everybody wanted to frustrate him, keep him down, believing him too uppity for a man of humble origins. Well, he’d show them, by God. This was only a temporary setback. He’d rise up again.

  Then a sudden thought, like scum drifting to the surface of a pond, made him smile.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  “Why does he want to surrender to you, O’Rourke?” Sam Flintlock said. “Why not Trace McCord?”

  “Because he’s afraid of his father,” the rancher said. “I can think of no other reason.”

  “And with good cause, I imagine,” Jamie McPhee said.

  “It’s likely a trap,” Flintlock said. “If young Steve McCord is in cahoots with Lucian Tweddle they’ve got together and laid plans to gun you.”

  “I aim to go, Flintlock,” O’Rourke said. “If he shows up, I’ll bring him in.”

  “I can’t talk you out of it?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Go with him, Flintlock,” Sir Arthur Ward said.

  “He said to be there alone and unarmed and that’s what I’ll do,” O’Rourke said. “I don’t want McCord to cut and run.”

  Flintlock smiled. “He’s too bullheaded to listen, Arthur. Mr. O’Rourke will go his own way.”

  “Damn right,” the rancher said.

  Flintlock rose to his feet and stretched. “I’m going to turn in,” he said. He glared at O’Rourke. “Tomorrow promises to be a busy day.”

  “Ruth, we should also retire to our wagon,” Sir Arthur said.

  “Isa Mae, did you make up the bed in the spare room?” O’Rourke said.

  “I sure did, Mr. O’Rourke,” the girl said, pausing with tray in hand.

  “Miss Ruth, you’re welcome to the room,” the rancher said.

  “I’m sure my daughter would appreciate a real bed,” Sir Arthur said.

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Rourke,” the girl said. “It’s very kind of you and I gladly accept your offer.”

  “Isa Mae will see to you,” the rancher said, brushing off the compliment. He needed no thanks for what he considered was simply Western hospitality.

  Sam Flintlock headed for the barn, deciding to forgo the bunkhouse with its smells of soiled clothing, ancient sweat and dead men. He made himself comfortable enough in the hayloft and lulled by the tick-tick-tick of rain on the roof was asleep within minutes.

  He woke hours later with a knife blade at his throat and a whisper in his ear.

  “I could have carved out a chunk of the thunderbird real easy, Flintlock.”

  Flintlock’s eyes flew open and his hand groped for the Colt he’d laid at his side.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” O’Hara said. The revolver he held up gleamed in the darkness.

  “Damn you, O’Hara,” Flintlock said. “I’m gonna put a bullet in you for sure.”

  “Empty talk, Flintlock, to a man who’s got a knife at your throat and a pistol pointed at your gut.”

  “Give me a shave while you’re there, O’Hara. I could use one. Not too close now.”

  The breed flashed a rare smile and got to his feet. He slid the knife back into the sheath and tossed Flintlock’s Colt onto the hay beside him.

  “You’re an easy man to kill, Flintlock,” he said. “I think you’re in the wrong line of work.”

  “It’s because you’re a damned Injun,” Flintlock said. “Injuns are forever sneaking up on folks. What the hell time is it?”

  “It’s about four. In the morning, that is.”

  Flintlock was irritated. Damn, the breed could have cut his throat easily. “Why are you here, scaring the hell out of good white Christians?”

  “Got news from Open Sky.”

  “About Steve McCord maybe? Or is it Tweddle?”

  “McCord is on the brag, calls himself a gunfighter. Says he’s going to kill you next, which, all things considered, he shouldn’t find too difficult.”

  “One creak of the ladder, O’Hara, and I’d have scattered your brains.”

  “Injuns, even half-Injuns, don’t creak ladders.”

  Flintlock’s fingers strayed to the pocket of his buckskin shirt. It was empty.

  “Damn,” he said.

  O’Hara threw down a Bull Durham sack and papers.

  “Your tobacco is damp,” Flintlock said, head bent, as he built a cigarette.

  “Been riding all night in rain.”

  Flintlock handed the makings back and O’Hara said, “Nancy Pocket was killed in the night by Herm Holloway. She got two bullets into him, one in his gut and then he killed himself.”

  “She was here earlier
today,” Flintlock said, stunned. “Delivered a message from Steve McCord.”

  “What kind of message?”

  In the dark O’Hara looked like something wild blown in from the Great Plains on the wind, more Indian than white man, more savage than civilized.

  Flintlock told him about the arranged meeting with O’Rourke and the breed considered that for a while, his black eyes intent. Finally he said, “Steve McCord got drunk in the saloon last night, told Maisie May he’s going to be filthy rich soon. Him and his partner.”

  “Lucian Tweddle?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “How do you know this? Were you in the saloon?”

  “I don’t drink with white men. Maisie herself told me.”

  O’Hara smiled his fleeting smile. “People don’t know it, but Maisie is part Cherokee.”

  “You redskins have got to hang together, huh?” Flintlock said.

  “Nobody else will hang with us, even you Flintlock.”

  “Hell, I don’t mind Indians, a few of my worst enemies were Indians. They’re all dead now, but you catch my drift.”

  O’Hara stepped to the ladder. “Don’t let O’Rourke go to the meeting place this morning. Steve McCord will kill him.”

  “His mind’s set on it and he’s a mighty stubborn man.”

  “Then you be there too, Flintlock. And don’t let anybody sneak up on you.” He shook his head. “I thought old Barnabas taught you better than that.”

  “Why are you doing this, O’Hara? You’re not beholden to me.”

  “Strangely enough, I like you, Flintlock. Though why you’ve lived this long is a mystery to me. Barnabas tried to explain it to me. He says the Great Spirit appointed special angels to look after idiots.”

  “Why don’t the old coot stay in hades where he belongs?” Flintlock said, even more irritated. “He’s always wandering around, him and his cronies.”

  “Let me tell you something, Flintlock. The devil has ten thousand buffalo, each one as big as a steam locomotive,” O’Hara said. “They have eyes like green emeralds and wherever they tread the ground trembles and grass flames under their hooves.” O’Hara took a couple of steps down the ladder until only his head and shoulders showed. “Barnabas herds them.”