The Wagners lived like most men without women. The place was dirty and cluttery. They apparently ate mostly out of cans and TV dinners cooked in an ancient dial-faced microwave oven. Clicker kept his hands off things. The state police would fingerprint this place trying to find out who employed the Wagners. Explaining his prints could be difficult.
The scoped rifles were there, racked along with a pump shotgun and a pair of twenty-two rifles. About normal for a Wyoming home, Clicker thought. There was probably a pistol or two tucked under a pillow and beneath a mattress corner. The gun rack had empty spaces, and Bell thought the Wagners might have long guns of some kind with them.
A pair of heavy gloves lay on a small wood pile near the shut-down wood stove. Clicker pulled them on and resumed his search. There was no desk, and drawers revealed nothing of interest
While he searched, Bell kept an ear tuned for outside sounds. He did not want vehicle doors to slam and have the Wagners on him before he could fade away.
The brothers slept upstairs, and Bell went through their rooms swiftly. He found the expected pistols but did not disturb them. A varmint rifle leaned in a corner near a window that looked out across the scraggly lawn. A quick check showed the .22/250 rifle loaded with a round in the chamber. No unwanted varmints could safely show themselves in the Wagners' front yard.
Clicker went back downstairs and sat in a kitchen chair with his Mannlicher across his knees. So, what now? Hmm, hadn't he asked the same thing a few minutes earlier?
The fact was, he wanted a piece of the Wagners. What he really wanted to do was shoot the bastards as dead as they could get. He rose and took the brothers' shotgun from the rack. An old Model 12 Winchester in 12 gauge. Nice.
He really couldn't shoot the Wagners, of course. He had left too clear a trail coming here. The old long-shooter in Greybull knew he was hunting Wagners, as did the campground manager who had directed him to the house.
Clicker smiled. Another fact was that, although he worried about getting caught, he did not question the morality of shooting the Wagners. He supposed he was not exactly politically correct in his attitudes, but even if convicted, the Wagners would not do much time. No one was dead, the defense would say, and the men had been led astray by unfortunate boyhoods or maybe by a dysfunctional family. Nobody was responsible these days.
Clicker wondered if he might get away with self-defense. He would if it really was self-defense—probably. Maybe he could wait until the Wagner's returned, shoot them both, and then report finding them already dead. Ah, hell! None of it would wash.
Maybe he could just beat the living snot out of them. Smash them until they couldn't move, then report that they had jumped him and that he had just defended himself. Now that might shine. Clicker thought about it, enjoying how satisfying it would feel, wondering if it would be worth the accusations based on the Wagners' testimony of how he had just jumped them and pounded them unmercifully.
Wearing the gloves, Bell loaded the shotgun with single-ought buck from a half-filled box. He guessed he would wait for the Wagners' return.
What he would do was take a position where he could put both men under the shotgun before they got into the house. Then he would question them.
They would not answer willingly, so he would persuade them. The Wagners were more likely to tell him what he wanted to know than they would the State Police who would not be half as dangerous.
The idea was not particularly smart, and Clicker knew it.
The difficulty was, how far would he go?
Bell decided he would discover that when the moment came.
Chapter 11
An owner who must have cared had placed a pair of boulders to mark the entrance to the front yard. The long drive in from the highway was only dirt, and the rocks separated the Wagners' home place from the rest of the prairie.
A brush tangle had grown around the stones, and Clicker judged that if he sat facing the house with his back against the larger rock he would go unnoticed and be able to have whoever arrived close under his shotgun. The range from where it appeared the Wagner vehicle was normally parked would be about twenty yards. If there were unexpected arrivals, he could slide sideways and disappear into the brush until it got dark enough for a complete withdrawal.
Time drifted, and Clicker spent it in a half-doze, resting as combat men had for centuries, husbanding energies before they had to fight.
Combat, fight? Was he really going to do something desperate to the Wagners? Bell reviewed what these two had already done and might be planning to finish.
In a war, he would have dropped them where they stood, and if you looked at it from his position, what was happening could be called a war. It was sure as hell deadly enough, and if he did not find who was pointing men like these at him, sooner or later one of them would score, and any honorable, gentlemanly, or legal handling of the affair wouldn't have amounted to zilch.
The longer he considered his options, the tighter his jaw clenched. Had Gary Cooper really said, "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do?" It was true, even if he hadn't said it. By the time Bell heard the rattle of an approaching vehicle, his determination had firmed.
The Wagners came in fast, and they were arguing. Clicker could hear them barking at each other as they passed his stone. He was on his feet with the shotgun ready before their pickup stopped.
Clicker slid closer, but the brothers boiled from their truck intent on their argument and heading for their front porch. Bell used his Gunny's voice and stopped them cold.
"Freeze, and don't flicker a finger, or I'll blow you both half way to hell!"
The Wagners ground to a halt, but despite Bell's solid commands they instinctively turned toward him. What they saw could not have been encouraging, and one almost whimpered, "Oh God, it's him."
The twin swore in instant rage. "Shut up, you fool."
Clicker's smile was savage, "Glad you recognized me. I expected you would. Guess there isn't much left to say before I blow your brains all over your front porch."
The stronger twin tried bluster. "We don't know who you are, but you've no right pointing a shotgun at us and acting threatening."
Clicker said, "I'm pleased that you want to talk because there are a few things I would like to know, and one or two of them just might save your lives."
The fearful brother said, "We don't know anything to tell, Mister Bell, we...."
His brother clearly wanted to hit him. "Damn you to hell, Lon, can't you just keep your mouth shut?"
Clicker interrupted the forming tirade.
"Quiet down, and just forget all this nonsense about not knowing me. You tried your damnedest to shoot me. You know it, and I know it, and you can't expect that I'm just going to let it go as if it never happened.
"You'll tell me what I want to know, or I will shotgun you right here in your front yard." The men blanched, and Clicker felt at least some of the fight go out of the pugnacious brother.
"The fact is, I'll enjoy shooting you. I think I'll plunk you both in the guts and watch a while before I finish you off." Clicker sighted along the shotgun's barrel.
The brother called Lon visibly cringed, but the still unnamed twin was of stronger stuff.
"You can't just shoot us in cold blood."
"Of course I can. I've shot men before, and I've never had a bad dream about it."
The twin said, "If you shoot us, you'll never find out what you want to know."
Bell was ready for that one. "That's why I'll only shoot one to start with, and I'll make that wounding mean enough that you'll both tell me all that I need to know."
The strong twin sneered, and Clicker squeezed a trigger.
The shotgun boomed like a cannon, its blast magnified as it bounced from the house. Lon Wagner screamed and his twin went down with a hand clapped against his head.
Clicker pumped the action and centered the single bead on Lon Wagner's quaking figure.
The twin removed his hand from the side of hi
s head, and Bell saw blood. Dazed, the man stared at the shotgun muzzle, and Clicker judged more resistance had been taken out of him.
Holding off with a shotgun had been chancy, but if he had guessed wrong and blown the Wagner's head away the message to the survivor would have been even more convincing. If he had missed altogether? Well, the blast of a shotgun pointed at you is also attention grabbing. As it turned out, he had jammed a pellet or two against the side of the twin's head, and they had about ripped an ear off. Clicker was impressed with his results.
Bell made his voice moderate. "You think maybe you're ready to answer a few questions, or should I keep on shooting?"
The twin on the ground managed a nod, but Lon was far more voluble.
"Don't shoot no more, Mister Bell. I'll tell you anything you need to know."
Clicker stayed cold. "That'll do fine, Lon. Guess we won't need your brother anymore, so maybe I'll just finish him off here and now." Clicker swung the shotgun's muzzle to the unnamed twin.
The wounded Wagner squalled with his hands held out front, as if they could ward off single "O" buckshot
His voice was quavery with fear but loud enough that he could be clearly heard. "I'll talk, Mister Bell. Please don't shoot me again."
Clicker allowed no emotion to touch his features, but he was highly pleased. He had them, and he would milk whatever they knew.
Bell made his directions clear. "You—on the ground. Quit squealing and get up.
"You standing, take off your belt and tie your and your brother's closest legs together just above the knee."
"Tie our legs together?" Lon had difficulty digesting the words.
"Just above the knee, and tie them tight. I wouldn't want you scary guys running off in different directions."
Lon tried, but his hands shook so severely that the wounded brother finally took the belt and did the job.
"Now, Lon, your brother's head is still bleeding, so you take off your T-shirt and give it to him to hold against his wound."
Lon was again slow and fumbly, so Clicker lashed him into action. "Get it done, you worthless puke, or I'll make your head bleed just like his." Scared nearly witless, Lon hauled his shirt over his head and pressed it against his brother's wound.
Clicker began with the wounded man.
"What's your name?"
The answer was sullenly defiant. I'm Ron Wagner."
"Well, Ron, I'll ask you first, and if I don't like what you've got to say, I'll put more lead in your fat-assed carcass until I get what I want or you can't breathe anymore."
Bell turned to the wobbly Lon. "Then, I'll get what's left unanswered out of you. That clear to everybody?"
The nods were swift.
"All right, Ron, who hired you to shoot me?" Get to the heart of it, Bell figured.
Lon answered for his still recalcitrant brother. "His name is Tex."
Clicker took a step closer and made his voice as nasty mean as he could manage. "When I'm asking Ron, don't you do any answering. I'm looking for a reason to shoot him some more, and I don't want you interrupting. That clear, Lon?"
Lon was too scared to speak, but his nod was worth many agreeing words.
"So, who is Tex?" Clicker had the shotgun muzzle on Ron Wagner.
This time Bell did not hear resistance in Wagner's voice. "We don't have no other name for him. Tex is what he calls himself, an' that's all we've ever heard. Ain't that right, Lon?" Lon agreed that it was.
"Where do I find Tex?"
Both men shook their heads, so Clicker thought their answer might be true, but Ron did the talking. "We ain't got no idea. He calls when he wants us, and he ain't never said where he was from."
Bell asked, "He calling long distance or local?"
The Wagners had to think about that, but Ron finally got his ideas together. "I think both, Mister Bell. Once I heard a lot of traffic in the background, and there's been other noises that didn't sound like he was calling from around here."
Lon stuck in his oar. "But he calls from here once in a while, Mister Bell. We know that 'cause he's met us ... once or twice." Lon's voice trickled off as he realized how much more he had revealed.
"So, what does he look like?" The shotgun was again on Ron Wagner.
"He ain't too big. Maybe your size. He's got a full beard and his hair is long. Every time we've seen him he's worn shooting glasses, so we can't tell much more about what his face is like."
"Does he talk Texas?"
"I guess he does. He's got an accent, but I can't tell Texas from some other places."
"Where did you meet him?"
"We was shooting some targets on the range over in Greybull. He took a bench beside us, and we struck up a conversation."
"How does he shoot?"
The question would seem strange to a non-shooter, but within the marksmanship fraternity a great deal could be learned from an individual's competence and his gear.
Ron said, "Oh, he can really shoot. Better'n either of us."
"What does he shoot?"
"Tex has got a Remington 700 with a McMillan stock and a Leupold 3 1/2 to 1 OX scope.
The gun is a .308 Winchester. He gave some numbers and said it was a military rifle, but I've forgotten exactly what he said. You remember, Lon?" Lon did not.
The questioning was going well. The Wagners were telling what they knew, but unless he got a breakthrough, he wouldn't get much more. What to ask?
"Tex shoot off a bipod?"
"Nope, he used sandbags."
Ron sagged against his brother and said, "Mister Bell, I got to sit down. My legs are getting weak."
Clicker pointed to the porch. "Sit over there on your front steps." Tied at the knee, the Wagners struggled to their porch, staggered through a turn around, and virtually collapsed on their second step.
Bell studied them for a long instant. He wished he could frisk them. There could be a pistol tucked away somewhere, but he would stay his distance and keep the shotgun pointed.
"Why does Tex want me shot?"
"Hell, we don't know, Mister Bell. He said you'd done some bad things, and he offered us a lot of money."
Lon put in, "We didn't get near all of our money, Mister Bell, because we made a mistake and shot the wrong man. It was the cap, Mister Bell. You always wore that army cap you've got on now, and it was a long way. You were wearing it when you came in, and when we saw the cap on the wall, we just plain thought it was you."
Clicker let curiosity take over his questioning. "Why did you lay out that false hide and leave that empty cartridge case?"
Lon was proud of the stunt, and Clicker could hear the brag in his voice. ''That was our idea, Mister Bell. We figured if anyone ever did get to looking for the place where the shot came from they'd get all kinds of bad clues that would lead 'em away from us."
"Where'd you get the idea?"
"Read about doin' that in a book, I reckon."
Thank you Stephen Hunter!
"What did Tex say about it?"
"Well, Tex didn't like it, but it was too late, an' he was mostly worried about us shooting the wrong man."
"Why did he care? You could try again?"
"Tex said we couldn't try again. He said that it was too late, but what we'd done would be the same—whatever that meant."
Ron asked, "How'd you find us, Mister Bell? I don't see how....''
"You'll never know but keep answering, and you just might live through this."
"We do have something for you, Mister Bell. Tex gave it to us, in case you ever did show up here."
"Tex figured I would find you?"
"He said you might, and that you were very dangerous."
So, Tex knew him personally. That might be something to work on.
"What did Tex leave for me, a bomb or a full confession?"
The Wagner's managed nervous chuckles, and Ron's ear had ceased bleeding.
"Nothing like that, Mister Bell. Tex left money. There were two envelopes. One for you and o
ne for us. Yours is a lot thicker, and if it's all in hundreds like ours was, you're getting a lot." Ron neglected to mention that if Bell had not shown up the envelope was to be theirs.
"Now why would Tex leave money for me?" Clicker wondered if the elusive Tex had left fingerprints on the money envelope. Now that would be valuable!
"Don't know, Mister Bell, but he did. Maybe there's a letter along with the money. You want it now?"
"Later. What I want now are more answers. Who hired Tex, for instance?"
Both Wagners tried to appear surprised at the question, but Bell figured they must have wondered who and why just as much as he had.
Ron said, "I don't know as anybody hired him. Tex throws money around like it was nothin', but he never mentioned nobody else bein' involved."
Clicker kept asking. He poked, and he went back over everything. He learned about the Wagner's sniping practice, their care to disguise their routes and their vehicles. They had used a brand of ammunition different from their usual, and never fired the ammo into their own backstop. They had almost shot twice before when Clicker had come to look down the valley, but each time something had not been right. Once, when Ron had been on the gun a bird had flown almost in front of his rifle, and by the time he got resettled it had been too late. The other time, Lon had been the shooter, but as he squeezed, Clicker had moved. Then he had moved again, and Lon had to take a breath. Before he could get back on, Bell had dropped from sight.
There were a few more details about Tex the employer. Tex shot right-handed, he used a mil dot reticle and tried to talk the Wagners into using one. When shooting prone, his position was straight behind his rifle, and not off at an angle like most shooters. Clicker filed that fact for further consideration.
Ron said, "I'm feeling awful weak, Mister Bell. Can I get some water?"
"Not till I'm done." Clicker turned to Tex's money. "Where's the envelope Tex gave you for me?" Bell had not uncovered any money stashes inside the house.
Lon Wagner snickered, as if pleased at their cleverness. "We're practically sitting on it, Mister Bell. Tex hid both envelopes under these steps, and we put yours back under there. You want us to get it out now?"
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