“Need him for what, Hogan?” Flintlock said. “Does he have more old men to kill?”
Poteet’s face hardened into hewn rock. “Take my advice, don’t push it, Flintlock,” he said.
“Listen to the man, Sam,” Lord said. “Mr. Poteet will take only so much.”
“And then I get the urge to kill somebody,” Poteet said. “Keep that in mind.”
“Sam, let it go,” O’Hara said, his voice urgent. “This isn’t the time or place.”
“Listen to the breed, Sam,” Lord said. “If you stop in Mansion Creek look me up. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Poteet, you didn’t put the crawl on me,” Flintlock said. “What’s your opinion on that? Sum it up, now.”
“We broke even, Flintlock,” Poteet said. “That’s my opinion.”
“Sam, you can live with that,” O’Hara said.
Flintlock nodded. “So be it.” But there was a rage in him that scalded like acid.
CHAPTER 2
“We done well by the old man, buried him decent,” O’Hara said.
Sam Flintlock nodded. “I reckon. He had two mourners and a marked grave. That’s more than most mountain men could hope for.”
The rain had stopped during the night, and Flintlock and O’Hara had buried Jamie MacDonald by lantern light, neither feeling much inclined to sleep. Now, as they took to the trail again, the sky was serene and white clouds drifted across its blue depths like lilies on a pond. The air smelled fresh after the rain had settled the dust and was heavy with the scent of pine and juniper. An east wind rustled in the grass like the whispers of dead Navajo. Ahead of the two riders rose the twin peaks of the Pastora and Zibetod mountains. Nestled between them in a grassy meadow ringed by stands of juniper, pine, and mountain oak lay a one-street settlement that Flintlock decided must be Mansion Creek.
O’Hara was of the same mind. “Maybe we can get breakfast. I should’ve shot the ranny who tipped out MacDonald’s stew.”
“But you didn’t,” Flintlock said, drawing rein.
O’Hara smiled. “I’ve lived among white men for a long time, but I’m still not completely crazy. Hogan Lord is not a man to antagonize.”
“Unless you have to,” Flintlock said. “You’re the banker. How much money do we have?”
“Enough for coffee, bacon and eggs, and then we’re done.”
“Maybe we can find some work.”
“Maybe. Saloon swampers are always in demand.”
Flintlock grimaced. “I was thinking more of something in the restaurant trade. At least we’d eat regular.”
“Dishwasher?”
“If that’s all I can get.”
O’Hara shook his head. “I’d rather rob the town bank.”
“It may come to that,” Flintlock said. He kneed his horse forward. “Did you see Barnabas at the graveside?”
“I saw him,” O’Hara said. “He didn’t seem to be cut up about MacDonald’s death.”
“For Barnabas it’s way too late for sorrow,” Flintlock said. He shrugged. “Or maybe when he was alive he didn’t like the old man. Barnabas didn’t like many people.”
O’Hara smiled. “Who did he like?”
“Beats the hell out of me. I only know that whoever they were, I wasn’t one of them.” Flintlock’s eyes rose to the sky above Mansion Creek. “Hell, look at that, there’s buzzards drifting above the town.”
“A bad omen for somebody,” O’Hara said.
Flintlock sighed. “You know I have the strangest feeling that we’re not heading into a happy time.”
“But maybe your ma is there in town, Sam,” O’Hara said. “There’s always that possibility.”
“Something is there all right,” Flintlock said. “But I don’t think it’s my ma. I don’t think she’d turn the air black.”
“What is it then?”
“Wicked things,” Flintlock said. “Like hell has emptied out and all the devils are right there in Mansion Creek.”
The Jensen Brand Page 29