by Robin Gideon
Determined to not disappoint his father, even more determined to avoid another humiliating tongue-lashing from him, Gregg replied, “Yes, father.”
* * * *
Helen sniffed irritably. She was in the vault at the bank and had been for nearly three hours without a break. Gregg had assigned her the task of copying down all the latest sales transactions for land and mining deeds, and since he said it was “strictly private and confidential” and since those particular records were always kept in the safe, a small desk and chair had been moved inside the vault.
Helen was convinced she was in the vault for reasons that had nothing to do with trust, security, or privacy—and everything to do with Gregg’s sense of revenge. He had earlier in the day demanded of her a wedding date. Her first reaction was to stall, but this time Gregg would have none of her evasive tactics. He wanted a specific date, and he wanted it now. Helen refused.
Perhaps if memories of being in Jared’s arms weren’t so vivid, weren’t so magnificently intense, then Helen might have set the date, or at least have allowed Gregg to set whatever date for the ceremony that he wanted. But the memories of what it had felt like to be in Jared’s arms, to feel more alive than ever before in her entire life, were something that she couldn’t easily dismiss or deny. Consequently, Helen spoke back when her better judgment warned to stay silent.
“Stop pushing me, Gregg,” she snapped. “I was at home sick yesterday—sick as could be!—and the first thing that happens when I come in to work is that you start hounding me. Well, I won’t stand for it. I simply won’t. I’ll give you a date soon, but not today and not tomorrow. I’m just not feeling up to making such an important decision right now.” She pressed fingers to her temples. “Oh, Gregg, why did you have to do this to me now?”
Gregg blanched, visibly shocked that his fiancée had shown the nerve to not just stand up to him but to talk back to him. His hands balled into fists at his sides, and for a moment Helen wondered whether he would actually strike her. But then his flinty gaze narrowed, and he took his revenge in another manner—by assigning her a boring detail in the cramped, stuffy confines of the bank’s vault, tediously copying land leasing entry after entry from one book into another to create identical copies.
Despite her boredom, Helen had begun to notice a pattern in the land purchases that Gregg and his father, Jerome, had been making recently. They were busy picking up property, quite cheaply, southwest of her own piece of property. He hadn’t mentioned anything of it to her, and commenting on his business plans and how much money he intended to make on this deal or that transaction was one of the ways that Gregg tried to impress her. Yet this time he had said nothing at all. Helen found that curious. Very curious, indeed.
Helen knew that Gregg was up to something devious. She just didn’t know what it was. Her only hope was that he would fail. As the minutes ticked slowly by, Helen, sitting alone in the bank vault, was beginning to come to the inescapable conclusion that she loathed the man she was destined to marry.
Chapter Seven
Gregg was sitting in his office at his desk when Jared Parker walked through the door. From the first instant that Gregg had set eyes on Jared, he knew that he had hired a man who had killed before and would kill again. There was something lethal in the way the man moved, in the way his dark, fathomless eyes impassively surveyed his surroundings, that let Gregg know he had chosen the right gunman to see that his annoying problems became corpses.
“Come in, Mr. Parker,” Gregg said, smiling and rising as he extended a hand. “Please, shut the door behind you.” When the door was closed, Gregg’s smile broadened even more, and he said, “I trust my employees out there, but I like to keep certain things confidential. I’m hoping you feel the same way, Mr. Parker.”
“Whatever we say in this room remains between the two of us. I’ll tell no one.”
The big man took off his hat—a brand-new Stetson that couldn’t have seen more than a day’s service, if Gregg’s eyes were telling him the truth—and then looked across the office to where the liquor bottles were. A strange look came into Jared’s eyes, staying there for only an instant before becoming shielded again. But Gregg had seen the change in Jared, and he intended to find out what it meant.
“Might I offer you a drink?” Gregg asked.
“Thanks, but no.” Jared sat in one of two bentwood chairs that faced Gregg’s oversized desk and put an ankle up on a knee.
Gregg was a little surprised that the new man had taken a seat without being offered. He pushed his concerns away. Gunmen weren’t hired for their refined manners, he reminded himself. “Are you absolutely certain? I keep some very fine spirits here at the office,” Gregg prodded. He believed that every man had a weakness, and he was eager to know what Jared’s was. But then, Gregg was determined to know every man’s weakness.
“No.”
But Gregg had seen something in Jared’s eyes when he looked at the liquor tray, and he wasn’t about to give up easily. His father had taught him that battles were either won or lost before the first volley of bullets was fired. It was a lesson that Gregg kept close to his soul. “Personally, I’ve got a taste for Evan Williams, sour mash whiskey. It’s really very nice, and countless times better than any of the rotgut whiskey that you’re likely to get in the saloons of Whitetail Creek.”
In a slightly lower tone, Jared replied, “No, but thanks.”
Gregg rose to his feet and walked around the desk. “Suit yourself, but I hope you don’t mind if I have a taste.”
“Not at all.”
As Gregg poured a small amount of sour mash whiskey into a crystal goblet, he made sure that he left a second glass out for Jared. Unless his guess was completely wrong, Jared Parker was a man who enjoyed a premium-quality, sour mash whiskey, and Gregg suspected Jared didn’t often get offered such an elite libation. Gregg had been taught to always use every advantage against both friend and foe alike.
“Let me get right down to business,” Gregg continued as he walked back to his chair behind his oversized desk. “Right now I’ve got a number of homesteaders who are either renting property or leasing mining rights from my bank. Currently, they are in arrears, and they refuse to get off the land.” He gave Jared a half smile. “Legally, I’m within my rights to use nearly any means necessary to get them off my land.”
“Why me?” Jared dropped his hat onto the toe of his right boot, which was propped onto his left knee. He leaned back in the chair. Though his body appeared relaxed, Gregg doubted that the man actually was. “Seems like this is a matter for the sheriff. Besides, as a taxpaying businessman here in town you already pay him, so you might as well let him do his job.”
That wasn’t the kind of enthusiasm Gregg had been hoping for, but he didn’t let it show in his expression.
“The sheriff gets paid a little less than fifty dollars a month to keep the peace. For that he gets to have some drunken fool shoot at him probably no less than once or twice a month. I’m willing to pay one hundred dollars a week to see to it that I get the peace and tranquility—and along with it the cooperation of the citizens of Whitetail Creek—that I want.” He grinned crookedly, smiling as though he was about to confess a sexual secret. “You see, it’s not just some folks who can’t make their mortgage, or pay for the right to pan for gold on this little plot of land or that one. There are other problems facing this bank, problems that I’m hoping you’ll make disappear.” He drawled out the last word as three distinct syllables. His eyes lowered conspiratorially. “Disappear so permanently it’ll be as though they had never even existed.”
“What kind of problems?” Jared’s tone was perfectly neutral.
Gregg paused, took a very small sip of whiskey, and then sighed with pleasure rather dramatically, and finally replied, “There’s an old coot name of Jeremiah Smythe who stays up in the hills. Every week for more than two months he’s been bringing in color to the assayer. He works all by himself doing nothing more than panning, and
yet week after week he shows up in town with fresh gold. He goes to the assayer, changes his gold for dollars, then has himself one hell of a night on the town here in Whitetail Creek.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that he doesn’t know a damned thing about prospecting, or about saving for the future, or about what the real value of money is. That’s the problem.” Gregg inhaled deeply, held it for a second, and then exhaled slowly. The entire gesture was an effort to say without words that he was superior in intellect to Jared, and that whatever explanation he was about to give should give proof beyond any doubt of his intellectual supremacy. “Jeremiah Smythe is a fool, a drunkard, and a man who week after week spends an astonishing amount of money on loose women and bad whiskey.” Gregg made a waving gesture with his free hand as though swatting away insects. “There’s no reason in the world for a man like Jeremiah Smythe should have the mineral rights to his mine. He simply can’t appreciate the real value of what he possesses.”
Jared shrugged, his expression bland. “But he’s got legal mining rights, and he’s making his own way in this world.”
“True. But, you see, even though he’s pulling quite a lot of color out of his stream right now, he’s not bankrolling any of his profits. He’s not even paying ahead on his land lease. He’s not planning for lean times. What if something unfortunate should happen to him? What if he should accidentally catch a bullet in the wrist, or in the knee, or even”—he theatrically put a hand over his heart—“God forbid, took a bullet in the chest? Then he wouldn’t be able to keep up the payments he owes on a monthly basis to this bank.” The dramatics instantly faded, and Gregg looked straight into Jared’s eyes. When he spoke, his voice was cold as death. “In that eventuality, the bank would again—quite properly and legally—retain control of the mining rights to that currently over-mortgaged piece of property.”
Jared plucked his new, black, flat-crowned, and flat-brimmed Stetson from the toe of his shoe. Gregg, too pleased with his own plans for acquiring the mineral rights to Jeremiah Smythe’s land to be aware of emotions other than his own, did not notice the angry swiftness of Jared’s movement. Self-satisfaction was a failing of Gregg’s that he was unable to control.
“And it isn’t just Jeremiah Smythe who has been a thorn in my side,” Gregg continued, nastily but happily warming to the subject. “There’s also a family of Norwegians over on lots number 134 and 135 that could use a nighttime visit.” He stopped suddenly, struck by a thought that perplexed him. “Who the hell ever heard of a wife panning for gold right alongside her husband? What kind of man would let his wife do that? Anyway, those two have been showing up at the assayer’s office with some nuggets that are impressive in size. They have for the past three weeks.” He shook his head in disbelief. “It truly amazes me that those little pissants, who can hardly speak English, should be allowed to stand in my way.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I pay the assayer under the table to keep me informed on who brings in gold, and what the weight and quality of that gold is.” Gregg reached for the cherrywood cigar box on his desk, flipped open the lid, and then turned the box around so that it faced Jared. “Can I interest you in a good cigar? I have them sent to me once a month through the railroad all the way from Virginia.” In an expansive and unintentionally condescending gesture, he said, “Take as many as you like. I can always get more.”
“No thanks.” Jared rose to his feet, putting his hat on.
It was precisely at that time that Jerome Neilson came striding into the office, entering without knocking and so nearly bumping into Jared.
“Oh, excuse me,” Jerome said with a beaming smile when he saw Jared. “I’m Jerome Neilson, president of this bank. I see you’ve met my son, Gregg.”
Jerome extended his hand in greeting. Gregg, sitting in his chair and watching from a distance, saw the coldness in Jared’s eyes, noticed his hesitation before he shook hands. Jared’s reaction was not what Gregg had been hoping for in a hired gunman.
* * * *
The instant that Jared set eyes on Gregg, he recognized him as the man who had ridden to Helen’s the previous day to complain that she hadn’t shown up for work. Gregg, unimpressive in height and considerable in weight, was the man that Helen was sharing her love life—or, at the very least, her sex life—with. It took every bit of willpower that Jared possessed to not say anything about Helen to the banker. Jared felt like a man who was slowly being poisoned by knowledge he profoundly wished he did not possess.
He started out not liking Gregg, though he really knew nothing about him. But the more Gregg spoke, the more he explained how otherwise innocent people were to have “accidents” with Jared’s well-paid “help,” the more Jared learned to loathe the overdressed, overweight jackass named Gregg Neilson.
Jared had just been about to explain that he wasn’t a hired assassin. He was, however, a hired gun who, for a price, would try to equalize the odds in favor of the less advantaged, provided their cause was just. Gregg had made it quite clear that murder—or in the very least, maiming people for the rest of their life—would be expected of him as part of his job duties. Jared might not have chosen for himself the most nonviolent of professions, but he had his standards, and that meant that he simply didn’t commit murder and mayhem just because he was paid to. Contrary to popular opinion, at least one gunman had standards that he would not compromise.
“I see my son is having a drink,” Jerome said once introductions had been made. It was clear from the tone of his voice that he did not entirely approve of drinking during business hours. “I hope he offered you one as well.”
“He did,” Jared said. Deliberating a moment, Jared decided to let Gregg’s father speak. Perhaps the son, overzealous in his desire to succeed, had overstepped his father’s wishes.
Jerome was more diplomatic than Gregg, not coming straight out to explain that Jared would be paid to harass, intimidate, and even cripple or murder those unfortunate souls who happened to be standing in the way of the Neilsons’ grand plans.
In the end, when the fancy words were stripped away and the cold, brutal reality was examined with an objective eye, what the Neilsons were looking for was an assassin who killed on command and didn’t ask such messy questions like “why?” In Whitetail Creek and the surrounding area, there were many men who could fulfill those job requirements. Jared, however, wasn’t one of them.
Jared went to the office door and opened it. He looked out into the lobby, searching unsuccessfully for Helen. He turned back toward Jerome and asked, “This all the folks you got working for you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“No reason. Just curious.” He shrugged. “Seems there’s been some mistake here. When you sent me that telegram, you said you have poachers on your land. What you’re talking about now isn’t so much about poachers as it is honest folks scratching out a living by their own hard work.”
Jared looked straight into Jerome’s eyes, and sensed that the elder understood fully what had just been explained. It was also clear to Jared that Jerome was furious at his son’s overly descriptive explanation of what job duties would be necessary.
“Listen, if it’s a matter of money, I’m sure we can negotiate a fee more to your liking,” Gregg said quickly, sensing a change of opinion that would mightily disturb the patriarch of the Neilson clan.
With forced calmness, Jerome said, “Gregg, shut up.” To Jared he said, “Don’t make a hasty decision. My son has never quite learned that a man’s got two ears but just one mouth, and he should use them in that proportion.” He smiled as a father would who had been embarrassed on more than one occasion by his son and wished for a little understanding because of it. “You’re staying at the Golden Nugget?”
“The Spoke and Wheel.”
“Cancel your room at the Spoke and Wheel. You’ll be much more comfortable at the Golden Nugget. Just tell them that you are a guest of Jerome Neilson.” He turned
his palms upward in a gesture of frustration. “Please, accept my hospitality. Nothing will be requested of you. You came all the way to Whitetail Creek. The least I can do is pay for your hotel room.”
“I’ll pay my own way.”
“Fine. Pay your own way. But I’m sure you’ll find the Golden Nugget much more to your liking than the Spoke and Wheel.”
Jared at last smiled and replied, “Thanks for the advice. I’ll take it.
* * * *
“How long you been in town, mister?”
Jared looked at the woman who had spoken. She was perhaps twenty-five, but she looked a few years older than that. Her hair was golden blonde, her eyes light blue, her skin pale, her figure trim. The dress she wore was too big for her, and Jared suspected it was a hand-me-down from some other woman selling her services at the Golden Nugget. All of the women working at the Golden Nugget were quite pretty, though the profession took its toll.