by Jenna Kernan
“Right,” said Quin, from between clenched teeth.
Chance fell in beside Bowie and the three made their way to the bank in angry silence. Their appearance there caused a stir. The Cahill brothers were together again and looking like they were gunning for bear. Several customers decided that their business could most definitely wait and hurried for the egress. Others dallied, curious to see what would happen next.
Their comments and speculation reached Chance as they passed.
“Quin is here to withdraw his money.”
“Are they splitting up the ranch?”
The bank owner, Willem Van Slyck, came to greet them. His sharp, intent eyes belied his welcoming smile. His hair had continued to retreat on his forehead and was more silver than Chance recalled and he thought the gold-rimmed spectacles were new. His clothes were impeccable, clean and well tailored as always. He wore black shoes with heels that clicked on the floor as he made his way toward them. If his son’s death weighed upon him, it did not show in his face.
“Well, welcome home, Quin. I hope you had a successful trip.” The red beneath his eyes and the dark circles pointed to a man who spent his days studying ledgers. The tightness of his fancy silk vest and the thick rope of a gold pocket watch chain pointed to his success in business. The man had prospered. Chance wondered if he had prospered a little too much.
Van Slyck offered his hand. Quin snubbed him. Van Slyck’s face reddened as he dropped his hand to his side. Chance noticed the sheen of sweat glowing on his forehead.
“This is Jeffery Collier. He’s up from Austin to examine your books.”
Chance noticed the widening of Van Slyck’s eyes before the forced smile emerged again, if a little more slowly than before.
“But your own attorney, Mr. Slocum, examines the books twice a year. Perhaps I should call him?”
“Slocum’s not our attorney any longer,” said Bowie.
That information rattled Van Slyck enough for him to remove his handkerchief from his jacket and dab his brow.
“The books,” said Quin.
“It will take me a little time to gather them.”
“Are you refusing to let him examine your books?” asked Bowie, resting a hand with practiced casualness on the grip of his gun, as if he were leaning on a bar rail rather than a deadly weapon.
“Of course not. You are well within your rights.” He motioned them toward his office, then paused. “But it is an unnecessary expense. Everything is quite in order, as you know.”
“No trouble,” said Quin, pushing past him.
“Mr. Elliot!” shouted Van Slyck.
A clerk hurried out from behind the barred area reserved for tellers. The two conversed and Elliot headed for the exit. Chance stepped before him.
“Nope,” he said, and pointed back to the cage.
The teller and Van Slyck exchanged looks, but the man retreated. Chance decided to spend his time watching the entrance for trouble, because as Quin and Bowie both reminded him, finding trouble was what he did best.
It seemed hours, but it was actually still before noon when the examiner found inconsistencies and things began to unravel. Bowie had cleared the bank of all customers save the three of them, the examiner and Van Slyck. Chance watched the door and Van Slyck in turns. Trouble came first from the bank owner. He moved his hand by infinitesimal degrees toward the front pocket of his vest. From the way his hand moved and the amount of sweat on his upper lip, Chance didn’t think he was checking the time. He glanced to Bowie, who was watching the front door, and then to Quin, who was looking at a broad ledger with Mr. Collier.
Just as he feared, Van Slyck drew out a small pistol from his vest, clutching it to his chest. It was the kind favored by dandies and riverboat gamblers for its size, appearing like a toy but deadly at close range for one shot.
With three of them there, each with a pistol and Chance with two, plus a boot knife that he could throw accurately from fifteen feet, he didn’t think the man planned to shoot his way out. That left only one reason to draw his gun; he planned to take the coward’s way out.
Van Slyck inched the gun up his body, cradling it like a baby. Chance reached for his gun, then paused, recalling Bowie’s admonishment. Plus, if he winged him, he might just get an infection and die, anyway. They needed him alive. Chance lifted the wooden chair before the desk and threw it at Van Slyck with enough force to knock the second-most prominent citizen in Cahill Crossing to the floor. The chair skidded off him. Van Slyck yelled and dropped his gun. Chance kicked it toward Bowie, who had his gun drawn. Bowie holstered his pistol and stooped to retrieve the tiny gun. His eyes met Chance, who waited for another admonishment.
“Good work, Chance.”
His jaw dropped open. Then he glanced to Quin, who stared in silence a moment and then flicked his attention back to the books, dismissing Chance without so much as a nod.
Bowie grabbed Van Slyck from the floor. Chance noted with satisfaction that the banker’s nose was bleeding all over his pretty vest and he was cradling his right arm. His brother took the precaution of checking the man for weapons and then offered him to Chance, by the collar. Bowie righted the chair. Chance pushed him into it.
The man began to blubber and bawl like a branded calf. And the words started flowing with the tears. He’d tell them everything, be their witness for clemency.
Bowie didn’t agree. “I’ll ask the judge for leniency if you tell us everything and I mean right now.”
“Clemency,” he begged.
“No.”
Van Slyck’s head sank to his chest and his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Who?” he asked.
“Don Fitzgerald. That’s where I put the money. Into his accounts. I had to hide it somewhere and he came to me.” His face lifted, showing red-rimmed eyes and snot running with the blood. He was the perfect picture of a man caught. “He hates you. All of you, for stealing the railroad depot. Said more than once it should have been his.” He turned to Quin. “And he’s got your attorney, Slocum, in his pocket. Looking the other way when he collects the rents.”
“Why would Slocum do that?” asked Quin. “He was a friend of my father.”
“I don’t know. But Don got to him. He’s got a knack for finding a man’s weaknesses. He found mine.”
“Which is?” asked Chance.
“Money.” He lifted his head and his eyes had turned lethal. “And revenge for what your sister did.”
There was no need to ask what he meant. Leanna had shot and killed his only son. Obviously the circumstances slipped Van Slyck’s mind, because she had acted in defense of her husband and the child.
“Don wants to be cattle king, badly enough to see all competition removed.”
Quin blinked in shock.
“Do you understand? He doesn’t just want a share. He wants to break you and bury you.”
Chance stepped forward, wondering if Van Slyck meant what he thought he meant.
Van Slyck wiped his nose and his fine linen handkerchief came away crimson. But his expression was no longer filled with fear. In fact, there seemed to be a nasty smile flickering on his thick lips.
Chance decided to wipe that grin from his bloody face, so he squeezed the banker’s shoulder, pressing hard enough to get the man’s attention. The banker winced and writhed.
“The rest of it.”
“Don hired Hobbs to murder them.” His voice was a gasp, his words a running stream as he hurried to get it out. “Hobbs hired Vernon Pettit to do the killing. He took on the other two, Allen and Bream, on his own. Hobbs told them to make it look like an accident. But Pettit found out who he had killed and got greedy, went to you to try to work a deal.” Van Slyck looked to Quin. “Information for money, right?”
Quin inclined his head.
“Hobbs killed Pettit to shut him up.”
Chance released him and he sank forward, cradling his shoulder and arm.
“Who killed Hobbs?”
The b
anker didn’t even lift his head. “I think my arm is broken.”
“Who?” demanded Bowie.
“Fitzgerald, again. Hobbs was the only connection between them. When he saw Hobbs talking to Bowie, he shot him.”
“How’d he make that shot? It was seven hundred and fifty yards. I measured it,” said Bowie.
“Sharpshooter for Alabama in the War Between the States,” muttered the banker. “Praise our glorious republic.”
Chance wondered if they would ever live down that damned war.
The room fell silent. They had the name of the man who had planned it all. Not just the money, but the killing. Their neighbor, a man they had all respected and welcomed into their homes, a man who had never given any indication of the hatred he harbored in his heart.
“You’ll testify to this,” Bowie asked.
Van Slyck nodded, whimpering now.
“Testify, hell,” said Chance, and turned toward the door. “I’m going to shoot that murdering brand-blotter—”
Both Quin and Bowie moved to block his departure.
“You can’t go off the handle,” said Bowie.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Quin.
Chance felt all the familiar friction scraping between them.
“You’re not taking him alive. Tell me you know that?”
Quin and Bowie exchanged a grim stare.
“A man who will shoot his own men and kill women…he’s willing to do anything,” said Chance.
“I know,” said Bowie. “But I’ll take him alive if I’m able. I’m entitled to see them put a rope around his neck and watch him kick.”
“Hang him like a dog,” agreed Quin.
Chance hesitated, still in favor of shooting him in the forehead.
“What do you think Leanna would want?” asked Bowie.
It was a low blow and his brother knew it.
“We can take him if we work together,” said Quin.
Chance kicked the wicker trash basket so hard that it flew up and struck the window across the room.
“Tarnation!”
Quin tracked the basket as it fell to the floor and then looked back to Chance.
“That mean yes?” he asked.
Chance drew a long breath, filling his lungs with stuffy air that smelled of ink and ledgers.
“Yes,” he growled.
The sounds of shouting reached them in the office. Bowie went to the door. Beyond they could see Ace Keating, owner of the saddle and boot shop, loping toward them at a quick trot. He was a big man and brawny. Chance didn’t know until that minute that he was so spry. His shop was just past the jail and his appearance and his relative haste set Bowie on alert.
“Marshal, I heard shots at the jail. Then I saw Ira and Johny ride off on two of my customers’ horses.”
And this was why Chance preferred a bullet. His captives didn’t run.
Bowie took charge.
“Ace, find Dr. Lewis. Tell him to come quick.” He glanced to Quin. “You come with me.” Then he turned to Chance. “Stay with Van Slyck.”
No, he would not be left behind on this. “I’m coming.”
Chance started toward them. Bowie strong-armed him hard enough to get his attention and bring him to a stop.
“No. You won’t. You’ll guard him.” He motioned a thumb at the banker still sitting in the chair Chance had thrown at him. “He’s our only witness. Without him, we have no case against Fitzgerald. Do this. It’s important.” Bowie’s voice was still a command, but his eyes pleaded for Chance to do as he was told, just this once.
Chance nodded his consent. Bowie slapped him on the shoulder and took off toward the street. Chance watched him go. Van Slyck began to rise from his chair.
Chance drew his pistols. “I will shoot you where you stand.”
The banker took a seat.
Chapter Twenty
Both Quin and Bowie flanked the open door of the jail, pistols drawn. From within, Bowie heard a moaning.
“Glen?”
Another groan. Bowie stepped over the threshold to find Jose Martinez’s body sprawled on his back, blood soaking his shirt.
Quin stepped in behind him. “Hell’s bells!”
Bowie stooped to lay a hand on the man’s torso, looking at the bullet hole. There was no heartbeat.
“I promised him that he’d get justice,” he said, his voice mournful.
Quin stepped over Jose, heading toward the holding area. “Then we best see that he does.”
They found the cell doors open and his deputy sitting propped up against the bars. There was a three-inch gash on his forehead, sending a fountain of blood down his face and neck.
“They took my gun,” muttered Glen, his eyes half out of focus and glassy as two black buttons. “Took my gun.”
“Okay, Glen. Doc’s coming.”
Quin made a face. “How’d you get close enough to let them take your gun?”
Glen closed his eyes and groaned. “I’m gonna be sick.”
Quin spoke to Bowie now, ignoring the prostrate deputy. “They get to Fitzgerald and he’ll know everything that they do.”
Bowie took a bandanna from his pocket and pressed the folded square to Glen’s head.
“Hold that,” he told his deputy. Then he faced Quin. “I have to sequester Van Slyck.”
“What?”
“Hide him. I’m not losing this witness, too.”
Glen held the bloody bandage. “What’s Van Slyck got to do with it?”
Bowie ignored his deputy. “We need to stow him somewhere safe.”
“Your jail isn’t safe?” asked Quin.
“Not if Fitzgerald brings an army,” said Bowie, ignoring Whitaker. “We need to hide Van Slyck so nobody can find him.”
“The 4C?” asked Quin.
Bowie shook his head. “Too far and too many ways in and out. What about Leanna’s Place?”
Quin and Bowie both shook their heads at that. They would not bring this to their sister’s door.
“Merritt’s boardinghouse,” asked Quin.
Bowie’s “no” was emphatic.
“A hotel. We can put him under a false name,” suggested Quin.
“The Royale has the most number of rooms.”
Quin gave him a look and Bowie thought of Chance. Despite his denial, Ellie meant something to his brother and so he wouldn’t place her in jeopardy, either.
“That’s out,” said Bowie. “What about the Hobart Hotel? Chance has a room there.”
Quin chewed on that a while. Hobart’s was on the wrong side of the tracks, beside the billiard hall. “Never think to look there. But we’ll have to sneak him in.”
“And guard him until we can bring in Don Fitzgerald.”
“Don Fitzgerald!” cried Glen.
“How do we aim to do that, exactly?” asked Quin.
Chance was about out of patience. All the action was going on at the jail and here he sat guarding a thief who’d failed to shoot himself when he’d had the opportunity.
“They hang people for embezzlement?” he asked Collier, the bank examiner, who lifted his nose from the ledger and peered at him over his half-moon reading glasses.
“Unfortunately not.” Then he glanced at Van Slyck. “But they should.” He spoke to Van Slyck now. “Where is the second set of books, the ones with the actual rents collected?”
Chance allowed Van Slyck to rise to open a false front in his desk, in which he had secreted two worn black ledgers. This had clearly been going on for some time. Mr. Collier now had both sets and turned to comparing them line by line. Chance thought his head would explode from boredom. Damn Bowie and his orders, anyway.
After another decade had come and gone, Collier spoke. “It appears that he was collecting rents from properties and land not deeded to the railroad.” He glanced at Chance. “Those privately owned by your father and now jointly by the four remaining heirs, and then made the appearance of depositing these funds into the three accounts set up by your elde
r brother two years past, but, in fact, he was placing most of this revenue into the coffers of Don Fitzgerald. Plus, the actual figures of rent collected was more than he recorded in any of these accounts, so not only was he stealing from your family, he was stealing from his partner.”
“Did you say three accounts?”
“Yes. One opened in each of your names in April of 1880. Here it is, one for each of his siblings—Bowie, Leanna and you, Mr. Cahill. Sizable accounts.” He pointed at the ledger. “Or they will be once we recover the money that’s owed.”
April. That was the month after the funeral, Chance realized.
“He said he was pouring all the money he made back into the 4C.”
“And so he has,” said Collier, pointing to a line on the ledger that looked like any other. “Here. So much so that he has made two sizable additions to the acreage.” Collier moved his finger. “And here.”
Chance leaned in and looked at the figure before Collier’s index finger.
“Your share,” said Collier.
Fifteen thousand dollars. Enough to buy land. Enough to put down roots.
“And he took no share for himself. That’s odd. He is entitled to a share.”
Chance felt his resentment slide away with his bitterness until he felt a tenderness squeeze his heart. Quin, his big brother, hadn’t abandoned any of them when they had abandoned him. Instead, he had done his best to look out for them all, just as he always had.
Collier was studying the ledgers. He stiffened and shot another glare at Van Slyck. “You had to scramble to cover the land purchases, didn’t you?” He pointed at the books. “Here and here, you transferred monies out of Fitzgerald’s accounts at the same time the purchases were made. I imagine that he and his accomplices would have tried very hard to see Quin didn’t purchase any more property, because if the money was not available, your brother would have recognized that something was amiss.”
Chance put it together. “The rustling, the brush fires and the shootings. You were trying to keep him busy so he didn’t buy any more land.”
Van Slyck nodded with the slowness of a man exhausted. “And trying to remove the witnesses to the wagon accident. Those men, Pettit and Allen, they weren’t happy with their share once they discovered just who they had killed. I told Fitzgerald to get Hobbs to pay them off instead of running them off, but he wouldn’t do it. You get what you pay for, I always say.”