“Much obliged, but I’ve got to move on,” Johnny had said.
It was time. He’d been lucky to come out of this shooting scrape as lightly as he had.
The new regime in Clinchfield was friendly and then some. Niahll Sharkey had been made provisional town mayor by voice vote acclamation. Sharkey swore that he’d doctor the official record so as to keep Johnny Cross’s name well out of it so there would be no comeback from the law, which suited Johnny just fine.
“So soon?”—that’s what Cullen Baker and Bill Longley had chorused the day before when Johnny told them he was moving on the morrow. They wanted him to stick around for at least a week of drunken roistering and general hell raising, if not a month.
Johnny didn’t need a conjure woman fortune-teller to foresee the future if he stayed around much longer. The volatile combination of Cullen Baker, Bill Longley, whiskey, and guns would inevitably lead to fresh trouble, violence, more killings. Which Johnny didn’t need. He’d had enough Days of Blood for a while.
“I’ve got a ranch to look after and business to tend to. The roundup’s coming up if it ain’t gone down already. Seems I’ve been away so long I can’t hardly remember,” Johnny said.
His funds could use some beefing up, too. He’d spent gold like water financing the breakout. Naturally he made no complaint of this to Bill and Cullen. That was his affair. Besides, what good was money if not for spending? He considered it well spent and there’s an end on it.
It would be just like Cullen and Bill to commit some big-money robberies to pay him back and they would be none too fussy about who they took it from or how or who got hurt. Johnny didn’t want to be responsible for that.
So they gave him a big bustout going-away party yesterday, all day and late into the night. Cullen and Bill were undoubtedly still sleeping off that epic drunk. Johnny had drunk his share and more but nothing like the other two.
Nothing, not even a king-sized hangover, was going to stop him from pulling out this day. He planned to take a boat from Clinchfield down the Blacksnake to the junction with the Sabine River, then downstream to Sabine to catch an Overland Stage back to Hangtree.
It was early in the morning of this departure day when Johnny Cross checked out of the Clinchfield Hotel and stepped out onto the veranda, pausing to take a look-see.
The sky was light but the sun had not yet risen. Pools of pale blue-gray shadows lapped at the bases of the buildings fronting the town square. The early morning air was about as cool and fresh as it ever got in swampy Clinchfield on the river, but he could still feel a mass of heavy-aired heat astir, trying to muscle in.
He angled across the square to the livery stable where he settled up the bill for boarding his horse. The boat was a ferry equipped to carry livestock, so he was taking the animal with him. The horse was saddled up and brought to him.
Johnny rigged his traveling bag to the saddle, securing it to a side ring with a length of rope. He mounted up and rode out of town to take the road to the docks. The road was on a rise overlooking the riverfront. Tall thin cedar trees lined the inland side of the road.
The ferry wouldn’t leave for an hour or two, but this was a good time to be out and about, the air hazy with river mists that the slow-rising sun had yet to burn off. Moisture dripped from trees and bushes, and the grass was wet with sparkling dew.
Johnny slowed the horse as he neared a junction where the road from town met the road down the slope to the riverfront.
A lone rider stood beside his horse where the two roads met. He stood facing Johnny, watching him come on.
As Johnny neared, the other stepped into the middle of the road, barring the path. Even without his signature preacher’s hat, his identity would have been known to Johnny: Sexton Clarke.
It just had to be him. And it was.
Johnny reined to a halt.
Clarke stood easily, feet spread slightly more than shoulder-length apart. His hands hung at his sides, his guns worn holstered with the butts facing front in that characteristic style he favored.
“Good morning, Mr. Cross,” he said.
“Clarke,” Johnny said, acknowledging the other’s presence with a tight nod.
“So you know who I am,” Clarke said with a thin wintry smile.
“And you know of me,” said Johnny.
“Only by repute. I prefer a more personal encounter.”
“Why?”
“Frankly this whole Blacksnake venture has been something of a setback for me. I intend to salvage something out of the situation.”
“You’re still alive,” Johnny said pointedly.
“So are you,” said Clarke. “For now.”
“That’s the way of it, eh, Clarke?”
“That’s how it must be, Mr. Cross. Stop here for a bit so we can talk.”
“Talk?”
“Well . . . you know,” Clarke said, his smile widening.
“I reckon so,” Johnny said. “You’ll have me at a disadvantage when I get off the horse.”
“I won’t make my move till you’re ready—it wouldn’t be sporting.”
“Can I count on that?”
“You have my word.”
“Your word, huh? Well, I’ll get down anyway,” Johnny said.
The smile left Sexton Clarke’s face.
It was Johnny’s turn to smile at him. He stepped down from the saddle, holding the horse’s reins in his right hand, left hand resting near the gun holstered on his left hip.
“No call for you to be disagreeable. I’d like this to be conducted as an affair of honor, a duel between two gentlemen,” said Clarke.
“I’m no gentleman,” Johnny said.
“We’ll duel all the same.”
“You’re a strange bird, Clarke. You want to kill me for no good reason except to shine up your reputation, but I mustn’t be ‘disagreeable.’”
“I like to keep it civilized,” said Sexton Clarke, as if that explained everything. Hell, to Clarke maybe it did, Johnny thought.
“We’ll play a little game, Mr. Cross—a game of death.”
“And any gun can play,” Johnny said.
Clarke shook his head. “Oh, no, not just any gun. One has to reach a certain level of high skill to ante up in this game. When I saw your gunwork at the pier last week, I knew you’d make a worthy opponent. I didn’t know who you were then but I’ve since found out, me and the rest of Moraine County. You’ve been busy, Mr. Cross.
“The man who broke Cullen Baker out of jail and helped down Rufus Barbaroux, that would-be Caesar of the Blacksnake . . . That’s won you a full measure of acclaim, far and wide.”
“I didn’t do it by myself,” Johnny noted.
“No false modesty, please. I’ve made inquiries. I know you were the driving wheel behind Barbaroux’s downfall. You’re not only a champion-quality pistol shot but a thinker, a planner. That’s something rare in our line of work. Impressive.”
“Stop, Clarke, you’re making me blush.”
“Joke if you like, you can’t rile me. I’m the master of my emotions. It’s a matter of will, self-control, mental discipline. At the moment of truth, a cool head can mean the difference between life and—”
“Are you trying to talk me to death?” Johnny broke in.
“Ah, you’re doing it again, trying to goad me into losing my temper. Can’t be done,” said Sexton Clarke, unruffled. “Yes, we’re talking about you. You’ve already achieved some renown, but your part in smashing the Commander and the Combine puts your name at the top of the lists. You’re quite the celebrity—famous.”
He all but drooled when he said the word “famous,” rolling it around in his mouth like it was honey-sweet. “And the man who kills you will be even more famous.”
“Meaning you, Clarke?”
“None other.”
“Suppose I don’t feel like playing?”
“That would be a disappointment, Mr. Cross,” Clarke said feelingly. “It would turn a duel of honor into a me
re vulgar killing.”
Johnny’s laughter was short and mirthless. “Can’t have that! I’ll tie up my horse first . . . you don’t mind?”
“Not so long as that’s all you do. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you not to, er, jump the gun so to speak, by reaching for a weapon before we’ve formally squared off for the duel,” Clarke said.
“Don’t worry, there’ll be no tricks—not by me.”
“Who’s worried? I like to see these matters conducted with a degree of civility and decorum, that’s all.”
Johnny led the horse by the reins to the side of the road, never fully turning his back on Clarke. He tethered the animal to a low-hanging branch, then turned to face Clarke.
“Thanks,” Johnny said. “This way I won’t have to go chasing an untied horse spooked by gunfire. You know—afterward.”
“Such confidence,” Sexton Clarke mocked.
Johnny started toward him, moving easily, hands beside his holstered guns.
“That’s close enough,” Clarke said sharply when Johnny was a half-dozen paces away.
“All right,” Johnny said, halting. “You want a showdown, Clarke. You’ve got it.”
Sexton Clarke crossed his arms so each hand would be making a cross-belly draw of the guns worn butt-out on each hip. His eyes glittered in a face exultant with the certainty of ultimate triumph.
“This is a mere formality, Mr. Cross. Going through the motions of the actual duel, that is. But that’s the only way to keep the record straight. I’ll let you in on a little secret . . . the outcome is preordained. I can’t lose! Remember, I saw you at the pier that night. You can’t beat me with your left-hand draw. I’ve seen it and I know I’m faster. You’ve been a dead man from the moment we came face to face!”
“So it’s really not a fair duel after all,” Johnny said evenly.
“Who knows? You might get lucky,” Clarke smirked. “You won’t, but what else is there for you to do but try? Try, and fail . . . I owe you a debt of gratitude, though. Thanks to you I’ll have a second chance to kill Cullen Baker, the job which brought me to this swampland hell-hole in the first place. I’ll leave the Blacksnake with two celebrated scalps on my belt, yours and his!”
“No, you won’t. You’ll die here,” Johnny Cross said. “Now!”
He and Clarke slapped leather, Johnny drawing and shooting with his right hand.
Three shots sounded: two that Johnny put into Sexton Clarke’s chest, and one that came a beat later, too late, the wild shot Clarke fired as he was already toppling and going down.
Johnny advanced on Clarke, approaching him as cautiously as if he were a cornered rattlesnake. But there was no fight left in Clarke and damned little life, and what there was of that latter fading fast.
Clarke lay sprawled on the ground on his back, the expression on his face one of raw shock and disbelief.
Johnny kicked the gun out of Clarke’s hand, Clarke had only managed to draw the one in the split-second before Johnny’s two slugs tagged him in the chest.
Clarke’s watery eyes bulged, his mouth gaped open. He tried to form words, failed, then with a supreme effort tried again. “What—how . . . ?”
“I saw you kill those men in Fayetteville years ago. You didn’t see me but I saw you. So I knew you that night on the pier when I saw you again,” Johnny said. “I knew you were watching so I drew with my left hand. I’m faster with my left than most men are with either hand. I’m not bragging on it, it’s just the way I was made. But my right hand is the dominant hand. I’m faster with the right than with the left. You never saw my fast draw till now.”
Sexton Clarke’s eyes were wide and staring. The last thing he saw were the two gold coins that Johnny pressed down on his still open eyes, covering them, blacking out the fading light of the dying gunman’s vision.
The next person to come upon Sexton Clarke would be greeted by a sight uncommon weird, an image half-comic and half-grotesque: a corpse with what seemed to be a pair of shiny gold coins for eyes, a prize specimen of what’s called gallows humor.
“Buy yourself a funeral, gravedigger,” Johnny Cross said.
THIRTY-TWO
The steam-powered ferryboat bound for Sabine on the Gulf Coast chugged out of Clinchfield harbor. Its shrill whistle hooted an earsplitting series of blasts, echoes booming across open water. The boat surged south into the wide bay south of Pirate’s Point.
Standing at the rail watching the Clinchfield docks’ waterfront slowly recede were Johnny Cross, Sam Heller, and Dean Valentine. They smoked and drank.
Sam thoughtfully drew on his corncob pipe, Johnny set fire to the end of a long skinny cheroot of the type he favored, and Valentine puffed away at a long fat cigar, venting clouds of aromatic smoke.
“From the Commander’s private humidor, a special blend custom-made to his order,” Valentine noted with satisfaction. “Barbaroux said that each cigar was specially hand rolled on the taut round thighs of Cuban virgins working in the Havana curing sheds.”
“Go on,” Johnny scoffed.
“That’s what he said,” Valentine insisted.
“Makes a nice story.”
“And a damned good smoke.”
The three passed a bottle around, drinking from the neck.
“That’s good brandy,” Sam said after taking a long pull at the contents.
“Some of the Commander’s finest,” said Valentine.
“I suppose the grapes were stomped under the bare feet of French mademoiselles selected for their youth and beauty,” Sam said, straight-faced.
“That’s not bad,” Valentine said appreciatively, chuckling. “Your amigo is quite droll, Johnny.”
“He’s as much fun as a fire in a crowded circus tent,” Johnny said off-handedly. “Sounds like you and Barbaroux were great chums, Val.”
“The Commander didn’t have friends, only people who did things for him. If you were useful you could do all right for yourself. He lived rich. A fellow could live high off of his leavings.”
Johnny held out a hand palm-up. He upended the bottle over it. After a pause a few scant drops oozed out. “Gone,” he said.
“I had a couple bottles in my bag but that’s the last of it,” said Valentine.
“There’s a common room on the boat; it’s got a bar and a food stand,” Sam said.
“But the quality! . . . Or lack of it. What a comedown, to go from vintage French wines and brandies to common-room six-snake whiskey. Worse, I’ll have to pay for it instead of getting room, board, and alcohol as a perk for painting the Great Man’s portrait.”
“Quit your bitching, Val, you’re lucky to clear out of Moraine County with your hide intact,” Johnny reminded the other.
“Too true. Barbaroux’s associates have become marvelously unpopular overnight.”
“They was always unpopular, it’s just that now the Combine’s exploded folks can do something about it.”
“They’re doing it, all right. Pity the local pitchfork brigades can’t or won’t distinguish between Barbaroux’s thugs and killers and an innocent painterly dauber like me. The good people of Clinchfield were looking at me like they were measuring me for a rope to throw me a necktie party so they could watch me dance on air.”
“Can’t say I was surprised to find you on the first boat out, Val. The bad penny always turns up, they say.”
“Funny, I was thinking the same about you.”
“Speaking of bad pennies, my friend the Major here makes three,” Johnny said, indicating Sam Heller.
“Ah, yes. The celebrated gunrunner,” Valentine said, eyeing Sam with new interest.
“I’m retired from that line of work,” Sam said.
“You must have made a lot of money, the way those Winchesters were flooding the Hollow.”
“Not me. At those prices, we were practically giving the rifles away. Which was the idea. Middlemen like Sharkey and George St. George were the ones who really turned a profit.”
“I thought you
’d be in the chips.”
“You don’t see me chartering a yacht to sail to the Gulf, do you?”
“Oh,” Valentine said, losing interest, the greedy gleam going out of his eyes.
Johnny laughed. “Listen to yourself, Heller! Less’n a month in the gunrunning game and you sound like all the other tired businessmen crabbing about how they’re getting whupped in the marketplace, don’t know how they’re gonna say afloat, drowning in red ink—
“Hell! Let that be a lesson to you. You do better as a gunman than you do as a gunrunner. Sell your skills and stay out of the hardware line.
“Though I sure would like to know how you got hold of all them good guns, so many and so easily . . .”
“A big man at a regional armory went into business for himself. He was going broke trying to keep a wife in the style she was used to and a mistress in the style she wanted to get used to. He had the rifles, I had the customers, so we did a deal. He just got transferred to a post in Walla Walla, Washington, so now we’re out of business,” Sam said cheerfully.
Johnny’s eyes were narrow in a suspicious, skeptical face. “That’s the way of it?”
“Sure,” Sam said. “And if you don’t believe that one I’ll tell you a half-dozen more lies before breakfast.”
Johnny made a face and a noise ripe with disgust. “Trying to get a straight answer out of you is like watering a tree stump to make it grow.”
“How long have you known about my horning in on this Blacksnake deal?” Sam asked.
“I knew you’d be going after Malvina since Hangtree, when Bill Longley told me she was tied into Barbaroux. The way you and every bounty killer and blood hunter was scouring North Central Texas for the Gypsy for the Fort Pardee poisonings, I reckoned you’d make a beeline to Moraine County.
“As for you being the Major, what with the big hunt for Malvina kicking up a storm, it didn’t take much to put those crates of Winchester 66s going into the swamp with that same model you use for your mule’s leg. Knowing your last Army rank was Major was kind of a tip-off, too,” Johnny said.
Sam shrugged. “That was obvious but that’s the kind of job it was so who cares? No time here for a lot of fussy masterminding and sneaking undercover work. It called for dynamite.
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