“Would they have been correct?”
“I do owe you a debt, Professor, and I have every intention of repaying it. That does not, however, entitle you to know every last bit of business in which I’m involved. So I would be much obliged if you’d let the matter drop.”
Whiteoak’s face was an unreadable mask as his lips tightened around the cigarette. He drew in a breath, causing the tip to glow bright enough to illuminate his chin and cast a sinister shadow across the bottom of his eyes. “You do owe a debt to me and it would be wise that you don’t forget it.”
Tensing slightly, Byron asked, “Are you threatening me?”
“Take from my words what you will. I want to make it impeccably clear that I do not take debts lightly, whether they be large or small.”
Byron nodded slowly as he regained the bit of composure he’d allowed to slip away a few moments ago. “I agree. Every man should honor his debts.”
The smile that appeared on Whiteoak’s face was genuine, but not overly friendly. “I never doubted you were a man of honor.”
“Never?” Byron chuckled uneasily. “You act as though we’ve known each other for more than part of a day.”
“I’m an excellent judge of character,” Whiteoak replied with a flourish of one hand. As he puffed on his cigarette, whatever harshness he’d exhibited before left him like the smoke drifting from his nostrils. “Scoundrels are easy to spot and men without honor are even easier.”
“I would think they’d be one and the same.”
“You might think, but that would be an incorrect assumption. Scoundrels can have honor and plenty of it. They just adhere to a different sort of honor than common folk.”
Both men stood in the cool night air for a short while. The quiet that settled around them wasn’t so much a calm stillness as it was the burning of a long fuse without the hissing sound.
When Whiteoak took another puff of his cigarette, the scorching of the rolling paper and tobacco drifted through the air like a blaze in the distance. The smoke he exhaled as a series of wobbly rings smelled vaguely of exotic spices. “Who gave you those papers, Byron?” he asked.
“That’s not something I’m supposed to discuss.”
“I might understand your loyalty if this person was merely a paying client. After all, you are a professional and must maintain your business relationships. But under the circumstances, it seems . . . peculiar.”
“Does it?”
Whiteoak nodded.
Furrowing his brow, Byron asked. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It might possibly have something to do with the armed men who tried to kill you earlier today.”
“They were robbers.”
“Exactly.”
“Common thieves,” Byron continued. “Outlaws who were out to steal whatever they could get their hands on.”
“For common, money-hungry outlaws, they seemed awfully interested in those papers you were carrying.” Whiteoak took a slow pull from his cigarette and sent a few more fragrant rings into the air. “Didn’t they ask specifically for those documents more than once? I could always be mistaken, though. After all, I didn’t arrive until you were already engaged with them in conversation so I’m just going off of what you mentioned when describing the incident.”
“No,” Byron said thoughtfully. “They did ask for them.”
There wasn’t much left of Whiteoak’s cigarette, so he finished it off and flicked it to the ground. “You were probably right in what you said earlier. They must have thought those papers were somehow valuable. Deeds or such. That must be it.”
Whiteoak’s verbal manipulations were anything but subtle, which seemed to aggravate Byron further as they burrowed like ticks beneath his skin.
Raising one eyebrow, Whiteoak glanced sideways at Byron and asked, “Were those papers deeds?”
“Sure. They were deeds. Whatever will bring this conversation to an end, that’s what they were.”
Whiteoak held up his hands in mock surrender. “I apologize for being a pest. Would it be all right if I passed on dessert?”
“Of course.”
“Please give my best to your sister.” The professor whistled a merry tune as he stepped off the porch and strolled away from the house. Byron shook his head, silently promising himself not to be swayed by any amount of talk and to maintain his composure until Professor Whiteoak left town.
The sooner, the better.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was late when Whiteoak returned to Lyssa Keag’s home. Midnight was long past and not only was most of the town asleep, but everything for miles in any direction seemed to be in a deep slumber as well. Folks back in the old times used to call it the Witching Hour and all it took was a short taste of that time between night and day to know why.
The sky was a rich, inky black that would be chilling to the skin if it was possible to stretch out a hand and touch it. Even when a wind blew, it did so with the quiet reverence of someone sneaking through a museum afraid to knock over any one of a number of precious glass sculptures. The only animals out and about at that time were predators or soon to be prey. While Henry Whiteoak moved through the cool shadows of the Barbrady streets, he did so with the cautious skill of someone who knew what it was to be both of those things.
Still wearing the black trousers and shiny boots that he’d sported earlier that day, the professor had traded in his tailored suit coat for a more weathered black jacket. Every so often when his arms would swing a particular way, the holster strapped around his shoulder could be seen. The silver-handled .38 wasn’t wrapped in that finely tooled leather, however. In its place was an older model of the same caliber with a dull gray surface that wouldn’t reflect any bit of stray light that might happen to fall on it.
Whiteoak moved stealthily toward the Keag house. His stride was fast enough to suit his purpose but not anything that might be construed as suspicious. Or, at least, no more suspicious than a man stealthily approaching a darkened house in the dead of night. Some things couldn’t be helped.
Once he got closer, Whiteoak dropped into a crouch. No longer concerned with appearances, he approached one of the windows on the side of the home and slid his hat farther back on his head so he could look through the glass without bumping his brim. His fingers found the sill and could have slipped even further inside as the window was open about an inch. Since the room inside was just as dark as outside, Whiteoak’s eyes didn’t need to adjust. Right away, he could tell he was looking in a bedroom. However, it wasn’t the bedroom he’d been hoping to find.
Lyssa Keag lay on her bed, sheets a rumpled mess and her blankets cast aside either by restless legs or in response to a warm spell. Whatever the reason, the lack of covers left her partially exposed to night air trickling in through the window and the eyes of unexpected visitors outside. During supper, she’d been dressed in modest attire that was pretty in a plain sort of way. Now, she was still wrapped in cotton but modesty wasn’t much of a factor. More of a slip than a nightgown, the thin cotton twisted around Lyssa’s body was loose and baggy around her hips and legs but had been drawn tight around her upper body and shoulders. Whiteoak’s eyes lingered on her full, rounded breasts, which were more generous than her earlier garb had led him to believe. Thanks to the coolness of the breeze, her erect nipples pressed against the fabric making it seem as if her naked body had been drenched in a thin layer of cream.
Whiteoak shook his head as if he’d been splashed with cold water. Fighting every instinct to stay, he moved along to the next window. It too looked into a bedroom, but this one was more sparsely decorated than the last. The walls were bare except for one picture which looked to be a painting of a grassy landscape. The bed was small and bore only a mess of disheveled sheets and a quilt.
“Damn,” Whiteoak grunted under his breath. His eyes were fixed upon a trunk near the foot of the bed which he recognized as having been on the cart that had brought Byron Keag into town.
Byron’s window wa
s also slightly open. This time, Whiteoak didn’t stop himself from slipping his fingers through the crack and easing the window up the rest of the way. He was about to climb inside when he noticed something else about the room. There were no boots on the floor, no coat hanging from the hook, no clothes piled anywhere in sight.
Byron wasn’t at home. The house was too quiet, too dark and too still for anyone else to be inside. Since he’d spotted a few of the young man’s things strewn throughout the bedroom when he’d peeked through the door during supper, he knew that those articles of clothing were missing.
Why would a man leave his bed at such a late hour?
Could Byron simply be out for a stroll or could he be visiting some other female in Barbrady with whom he could share such a beautiful night?
Whiteoak’s muscles tensed in preparation for his climb through the window. His mind wasn’t nearly as ready for the short journey. What he wanted wasn’t in there. He knew that without having to see definitive proof. And even if it was, he figured he stood to learn more by finding Byron than looking for the object that had captured his interest in the first place.
He closed the window, turned his back to the building and took a few steps away. On the off chance that someone might happen by, he walked slowly toward the street that led to the more populated areas of town. Whiteoak’s eyes roamed the walkways and streets, looking for the path that was most likely taken by the man he was after.
“Byron is a businessman,” he muttered under his breath. It did Whiteoak some good to talk his process through, but he didn’t dare let his voice drift above a whisper. “While there are devious businessmen, Byron isn’t one of them. He rode straight into town with his papers. Instead of hiding, he went straight to the home of his own sister. So when he sneaks out now, where would a man with such a limited capacity for sneakiness go?”
As he sifted through his thoughts, Whiteoak kept walking into town. If there was more light available to him, he might have attempted to look for fresh tracks in the dirt. Since the sunrise was still several hours away, he followed the next hunch that struck him.
Whiteoak took a sharp turn at the first corner which pointed him toward the section of Barbrady occupied by its two banks, the assessor’s office and several storefronts owned by other professionals including two lawyers and a dentist. Although Whiteoak wasn’t certain how many other offices were located in that vicinity, he was fairly certain that he was looking at Barbrady’s closest semblance to a business district.
Like every other portion of town, except for the row of saloons and cathouses a few streets over, that street was almost completely dark. The only bit of light to break up the shadowy monotone was in a window on the second floor of a building in the middle of the block. Whiteoak’s eyes narrowed as he focused on that spot and quickened his steps so he could arrive there before the source of the light was snuffed out.
“Could be some overworked clerk who lost track of time,” he mused to himself.
With his gaze still fixed upon the single lit window, Whiteoak nearly ran straight into another man who was hurrying down the street without taking enough care to watch where he was going.
“What in the . . . ?” Whiteoak snapped.
“Oh,” the man blurted. “Sorry, I . . .”
Both of them finally looked at each other long enough to see the other’s face. Even then, it took a moment for either man to form another word. As it was for most verbal contests, Whiteoak was first to be heard.
“What are you doing here, Byron?” the professor asked.
Even in darkness, the shocked confusion could still be seen on Byron Keag’s face. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”
“I’m out for a late night constitutional,” Whiteoak lied. Given the condition of his audience, he didn’t need to worry about being convincing. “I had trouble sleeping.”
“I was just . . . actually, I don’t need to explain myself to you!”
Whiteoak managed to cock his eyebrows at an offended angle, but couldn’t unleash the tirade he’d prepared before footsteps crunched against the dirt not too far away.
“We need to go,” Byron said in a rush.
“Why?”
“I can explain later. We need to go. Right now.”
Whiteoak strained to look into the shadows. After a second or two, he could discern enough in the darkness to pick out a small group of figures near the base of the building with the single lighted window. At first, there appeared to be two of them huddled in the shadows. Then, as Whiteoak kept his eyes fixed on target, he picked out three distinct shapes.
“Does it have anything to do with them?” the professor asked, although he already had a good idea of what the answer would be. While he’d intended to elicit more of a response by playing on the tension already pouring from Byron, he hadn’t expected his words to strike such a raw nerve.
“We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” Byron snapped. “Or we’re both dead.”
“Dead?”
“You heard me, now let’s go!”
“Surely, you’re overreacting. Who are those men and why would they want to . . .” As he turned away from the figures he’d spotted, Whiteoak discovered that Byron had already vacated the spot he’d so recently occupied. More than that, the younger fellow was racing in the other direction without so much as a backwards glance over one shoulder.
The professor moved awkwardly at first, launching himself into motion from a standing start. After a few quick steps, however, he took a more graceful stride that allowed him to catch up to Byron in a scant couple of seconds. Once he was close enough, he reached out to grab the other man’s elbow and rein him in.
“What are you doing?” Byron hissed.
“I’m still waiting for answers,” Whiteoak replied.
“Are you deaf? I already told you we need to get away from there!”
“But I still don’t know why.”
Pulling his arm free of the professor’s grasp, Byron said,
“There’s no time for this!”
Whiteoak meant to press the matter, but was unable to utter a word before his audience had dwindled from one member to none. Turning toward the distant group of figures, he saw that all three of them had fanned out to walk straight toward him. Since it seemed they weren’t angry at him yet, he figured he still had some room to maneuver where a possible negotiation was concerned.
The three figures were wide through the shoulders and walked with solid steps that ground the loose dirt and gravel beneath their heels. Whiteoak straightened his posture and lowered his head a bit to present himself in a manner that would match the men’s demeanor.
Their hands hung down near their hips without moving, hovering above the guns kept at their sides. One of them, the man in the middle, drew his pistol and brought it up.
“Oh, hell,” Whiteoak muttered.
The middle man fired a quick shot which hissed through the air several inches to Whiteoak’s left.
Figuring his window for negotiations had been shut, the professor spun around and ran to catch up to Byron.
CHAPTER SIX
Whiteoak’s hand slapped down onto Byron’s shoulder and closed to form a solid grip. Using the younger man’s clothing as a handle, the professor forced them both into an alley by pulling with a combination of strength and momentum.
“What are you doing?” Byron gasped.
“Taking you out of the line of fire, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Before Byron could protest, another couple of shots blazed through the night to burn into the darkness behind him. “Thanks,” he said with a nod.
“You can repay me by telling me who they are,” Whiteoak replied.
“I couldn’t tell. It’s dark.”
Another shot was fired. Even though the bullet took a chunk out of the building Whiteoak was using for cover, he didn’t flinch as splinters spattered against the brim of his hat. “You know them.”
Byron shook his head
, unable to speak as the sound of heavy footsteps drew closer.
Maintaining his grip on the younger man, Whiteoak began to shove him back toward the opening of the alley. “Then perhaps,” the professor said forcefully, “we should see if they know you?”
“Fine, fine!” Byron sputtered. “I may know them. Or at least one of them, but this is no time for discussion.”
“Agreed. If you want my help now, I suggest you make time for me at your earliest convenience.”
“Yes, yes! All right. Just please, help me!”
Wearing a victorious grin, Whiteoak pulled Byron away from the street less than a second before more shots were sent in their direction. The already damaged corner of the building was chipped further by hot lead as echoing gunfire mixed with the sound of Byron’s frantic wheezing.
Whiteoak pressed his back against the building a scant couple of inches away from where the last few shots had found their mark. The footsteps drew closer but slowed before entering the alley.
Several paces away, Byron had stopped so he could stare at Whiteoak and silently motion an unspoken inquiry as to what on earth the professor was doing. Whiteoak’s response was an equally urgent gesture shooing Byron away. The younger man didn’t need to see anything more to convince him to flee and he turned tail to bolt in the opposite direction.
“They’re headed down the alley,” one of the armed men said from the street. “I just heard ’em.”
As the first man rounded the corner, the initial thing to come into sight was a gun hand and the pistol it held. Whiteoak reached out to grab that hand above the wrist. Long, slender fingers locked around the gunman’s wrist like a shackle and once they were cinched in tight, the professor pulled while leaning back.
The man attached to that wrist was a burly fellow with muscles layered over a thick frame. His steps were already propelling him forward with enough speed to make it next to impossible for him to stop before hitting the corner of the building that had already been damaged by gunfire. When his face smacked against the splintered wood, his hat was knocked off and his mouth curved into a pained sneer. For a moment, he and Whiteoak locked eyes. As he tensed in preparation to break free of the professor’s grip, the big fellow was pulled forward yet again to smack into the wall even harder.
Easy Pickin's Page 4