Easy Pickin's
Page 23
Byron did as instructed. After exposing less than half an inch more of thread, he could feel it straining against his finger. Closing his eyes, he thought he could hear individual strands within his threads give way.
“If the weight is distributed among many threads,” the professor continued, “the latch can be lifted. It must have taken exacting measurements and craftsmanship, but the true wonder lies in the idea itself. Genius.”
“Can this still be opened after one of those threads was broken?”
“If it is a matter of weight distribution, then there’s a chance. If not, then we’ll soon find out. Either way, it’s worth a shot.”
The two men eased the rings out bit by bit, each one wincing at any and every sound that came from within the safe. Although Byron thought the threads might snap at any moment, White-oak seemed pleased with the progress that was made.
“There’s a bit more tension here,” the professor said excitedly. “Can you feel it?”
“Yes,” Byron lied. “What should we do?”
“When I count to three, I want you to pull slowly but consistently.”
“What if another thread breaks?”
“Let’s not think about that,” Whiteoak replied. “Ready? One . . . two . . . three.”
Byron did as he’d been told, matching the professor’s motions while tugging on the delicate threads attached to the rings. At once, all of the threads seemed to be snagged on something.
Whiteoak nodded and urged Byron to keep at it. “One more good pull,” he said.
Closing his eyes, Byron kept pulling until something within the safe gave way. The sound he heard wasn’t what he’d expected, but was instead a metallic clank as a panel at the bottom of the safe’s interior popped up. A fraction of a second later, four of the five remaining threads snapped loose and came free.
“That was exhilarating!” Whiteoak exclaimed. Flicking the rings off his fingers, he lifted the panel up and out of the safe. Although there were papers stacked inside the hidden compartment, he turned his attention first to the mechanism that had kept the panel shut. “It’s a latch all right. Just like I’d hypothesized. The strings were attached and with enough counterweight applied, they pulled the latch open which freed the panel.”
“Great. What’s inside?”
Whiteoak removed the papers. “Documents of some kind,” he muttered while sifting through them. “They’re deeds. Mining rights. Stock certificates.” Whiteoak slowly looked up from the papers as his mouth hung open. “Good Lord. These papers represent the bulk of the companies owned by the Founding Four. Bailey must have been holding them here for safekeeping.”
“No wonder they were all fighting over them. Those papers are worth a fortune. Three fortunes!”
“Son of a bitch.”
“I know,” Byron said as he took the papers so he could have a look for himself. “It’s really something.”
“No,” Whiteoak said with fire in his eyes and venom in his tone. Turning around, he stomped back a step so he could pivot and kick the safe with every bit of strength he had. “Son of a bitch!”
“Are you angry?”
“Yes, I’m bloody well pissed! This couldn’t be worse!”
“But . . .” At a loss for words, Byron held up the papers so Whiteoak could once again see the collected legacies of the richest men in Kansas and many of the surrounding states. “How much more were you expecting?”
“Diamonds! Gold! Stacks of cash in larger denominations! Anything I can spend, dammit! What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
Byron smiled. For once, he was the one with the answer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jeremy Christian’s house wasn’t hard to find. Everyone who’d lived in town for any length of time knew about it because the sprawling yellow colonial with the wraparound porch had been there since Barbrady was established. As they took the short walk from the bank to the Christian spread, Byron and White-oak spotted a few more people out. They were confused and concerned with locating their close acquaintances, which allowed the two men to get past them without much fuss. All in all, however, those that drank the doctored beverages were still asleep.
“What are we doing here?” Whiteoak grumbled once they arrived at the rich man’s house.
“To prove a point and to show you that a good deed can be its own reward.”
The professor’s laugh was spat upon the ground like a wad of tobacco juice. “And where did you get this sudden change of spirit? Surely not from the scoundrel snake oil salesman you threw in with for so brief a time.”
“No,” Byron said while climbing the steps of Christian’s front porch. “But trying to make a few quick dollars by straying from the work ethic instilled by my parents only got me shot at, chased, lied to, robbed, involved in two bank robberies, chased down alleys and hounded by the law. Also, I doubt my sister will trust me anytime soon and rightfully so.”
“Let’s get this straight. Your situation is far from dire. You being robbed had nothing to do with any bad decisions on your part and your sister will forgive you. She’s a good woman.”
“She is a good woman. Good enough to make any man into a better one.”
“I’m sure,” Whiteoak said heavily. “But some of us are beyond repair.”
“You may be a swindler, but I have full confidence that you’re not half as bad as some people say you are.” With that, Byron knocked on the front door. There was no response from inside at first, so he knocked again. Eventually, a haggard, grating voice came to them like claws tearing through linens.
“Is that my medicine?” the voice screeched.
“Mister Christian?” Byron said to the door.
“Did you bring my medicine?”
“No, sir, but I have something important to discuss with you. It’s about your partners.”
“Come in!”
Byron tried the door and found it to be unlocked so he pushed it open. The interior of the house was modest considering the outer shell, but very comfortable. Walls were covered with faded paper. Shelves were filled with books. Vases held blooming flowers and the air smelled of freshly baked bread. The foyer opened into a staircase with a room branching off on the left and right. The only sign of life came from the room on the left.
“Who the hell are you?” growled a withered old man propped in a padded chair with a blanket cocooning his lower half. Spectacles were clipped to his nose and held in place by a string that wrapped around the back of his spotted head. His mouth waggled open even after he spoke like a feeble attempt to echo his own words.
“Mister Christian, I’m Byron Keag.”
“Lyssa’s brother?”
“That’s right and this is my associate, Professor Henry Whiteoak.”
“Professor?” the old man snorted. “That’s a hoot. He’s the idiot who parked that wagon in town everyone’s talking about?”
“Right again.”
Whiteoak acknowledged the introduction with a wave.
“Where’s my medicine? My nurse was supposed to bring it to me, but she hasn’t been back. Said something about a commotion.”
Byron cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well that’s still going on. I came to tell you something about your partners. You may find it difficult to believe.”
Over the next several minutes, Byron told the old man about what had happened at the bank and what had almost been stolen by Davis and Halstead. He topped off his tale by presenting the old man with the bundle of papers that had been in the safe’s hidden compartment.
Despite the shaking in the old man’s hands, Christian went through the papers and nodded while skimming each one. “You say it should be difficult to believe? Not hardly. Michael and George had been after my seat in this town for years.”
“Seat?” Whiteoak asked.
“Yes. Me, those two and the president of the bank . . . Adam Bailey run this town. We get a cut of the taxes, we control trade with other towns, we negotiate deals
with railroad companies that want to build on nearby land. There’s a lot of money to be made if a man knows how to run the system properly. Then when you put this into the mix,” Christian added while waving the papers, “you’re talking plenty more.”
“I’m sure.”
“And you said the other three are dead?” the old man asked.
Whiteoak stepped forward and asked, “And you didn’t know that Adam Bailey had been killed?”
Christian dismissed that impatiently. “I never leave this house. I’m too old to get around very well and not interested enough to bother looking out the window. In here I have my books and my nurses. They cook damn good, tend to my health and every other thing a man needs if you know what I mean.”
Shuddering, Whiteoak stepped back again.
“You don’t seem very upset, sir,” Byron pointed out.
“They were greedy sons of bitches. Good partners, but bastards all the same. They were gonna come to bad ends sooner or later. Me? I still got my books and my women.”
Whiteoak settled into one of the other chairs in the parlor. “It does sound like a good arrangement.”
“Well, we thought you should have these papers,” Byron said. “Some of them do belong to you and the rest to your partners. Being a member of this town’s ruling body, it only seemed proper to bring them to you. A lot of good people’s jobs are at stake, no matter how unscrupulous their employers might have been. Also, those companies provide much needed supplies and products across this part of the country. We are both aware of what a tremendous civil responsibility it is to keep those things running smoothly.”
It was difficult to tell if Christian was nodding or if his shakes were increasing in severity. Either way, he seemed rather pleased when he reached out to pat Byron’s hand. “You are a noble young fellow.”
“Thank you, sir,” Byron replied while turning to Whiteoak to give him a curt nod.
The professor was still agitated enough to roll his eyes at the morality lesson he was supposed to be learning.
“I appreciate this,” Christian said. “And I doubt you could take this over to the Davis or Halstead places, since they both tried to kill you. I did hear tell about some gunmen robbing a courier on his way into town so he could acquire some important documents.”
“Halstead hired those two?” Byron asked.
The old man shrugged. “I suppose so. It’s rare that Halstead ain’t up to some kind of dirty deed. I found it best to only concern myself with that nonsense when it’s absolutely necessary. Maybe you should keep to yourself for a while too, now. No telling who else might be gunning for ya, huh?”
“Actually,” Byron said as his smile melted away, “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well I know how to take care of my friends, son. Don’t you worry. You and your sister will be well cared for.”
“I do appreciate that, but that’s not why I came over here.”
“And there’ll be a reward, naturally.”
It had likely been several years since anything in that house had moved as quickly as Whiteoak when he sat up straight and leaned forward with both hands propped on his knees. “Reward?” he inquired.
“Naturally,” Christian replied. “Any man who does this kind of service for me or my company would be paid. How’s five thousand each strike you?”
“Very well indeed, my dear sir,” Whiteoak said, slipping easily back into his scholarly tone.
“No,” Byron said. “Everything that had anything to do with that bank or those men or any idea that came out of your head,” he declared while pointing an accusing finger at Whiteoak, “has gone horribly wrong! Any money connected to this affair is bloody and tainted. No offence, Mister Christian.”
“None taken,” the old man replied. “I’ve spilled enough blood to fill a few wells to gain the prominence I have now.”
Byron rubbed his eyes and sighed, “Oh, God.”
Whiteoak checked his pocket watch. “That’s fascinating, but I really need to be going. That celebration is almost over and I’d hate to overstay my welcome. I sincerely appreciate the reward, sir. Is there any chance I could get it now?”
It took some doing, but Mister Christian managed to stand up from his chair and walk over to a large painting on the wall. He swung the adequately drawn landscape away to reveal a much smaller and less complicated safe than the one that had occupied so much of the professor’s recent time. “Of course. Some of it might be in gold,” Christian said. “Will that suit you?”
“Like a feather suits a mallard.”
“No!” Byron declared. “Keep your money, sir. I thank you for looking out for my sister and me while we’re here, but keep your money. I’ll only take what I earn from this day forward.”
“I can put you to work whenever you like,” the old man said, securing the future of the Keag family for decades to come in one sentence.
“Oh. Well . . . I appreciate that. I think we should go now. Thank you, Mister Christian. It’s been a pleasure.” Byron shook the old man’s hand, straightened proudly and strode out of the largest house in Barbrady with his dignity and moral compass properly aligned.
Whiteoak stood up, tugged at his lapels to straighten his collar and shot his cuffs. “It has certainly been delightful meeting you, sir. I can see this town is in very good hands.”
Scowling beneath a deeply wrinkled forehead and bushy eyebrows, Mister Christian asked, “Are you taking the reward?”
“Most definitely! And, since he’s spiritually opposed to the wickedness of wealth, I’ll gladly accept Mister Keag’s as well.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcus Galloway is the author of several novels and short stories in the western genre. His previous series includes The Man from Boot Hill (HarperCollins), The Accomplice (Berkley) and Sathow’s Sinners (Berkley). He currently resides in a small West Virginia town with one perfect dog and a whole lot of books.
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