At Brennan’s startled outcry, Jackson lunged through the door and was across the front room in a couple of long, fast strides. He reached the other door in time to see a middle-aged man pull the trigger of the revolver he had pressed to his head. The gun roared, and the recoil flung it out of Fowler Vance’s suddenly nerveless fingers. Vance went down hard, leaving a spray of blood and gray matter on the wall beside the place where he’d been standing. The bullet had bored through his brain and exploded out the other side of his head, taking a sizable chunk of skull with it.
Sheriff Brennan stood just inside the bedroom, one hand outstretched helplessly toward the man who had just killed himself. Slowly, the lawman lowered his arm. Fresh lines had been etched into his face around his mouth.
“Damn it,” Brennan said. “If we’d got here a few minutes earlier—”
“You might have stopped him this time,” Jackson said in a flat voice. “But you probably wouldn’t have been around to stop him the next time he tried to blow his brains out. And chances are there would have been a next time.”
The body of Lucy Vance had been placed on the bed. Jackson could only imagine the care and gentleness with which Vance must have lowered his wife onto the mattress. She lay on her back, with Vance’s jacket over her face and her breasts. The rest of her body was nude. Jackson reached down, pulled up the bottom of the bedspread, and draped it over her.
“I don’t want to do this,” Brennan muttered as he reached for Vance’s jacket, “but I reckon I got to.”
Everett and Dawson had reached the doorway of the bedroom by now. Outside in the buggy, Tillman called, “Ned! What was that shot? What happened in there? Ned!”
Brennan lifted the jacket. Everett made a sound in his throat and turned his head away. Dawson muttered a curse. Jackson was expressionless as he studied the raw, bloody, empty expanse where Lucy Vance’s face had once been. The red-smeared skull that was left leered up at them.
“Just like Berryhill,” Brennan said as he replaced the jacket.
“Harcourt rode over here last night to be with her,” Jackson said. He wanted to think about what had happened, rather than what was under that jacket. “Somebody came up outside the house while they were together. Harcourt pulled his trousers on and went out to see what was going on. Mrs. Vance must have followed him. Then, whoever it was . . . did that.” He gestured toward the bed. “Only, Harcourt didn’t die right away. He survived somehow, but I’ll bet the killer, or killers, thought he was dead. They rode off and left both of them on the porch to be found later. Sometime after that, Harcourt came to and crawled off. He couldn’t see anymore and was probably in such pain that he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. I reckon it was just pure instinct that kept him going until that sodbuster found him.”
“How in blazes do you know all that?” Brennan demanded.
“Vance and those two vaqueros left quite a few hoofprints out front when they rode up,” Jackson said, “but they didn’t wipe out all the marks Harcourt left in the dirt when he crawled away. I noticed there were two big bloodstains on the porch too, so that has to be where it happened.”
Brennan rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, that makes sense, I suppose.”
“Ned!” Tillman called again from outside.
Brennan jerked his head toward the door and told Dawson, “Go tell him what’s goin’ on.”
“Fine,” Dawson said. “I’ll be glad to get outta here, to tell you the truth. It stinks like hell.”
He was right about that. The coppery smell of blood filled the air, along with the stench from Vance’s voided bowels. As if death wasn’t bad enough already, it was also damned undignified sometimes.
Still rubbing his jaw wearily, Brennan looked down at what was left of Fowler Vance and said, “I reckon when he rode up and found her like that, he couldn’t stand the idea of livin’ without her. He was quite a bit older than her, but he doted on her. Probably left her alone too much, but that don’t mean he didn’t love her.”
“Only good thing about it,” Jackson said, “is that he likely died without knowing for sure that she was carrying on with Harcourt.”
Brennan snorted. “That’s pretty cold comfort.”
“In this world, you’d better take what comfort you can get, wherever you can get it,” Jackson said.
Chapter 15
There was a wagon in the barn. The two vaqueros hitched a team of draft horses to it and brought it around to the front of the house. Benjamin Tillman and Ned Dawson had already started back to the Winged T. Jackson and Brennan carried out Lucy Vance’s body, which by now was securely wrapped in the bedspread, and placed it in the back of the wagon. The Mexicans brought out Fowler Vance and lowered his body to the wagon bed beside that of his wife, then spread a blanket over him.
Everett stood to one side, trying to watch everything with a newspaperman’s objectivity . . . and trying at the same time not to be sick to his stomach.
He wasn’t sure how Jackson could look at all these terrible things and not be affected. Maybe he was just good at holding in his feelings. Or maybe the years he had spent as a gunslinger had hardened him to human suffering. Jackson must have seen a lot of violent death in his life.
“Cecil Greenwood’s gonna be a rich man if this keeps up,” Brennan commented when both bodies were loaded in the wagon. “Four deaths in a matter of a few days.” The sheriff shook his head. “All of ’em buried with closed coffins too.”
The vaqueros climbed onto the wagon seat. They would take the vehicle into town. Jackson, Everett, and Brennan mounted up and fell in alongside.
The trip to Death Head Crossing passed mostly in silence. Everett thought about everything Jackson had said. While it certainly seemed like Jackson might be right about the killer being motivated by a belief that he was doing God’s work, Everett still couldn’t bring himself to believe that Reverend Martin Driscoll or Benjamin Tillman were responsible for the grisly murders.
But he couldn’t be completely sure one of the men wasn’t guilty either. Somebody had killed Berryhill, Harcourt, and Mrs. Vance, and Fowler Vance’s death could also be laid at the feet of the mysterious Hand of God, even though Vance had actually taken his own life.
When they reached the settlement, the wagon with its grim cargo naturally attracted a lot of attention. Brennan told the vaqueros to head straight for Greenwood’s undertaking parlor, and he rode along to see that no one interfered. Jackson turned his horse toward the Big Bend, saying, “I need a drink.”
So maybe he was human after all, Everett thought. Before he could announce his intention to join Jackson at the saloon, he heard his name being called.
He looked around to see Malcolm Graham hurrying toward him on foot. The balding newspaperman lifted a hand in greeting and said, “I heard there was some trouble out at Fowler Vance’s ranch. Judging by the looks of what that wagon is carrying, I’d say the rumors must be right.”
Everett reined in and nodded. Suddenly he wanted to talk to a fellow journalist, so he called to Jackson, “You go ahead. I’ll see you later.”
Jackson nodded and rode on toward the saloon.
Gratefully, Everett dismounted. He said, “You’ve heard about the man who was brought in this morning?”
Graham nodded. “Yes, I talked to Dr. Musgrave about him and also went down to Cecil’s to take a look at the body.” A shudder went through him. “It was almost as bad as Luther Berryhill’s.”
“Mrs. Vance’s was worse,” Everett said in a low voice.
“So she really is dead? But . . . there were two bodies in the wagon.”
“Her husband killed himself. I suppose the poor man thought that he just couldn’t live without her.”
Graham said, “Why don’t you come over to the office with me? I’d like to hear the whole story.”
Everett forced a smile. “That would mean cooperating with a rival newspaperman.”
“I don’t see what rivalry we could possibly have,” Graham said with
a laugh. “I put out a little cattle town weekly. You work for one of the largest and most respected newspapers in the country.”
“Well . . . I don’t suppose it would hurt anything to talk about it.” To tell the truth, Everett thought, he was anxious for a little conversation with someone who wasn’t quite so taciturn as Hell Jackson.
The two men walked down the street to the office of the Death Head Crossing Weekly Journal. It was located in a small storefront with the newspaper’s name painted on one of the windows. As they approached, Graham gestured toward the window and said, “Some of us here in town would like to change the name of the place. Death Head Crossing really just isn’t a suitable name for a settlement.”
“What would you call it?” Everett asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a place called Horsehead Crossing over on the Pecos River. People seem to like the word crossing. There are some cottonwoods along the creek. We could call the town Cottonwood Crossing.”
Everett nodded. “It’s certainly not as grim. But it’s not as unusual and striking either.”
“That’s what we want if the town is going to continue to grow and become more civilized.”
It was none of Everett’s business what the citizens of the settlement called it. He assumed that he wouldn’t be staying here too long. Once Jackson moved on, so would he.
Graham opened the door and led the way into the office. Everett instantly smelled the familiar tang of printer’s ink. A railing divided the room. One desk sat in front of it while two more were behind it. Beyond those desks were the composing trays, the large racks of type, and the bulky printing press itself.
To Everett’s surprise, a woman stood next to the printing press, wielding a wrench and trying to work a balky bolt loose on the machine. She wore a heavy canvas apron that was stained with ink over her dress. When Everett and Graham came in, she turned to look at them and exasperatedly blew a strand of blond hair out of her face. It had fallen over her eyes as she strained at the bolt.
“I can’t get this loose, Malcolm,” she said. “Can you give me a hand?”
Everett suppressed the impulse to volunteer to help her. She was probably Graham’s wife, and Everett didn’t want to offend anyone.
Graham chuckled and said, “Of course, my dear.” He opened a gate in the railing and stepped through. “This will just take me a minute, Everett. My sister is a genius at keeping that old press running, but sometimes she lacks the brute strength required for the task.”
“Your sister?” Everett repeated. He had already noticed that the blonde wore no wedding ring on her finger.
“That’s right,” Graham said. “Rosalie, this is Mr. Everett Sidney Howard of the New York Universe. Mr. Howard, my sister, Miss Rosalie Graham.”
She smiled distractedly at him and said, “The New York Universe. That’s a real paper. Malcolm and I have dreamed of having something like that someday. Nothing as big as the Universe, of course, but something better than a weekly with a broken-down press.”
Graham took the wrench from her. “Be careful, Rosalie, you’re going to have Mr. Howard thinking that we’re not proud of the work we do here.”
“Pride is one thing. Being able to afford a better press is another.” She wiped her hand on her apron, looked at it skeptically, and went on. “No, still not clean enough to shake hands. Let’s just say I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Howard.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Everett said.
She was somewhat older than him, probably in her late twenties, and she was certainly attractive. Enough so, in fact, that he found it odd she had never married. That was none of his business, of course, so he tried to put it out of his mind.
Graham gripped the wrench firmly, threw his strength against it, and the stubborn bolt slowly came loose with a faint screeching sound. “There,” Graham said when he had it loose enough so that it could be turned by hand.
“Good,” Rosalie said. “I can replace that rotor now. What was all the commotion outside?”
Graham’s tone grew more serious as he answered, “There’s been another killing.”
Rosalie looked surprised. “You mean besides that poor man who was brought in earlier today?”
“That’s right. Mr. Howard knows all the details.”
She turned to Everett, the press momentarily forgotten. “Can you tell us about it?”
Everett couldn’t refuse that request. The story was going to be all over the settlement in a short time anyway, he thought, knowing how things were in small towns like this. He might as well make sure that the local paper got the facts, rather than any garbled version that might make the rounds later.
Graham and Rosalie sat down at the two desks behind the railing while Everett leaned on the railing itself. After riding out to Fowler Vance’s ranch and back, he wasn’t going to be interested in sitting down for a while. He spent the next half hour telling them almost everything he knew about the mysterious deaths plaguing the area. The only thing he held back was Jackson’s speculation that the killer calling himself the Hand of God might be Reverend Driscoll or Benjamin Tillman. That still seemed preposterous to him, and anyway, there was no proof one way or the other.
“What an incredible story,” Graham murmured when Everett was finished. He had been taking notes while Everett was talking, but now he pushed the pad of paper away from him. “I wouldn’t feel right writing about it, though.”
“Why not?” Everett asked. “I knew when I agreed to talk to you that you’d probably run the story in the Journal.”
“This is your story,” Graham insisted. “Why don’t you write it for us?”
“We could even put out an extra edition,” Rosalie suggested.
Everett’s eyes widened a little. His byline on an extra? Even in a little newspaper like this one? It was tempting, but he had to shake his head.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I have a contract with the Universe. I have to honor it.”
Graham sighed. “Yes, of course. I didn’t even think of that. In that case . . .” He reached for his notes. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Go ahead,” Everett told him. “The eastbound stage comes through tomorrow, so I’ll be writing up my own dispatch tonight and getting it in the mail to New York. You won’t beat me into print by too many days.”
Rosalie said, “You can write your dispatch after you have dinner with us tonight. That’s the least we can do for you.”
“That’s an excellent idea!” Graham said with a smile. “What do you say, Mr. Howard?”
Everett didn’t have to think over the offer for very long, not with Rosalie looking at him with an expectant expression on her lovely face. “I say call me Everett,” he replied, “and I’ll be honored to accept your hospitality.”
Chapter 16
Everett stopped by the saloon where Jackson was sitting at one of the rear tables, nursing a drink and idly laying out a hand of solitaire. Jackson had found that handling cards sometimes helped him to think, and he had quite a bit to ponder at the moment.
Not only did he have to wonder who was responsible for the gruesome deaths of four people and how those bizarre killings had been accomplished, but he also had to ask himself why the hell he cared. There was no payoff in it for him, and he had always been a man who went where the money took him. As he had told Everett, he wasn’t actually a hired killer . . . but the way things had worked out, most of the jobs he’d taken on had involved shoot-outs and violent death sooner or later. He didn’t think very often about the men who had gone down before his gun, figuring there was no point in it other than realizing that they were dead and he was still alive.
No one was paying him to solve these mysteries. As far as he could see, no one was going to pay him. He ought to just get on his horse and ride out, put Death Head Crossing behind him and forget the whole blamed thing. Satisfying his curiosity wasn’t worth the time and effort and potential danger. True, he was providing what might be a heck of a story for
Everett to write about, but he didn’t like the youngster enough to make it all worthwhile.
He supposed he would have to leave it at the fact that sometimes a man had an itch he just had to scratch, whether it made sense or not.
Everett said he was going to be having supper with Malcolm Graham, the publisher of the local paper, and Graham’s sister Rosalie.
“Unmarried sister?” Jackson asked with a faint smile as he moved a red jack onto a black queen.
“That’s the impression I got. She doesn’t wear a wedding ring, and she didn’t mention having a husband. She works with her brother, and probably lives with him too.”
“Nice to look at, is she?”
Everett reddened quite a bit, so that his face almost matched the color of his hair. “I suppose she’s attractive. She’s older than me, though. She must be twenty-seven or twenty-eight.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty old,” Jackson said. “She still got her own teeth?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.” Everett’s voice was stiff with embarrassment.
“Well, you just go right ahead and enjoy your dinner with them.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You’re looking at it,” Jackson said as he moved another card and then reached for his glass of whiskey. He sipped from it and sighed in satisfaction.
Everett pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “I’ll see you later then.”
Jackson nodded but didn’t say anything.
He waited until Everett was gone, finishing his drink and the hand of solitaire while he was at it. Then he stood up and left the saloon as well.
Jackson went to the boardinghouse and got his horse from the stable out back. He saddled up and rode out of Death Head Crossing, avoiding the newspaper office as he did so because he didn’t want Everett to see him leaving town. If the young reporter spotted him riding out, he would probably want to come along wherever Jackson was going.
Dusk settled over the landscape. In this part of Texas, night fell quickly once the sun slipped below the horizon. By the time Jackson had put a couple of miles behind him, the sky was dark and the stars were out.
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