He was passing the church as Reverend Driscoll stepped out of the whitewashed building. Driscoll stopped short, the usual dislike evident on his face as Jackson nodded pleasantly to him. “So you’re still in town,” the minister said.
“That’s right,” Jackson said. “I’ve decided to stick around until this whole Hand of God business is straightened out and the killings are stopped.”
“Don’t use that name!” Driscoll snapped.
“You mean the Hand of God?” Jackson asked, knowing that it would annoy the preacher but not particularly caring if it did.
“The monster who’s calling himself that has nothing to do with God,” Driscoll said. “That’s a product of his own diseased mind.”
“There’s nothing unusual about folks doing bad things in the name of God,” Jackson pointed out. “Just read the history books.”
Driscoll shook his head. “I don’t have to read the history books to know that God has nothing to do with the evil that men carry out on each other. The Scriptures say for us to love one another, not kill each other.”
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Jackson murmured. “Maybe the Hand of God just thinks he’s carrying out that divine vengeance.”
“Then he’s even more of a sinner than those he condemns.”
“Finally we agree on something, preacher,” Jackson said. “I don’t reckon you’ll have to worry about the Hand of God much longer, though. It won’t be long until he’s put out of the punishment business.”
Driscoll looked surprised. “You honestly think so?”
“I know so,” Jackson said. He lifted a hand in farewell and led his horse on down the street toward the boardinghouse.
Everett’s horse was already put up in the stable behind the house. Jackson took care of his own mount, checking the bullet graze on the animal’s rump to make sure it was healing properly. As he went in the back door into the kitchen, he saw Philomena at the sink, washing some of the dishes from lunch. Even with her sleeves rolled up and her arms plunged into soapy water to the elbows, she was mighty pretty, Jackson thought.
She turned away from the sink and grabbed a cloth to dry her hands. “Señor Jackson, what happened to Everett?” she asked as she came over to him, still wiping her arms with the cloth.
“Why, was he upset?”
She nodded. “Very much. He refused to eat, even though the food from lunch was still on the table, and went straight up to his room. He looked like he had been in a fight. And when I asked him where you were, he said that he did not know and did not care.”
“Everett’s a mite put out with me right now,” Jackson admitted. “And he was in a fight . . . with Benjamin Tillman.”
Mrs. Morton, the proprietor of the place, came into the kitchen in time to hear that. She said, “Good Lord, Mr. Tillman’s a fine man. Why would Mr. Howard pick a fight with him?”
“It was a personal matter,” Jackson said, not wanting to go into the details with the woman. He couldn’t resist adding, “I’m not sure how fine a man Tillman really is, though.”
“He’s not some gunslinger,” Mrs. Morton said, her lips tightening with the same sort of censure that Jackson always got from Reverend Driscoll. She went on. “He’s from the East, you know,” as if that automatically conferred some sort of special status on someone. “And he’s very wealthy.”
Jackson nodded. Money really did confer special status on folks, whether things ought to be that way or not.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” Mrs. Morton continued. “All this commotion all the time, people brawling with each other and getting killed and . . . and . . . it’s just uncivilized, that’s what it is!”
“If you’re talking about what happened to Berryhill and Harcourt and Mrs. Vance, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that for too much longer,” Jackson said. “That whole business will be cleared up before you know it.”
“Do you really think so?”
He nodded. “I’m sure of it.”
“Land’s sakes, I hope so! If it keeps up, people will be afraid to come to Death Head Crossing, and then where will we all be?”
Jackson didn’t have an answer for that.
Mrs. Morton bustled out, still shaking her head in dismay over the state of the world. Jackson turned toward the rear stairs, but Philomena stopped him by reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. Her fingers were still slightly damp from the dishwater, but they felt good against his bare forearm.
“You are scratched up too, like Everett was,” she said.
“We both tangled with some rosebushes.”
“Did you mean what you said about the trouble being over soon?”
Jackson nodded. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
“I pray you are right, Señor, but I fear that the evil in this town will never go away. My grandfather’s death made me realize that men will go to any lengths to get what they want. Nothing can change that.”
“Maybe not,” Jackson admitted, “but you can deal with one varmint, or one bunch of varmints, at a time. You can’t just give up.”
Philomena smiled. The expression held a trace of sadness. “A man such as yourself cannot give up. You tell people that you are a hired gun, that you care for nothing but money. But I know this is not true. There is much good in you. You simply choose not to reveal it.”
Jackson put a hand on her shoulder, leaned forward, and brushed his lips across hers in a kiss. “I’m not saying you’re right,” he said, “but if you are, let’s just keep it between us.”
“As you wish.” She sighed and turned toward the sink. “Now I must get back to work.”
“Me too,” Jackson said, although for the moment his work would consist of waiting.
He had planted some seeds today.
Now he had to see what, if anything, was going to sprout from them.
Chapter 22
Feeling betrayed, Everett went up to his room and shut the door behind him. Right now he didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. He had honestly believed that he and Jackson were partners. He hadn’t expected the gunslinger to turn on him like that.
And yet he shouldn’t have been surprised, he told himself. After all, he was a naïve young Easterner . . . a dude, a tenderfoot, a greenhorn. No matter what you called it, he knew that Jackson would never have any real respect for anyone like him.
Still fuming, Everett used a cloth and water from the basin on the table next to the bed to clean the dried blood from the scratches on his arms and face. He used his shaving mirror to see how bad the injuries were, and applied sticking plaster to several of them.
Then, after sternly telling himself that he couldn’t just hide out in his room for the rest of the day, he went downstairs. Thinking that he heard Jackson’s voice in the rear of the house somewhere, he turned the other way and went out the front door.
He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he wasn’t surprised that his steps led him to the office of the Weekly Journal. Since he’d arrived in Death Head Crossing, the only people who had really seemed to understand him were Malcolm and Rosalie Graham. Malcolm was a fellow journalist, and they were both cultured and intelligent. They didn’t look down on him because he was from New York. In fact, they seemed to admire him for that.
When he went inside, he found Rosalie alone in the office. She looked at him in surprise and said, “My goodness, Everett, you appear to have been on the losing end of an argument with a wildcat!”
He touched one of the pieces of sticking plaster covering his cuts and said, “Some rosebushes actually. I ran into trouble out at the Winged T.”
She came through the gate in the railing and approached him with a sympathetic expression on her face now. “What sort of trouble?” she asked.
Everett hadn’t meant to talk about it, but the words came tumbling out of his mouth anyway. “Benjamin Tillman attacked me!”
Rosalie’s eyebrows rose even more. “Mr. Tillman did that? No offense, Everett, but I have
trouble believing that such a fine gentleman from Philadelphia would act in such an uncivilized manner.”
“He’s not a fine gentleman. He’s a madman. I was simply standing on the porch of his house, talking to his cousin, when he went into a rage. I never expected him to act like that. If Mr. Jackson hadn’t been there to break it up, I don’t know what might have happened.”
Rosalie still didn’t seem convinced. “But why would he do such a thing?” she asked. “He must have had a good reason. Maybe he misunderstood what was going on.”
“He misunderstood, all right . . . because I think he’s in love with his cousin!”
Everett hadn’t meant for that to come out either, but it was too late to hold it back now, he realized as Rosalie gasped in shock. But at least he could keep the speculation about Tillman being the Hand of God to himself, he warned himself sternly. As long as he and Jackson were investigating, it was just a theory for them to look into. If it spread further than that, it became malicious gossip.
Shaking her head, Rosalie said, “I find this all very difficult to believe.”
“I’m not making it up,” Everett said.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that. I believe you, Everett. I just never would have thought such things could be going on around here.”
“Can I trust you not to say anything about this to your brother?” he asked. “At this point, Tillman’s motives are purely speculation on my part. I’d hate to see such a thing printed in the paper.”
She frowned at him. “Give me credit for having some sense of discretion, Everett. I don’t automatically repeat everything I hear to Malcolm so he can put it in the paper.”
Abashed, he said, “I’m sorry. I meant no offense, Rosalie. This whole business has me so shaken that I hardly know what I’m saying right now.” He looked around the office. “Malcolm isn’t here?”
“No, he’s running some errands.”
At that moment, the sound of angry voices came from somewhere in the rear of the building. Despite what Rosalie had just said, Everett felt sure one of them belonged to Malcolm Graham. There was something familiar about the other voice too, but he couldn’t place it.
Rosalie turned to look toward the rear of the building and laughed. “Wouldn’t you know it?” she said. “That’s just like that brother of mine, to make a liar out of me.” She raised her voice and called, “Malcolm, is that you? Everett Howard is here.”
Graham came bustling through a doorway, a smile of greeting on his face. “Everett!” he said. “Good to see you again. How are—” He stopped short and looked surprised. “I can see how you are. What happened? You don’t strike me as the brawling type.”
“I’m not,” Everett admitted with a rueful expression. “The fight certainly wasn’t my idea.”
“But who did that?” Graham persisted. “Whoever it was, the scoundrel should be thrown in jail! Have you talked to the sheriff about it?”
Everett glanced at Rosalie, and could tell by her expression that she was going to keep his confidence. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I’d prefer just to forget that it ever happened.”
“Well, that’s your decision to make, I suppose. But you really can’t let these frontiersmen take advantage of you. You have to stand up for yourself. Rosalie and I learned that as soon as we came out here, didn’t we, dear?”
“Of course,” Rosalie agreed.
To change the subject, Everett said, “You sounded like you were just having some trouble of your own.”
Graham frowned in apparent confusion. “What?”
“That argument you were having back there.” Everett gestured toward the rear of the building.
For a second, Graham still looked confused, but then he laughed and said, “Oh, that. It was nothing, just a disagreement with the man who takes our papers around town every Friday, the day we publish.” Graham lowered his voice and added, “He’s a bit of a drinker, you know. I don’t pay him much, but it’s enough to buy a bottle of rotgut. Unfortunately, when you’re dealing with people like that, they have a tendency to be unreliable.”
“Were you able to take care of the problem, Mal?” Rosalie asked.
He waved a hand negligently. “Oh, yes, it’s all settled. Nothing to worry about.” He turned back to Everett and went on. “Was there some reason you stopped by? Not that we mind the visit.”
The real reason Everett had come here was because he was upset over what Jackson had done, but he didn’t want to tell them that. Instead, he thought fast and said, “I thought perhaps the two of you would let me take you to dinner tonight. You know, to repay you for having me over to your house.”
“That’s not necessary—” Graham began.
“But we’d love to,” Rosalie broke in. “That’s very nice of you, Everett.”
“Really?” Graham sounded surprised by his sister’s decision, but he shrugged in agreement. “Of course, dear, whatever you say.”
“All right,” Everett said with a nod, pleased by the way this was turning out. He looked forward to spending more time with Rosalie. To tell the truth, she was even prettier than Deborah Tillman because hers was a more mature beauty, and he thought it was unlikely that her brother would go mad and attack him the way Deborah’s cousin had. “I’ll leave the choice of restaurant to you, since you’re more familiar with the establishments here.”
“You’re not going to have that much of a choice in Death Head Crossing,” Graham pointed out. “There’s a fairly nice café, though. Why don’t you meet us here about seven o’clock? We’ll be through with the day’s work by then.”
“That’s fine.” Everett lifted his hat politely as he nodded to Rosalie. “I’ll see you both later then.”
He had a newfound spring in his step as he left the newspaper office. His so-called partnership with Jackson might have fallen apart, but the evening promised to be a pleasant one.
If he got to know the Grahams better, he reflected, he might even be able to trust them with the suspicion that Benjamin Tillman was the Hand of God. Malcolm was a newspaperman and was experienced at ferreting out the truth. Maybe he would just exchange one partner for two new ones, Everett thought.
And anyway, Rosalie Graham was much prettier than any old gunslinger!
Jackson took advantage of the opportunity to get some sleep that afternoon, since he planned to be busy once night had fallen again. He didn’t see Everett around when he left his room and went to saddle his horse, and he wondered if the young reporter was holed up in his own room, sulking.
That would probably be the safest place for him tonight.
As night was falling, Jackson left Death Head Crossing by the back alleys so there would be less chance of anyone spotting him. He circled around the settlement and headed north toward the Winged T.
Even though his suspicions now centered on Benjamin Tillman, his instincts told him there had to be more to this than one unbalanced hombre driven loco by his feelings for his cousin. There was no chance in hell that Tillman had pulled off those murders by himself. He’d had help from somebody, and it was doubtful that whoever was helping him was doing it because they were crazy too.
There was also the rustling to consider. Tillman wasn’t stealing cows from his own ranch. Try as he might, Jackson couldn’t figure out any way for that to make sense.
And, he reminded himself, he had no proof yet that Tillman was responsible for the Hand of God slayings, only the fact that the man had attacked Everett and yelled a lot of crazy things. Being loco was no crime by itself.
Jackson didn’t really expect the rustlers to strike again this soon, but he wanted to be close by if they did. And if the Hand of God and his mysterious balls of light that killed people put in another appearance, Jackson wanted to be there for that too. He planned to spend as many nights as it took poking around the Winged T.
And there was a chance that the varmint he was looking for would come to him, rather than the other way around. That was why he had gone around the settl
ement earlier in the day, hinting to everyone he could find that he had found out something important. It was his hope that would draw the enemy to him.
Just one more way of poking at that hornet’s nest . . .
Within an hour of leaving the settlement, he was on Winged T range, once again riding through the rugged terrain where he had encountered the rustlers—and an unknown bushwhacker—the night before. He had just passed between a couple of boulders when he heard the ominous sound of Winchesters being levered. Reining in sharply and twisting in the saddle, Jackson reached for his gun.
“Hold it!” came the shouted command. “Touch that Colt and we’ll blow you out of the saddle, Jackson!”
A grim smile crossed Jackson’s face as he looked up at the pair of riflemen covering him from the top of the boulders. He had used himself for bait—and the trap had just slammed shut.
Chapter 23
Jackson thought at first there was something wrong with the heads of the two gunmen who had the drop on him. They were misshapen and didn’t look fully human. But then he realized that they were wearing hoods of some sort instead of Stetsons. That accounted for the odd shape.
Keeping his hand away from his gun, he called up to them, “Take it easy, boys. I’m not looking for trouble.”
“I think that’s exactly what you’re lookin’ for, mister,” one of the men replied.
Jackson had heard both of them speak now, and the voices of both men were familiar. He couldn’t place them, but he knew he had heard them sometime in the fairly recent past.
“If this is a holdup, you won’t get much,” he drawled. “My stay in Death Head Crossing hasn’t been very profitable.”
“It’s not a holdup,” the man on the left said. “We’re not after your money. I think you know why we’re doin’ this.”
Death Head Crossing Page 14