“I guess your whiskey’s fine.”
They sat in armchairs at either side of the fire, tasting the good malt liquor Grant had had imported from Europe and talking of nothing very much. Grant was sounding him out, learning as much as he could and giving away very little about himself. Hart more or less relaxed, told the banker pretty much what he guessed he wanted to know. Out through the wide rear window, Hart could see a couple of long, low outhouses, one of which had smoke coming from a tin stack jutting out of the roof. He figured that was where the hired help lived. There was a small corral off to the right with some fine-looking stock, and back of that were some freshly planted fruit trees.
Hart kept in the back of his mind the thought that the woman from the window might come in at any moment and interrupt, but she didn’t. His eyes caught the portrait and he got to thinking whether the person he had seen was the girl holding the flowers or her mother.
Grant caught the direction of his glance, maybe even interpreted his thoughts.
“My children,” he said, lowering his voice to something approaching veneration. “Catherine and Lewis.”
Hart said something complimentary about the picture and waited for Grant to continue.
This he did only after draining his glass and refilling it, offering the bottle to Hart, who shook his head and declined.
This has to do with them, with Katherine and ... Lewis. The matter at hand.
He was finding it difficult to talk about and Hart watched him struggling with it, an oversize fish snagged on the end of a line and unable to shake the hook.
A little more whiskey helped; it was good whiskey.
“Only months back when we were living in Fort Smith.” He glanced up at Hart. “I had certain banking interests there.” And away again. “Lewis was escorting Katherine home. They took a short cut off the main street. It may not have been sensible, but shouldn’t a man expect his children to be able to walk around their home town without fear of... ?”
Grant’s body shuddered. He set the glass to his lips and it rattled against his teeth as he drank. The eyes seemed to have withdrawn even deeper into his head and they were no longer bright. A log toppled down in the fireplace and a flurry of sparks flew up.
“My daughter, Katherine, she was attacked by a man. I don’t need to tell you the nature of the ... Lewis, he went to her defense. For his courage the cowardly bastard rewarded him with a knife between the ribs. Having killed my son, he returned to my daughter.” He stared across the room. “Mr. Hart, they were little more than children. Brave, strong children. Strong and ...” His voice trembled a fraction and he glanced above the fireplace.”... beautiful.”
Hart leaned his weight back in the chair; the leather creaked a little under him. He set his almost empty glass down on the polished floor.
“Your daughter, was she ... ?”
“She lived, Mr. Hart. If that’s what you can call it. She lived, she lives now. Lives here.”
Grant stood up and walked briskly towards the window, turning back into the room, his hands clenched by his sides. Behind his bulk the sky was beginning to darken, the sun was a glowing, stretching red across his shoulders.
“I sold the house in town and moved up here. I thought, away from where it had happened, Katherine would recover. Gradually, she would forget what had taken place.”
Hart’s mind went to the figure against the window, the un-moving, bowed body, the lowered head.
“Her mother died when she was a young girl, no more than seven. Perhaps if she had still been alive and Katherine had someone to talk to...”
Grant broke off and started to pace restlessly about the room; he picked up the bottle and set it down again, unused; toyed with a cigar box and left that also.
“She hasn’t spoken to me since it happened. Never more than a few words. And every time she looks at me ...” Grant turned heavily towards the window and Hart watched as he fought to control his emotions, hands opening and closing, his breathing clearly audible across the room. “Every time she looks at me ... ” The words were only just loud enough to make out, fragmented and halting. “... I can see in her face that she’s blaming... blaming me ... for what happened.”
His body hunched forwards and Hart thought for one moment that he was going to break down, but instead he whirled round and slammed one hand, bunched into a huge fist, hard down into the palm of the other. Veins on his neck were standing out through the fat. His eyes strained through the hoods of loose flesh.
The evil bastard who did this to her!” Grant strode towards the fire, towards Hart but not looking at him, looking only at the picture hanging from the wall. “The evil bastard!”
Hart waited until his breathing grew more controlled and his body was beginning to relax. Then he said: “You want me to find him. Then what?”
Grant didn’t move, made no sign that he had heard.
“I said what do you want me to do with him then?”
Grant looked round hard. “After what I’ve told you, you still have to ask that?”
“You want a killer, go find someone else.” Hart’s voice was flat, unyielding.
“Even the least of men will shoot down a wild dog,” snarled Grant.
“That ain’t in question.”
“Then what the hell is?”
Hart stood up, facing the banker down until the puffy eyelids blinked and the eyes looked away. “You want me to catch up with him, I’ll do my best. But unless he don’t leave me no alternative, I’m takin’ him in for trial.”
Grant rocked back on his heels a little and when Hart thought he was about to lose his temper he surprised him by throwing back his head and roaring out a monstrous laugh.
Trial! That’s a poor joke, Mr. Hart. A poor damned joke!”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t. He already stood trial. Up there in front of Judge Parker and sentenced to be hung. He was waiting for his time in the State Penitentiary only he didn’t wait that long.”
“Broke out?”
“Along with half a dozen others.”
“How long back?”
“Near on a week.”
It was Hart’s turn to walk around, stretch his legs. Grant offered him a drink and this time he refused; waited while the banker lit himself a cigar, snipping off one end and throwing it into the fire.
It was almost completely dark outside now, the remnants of the sun were smeared across the horizon like blue berries left to rot and decay. Hart thought he heard footsteps, quiet, outside the door, but he couldn’t be certain. Grant, at least, gave no sign.
“The marshal—” Hart began.
“Fagan’ll do what he can. But he’s one man and there aren’t deputies enough to help out. Besides, he’s got other things to tend to. I want a man who can find Lloyd Majors and keep lookin’ till he does.”
Hart nodded. “You rememberin’ my conditions?”
“If you can’t find excuse enough to gun him down like he deserves, bring him back to me. I’ll string him up over the front door with my own hands.”
Hart believed he would.
“You’ll do it?” Grant asked.
“Seventy-five dollars a week and five hundred when I bring him in.”
Grant tapped his finger ends against the mantel, glanced up at the portrait.
“Dead or alive.”
“I told you how it’d be.”
“All right. We’ve got a deal.”
Grant put out his hand and this time Hart noticed that it was clammy with cooling sweat.
“You’d best stay here tonight. There’s a spare bunk out back. I’ve got three men working for me and one of them’s bringing a load of wire back from Fort Smith. I’ll take you out.”
Hart shook his head. “Don’t bother. I’ll make my own introductions.”
Grant nodded. “Suit yourself.”
Almost at the door, Grant called Hart back, “I don’t have to tell you how important this is to me, Mr. Hart?”
&nbs
p; “No. You don’t.”
“Good.” He moved a few paces away from the fire. “I have breakfast a little after sun-up. If you’d care to join me.”
Hart nodded. “Sure.”
He didn’t suppose the banker’s breakfasts were half bad - and a good meal inside him at the start of the day would stand him in good stead. He was going to have plenty enough to do before even he could begin to track Majors down. There were questions enough that wanted asking, possibilities to be considered, assessed.
Stepping out through the door, Hart stiffened at a sharp scraping sound and swung his head high. Something scuttled along in the guttering of the tiled roof. Below and off to the left, the light from a lantern cast a young woman’s silhouette on to the window. Hart pulled the Indian blanket tighter about him and strode off towards the bunkhouse. There was a light burning there too, fainter, smudged by the tainted glass. Inside, two men were playing cards with a dog-eared pack. Their hands moved towards their weapons as Hart knocked and entered. Quickly he explained who he was and they relaxed and pointed out his bunk, offered him coffee from the warmed-over grounds on the small stove set at the centre of the long room. Half an hour later, Hart was laying on the bunk, thinking about the coming day; fifteen minutes more and he was asleep, mouth slightly open, the sound of relaxed breathing quiet as the shuffle of cards.
Chapter Five
Any animosity between Tap Loughlin and Lloyd Majors had become submerged in their mutual need to escape; once outside the penitentiary the important thing was to stay free and clear. Before the gang of men had been on the road two hours they had raided a farm close to the northern trail. There had been five folk inside, a man and woman, two young kids and a hired hand. The farmer had got a few knuckles on his right hand busted reaching for a rifle and there was the beginnings of a large bruise alongside his jaw. No one else had resisted over much. The woman had screamed and Majors had started in towards her, but Tap had read the trouble and intercepted him, slapping the woman across the face hard. She hadn’t thanked him for it, but from the look that had been coming into Major’s eyes, she should have done.
They’d added to their supplies to the tune of some coffee beans and fresh baked bread, dill and onion and smelling fine enough for the gang to eat a loaf there and then. There had been enough clothing of the farmer’s and the hired hand’s to go round everyone except Joseph and Gideon, who were too big to fit their limbs into anything there.
Sun-up had found them well north of the Petit Jean, with no evidence of a posse and no sound of baying hounds on their track. A fire had cooked breakfast and coffee and the men had talked about what they were going to do.
“’Fore we do anythin’ else,” said Baptiste, “we go to get us some money.”
Majors laughed and leaned back on his haunches. That’s easy enough, ain’t it?”
“How come?”
“Aren’t you fellers hold-up artists? Ain’t that what you’re so damned good at? All we got to do is sit here and wait for you to come back with the goods.”
Tap Loughlin pushed his boot against the edge of the fire and flames stirred up, licking around the top of the pan in which the coffee was simmering. “You seem to be forgettin’ somethin’, Majors.”
“Yeah?” Majors leered forward. “An’ what might that be?”
“We had an agreement.”
“We did?”
“Yes, we did.”
Loughlin was standing straight and the pistol he’d taken from the farm was jutting up from his belt, the butt hard against the flat of his belly. Baptiste had a shotgun close by his hand and Joseph w as toying with another. It wasn’t clear that the two blacks would side with Loughlin if it came to a showdown, only pretty likely; there wasn’t any doubting which way Tap’s own men would jump, though. For all that, Majors didn’t appear in the least afraid.
“Maybe you’d better remind me,” he said, tauntingly. “My memory, it ain’t so good.”
“Okay,” said Loughlin, his fingers so close to touching the gun. “We get out, we split up. That’s it.”
“Maybe I like it hanging around?” grinned Majors.
“And maybe I don’t!”
Loughlin glanced at Baptiste and noticed that the shotgun was now resting across his knees, finger inside the trigger guard. Joseph still didn’t seem to have made up his mind for certain, but Scott Levy had his hand less than a couple of inches away from the pistol in his pocket.
“Look, Loughlin,” said Majors, leaning forward, the smile disappearing from his face and his voice becoming serious, “we just agreed that we’re not going to get much further without a few dollars in our pockets, ain’t that right?”
“Goon.”
“Let’s say we hang together until that’s over.”
“Until we’ve ridden in some place and done it for you.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What then?”
Majors pushed his hands down into the ground, leaving clear, heavy impressions when he lifted them away moments later and brushed them against his pants. “We pick the spot. You do that. It’s your game. Ride in together. Share the risks. Share the money. Then I’ll ride out.”
“What’s wrong with you gettin’ rich on your own account?” put in Baptiste.
“I said, it ain’t my game. If I come in with you and get set up, that’ll be it. Better if none of us gets caught an’ if I’ve got money I can head off into Indian territory with no problems.”
Loughlin gave it a few seconds thought.
“Let him ride with us,” said Gideon. “One more gun ain’t goin’ to harm none.”
That’s right,” agreed Joseph.
Loughlin reluctantly agreed. The next town they arrived at, a couple of them would ride in and check it out. If everything seemed quiet enough, they would hit the place hard, get what they could and then that would be the last they’d ever see of Lloyd Majors.
“And one thing’s clear,” added Loughlin.
“Yeah?”
“This is my show. I do the callin’.” He pointed a finger directly at Majors, who was grinning again almost fit to bust. “You got that?”
“Sure, sure. I understand. You call the shots.” Laughing, Majors turned his back on Loughlin and reached down for the coffee.
~*~
Peebles’ Halt was a scattering of buildings on the southern banks of one of the narrow rivers that ran down from the higher ground of Magazine Mountain into the Petit Jean. The river was called the White Fork by some folk and the Snake by others. Peebles’ Halt itself was named after the trading post and drinking place that had been started up there by a Scotsman from Aberdeen who sported a totally bald head and a taste for whiskey, leather-bound volumes of travel writing and sheep. Gradually, other folk had settled round the original building, some on purpose, others more or less by chance. Peebles himself had sold his first place just a year to the day before a twister tore it down. He built a two-storey saloon and store with its own windmill out back and a brick store house equipped with a padlock.
Pulled in around there was a blacksmith who ran the livery stable; a barber who doubled as doctor and dentist both; an undertaker who baked bread and pies and charged travelers ten cents to wash off in his tin bath which he kept between the unused coffins. There was another store, which specialized in saddles and belts and ammunition. A laundry which functioned as the nearest thing to a whorehouse - when there weren’t enough dirty shirts and sheets to pay the bills, the one-eyed Chinaman who ran the place sent his half-caste daughter down to Peebles’ place to drum up a little extra trade. Once she’d lured a customer back to the laundry room and he’d got rid of his clothes, it wasn’t unknown for the Chinaman to take them away and give them a quick wash, adding that charge to the bill.
What Peebles’ Halt didn’t boast was a bank. None of the folk that lived there ever seemed to have money enough long enough for any bank to do worthwhile business. There was a lot of trading going down, a month’s washi
ng set against feed and keep for a team of horses, two sacks of flour in exchange for a couple of dozen apple pies. Actual bills and silver pieces didn’t change hands any too often.
The only person thought to have real money, of course, was Peebles. Why else would a man have a wagon load of bricks shipped in and build himself a store house and then fit a padlock to it, if he didn’t have money locked away inside?
There couldn’t be any other explanation.
Baptiste clicked his tongue sharply and pulled his horse alongside Loughlin’s, the pair of them heading in from the river and passing the first buildings of the settlement. Fashioned from a mixture of sods and odd planks of wood and a couple of sheets of tin, they sure didn’t amount to very much. Didn’t give the impression of a community owning a lot of wealth.
“We’re wastin’ our time here,” said Baptiste. “We ought to ride on right now.”
Loughlin nodded. “Maybe. Maybe.”
He glanced sideways at the small figure of an Oriental-looking girl scurrying along the side of the street with a bundle of washing, almost as high as herself, balancing on her head.
“Long time in that cell, weren’t it?” said Baptiste, also looking at the woman.
“Uh-huh.”
“You reckon it’s true?” Baptiste asked, touching Loughlin on the arm to get his attention.
“How’s that?”
“You know, what they say ‘bout how them China girls is built.”
“Built?” blinked Loughlin.
“Yeah,” said Baptiste enthusiastically. “The way their
The sound of a single pistol shot interrupted him and both Loughlin and himself swung towards the noise, hands reaching for their own guns. The laundry girl staggered on a few paces, the bundle of washing wobbling and shaking until it slowly toppled off her head and down into the dirt of the street.
Thirty yards away, a ragged man stepped out from beside a shack and hurled the lifeless form of a black and white dog into the middle of the street. There was an old Colt Navy in his left hand and a little smoke was still drifting from the end of the long barrel.
Baptiste and Loughlin exchanged glances and relaxed. The Chinese girl was scrambling around on the ground, retrieving the pieces of soiled laundry that would now have to be washed again.
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