Blair and Susanne reached the end of town and kept walking. All that remained of the three muffins were some crumbs on Blair’s short unshaven whiskers.
“I was in one of the saloons a month ago doing business and overheard the conversation. The woman, her name is Mary Collins, needed work because her husband died in the mine explosion. I recognized her right away, except she was in a bad way. The owner said he didn’t need any help except for whoring, and she was welcome to do that. She left crying.
“I followed her. Duane was waiting outside. She went to two other places, and they told her the same thing. All they needed were whores.”
Blair and Susanne stepped off the road to let a small, two-horse wagon go by. The two men sitting in the worked-over box on wheels waved as they passed.
“That night I left them two dollars on their porch. I told Milly what I did and the two of us have been leaving them food or some cash ever since. There’s no reason good folk should have to do what we do to feed their kids.”
She furrowed her eyebrows and a tear formed in the corner of her eye. “They helped me. It was the least I could do for her. The mining company is doing her wrong, something about bills her husband owed for the cabin. Doesn’t the good book say something about taking care of widows and orphans?”
“It does.”
“Well, I hope my good deeds make up for my bad deeds.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“Back East. I plan on opening up a restaurant. I’m a great cook. Better than anyone here in this town. But boom towns only last so long. I don’t want to work on my back any more when the money leaves again.”
“Working a job you don’t like never seems to be worth the pay.”
“Or the heart ache.”
Blair paused his next step. “Yeah.”
“You know about that, don’t you?”
Blair bit his lip and kept walking. “Self-condemnation.”
“Ain’t it a beautiful thing?”
They reached the one-room cabin with the blue door.
“Give me the basket.” Susanne reached her hand out.
Blair handed it over. “How do you know they aren’t home?”
She spun in a circle to see if anyone was watching. “She’s at the hotel cleaning rooms and Duane’s at the stables. I checked before I bought the bread.” She ran to the porch and hung the basket on the door knob from a small loop of twine she carried. Susanne quickly checked again for spectators then ran past Blair. “Come on.” Susanne slowed down about fifty yards from the cabin. She waited for Blair, who took the trail at a fast walk.
“Slowpoke.” She laughed like a school girl who had played a prank.
Blair grinned.
Jonathan Blair—murderer and thief—walked with Susanne Richmond—prostitute and philanthropist—to town.
Running horses thundered behind them. Blair gently pushed Susanne out of the way with a sweep of his arm. Two horses towed a shabby wagon toward them, the one that had passed them moments ago.
The wagon driver yelled for the horses to stop as he tightened up on the reins. They came to a sliding halt past the couple. The man in back waved at them to come over. “Get in. Get in. I need your help.” He held a bloody shirt to a gaping wound on a man with a broken leg.
Blair climbed in.
“Put pressure on it,” the man in back said.
“You coming?” Blair reached for Susanne.
She waved him off with one hand and held the other up to her pale face, revulsion in her eyes.
“Let’s go,” the man yelled at the driver. A whip cracked twice and the wagon jerked. The horses leaned hard until the wagon was rolling over the bumpy road.
“We found him in a creek bed. I saw the blood on the road and took a peek to see what was there. He was alive. It’s Theo Weinberg. At least I think it is.”
Blair couldn’t tell. The man’s face was broken, bloody and swollen. He had only seen Theo once, last night at the Maroon. He wrapped the pair of long johns around Theo’s leg as tight as he could. The beaten man moaned and squirmed with pain. Scenes like this were nothing new to Blair. He’d held the hand of dying men before—members of the gang that paid the price of lead for stealing and killing. He’d wrapped wounds, even dug out a few bullets. Will taught him how to stitch people up and do it quickly.
“How far up the road was he?” Blair asked.
“Not far at all, about a quarter mile back. Somebody worked him over bad.” The man in the back tended to Theo’s skull. A piece of scalp folded over his face. The man put it back in place, then wrapped another shirt around his head. “They probably left him for dead. Hell, he looked dead to me. Nearly pissed myself when he moved.”
Blair held the bloody long johns in place keeping the broken leg from bouncing in the wagon. With his left hand he searched Theo’s pockets.
“Mister, what are you doing?”
Blair slipped a small handful of cash from Theo’s pants. He held it up. “Whoever did this wasn’t trying to rob him.”
“Oh, boy. They just wanted him dead.”
As they reached town, the driver yelled for people to get out of the way, because he wasn’t stopping until they reached Doc Parker’s office. He jumped off the wagon, but forgot to set the brake. The horses kept moving. The driver spun around and ran after the wagon. The man in back jumped in the driver’s seat and yanked on the reins then set the brake. The driver turned again and ran up to the doctor’s door and started banging on the glass.
Theo grabbed Blair’s arm. One of his eyes was open, the other was too swollen and caked in dried blood. The grasp faded quickly as Theo’s strength drained. Blair bent down. Theo grunted syllables.
“What? I can’t hear you.” Blair leaned in closer.
Theo attempted his words again. He cringed as he took a breath. He let it out quickly with a whisper.
Blair jolted up and stared into Theo’s good eye.
The driver and Doc Parker came out with a flat board. The four men moved Theo onto the simple stretcher and carried him inside. Doc Parker didn’t even have time to take off the bandages before Theo died.
“Did he say something?” the driver asked.
“Nothing I could really make out. I think it was his brother’s name,” Blair lied. But it sounded good.
The driver nodded slightly several times. “Yep. Don’t surprise me, none. They was good for each other. Good brothers.” He and his partner climbed into the wagon seat. “Thanks for your help.” They tipped their hats to Blair.
A familiar sensation shook Blair’s soul.
“Jonathan Blair.”
Blair knew the voice all too well, enough to know not to move too quickly. If he did, he’d probably die before he saw the man calling to him. Jumping in the wagon was an option, but the idea of lying where Theo just died was a bad omen.
“JP.” He turned slowly, keeping his hands in view of the killer behind him.
“That’s Mr. Phillips to you.” Jeremiah Pruitt leaned against a horse-tethering post on the other side of the street. He kept one hand on the grip of a pistol. His right hand. His faster hand.
“Whatever you say, JP.” Blair’s leather safety straps were snapped closed on his holsters. Extra time to draw. Not enough time. Blair was never that fast on the draw. By gunfighter standards he was slow. At least that kept a target off him for those who sought to test their skills to become a legend or a corpse. What Blair lacked in speed, he made up for by keeping a cool head, a smooth, flawless draw, and accurate aim. He was deadly.
“You disrespecting me?” Pruitt straightened up, balancing his weight on his feet instead of the post. He took three steps.
“Your feelings get hurt awfully easy, JP. Your momma not treat you too well?” Blair took quick peeks into the crowd searching for the four gunmen Pruitt had with him on the day he shot the miner.
“I should have killed you in Mexico.” Pruitt caressed the handle of his pistol with his curled thumb.
&nb
sp; “Thought you said last night you’d never been to Mexico.” Blair raised his eyebrow and gave a half grin.
“Always flapping that tongue of yours. Surprised someone hasn’t cut it out yet.” Pruitt stuck out his tongue and flicked it with a finger. “Maybe I’ll do that before you die.”
The saloons cleared out onto the boardwalks. The drinkers came to see a gunfight. Their murmurs and cat calls traveled the streets. Soon two blocks of spectators waited for the thunder of pistols. Both gunmen took quick glances, but not long enough to give either an advantage.
Blair stayed far enough away from Pruitt to make a pistol fight more of a game of skill than an easy quick kill. The distance gave Blair the edge. At least it would have if his safety straps weren’t snapped closed. A quick draw at close range was deadly—but the farther the target, the less the accuracy. Blair couldn’t let Pruitt get any nearer, while not appearing like he was backing away, afraid.
“How’s your foot, JP? I heard you lost some toes.”
Pruitt cussed. “If you still got that mangy excuse for a horse, I’ll take care of it after I’m finished with you.”
“Be careful and not get close. I’m sure he still remembers your bad smell.”
“You can take him, Mr. Phillips.” The voice came from the crowd on the boardwalk behind him.
Pruitt’s intelligence gave way to arrogance as he lifted his eyes to the crowd and smiled. “If there is some action on this, I’d like to place a wager on myself. Let’s say fifty dollars.”
“I’ll cover that bet, Mr. Phillips,” another voice said.
Pruitt returned his gaze to Blair and lost his smile. Blair had unsnapped his pistols and they hung loose in the holsters. His hands were ready to move. That gave Blair twelve bullets to Pruitt’s six. Blair’s hands were large for his body—large enough to pull back the double-action hammers, one handed. Pruitt was a tad smaller than Blair with average-size hands. And those curved thumbs of his were a hindrance. That gave Blair the advantage.
“I’d like to take that bet,” Blair said to the crowd. “Any takers?” He took that moment to scan the mob for Pruitt’s help. They weren’t there. Where are they? An advantage lost.
“That’s easy money for someone,” Pruitt said. “But taking money off a corpse is bad luck.”
“Then you’d better empty your pockets now, JP.”
“I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch.”
“You’ve already missed twice.”
“Twice?” Pruitt said softly to himself. “Twice?” he said louder to Blair.
The first crack of gunfire sent jerks, shudders, and twitches of surprise through the crowd, even though they expected a gunfight. The noise shocked Blair because neither one of them fired. Pruitt’s eyes were wide open as he searched for the shooter. His men weren’t shooting.
The second shot barely missed Blair’s foot. The bullet sent dust and rock fragments into the air. It came from the direction of the church, up the road to his right, Pruitt’s left.
“He’s mine!” the shooter said. “Everyone stay back!”
Chapter Ten
The Gunman
Jeremiah Pruitt—James Phillips to those in Gothic—took three steps backward as he peered up the street. A man in a long, dark coat held two nickel-plated, .32 caliber Smith & Wesson pistols at arm’s length. He fired with every step toward Jonathan Blair.
“Shit.” This was his kill. His tally. An unsettled score. But it also meant he didn’t have to deal with the aftermath of questions. He could stand in the street while Jonathan Blair died like he was in a play produced only for him. And instead of a front row or fancy view box, he was allowed on the stage. That brought a grin to his face.
The shooter kept pulling the triggers. Pruitt counted four shots, but the man hadn’t hit Blair yet.
Pruitt lifted his pistol thinking he could sneak in a shot in case the man completely failed. He licked his thumb and smoothed his eyebrows. He stepped forward as Blair raised his guns aiming at the unknown shooter.
The bullet struck Blair in the left shoulder, knocking him back a step. Another entered his stomach.
That’s going to hurt bad. Pruitt had seen men die painfully slow from wounds like that. He holstered his gun and relished the notion of Blair screaming in pain all day. He was a bit disappointed he didn’t need to fire. The shooter finally hit his target.
Four bullets holes bled Blair as he crawled in the dirt. The man in the long coat stopped firing from about fifteen feet away. He reloaded one of his pistols. And fired two more shots into the bloody bounty hunter. Blair lay on his belly in the street. His shallow breath moved the dust around his face.
To Pruitt’s surprise Blair didn’t moan, cry, or beg for mercy. He was stronger than he thought. Would he die soon or hang on a while to suffer the lead-bored tunnels in his flesh? Pruitt knew that pain both personally and by his victims’ deaths. Too bad he couldn’t poke at Blair with a sharp stick until he finally gave up.
The shooter pointed his guns at the two men in the wagon. “Retrieve him and place him in.” They moved slowly with their hands in the air. The driver took Blair by the shoulders and the other man by the knees. They carried Blair to the back of the wagon and rolled him in. “Gather his weapons.” The shooter climbed in and stood over him. “Let’s go.”
The driver cracked the whip, which sent the horses into motion. He tugged on the reins and the horses pulled the wagon back toward the mines, the direction the shooter pointed.
As they drove through the street the shooter tossed one of his pistols to Pruitt, an unexpected memento of the day’s event. He chuckled, but didn’t smile.
Who the hell are you? Pruitt nodded at the man. When you go around killing folks, someone from your past will likely find you sooner or later. For Blair it was sooner. Then the gunman might know both of them. But if he did, he probably would have gone for him as well.
James “JP” Phillips waved at his four men on top of the Colorado Mine and Exploration Company office building. His heavily armed associates waved back before they climbed off the roof. An ambush might have been a waste of time, but a few extra guns were always a good idea in a gunfight, even if they weren’t needed.
The wagon rolled out of town. The shooter bent down and placed his hand on Blair’s chest. Feeling for the moment of death. “I like him,” Pruitt said. Though, I’ll probably have to kill him.
* * *
Professor Frederick Worthington was in shock on the boardwalk where the unknown shooter had stepped. The man moved for a better view and then winked at him. His light complexion, cleanly shaven face, and gray eyes seemed a bit odd for this town. He had seen him previously, but where? The man pointed two pistols and started shooting before Worthington could warn Jonathan.
When the bullets hit Blair, Worthington collapsed. His hopes of defeating the demons faded with the color from Blair’s face.
Worthington could not manage to move to try to help his new friend. Yes, he considered the man his friend. Worthington could see through the tough, wounded veneer and into the bounty hunter’s heart.
When the wagon drove away, Worthington cried. There was no way to help Blair. The only doctor in town was standing in front of his office, where the wagon had been. A young man grabbed Worthington under the arm and helped him up, then steadied him until he reached the boardwalk.
Worthington stayed until the spectators cleared the street, the drinkers returned to the saloons and the few women around considered it safe to walk about. The horse and pedestrian traffic quickly mixed Blair’s blood with dirt and dust, wiping the traces of the gunfight from existence. Worthington’s hope died with the bounty hunter.
* * *
Mr. Tab rode in the back of the wagon, unfazed by the bouncing and jerking motion. He kept his eyes closed to feel the air against his face, but kept his hand on Jonathan Blair’s chest. The bounty hunter’s blood mixed with Theo Weinberg’s in the back of the leaky wagon. The dark liquid ran through the crack
s, leaving scattered drops along the road.
“Stop here, please,” Mr. Tab said to the driver after they left the town limits.
The wagon slowed and came to a halt.
“I am in need of your departure.”
“Huh?” The driver sneered and cocked his head.
“I need you to step down from the wagon and return to town,” the man said. “I’ll restore the wagon and horses to you at the location where we began.”
“What?”
Mr. Tab aimed his pistol at the driver’s head. He pointed toward town. “Move.”
“Oh.” The driver and his partner jumped off the wagon and started running.
“The intelligence of some of your human companions is remarkable.” Mr. Tab crawled over the driver’s seat and sat down. He reached back to touch Blair’s head. “We are nearing our destination.”
With a click of his tongue the horses gained a steady speed without the use of whips or reins.
* * *
Professor Frederick Worthington knocked on the cabin door. Pastor Anthony Jones cracked it open and peeked out.
“Come in, Professor.” Jones swung the door wide and waved him in. He was barefooted and without a dress shirt. The pastor held a copy of Thomas à Kempis’ The Imitation of Christ, with a finger stuck between two pages to mark his place.
“I’m surprised you’re here, but I’m glad.” Worthington said. The local pastor was usually one of the first men brought to a death. But there was no body for him to pray over.
“Why?”
“Your face gives it away.” The professor could see the strain of sorrow.
“I didn’t want to see another dead man.”
“So you do know of the shooting?”
“I heard the shots. But no one came to get me.” Jones straightened his shoulders. “Is that why you’re here?”
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