The Talisman - Crisscross
Page 28
Quinn rode his horse through the open livery door, expecting to find Albert at the forge as usual. He deserved to know that trouble for both of them, in the form of Ace, had arrived in the valley. The East door swung shut, cutting the light dramatically.
He dismounted in his usual casual style, dropping the rein to ground tie his buckskin. The horse uncharacteristically backed away, ears tight against its head. The horse snorted and flicked its tail nervously. Quinn recognized the fear in the animal. Something wasn't right.
"Easy, easy," he crooned. The horse stepped back from his outstretched hand, spun and trotted out of the livery. Turning, Quinn examined the livery, his attention immediately riveted to the inert form.
Quinn profaned rushing to Albert. He shook Albert gently, trying in vain to revive him. "Bert, come on. Breathe… breathe."
Albert did not respond. Quinn shuddered, the weight of so many different emotions clamoring for dominance. It couldn't be. Albert had been his brother, his father, his only family for over ten years. They had survived winters in the high Rockies, fought barroom brawls protecting each other’s backs, shared their winnings and covered the other’s losses and when the opportunity to take a large stake had arisen, they had played together. They had won the rich pot of a large homestead, splitting it and settling together. What was his was Albert's and Albert's, his. They had shared everything and what he had withheld, Albert, with the intuition of an older brother, had guessed, knowing him as only a brother could.
Quinn's first reaction was to deal out the necessary revenge for his brother's murder. An eye for an eye, but the murderer would pay at the point of his knife. He would see to it. Every man had to sleep and when the murderer did, that was when Quinn's blade would find its mark. Silent and deadly, he would have his revenge no matter what.
Albert would not seek vengeance, nor would he want Quinn to do so. He would seek justice; fair unmitigated justice dealt by the laws of the land. For several minutes, Quinn allowed his will to argue with his brother's wishes. He relaxed his hunched shoulders, allowing himself to calm down.
"Albert, if you're …" Carl called as he entered the livery and stopped. "Quinn, I tied your horse out front of my place. Seemed too flighty to stay ground--"
"It's Albert. He's dead," Quinn whispered. An unspoken understanding passed between them. Carl went to the lantern and lit it before he kicked the log loose that propped the door open, pulling the door shut. He took a firm hold on the door, barring further entry from outside, the lantern swinging in his free hand.
"How?"
Quinn hadn't considered the how—only the finality of death.
"He musta fought. There's a bunch of blood here." Holding Albert's head, his fingers felt the unusual divots at the back of his skull. Curious, Quinn explored the marks with his fingers. Albert had always held his own in a fight. Would Ace have changed his modus operandi? Quinn swallowed back the bile building in his throat, coming to grips with the reality of Albert's death. "His head's bashed in."
"You see who did it?"
"No, you?"
"Been busy in back with the inventory. Maybe Penelope saw something."
"We don't need women in the middle of this. Ya ask Penelope and she'll tell Lucinda. Lucinda don't need this."
"She's gotta be told," Carl said.
"Not yet." Quinn's tone took on a tone of finality. Women and their tears, he had no patience for the one, leaving little patience for the other. As if tears could bring back the dead. He knew his mother's tears aided little when his sister had suffered. Tears had done even less after her death. He had been fourteen, Albert seventeen.
Quinn eased Albert's still body to the dirt floor. The sickening coppery-sweet smell of blood and death filled the livery. The mare in the stall stomped and neighed.
"Get Albert's carriage horse out of here," Quinn instructed Carl. Carl complied, leading the horse, being urged faster by the flighty mare.
Quinn looked around the livery for something to cover Albert. He located a saddle blanket draped over the rail of a stall. He retrieved it, laying it over Albert's face.
Quinn retrieved the lantern.
On the far side of the forge rested a larger hammer. By the body lay a bloodstained cross-pein hammer. He lifted it and guessed that it weighed about two pounds. The rounded end could easily match the divots on Albert's skull. On closer examination of the dirt floor, he could see Albert's knee prints where he had fallen and the light toe prints of his boots, proof of where the final blow had undoubtedly fallen. The footprints indicated a scuffle, marring much of the dirt floor. Smaller, more delicately heal prints confused the issue. Had a woman been present? Could a woman weld the deadly blow? A week ago he wouldn't have believed any woman capable of having a hand in murder. A week ago he hadn't met Trish, if Trish was really her name. Did she have anything to do with this?
Quinn wanted his revenge. He would have it. Someone had taken his only family and they would pay. He coddled Albert, ignoring the blood, its scent, its sticky warmth and everything around him. He needed to hurt something, anything.
Chapter 21