By the Neck

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Rollie looked at him from under his bristly, eyebrows. “Don’t say that.”

  “Okay, then I will,” said the mayor.

  “You know, Wheeler, you have an annoying habit of being annoying.”

  “That’s my job,” said the man.

  From Chauncey’s drawn brows, Rollie could tell the mayor wasn’t sure how to take his comment. Good.

  “Now, as the duly appointed representative of Boar Gulch—”

  “Appointed by who, Chauncey?” said Pops, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a bouncing ball as he laughed.

  This spurred the rest of the crowd to do the same, despite the grisly mess in the tree before them, the dead man in the street and the other hanging off the porch of the bar.

  “Ahem, yes, well, as to what I was saying before I was rudely interrupted. Rollie Finnegan, as we now all know your former occupation, thanks to the edifyingly delightful Miss Holsapple, I say it is your right, nay, your duty to Boar Gulch to become our official lawman. You owe us that much, sir.” The mayor puffed up his already puffy chest and thumbed his lapels, his red jowls and ears growing more crimson by the moment. He tried and failed to keep his eyes locked on Rollie’s.

  “Owe you?” Rollie stalked as close as he could to the priggish little man, his boot tips jammed against the other’s, his nostrils flared and he stared down at the shrinking mayor. “Owe you? How in the hell do you figure that, Chauncey?”

  “The . . . those men, the others. There will be more!” Wheeler grew emboldened by his train of thought. “Yes.” He backed up, puffed again, and continued. “And who will protect us?”

  “You don’t need law. You need a backbone,” Rollie growled and walked back to the bar. Over his shoulder, he said, “All of you!”

  Pops and Nosey followed along, not saying anything, though Pops kept a smirk tamped down.

  Half an hour later, back in The Last Drop, a long silence settled on the three men.

  Finally, Nosey spoke, his voice sounding quiet and old, somehow. “What about their horses?”

  “Well, you need one and the buckskin likes you, so there you have it,” said Rollie.

  “But I could never. It . . . it belonged to a dead man. It’s not right.”

  “No right or wrong to it, Nosey,” said Pops. “Horse doesn’t know the difference, and he needs somebody to take care of him.”

  Rollie rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Pops, you choose a horse for yourself from the other two. We can sell the third. As to their gear, we’ll divvy it up. Keep the weapons and ammunition, and sell the rest. Boots should bring something. Maybe enough to pay for their pine boxes.”

  “That is savage.” Nosey turned away and folded his arms like a petulant child.

  Rollie’s thick right hand snatched at the reporter’s shirtfront. He filled his hand and pulled the younger man close, so that their faces were inches apart. “Now you listen to me, you little whelp. You’re welcome to your opinion, but that dangling criminal was a stone-hard killer—and worse. The world’s rid of a menace. Besides, I am in the gun sights of more such malcontents and I will do what I need to so I can save my own skin and keep decent folks from misery. That’s all there is to be said on the matter.” He let go of Nosey’s wadded shirt, and the men exchanged a long glance. Nosey nodded slowly then walked to the door.

  Pops and Rollie watched him leave.

  Finally Pops broke the silence. “He’ll come around once he thinks on it, realizes there was no other way.”

  They looked at the mess in the bar—overturned chairs, spilled beers, poker chips and playing cards everywhere. Rollie poured two cups of coffee and they each sat on a stool and sipped.

  Pops spoke. “I been wondering on something.”

  “Hmm?” said Rollie.

  “Why don’t you go deal a rough hand to Miss Delia Holsapple?”

  “No,” said Rollie, shaking his head. “She’s suffered enough.”

  “Suffered enough? She made her own misery. We are all dealt hands in life we didn’t ask for. Some worse than others.” After a poignant look passed between the two men. Pops continued. “That woman has made her own miseries in life. And she’s passing them on to you. That’s not right. Don’t care what you say.”

  “I can’t disagree with you. But she’ll get what she deserves. Might not be from me, but I’ve seen this happen before. I’d as soon let it play out.”

  “Well I think you’re loco, but it’s not my decision. Until she does something to me, that is.”

  “Understood.”

  Another few moments of silence settled on the room.

  “Well,” said Rollie, scratching his chin. “We best get this mess cleaned up, then see if our clientele will return.”

  “There’s whiskey,” said Pops. “They’ll be here.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The air was cooler in the stand of timber, and a soft breeze rummaged high in the ponderosa needles before drifting down to play in Cap’s mane. The horse perked his ears and Rollie watched toward where the horse looked. The incident months before with the mother grizz and her triplets wasn’t far from his mind. Cap relaxed and jerked aspen leaves from a close branch.

  “You’re a snacker, eh, boy?” Rollie patted the gelding’s neck. He’d forgotten how good it was to get out into the hills and ride. The day was fine, the sky a blue he could not begin to describe, and his lung and leg pained him so little he could finally climb aboard a horse once again. He’d not ridden Cap and had been unsure if the horse would take to the saddle, but Pops had let it slip he’d been giving Cap saddle time now and again, knowing Rollie would want to ride when he was ready.

  That day had come, though Rollie didn’t need any excuse beyond the riding itself or getting out away from the dreary little confines of downtown Boar Gulch. It had been too long, and he was glad to be out and away from the squabbling and small-mindedness he’d forgotten about that infects any place where the residents are packed in cheek by jowl with their neighbors.

  This day brought extra incentive to get out and away from town. Nearly a week before he and Pops had assumed full ownership of a claim they’d taken in trade for a bar bill. Jed Neeland had looked beaten down beyond measure by the pummeling lot in life he’d dragged himself into.

  Rollie had seen the grief for his family back home written across the man’s face. He’d also noticed that the man had developed a taste for whiskey. Rollie had told himself when he bought the bar that he would not interfere with any man’s private affairs, but with Neeland, he’d been sorely tempted a number of times to cut him off, and instead serve him as much free coffee as he could stomach. Neeland had run up that bar tab lately, so Rollie’s soft touch would only go so far.

  Though he’d tried over the past few months, with such comments as, “You sure?” and “Don’t know how you do it,” he’d served him the booze, telling himself it was none of his business. Rollie knew he’d have bristled were the tables turned, so he had let Neeland be until the previous week when he wearied himself on into the bar as always and plunked down.

  The place was quiet in the afternoons, and on that day even Pops was off tending to his own affairs. Wolfbait was there, dozing in a chair in the corner, slowly dribbling chaw juice into his beard with each quiet, exhaled snore.

  “Hello, Jed,” Rollie had said as the man settled himself onto a stool. “What’ll it be?”

  Jed’s eyes were redder than usual and his hands shook. He didn’t look at Rollie when he answered, but lowered his head into his hands, his grimy fingers raking through his long, unwashed hair. “I made a hellacious mistake, Rollie. I . . . I need to get out of here. I’m done, beat.” He looked up, leaned forward. “You wouldn’t want to buy a claim, would you?”

  Rollie wasn’t expecting that. He ran his rag over the already clean bar top and said nothing for a few moments. “I don’t know, Jed. I expect your claim’s worth more than what you owe me for whiskey.”

  “Maybe. But . . . but what if you stake me some
cash to get me back East. I travel cheap, could walk much of it until I make it to the trains southeast of here. I could sign that claim over to you.”

  “You’ve put some thought into this, I think.”

  “No, honest. It came to me.”

  Rollie drew them both beers. No whiskey for Jed yet. Rollie wanted him thinking clear, in case there was something to this. “What makes you think I’d want a claim that you can’t make a go of?”

  “Aw, it’s not the claim so much as it’s me, Rollie. I’m not suited to this. All I ever wanted to do was have my own shop back home in Pennsylvania. I’m a furniture maker by trade. There’ll always be a call for tables, chairs, and such. As long as people need to sit, that is.” Jed smiled weakly and looked out the window.

  Movement past the sullen man caught Rollie’s eye. It was Wolfbait back in his corner. He was wide-eyed and nodding big nods to Rollie, as if to say yes, this is a good thing. The barman didn’t dismiss it—Wolfbait might be a lot of things, but he also knew these hills and had been around long enough to know a claim of promise.

  “I’d have to talk with Pops, since it’d be part his, too.”

  Jed had looked back at Rollie, more hopeful than Rollie had seen him in weeks. “That’s fine, Rollie. Fine. But . . . if you could let me know soon, I’d be appreciative of it. It’s Estelle’s birthday two months from yesterday. She’s my girl. She’s been waiting for me to come home. I’d like to be able to show up there, surprise her.”

  “Sure, Jed. I’ll talk with him this afternoon. Come by tonight, okay?”

  Jed slid from his stool and shook Rollie’s hand. “Okay, that sounds fine. I’ll be back.” He hustled to the door and turned. “Thanks, Rollie. I’ll be back.”

  Rollie watched the man go, then looked at Wolfbait, who’d ambled on over. “It must mean a lot to him, he didn’t even touch his beer,” said Rollie.

  “No sense in letting it go to waste, now, is there?” Wolfbait settled himself on Jed’s vacated stool and quaffed the brew, winking. “Solid claim he’s got. You and Pops could do a lot worse.”

  And they fell to chatting about the value of the claim. Pops came in after a spell, and Wolfbait waved as he headed out. “You two need to talk. See you later.” He winked and Rollie caught Pops up on Jed’s offer. The two men agreed that, depending on Jed’s expectations, they could pull together enough cash to see him home, and with something extra for his time and effort, too. After all, if Wolfbait’s assessment was to be believed, Jed was leaving a decent little cabin and a claim with promise.

  That’s what led Rollie to ride out that morning, nearly a week later, enjoying the day and the ride. Since Wolfbait vouched for Jed, and since Rollie and Pops had been busy, neither man felt the need to see their investment before then.

  Jed had lit out the next day, smiling and walking with a spring in his step, carrying little more than a packboard laden with few personal items, a hat on his head, and a sidearm to deter two-legged varmints, and maybe plug a critter for food along the way. Rollie and Pops had given him a bottle of whiskey, a sack of coffee, and good wishes for him and Estelle. Jed promised to write.

  Rollie used a crude, hand-drawn map to locate the claim, and it took him far longer than it needed to for him to ride there, given that he’d taken all manner of detours and stops for fun. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel as if he had a rifle aimed at him. His left hand drifted down now and again, making certain his coat was tucked behind the time-polished handle of the Schofield.

  His Winchester rode in its scabbard at his knee, ready to be plucked and levered at the slightest prickling of danger he relied on from long years in the saddle tracking foul men bent on dark deeds. It always began as a tickle, as if a lovely woman was running a light fingernail slowly up his spine, tickling more the higher it inched until it reached his neck. The hair at his collar would bristle and a chill would creep up over his scalp.

  By then he’d be down, out of the saddle, and taking cover behind the nearest tree, boulder, gulley, or if need be, his horse. But it hadn’t happened and he didn’t expect it to happen.

  But it did happen on that fine and pretty day, and he wasn’t ready.

  He was leaning back against the cantle, eyes closed, pulling in a deep breath of fresh mountain air while Cap played at nibbling leaves. Rollie cracked open his eyes and thought he could see the roof of Jed’s cabin downslope through the trees.

  A bullet whipped his hat off, pitching it forward as if a prankster had poked it from behind. Rollie bent low, tried to shake his right boot out of the stirrup but it fouled, he cursed it, and Cap danced, hopping like a crow and whinnying in the little clearing. Pretty soon another bullet whistled in, sending up a spray of red bark chips from a big ponderosa that Cap seemed determined to scrape Rollie against.

  Rollie grabbed for his Schofield, but it had shaken loose and dropped to the ground. He gritted his teeth and jerked his leg hard. His socked foot slid free of his boot, which stayed in the stirrup.

  He wrenched backward, flailing as if he were breaking a green mustang, and slammed once more against that cursed big, hard tree. His growls and limbs thrashing against Cap nerved the dancing, sweating horse into a more robust frenzy. Finally Rollie freed his left boot and spun away from the horse, who jerked away from him, then danced in place, eyes wide and white.

  “I’m no grizz,” muttered Rollie, “but I could be if you keep this up, damn your hide.” He kept low, inching toward the horse, whose right side was nearly facing him. He scanned the east, where the shots had come from. He saw nothing but trees.

  As he moved, he glanced at the ground for his Schofield. Couldn’t have tumbled too far. That’d teach him to ride with the hammer loop off.

  He reached Cap and snagged the reins, keeping low and nudging the horse between himself and the east, hoping the shooter was alone and hadn’t moved. He was reaching for his boot, which was snagged in the stirrup, when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Nah, I don’t think so, Finnegan. Anybody don’t deserve to die with his boots on it’s you.”

  Rollie looked up, one hand on the horse. He inched his left hand toward the rifle scabbard and for his efforts heard a hammer click back into the deadly position.

  “Again, I will repeat myself. You will die sooner than I wish if you keep up this stupidity. Now both hands up high, lest I be tempted to shoot you in the back now and be done with it. Wouldn’t be the first time I did that to one such as yourself.”

  Rollie knew who it was. The voice, a thin, flat sound, gave it away. “Woburn.” He turned slowly to face the man who was about to kill him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Yeah, been a long time, Finnegan.” The man who had the drop on Rollie was one of the most troublesome hauls he’d ever made. Chester Woburn. Not only had the human eel led him on a chase across two states and one territory, but he’d continued his filching ways along the route, leaving a trail of gutted, burned-out businesses and beat-up women, weeping and pregnant.

  Yes sir, Chester Woburn was one fertile menace. The Pinkerton Agency had initially been called in by the Iowa state government regarding him because it had not had a whole lot of luck in capturing the miscreant. In short order, other states followed.

  That was about the time that Rollie’s status as a Pinkerton Agent had been quietly upgraded to one of a handful of men who were sent on more covert, dangerous assignments, or as the boss called them, “missions.” Rollie suspected that was to make him and his fellows feel special. He’d never liked such feather stroking and ignored it when he could.

  He’d also said no to the boss’s offer of sending a partner to track down Woburn. At the time it didn’t make any sense to Rollie to think he’d need a helper to bring in a bad seed. But Woburn turned out to be far more than a mere bad seed. He was a full-grown nightmare.

  As the chase progressed, Woburn had taken to leaving him notes that he had been certain Rollie would find. Infuriated, Rollie vowed he’d capture the
devil. Somehow. And he had. That had been eight or so years ago.

  “Why am I hunting you now, Finnegan? I should think that would be obvious. You took six years of my life and fed them to the hogs. Now, prison might not have been so bad, but Dayton Valley Prison, now that was a hellish place I will simply not return to. So let’s get that notion straight in our heads. That place was brimming with killers, rapists, flat-out murderers. I tell you, I have never been so frightened in all my days. So I did the one thing I knew I had to do. I got out of there early.”

  He chuckled and Rollie scanned the trees. No sign yet of the babbling fool.

  “Not because I was on my best behavior, mind you, but because I was deserving. Even if I am the only one who thought so. Took me longer than I anticipated, though. I decided to get out of there pretty much within my first week. And though I kept my eyes wide open, it took me two years before my first opportunity came up. I stowed away in a garbage wagon. It stunk so bad. My God. And do you know, that’s what gave me away in the end. Mm-hmm. I started gagging in that gut pile. Things were crawling around on those old carcass bones from the kitchens. Things I have never seen in all my days on the trail.”

  “All this chatter is nice,” said Rollie. “But you’re assuming I care. I don’t. I’m also going to put down my arms.”

  “Do that at your own peril, Finnegan.”

  Rollie did it with a smirk.

  Woburn let him. “But do me a favor and step away from that fidgety horse of yours.”

  Rollie did that as well, glancing at the ground. No sign of the Schofield.

  “Now, where was I? Oh yes, my first attempt at liberation. That ended poorly. The fools who drove the wagon found me gagging and retching. Apparently they were not used to hearing sounds coming from a pile of garbage. They dragged me back to Dayton Valley. The warden chained me in what they called the pit, a natural cavern of sorts gouged in the rock in the bowels of the place. I waited out that stint and eventually after forgetting and then remembering me a good two, three times, they dragged me on out of there and put me right back in the cell I’d been in I don’t know how many months before.”