Right between the Eyes

by William W. Johnstone

  Norton issued a dry chuckle. “Once again we’re thinking along the same lines. I’ve been sitting here with the same thought running through my head.”

  He stood up, the motion slow and rather jerky. He used the cane to push up and steady himself. Then he stepped off the boardwalk and started walking over to Myron, wincing with every other step.

  “No offense, but you look dreadful. You’re obviously in a great deal of pain,” Myron said, his brows knitting with concern. “You belong home in bed, healing, not straining yourself so.”

  “I’ll start healing only after that damned brassy John Larkin is put in his place,” Norton declared. “A no-account lowlife like him ought not be loose in public, let alone free to accost fine, decent women. If it’s not a crime, then it’s still a dirty shame. And that’s for certain.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is,” Myron agreed.

  “I can appreciate the limitations the marshal and his men have to operate under,” Norton went on. “I don’t like it in this particular instance, but at the same time I understand there have to be rules against lawmen running roughshod like some are known to do.”

  Myron frowned, not sure how to respond.

  “So,” Norton continued, now having reached him and coming to a halt at his side, “when the rules have the hands of lawmen tied, it sometimes falls to an individual to take care of his own problems. I think you and I may have reached that point with our respective situations.”

  “What do you mean? What are you driving at?”

  Norton lifted his cane and pointed in the direction of the Shirley House Hotel across the street. “John Larkin is over there right now, swamping out the Shirley House bar. He’s living and sleeping in the corner of a storeroom like a human rat. He took over the job that a lowly damn nigger didn’t want to do—that’s the kind of scum we’re talking about. Scum that the law and its rules allow to roam the street and upset our womenfolk.”

  “I-I still don’t see your point. I’m not saying I disagree with anything you just said,” Myron replied, although in truth he hated anyone using the term “nigger,” “but I’m not sure I understand what you’re suggesting we do about it.”

  Norton lowered his cane and stabbed its point down into the ground. “I’m saying we forget the law, since we’re convinced it can’t or won’t do anything to do us any good, and go over there and confront Larkin ourselves.”

  “Confront?” Myron echoed, his voice cracking slightly. “Again, I’m not arguing that doesn’t sound like a wonderful notion . . . But not, I fear, for me. Take a look, Mr. Norton, and be honest. Do I strike you as the confrontational sort? Do I look like I could intimidate anyone more substantial than perhaps a grade school–aged child?”

  Something akin to an impatient growl escaped Norton before he said, “For the love of Christ, man, I’m not suggesting we go over there and physically attack Larkin, try to bully him into seeing things our way. Do I look like I’m in condition for anything like that? Under different circumstances, yeah, I might try exactly that . . . But I’m not that stupid, not the way things stand now. Still, that don’t mean we can’t stand nose to nose with that sonofabitch—like men—and tell him to lay off our women.”

  “Or what?” Myron wanted to know. “Doesn’t a demand like that—a threat, if you will—require something to back it up? We’ve each of us just got done admitting we’re in no position to deliver that kind of follow-through.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Norton countered, “how effective an angry cussing-out can be just in itself. Larkin’s not going to lay a hand on us, either, not with both of us there to serve as witnesses we did nothing to provoke it turning physical. And if we’ve got the balls to look him square in the eye and demand he back the hell down and leave our women alone, how is he going to know we don’t have a way to back it up? We’re both men of means, right? The way his mind works, don’t you think he might logically figure that—without us ever saying anything to suggest it, but given the self-righteous anger we’ll be displaying—we might possibly be willing to hire some backup if we have to?”

  All of a sudden, this was starting to sound like not such a crazy idea to Myron. His heart quickened and his mind raced. Him, getting in the face of somebody, demanding they “back the hell off,” and enforcing it with the unspoken threat that he’d do whatever it took if they didn’t pay attention . . . What would be the look on his wife’s face when he told her he’d taken such action?

  “Do you really think it could work?” Myron asked.

  “I damn well do,” Norton assured him. “What have we got to lose if it doesn’t? At worst, it’s a sight better than slinking around, frustrated and defeated because the law can’t or won’t do anything to help us, isn’t it?”

  Myron turned his head and looked across the street, setting his gaze on the Shirley House Hotel. Slowly his expression hardened and his gaze became a glare.

  “All right, let’s do it,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically flat and steady. “Let’s go confront that sonofabitch.”

  CHAPTER 38

  “So are we gonna crowd ’em on it—on knowing that they’re here as hired guns for Ed Wardell?” said Deputy Fred, who’d arrived at the jail and been promptly filled in by Bob about their guests back in the lockup.

  Bob shook his head. “No. I don’t want to give ’em the satisfaction of thinking they’re important enough for us to have any advance concern over ’em. If they’re what we think they are—know they are—they’ll show their hands soon enough. When they do, that’s when we’ll show ours.”

  “Okay. However you want to play it,” said Fred.

  Bob leaned back, half-sitting on the corner of his desk, arms folded across his chest. “Go ahead and bring ’em out, then. Let’s see if they’ve got the money they’re supposed to have to pay their fines. If they do, we’ll turn ’em loose and find out how fast they head for the Rocking W.”

  Fred took a ring of keys from a peg and disappeared through the heavy door that led back to the cellblock. Bob sat and waited, listening to the murmur of voices and the echoing clank of steel coming from back there. A curious kind of calm had settled over him. His jaw was set, his eyes were focused on the cellblock doorway . . . waiting for the first sight of Rance Brannigan. Now, after all the thoughts and emotions that had been roiling inside him these past few days, he actually wanted it to happen, wanted to make this initial eye contact in order to see Brannigan’s reaction and find out where it was going to take them.

  Three men emerged from the cellblock ahead of Fred. All were of a similar stamp—lean, unshaven, with hard, alert eyes and a way of carrying themselves that conveyed a sense of being poised for trouble. Fred directed them out into the office and then told them to halt in a line before Bob.

  Brannigan had been the last of the three to come out. He was a couple inches taller than his two companions, topping out around six feet even. His hat rested back on his shoulders from a chin loop, exposing a headful of thick, dark hair and the narrow blade of a face that Bob remembered well. There was a thin scar above his left eye that hadn’t been there before, the split it made in his eyebrow causing it to be more noticeable than it otherwise might have been. His eyes were restless, dark, and sunken deep in their sockets. When they settled on the marshal there was, at most, a split second where they widened ever so slightly with what Bob took as recognition. But then, immediately, any further sign of a reaction was gone and they merely were regarding him with a flat stare.

  “This is Marshal Bob Hatfield, gents,” Fred told them. “He’ll be telling you the charges against you and discussing any fines due in accordance . . . Marshal, who we’ve got here is Charley Drake, Wilbur Nixon, and Rance Brannigan.” Fred gestured to each as he named them.

  Bob flicked his eyes only briefly to the other two, otherwise he kept his own flat stare locked with that of Brannigan. Waiting to see if the Texan would keep his cool or break down and declare recognition.

  Charley Drake was a blo
cky, square-faced individual with a cruel twist to his mouth. Wilbur Nixon had a slight slump to his shoulders and an oversized nose protruding out from below beady, too-close eyes. The fact they made no attempt to say anything but cast their eyes expectantly over at Brannigan made it clear enough who was the headman of the trio.

  “Well, Marshal Hatfield,” Brannigan said, pronouncing “Hat-field” in two distinct syllables and dragging it out just a bit, tossing what Bob took as another sign of his recognition yet not stating anything openly. “I guess sayin’ something like ‘good morning’ or ‘pleased to meet ya’ would be kinda dumb, wouldn’t it? So, speaking for myself as well as my two pards here, what I can say is that a night in your jail has driven home to us the point that we got off on the wrong foot in your town with our bad behavior. We’re rightfully sorry, are prepared to pay the fines you’re about to levy, and give you our word that our future behavior will be restrained so as not to bring us before you again.”

  Bob cocked a single eyebrow. “Well now, you rattled off that little spiel pretty slick. Almost sounded like you might have had some practice saying it before.”

  “I’m forced to admit that, in the past, we used to run with an ill-behaved crowd who did put us in similar fixes,” replied Brannigan. “But although I guess some of their bad habits sorta rubbed off on us, we’re tryin’ our best to ride a smarter, better trail, Marshal.”

  Bob continued to eye him. “Uh-huh. It also sounds like you’ve come here with the intention of sticking around for a while. Is that so?”

  “Indeed it is. We’ve been in contact with a local rancher by the name of Wardell. He’s agreed to hire us on . . . I trust you’re familiar with the Rockin’ W operation?”

  Bob had no way of knowing just how well informed Brannigan was of the whole Wardell situation. A man who hires out his gun does it for the money and more often than not doesn’t care about the particulars other than who’s paying him and what (or who) they want him to take care of. As far as Bob knew, Brannigan was merely responding to a summons to come do his kind of work, without knowing very many details. Yet there was a taunting edge to the Texan’s question about Bob’s own familiarity with the Rocking W that made the marshal suspect Brannigan might already damn well know that dealing with him would be part of the job.

  For whatever reason, his old nemesis was in no hurry to reveal Bob’s past and his true identity as Bob Holland, aka the Devil’s River Kid. So okay, Bob would play along. For now. The lid would blow off soon enough; there was no need in rushing it.

  “Yeah, I know the Rocking W,” Bob said without elaboration.

  “Well then, you must know Mr. Wardell better than we do.” Brannigan paused and showed a sheepish grin. “But whatever kind of fella he is, I reckon he wouldn’t appreciate us lingerin’ here in town after he sent us travelin’ money and all. So, if you’d be so kind, Marshal Hatfield, I’d be obliged if we could get to settlin’ up our fines and whatnot so’s we can be on our way out to the Rockin’ W.”

  Once again Brannigan put that odd, broken emphasis on “Hat-field.”

  Their stares locked and, for several clock ticks, it was like everything and everybody else went away. It was just the two of them, glaring into each other’s minds and souls . . . Okay, you bastard. I know you, you know me. How long are we going to carry on this charade before we get to finishing the unsettled business between us . . . Until, abruptly, Brannigan broke eye contact and glanced somewhat uneasily over at his companions.

  “Okay,” said Bob, reaching around for the papers he’d prepared detailing the charges and fines facing the trio, along with the damage compensation owed Duchess. “I hope you’ve got a good chunk of that traveling money left, because you’re gonna need it . . .”

  * * *

  A short time later, the fines were paid and Brannigan and his cohorts had departed. Fred was standing by the office’s front window, gazing in the direction the three had gone, toward the livery stable.

  “You really think it was a good idea to give them their guns back?” Fred asked over his shoulder.

  “It wouldn’t have done us much good to keep ’em. Not like they can’t easily buy more or get all they want out at the Rocking W,” Bob replied.

  “I suppose,” said Fred, turning away from the window. “It’s just that handing a fella a gun that you figure there’s a good chance will be aimed back at you someday . . . doggone it, that’s a little unsettling.”

  “There are guns already here and others coming in all the time that might be aimed at us someday, Fred. You ought to be used to that by now.”

  Fred sighed. “Yeah, I know. I guess there was something about those three hombres that unnerved me a little. Especially that Brannigan, who did all the talking . . . He was a cool customer, though, you got to give him that.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Bob muttered.

  “How’s that?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.” Bob held out an envelope. “Here’s the money due Duchess over at the Grand bawdy house for the damage those three did there. Think you can take this over to her, get a receipt, and make it back without falling in love with one of her doves?”

  Fred blushed furiously. “Aw, come on, boss. You know I never—”

  “I know, I know. I’m just teasing you a little. But take care of it for me, will you? If I go over there myself and Consuela catches wind of it, I’ll get cornered into giving explanations for the next three days.”

  Fred’s blush turned into a grin. “The marshal getting the law laid down to him, eh? I’d like to see that.”

  “No you wouldn’t,” said Bob, shaking his head. “Sometimes, when she gets really mad, she starts jabbering in Spanish. Later, after she finally cools down, I ask her what it was she was saying and she translates it into words that make my ears burn.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Fred was still grinning as he took the envelope and started out. When he pulled open the front door, however, Saul Norton immediately stumbled through and nearly fell into his arms.

  “Marshal . . . Deputy,” Norton gasped, partly out of breath, partly in pain. “You’d better come quick, I think there’s going to be bad trouble.”

  Fred grabbed the man, steadying him as Bob hurried across the room to assist. Norton’s cane slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

  “Here, get him into a chair. Be careful, he’s battered from head to toe.” As Bob said this, he ducked his head under one of Norton’s arms. Cautious though the two lawmen were, their handling of him caused Norton to throw back his head, wincing, sucking a sharp intake of breath.

  “You darn fool, you shouldn’t be up and about,” Bob said as he and Fred lowered the pain-racked man onto a chair. “But where’s this bad trouble you’re talking about—at Jackson Emory’s place?”

  “N-No, not there . . . Just up the street . . . at the Shirley House Hotel.”

  “The Shirley House? What’s going on there?”

  “It’s Myron Poppe . . . He’s going after Larkin . . . He’s making threats and acting crazy.”

  “Myron Poppe!?” Bob and Fred echoed together. Then, needing to confirm even more the words he’d just heard, Bob said, “Myron Poppe is making threats against Larkin?”

  Norton bobbed his head frantically. “Like I said, it’s as if he’s gone crazy . . . We’d arranged to meet early this morning . . . to come here and talk with you about the concerns we had with the way Larkin treated our women . . . But when Myron showed up, he was in a rage like I wouldn’t have thought possible for him . . . I think his shrew of a wife must have been nagging him something awful . . . Anyway, he wasn’t interested in coming here anymore. He wanted to go straight to find Larkin, have it out directly with him, he said . . . Somehow he’d found out Larkin was swamping at the Shirley House . . . I tried to stop him. When he found out I wouldn’t go with him, he shoved me away. Actually knocked me down . . .”

  “Does he have a weapon?” Bob wanted to know.

&nb
sp; “I didn’t see one . . . But he kept reaching into his pocket with one hand. I-I think he might have had something in there . . . I don’t know exactly what he has in mind, and there’s no way of telling what Larkin will do if Myron comes at him the way he’s acting . . . But I don’t think it’ll be good . . . You need to get over there, Marshal!”

  Bob swore under his breath. “You’d better stay here with him,” he said to Fred. “I’ll go see what’s up.”

  * * *

  John Larkin heard the faint scratching noise at the back door right after he’d finished emptying the last of the spittoons into the large wooden slop bucket. He paused, listening for the noise to repeat. When it didn’t, one corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. He had a pretty good idea what it was anyway. Freda Draeger, who ran the Shirley House with her husband Frank, had a habit of tossing out bones and food scraps each morning from the rear door of the hotel kitchen, said door being only about twenty feet down from the back door of the bar area. Mornings when she was running a little late with this disposal, the stray dogs and cats who roamed the surrounding alleys and had become accustomed to the buffet Freda provided sometimes got impatient and demonstrated so by scratching at one or both of the doors that opened onto their alley.

  Since John was ready to carry his bucket out and empty it in the big, four-holer outhouse that served the hotel bar, he figured he would soon encounter whatever hungry critter was out there. His smile stretching a bit wider, he muttered as he started for the door, “Scratch all you want, Mr. Mongrel or Miss Pussycat, I don’t think you’re going to be very interested in what it is I’m hauling out.”

  A moment later, as Larkin elbowed open the door and stepped outside, what he found waiting for him wasn’t any kind of four-legged critter at all. There was a critter there all right, but it was the two-legged variety—a well-dressed man lying facedown on the alley floor with one arm stretched out, fingertips reaching to where they would have been scraping on the base of the door before it opened inward. This much registered only vaguely with Larkin. What really drew his attention was the handle of the knife poking up from middle of the man’s back . . . its blade driven to the hilt through the victim’s spine.