Right between the Eyes

by William W. Johnstone

  Ultimately, of course, that bitch Brenda—Norton’s future sister-in-law—had turned up as Larkin’s alibi and Norton found himself the victim of a savage beating for no benefit to his cause.

  Further, before Norton was even released from the doctor’s care, Sweeney had fled to pursue his dreams of trying his hand at prospecting up in the Prophecies. So okay. At least for the short term, that was almost as good as having him dead.

  It removed Sweeney from town so he couldn’t inadvertently let something slip about the arranged beating. Plus, niggers being generally mistrusted (according to the way Norton believed), other prospectors up in the mountains would steer clear of him so he wouldn’t have anybody up there to let something slip to, either. What was more, the black bastard had done such a good job with the beating he’d delivered to earn his money, Norton was left barely able to get around, let alone do anything to eliminate him as a loose end right away. But that didn’t mean he didn’t still intend to take care of the matter at the earliest opportunity he could find. After all, tragic accidents to lonely prospectors up in the mountains were as common as fleas on a dog.

  In the meantime, the more or less impromptu murder of Myron Poppe and subsequent flight of Larkin had finally gotten the kind of reaction Norton had been trying for with his other schemes. And the laudatory way newspaperman Dutton had subsequently portrayed him was only icing on the cake. It all made the concern he had over Sweeney being a loose end something he’d been able to shove to the back of his mind—until the man suddenly showed up again, riding back into town, big as you please, alongside one of the town’s deputies.

  What the hell?

  It had been late in the afternoon when Norton inadvertently spotted the pair from the porch of the Emory manse where he was still staying. Too late in the day to pursue trying to find out what was going on, what had brought about such a thing. All Norton had been able to do was wait out the evening, sitting through supper and parlor time with the Emorys, trying to act relaxed and normal while every second dreading a pounding at the front door that might announce the arrival of the authorities with questions concerning the outrageous claims made by Sweeney. But no such thing happened, and, somehow, that was almost worse. Nor had turning in early helped any; it only led to the endless hours of tossing and turning and wondering what it was that brought Sweeney back under escort by a deputy.

  Norton rose in the morning determined to find out. But the news he heard at the breakfast table, from the household cook who had gone out early to buy fresh eggs from a neighbor who raised chickens, shook the hell out of everything all over again.

  Merlin Sweeney wasn’t the only one who was back in town.

  So was John Larkin!

  * * *

  Bob Hatfield woke with the sun, as usual. What wasn’t usual for him, however, was the fact he remained in bed after doing so. The warm, shapely curves of Consuela nestled against him weren’t something any red-blooded male in his right mind would be in a hurry to separate from.

  Before long it became apparent Consuela was awake also. She rolled over to face him and kissed him lightly on his cheek.

  “Are we going to lie here like this all day?” she said.

  “Don’t sound like a bad idea to me.”

  “I don’t disagree. But how long could we get away with it before Deputy Fred or somebody showed up with business that required your attention?”

  “I could fire a couple warning shots. Give ’em to understand we weren’t in the mood to be interrupted. How would that be?”

  “It might work. But it would still be disruptive to our . . . uhmm . . . rest and relaxation, would it not? And then there’s Bucky, remember? He’ll need to be rousted up and sent off to school.”

  “Ain’t that boy graduated yet? He ought to be out making his way in the world by now.”

  Consuela giggled. “He’s only eleven, for heaven’s sake!”

  Bob sighed. “Okay. I guess we have to give him a few more weeks then.”

  Consuela snuggled a little closer. “Still, even though we may not be able to lie here all day, that doesn’t mean we can’t stay for at least a little while longer.”

  “You make the call,” Bob told her. “I’m in no hurry to go face what’s waiting out there for me today.”

  Neither of them said anything for a minute or so. Consuela’s expression turned sober as her forefinger traced a random pattern through Bob’s chest hairs. At length, she said, “You think if you ride out to try and deal with the situation between the Rocking W and the V-Slash today, it will end up in a confrontation with Brannigan, don’t you?”

  “Don’t see how it can be other wise,” Bob said. “No matter what else happens, he’ll have me dead to rights, smack in front of everybody. Won’t be no better time for him to pitch his case, make his claim for having the grounds to take me back to Texas as a wanted outlaw.”

  “But you’re not a hundred percent sure he even recognized you.”

  Although it had been nearly midnight when Bob came in last night, Consuela had gotten up to welcome him home and spend some time with him. It was the first chance he’d had to talk to her about coming face-to-face with Brannigan that day at the jail—only minutes before the discovery of Myron Poppe’s body and all else that had transpired so rapidly after that.

  “Brannigan recognized me all right,” Bob said now. “In the days when he hunted me as the Devil’s River Kid, he hated me too deeply and chased me too hard for him to ever forget. If nothing else, the fact he never caught me would be enough to sear it in his memory for good.”

  “You don’t have to go out there today, you know. You’ve explained to me before that it’s not technically within your jurisdiction.”

  “But if I don’t go, there’s almost certain to be some serious bloodshed. Lots of wranglers riding for one brand or other getting hurt or killed, all based on a phony setup. It may come to that anyway, even if I do go out. And not going won’t prevent the confrontation with Brannigan. It would just come at some other time.”

  “What if, in all the violence and bloodshed you anticipate, Brannigan takes a bullet? Wouldn’t that solve the whole matter where he’s concerned?”

  Bob emitted a short chuff. “Men like Brannigan have a way of surviving carnage, even while others are dying around them. Besides, hoping for something like that to happen after it’s once again come this close between him and me . . . well, that wouldn’t do.”

  “Why not? You make it sound like some ridiculous point of honor—that only you need to be the one to face him.”

  “It’s not ridiculous.”

  Consuela lifted her face and regarded him. “No . . . for you, it’s not, is it? I’m sorry I said it that way.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Consuela laid her head back. “Men are so very strange . . . And even though you are one of the finest men I’ve ever known, I guess even you—or maybe especially a man like you—cannot help it.”

  CHAPTER 50

  After all the years he’d lived in Rattlesnake Wells, it still never ceased to amaze Bob how fast word of even the most minor happening could spread through the town. Although he’d taken time for a bite of breakfast and spent a little while with Bucky before leaving home, it was still fairly early when he arrived at the jail. Yet already there was a crowd of more than a dozen men gathered out front, and the words the marshal overheard as he approached them made it clear they’d gotten the news of John Larkin being back in custody. Just as clear was what was on their minds as a result.

  “Now that you’ve caught him, how long before you’re gonna introduce him to a noose, Marshal?”

  “You ain’t gonna turn around and let the no-good skunk out again are you?”

  “Go ahead, let him out. We’ll throw a party for him—a necktie party like the dirty murderer deserves!”

  Bob knew most of the faces and names of these men, but he didn’t give them the satisfaction of responding in any way. Barely making eye contact, he strode s
traight through the mass and entered the jail.

  Inside, all three of his deputies were already present.

  “Did you enjoy a friendly welcome back from our loyal citizens?” Peter greeted sarcastically.

  “Not hardly,” Bob replied. “That how it’s been since I been gone?”

  “Like I told you,” said Fred, “only after they got revved up by Saul Norton and that special edition of Dutton’s damn newspaper.”

  “Only now, with Larkin returned,” added Vern, “it’s likely to get worse. They’ve never mobbed up out front like that before. I’d say it’s a safe bet the crowd size will grow bigger as the day wears on. Leastways until they hear what you got planned for Larkin.”

  “Well, it sure as hell ain’t what they got planned for him,” Bob said. “Circuit Judge Stark is due in about ten days. I’ll let him decide on what he wants to do about a trial and arranging legal representation. He might want to hold the trial here, he might want to hold it in Cheyenne and have a U.S. Marshal haul Larkin down there for it. But until he makes a ruling, we’ll be keeping Larkin behind bars on charges of suspected murder.”

  “That’s not gonna be too popular with our admirers outside,” advised Peter. “They’re looking for a verdict a lot sooner than that, and there’s only one verdict that’s gonna satisfy ’em.”

  “Well they’re just gonna have to live with a little disappointment in their lives then, ain’t they?” said Bob. “Speaking of that bunch, I didn’t see any sign of their fearless leaders, Dutton or Norton either one. I’d be surprised if somebody hasn’t rushed to tell them by now that I brought Larkin in.”

  “I don’t think Dutton’s back from riding out with the Rocking W boys yet. Far as that loudmouthed Norton, I expect he’ll be showing up soon enough,” Peter said.

  Bob nodded. “Good. Maybe then, right in front of his eager audience, would be a good time to have him explain about hiring our other guest—Sweeney—to beat the hell out of him.”

  Fred raised his eyebrows. “You really think that’s the best way to play it?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not . . . Hell if I know. How do you play something as cockeyed as that?”

  “That’s a good question,” agreed Vern. “It sure tops anything I ever heard tell of.”

  “Well, we need to decide something about Sweeney,” Fred said. “We’ve got him behind bars, true enough, but I don’t know if we actually have the right to call him a prisoner or not. You see, Vern didn’t actually arrest him. And I don’t know that there’s anything in the statutes to use for a charge. What law did he break by successfully performing the job he was hired to do?”

  “Never mind that for right now. If he’s behind bars in our cellblock, then he’s a prisoner until I say otherwise. At the moment, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.” Bob poured himself some coffee, turned back to face his men. “I’m guessing,” he said, “Fred has brought you up to speed on our other problem—leastways how him and me see it—regarding the two cattle outfits, the Rocking W and the V-Slash. Like I’ve been preaching and as you well know, they’re technically out of our jurisdiction. And it’s largely speculation on my part about how the trouble between ’em is being stoked so that it’s on the brink of reaching the boiling point mighty soon . . . But I don’t think I’m wrong.”

  “Neither do we,” said Peter and Vern in a demonstration of the eerie habit they had of often speaking the same words in nearly perfect unison.

  “Good to hear your vote of confidence,” Bob said. “But now we’ve got a situation right here under our own roof with the lid about ready to blow off, too. Any ideas on how to cover both at once?”

  “The only way is to split up,” said Vern. “Two stay here, two ride out to try and steady down those cattlemen.”

  Fred shook his head. “No good. Splitting up, in my opinion, is the last thing we should do. If we’re gonna do any good at all out on the range, especially with those hardcases added to the Rocking W crew, I think we need to go in with a show of force. Two of us, maybe even all four of us, may not be enough. The opposing sides could catch us in a crossfire that would put us in bad shape plenty quick.”

  “Fred makes a good point,” Bob said.

  “Wait a minute, then,” said Peter angrily. “If there’s a chance we’ll take fire from both brands, then why do we give a damn about either one of ’em? Let ’em go ahead and blast one anothers’ brains out.”

  “The trouble with that,” Fred pointed out, “is the number of innocent, hardworking cowboys who’ll get caught in a lead storm totally not of their making.”

  “And if our speculating is right,” added Bob, “ninety percent of it will hinge on a falsehood, a piece of trickery pulled out from under the hats of those Texas hardcases. That’s the part I dislike the most, having them horn in to make matters worse. Plus, with the Texans jerking the strings, the V-Slash crew will be caught off guard and are bound to suffer the heaviest if gunplay breaks out.”

  “That still leaves us stuck between a rock and a hard place unless we split up,” insisted Vern. “We can’t try to quell the trouble outside of town and keep a lid on things here, not both at the same time.”

  “Since you weren’t around to know any better, I’ll cut you some slack,” said Bob. “But for your information, before I hired on you and your brother a couple years back, me and Fred managed to do a fair to middlin’ job of dealing with problems around here when it was just the two of us. And the way we did it was with a helping hand now and then from some men in town we knew we could count on.”

  “You mean like that bunch out there?” said Peter, jabbing a thumb toward the front door.

  Bob scowled. “Did it sound like I was describing anybody from that bunch?”

  “No, of course not,” Peter said, mollified.

  “The way I see it is this,” Bob went on. “The situation here in town is less volatile than what’s brewing out on the rangelands. Out there, things are primed to explode and soon. While that pack of blowhards on the other side of the door might be talking loud and tough in order to try and impress one another, they’re a long way from being truly ready to bust somebody out of jail and string ’em up, not even with half a dozen Nortons and Duttons egging them on. Most of ’em are just regular fellas caught up in the excitement of the moment.”

  “So you’re saying our first priority is outside of town, that what I’m hearing?” said Fred.

  “For the four of us, yeah,” confirmed Bob. “We’ll gather some of the townsmen we know we can trust and leave them in charge here, while we ride out.”

  “I can go with that,” said Vern.

  Bob nodded. “Good. Because that’s exactly what you’re gonna do—go. You’ve got the fastest horse and you’re the best rider, I want you to take off immediately. Hightail it out to the V-Slash and tell Carlos Vandez what’s going on. Tell him I believe Wardell is planning to sucker him into a confrontation over some trumped-up rustling. Make sure he understands it’s a setup designed to go very badly for him. Tell him to hold off, to sit tight at his ranch until the rest of us can get there.”

  “What if he won’t listen to me?”

  “Make him listen! Now get going.”

  “Want me to stay there and wait for you?”

  “No, turn around and come back. Hopefully we’ll meet you on the way. I want our group back together full strength as soon as possible.”

  Fifteen seconds later the front door was closing behind Vern.

  Bob turned next to Fred. “Go tell Mike Bullock I want to see him. Tell him it’s an emergency. Then find out if Angus McTeague is in town. If he is, tell him the same thing. If he’s out at one of his mines, get a couple other men from the miners’ council—Feeney, Nimitz, somebody like that. Get ’em back here as soon as you can, okay?”

  As Fred was heading out, Peter said, “What about me? What do you need me to do?”

  “Until we ride out, we’ve still got prisoners to think about,” said Bob. “How about going up the stree
t to the Bluebird Café and getting ’em some breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?” Peter echoed.

  “We can’t let ’em starve, can we?” Then, smiling slyly, Bob added, “Besides, think how pissed off it will make those jaspers outside seeing a nice, hot meal fetched for Larkin.”

  Peter blinked a couple times, considering. Then his mouth spread in a lopsided grin, too. “Yeah. It sure as hell will, won’t it?”

  CHAPTER 51

  The jail office had become very crowded.

  In addition to Bob, Fred, and Peter, five other men were present. Mike Bullock, at no surprise to Bob, had shown up first. He was followed in short order by Fred accompanying Angus McTeague and three of his men. McTeague was head of the New Town miners’ council and also a member of Rattlesnake Wells’ overall town council. As owner of the three most successful mines up in the Prophecies, he was, hands down, the wealthiest man in the area. Despite that, he put on few airs (as prominently demonstrated by continuing to smoke the same cheap, dreadful-smelling cigars he’d puffed back in the days when he’d first arrived in the area as nothing more than a flat-broke prospector) and remained a big, ruggedly handsome character who charmed most everyone he met, right down to having a strong, loyal following from those who toiled for him in his mines.

  It was three such employees, in fact—the three he’d brought along with him, none being strangers to Bob’s jail—currently under discussion. The trio happened to be Ray Monte, Jimmy Russert, and Sam Kingston, the same men who’d tangled with John Larkin over a game of pool on his first night back in town.

  “When Fred explained the predicament you were in,” McTeague was saying, “I could see right quick the situation might be requirin’ a bit more than just me and Mike. Not that the two of us couldn’t handle a riot or three strictly on our own, mind you, but there comes a point in a man’s life when he starts to see the charity in sharing such fun opportunities. Ain’t that right, Mike?”