Kid Slade stopped and scowled. “God, I am tired of you treatin’ me as if I’m dumb.”
“Let me hear you say it.”
“Damn it.”
“Show me you remember.”
Kid Slade stamped a boot like a petulant child and growled, “Keep a cool head. No matter what, keep a cool head. Don’t let myself get worked up.”
“And why?”
“So I’ll think straight and shoot straight.” Kid Slade threw in, “Happy now?”
“No. The way you’re behavin’, it went in one ear and bounced out again.” Shotgun fingered the cup. “You get mad at me for tryin’ to keep you alive?”
“That’s not it, at all. It’s you actin’ like I’m no-account.”
“Would I have taken you for my partner if I thought that?” Shotgun said.
Kid Slade turned and sank down. He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “There. I’m sittin’ and I’m calm.”
“Not calm enough.”
“What will we take back as proof?” Kid Slade asked. “We always take somethin’.”
Shotgun wasn’t fooled by the Kid’s clumsy attempt to change the subject but he went along with it. “With him it’s easy. His hat or his coat or his pistols.”
“There might not be much left of the hat if you do as you usually do and blow his head clean off.”
“His coat, then. Or his pistols.”
“I might like them for myself.”
“I can tell by his holsters they have six-inch barrels or better. You like four-inchers.”
“I’m not sayin’ I’d use them,” Kid Slade said. “But they’d be fine keepsakes.”
“You’ve never wanted anything from anyone else.”
“It’s Rondo James.”
“There’s that,” Shotgun acknowledged. “Fair enough. We’ll give Ike Hascomb the coat and any Reb doodads that James has on him.”
“Doodads?” Kid Slade said, and snickered.
“Medals or buttons and such.”
Half the sun was gone. Vivid red and orange streaked the western horizon. An early owl hooted.
Kid Slade breathed deep and said, “I’ll want to remember this day the rest of my life.” He pushed a log that was sticking half out of the fire into the flames. “Which ones do you remember best?”
“I don’t.”
“All the men you’ve splattered and you don’t remember any?” Kid Slade said skeptically.
“I don’t try to,” Shotgun Anderson said. “Once they’re dead I forget about them.”
“Not me. I like to remember. That one who got on his knees and blubbered like a baby. That one who put his hands over his face and you blew his hands and his face off, both. That one who was runnin’ and I shot his knees out and stuck my six-shooter in his ear to finish him.” Kid Slade grinned. “At night I like to think about them before I fall asleep.”
“I had no idea.”
“I remember the blood, the bullet holes, their brains oozin’ out. All of it.”
“Now that’s damned peculiar,” Shotgun said.
They both laughed.
34
Roy Sether liked to read the The Farmer’s Almanac. It was all he liked to read. Often after the kids had been tucked in, he’d sit in the parlor reading the almanac while Martha knitted in her rocking chair.
Tonight Roy was paging through the articles on everything from gardening to fishing tips and came to a section on recipes. Since he knew Martha was always interested in trying new ones, he cleared his throat and said, “The almanac has a recipe here for corn muffins. Not that yours need improving.”
“Read it to me,” Martha requested without looking up from her needles.
“Pour one quart of boiling water over one pint of fine cornmeal. While the mixture is still hot, add one tablespoon of butter and a little salt, stirring the butter thoroughly. Let it stand until cool. Then add a small cup of wheat flour and two well-beaten eggs. When mixed sufficiently, put the batter into well-greased shallow tins or, better yet, into gem pans, and bake in a brick oven for one-half hour, or until richly browned. Serve hot.”
“It’s not much different than my own recipe,” Martha commented. “I add two tablespoons of butter and three eggs. As for using a brick oven, a stove is perfectly fine.”
“They have some other recipes,” Roy said. “Do you want me to read them?”
Martha stopped clacking the needles. “What I want is to talk about Rondo James.”
Her tone warned Roy that she was upset about something. Setting the almanac in his lap, he said, “I thought you liked him.”
“I do. He’s a perfect gentleman. I meant it when I said he was welcome to stay.”
“But?” Roy prompted when she stopped.
“That was before this assassin business,” Martha said. “From what the marshal told me, this is serious.”
“I never took it any other way,” Roy assured her.
“Yet Rondo is still here.”
Roy was taken aback. “You want me to ask him to leave? Is that what this is about?”
“It’s about Andy, Sally and Matt,” Martha said. “His being here puts them in harm’s way.”
Roy had thought of that, too, but he didn’t say so.
“If there is any shooting, they could be caught in the cross fire. Or take a stray bullet,” Martha continued. “We can’t allow that.”
“Then you do want me to ask him to leave?”
“I want what is best for our family. You should, too.”
Roy felt a surge of indignation. “I care for them as much as you do. No one can say I don’t.”
“I know, dear. You’ll have a talk with Mr. James, then? You’ll convince him it’s best for all of us if he moves on?” Martha smiled. “He told me today his horse is healed, so there’s no reason he can’t.”
Roy hid his disappointment. He had gotten used to having the Southerner around. And he liked him, a lot. “What about our own problem?”
“The killings?”
“The killings. I feel safer going off into the fields when he’s here to watch over you.”
“There haven’t been any since the Olanders,” Martha said. “I was talking to Irene and Tilda and they both agree that whoever was to blame has moved on.”
Roy tried to think of some other argument and all he could come up with was, “I’d still like to give it a day or two.”
“And I think—” Martha stopped and her eyes widened and her mouth formed an O. She was looking toward the window.
Roy did the same.
Earlier Martha had opened the window to let in the night breeze, as she often did in the summer, and tied the curtains back.
Shotgun Anderson was leaning in the window, his double-barreled shotgun trained on them, a smile on his face. “How do you do, folks?” he said pleasantly.
Roy started to rise and heard the clicks of the twin hammers.
“I wouldn’t, Mr. Sether,” Shotgun Anderson said. “I cut loose at this range, you’re sitting so close to your missus, I’ll blow you and her apart.”
Roy’s mouth went dry. He’d never had a gun pointed at him before. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“You already know,” Shotgun Anderson said.
“How dare you,” Martha said. “This is our home.”
“You’d be surprised at what I’ll dare, lady,” Shotgun Anderson said. “I want you to set your knittin’ on the floor and go open the front door for my pard.”
“I will not,” Martha declared.
“Mrs. Sether,” the assassin said, “I’m bein’ polite. But if you don’t do as I ask, I’ll stop bein’ polite and splatter your husband’s brains all over that wall.”
“You’re a hideous brute.”
“I’ve been called worse.” Anderson wagged the shotgun. “On your feet. Go throw the bolt like I asked.”
“How do I know you won’t shoot us anyway?”
“We’re here for Rondo James. No on
e else need be hurt if you’ll do as we say.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“You’re stallin’. If you’re still stallin’ by the time I count to five, you’ll need to buy widow’s black for the funeral.” Shotgun Anderson trained the shotgun squarely on Roy. “One,” he said.
“You pull those triggers and Rondo James will hear.”
“Two.”
“You won’t have surprise on your side.”
“Three.”
Martha let her knitting fall and stood. “If I only had a gun.”
“You’d be dead. Now do as I damn well told you. And no hollerin’ to warn the Reb, you hear?”
“Despicable,” Martha said, and walked from the parlor with her spine as stiff as a ramrod.
Shotgun Anderson chuckled. “That’s some firebrand you’ve got there, Sether.”
“Please,” Roy said. “Don’t do this.”
“Not much for gumption, are you?”
“Rondo James is my friend.”
“Ain’t that nice?”
“My children are upstairs.”
“I’m not here for them. We’re only paid for James.”
It hit Roy, then, that the assassin was lying. He and his family were witnesses and Anderson and Slade couldn’t leave witnesses. A chill ran through him. He almost leaped up to try for his Winchester but he knew he wouldn’t take two steps before he’d be blown to kingdom come.
There were voices, and a chuckle, and Martha came back into the parlor with Kid Slade behind her. The Kid had his Colts in his hands and was smirking.
“Go over by your husband, and no more insults.”
“What did you say to him?” Roy asked.
“That he’s a worthless cur.”
The Kid covered them and said, “You can come in now, pard. They so much as twitch wrong and I’ll blow out their wicks.”
Anderson eased out of the window and in a few moments came down the hall. He gazed up the stairs and turned an ear as if listening, and nodded to himself. “I reckon all your sprouts are asleep.”
“We tucked them in over an hour ago,” Martha said.
“We know,” Kid Slade said. “We’ve been spyin’ on you for days now. So we’d know what my pard likes to call your routine.”
“Find a weak spot in a person’s habits and they’re as good as dead,” Shotgun Anderson said.
“Do you think I care, you horrible brute?” Martha said. “There is nothing lower than a man who kills his fellow man. ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ remember?”
Kid Slade laughed. “That’s the Bible, ain’t it? My pa was always goin’ on about it.”
“It’s a shame none of his instruction took root,” Martha said.
“Not a shame to me. I like what I do. I wouldn’t do anything else.”
“The Devil has hold of you,” Martha said. “Your soul is doomed to perdition.”
“God Almighty,” Kid Slade said. “We have us a female parson here, pard.”
“I’m a good Christian woman,” Martha said indignantly. “Or so I like to think.”
“Get off your high horse, lady. That hogwash didn’t take with me when I was ten. It sure as hell won’t take now.”
“Thou shalt not kill,” Martha said again.
“Who are you tryin’ to fool?” Kid Slade snapped, growing angry. “I told you my pa quoted all that stuff. And as I recollect, a lot of it was about killin’. Cain and Abel. The walls of Jericho. Samson and the thousand whoever-it-was. There’s more killin’ in that Bible of yours than you can shake a stick at.”
Shotgun Anderson glared at his partner.
“What?” Kid Slade said.
“What the hell do you use for brains? We’re on a job and you’re arguin’ religion?”
“She started it,” the Kid said.
Roy was worried about his children. They might hear and come down to investigate.
Shotgun Anderson faced them. “Here’s what we’re goin’ to do. You two are goin’ to walk to the barn. You’ll stop just outside and call for Rondo James to come out. Try anything, shout to warn him, and you die where you stand.”
“Don’t think we won’t, either,” Kid Slade said.
“He’s probably asleep by now,” Martha said.
“You sure say stupid shit,” the Kid said.
Martha folded her hands in front of her, and sniffed.
Roy decided to intervene before she made the young gun shark even madder. “What if he asks what we want? It’s not usual for us to wake him at this hour.”
Shotgun Anderson gave it some thought. “You’ll say that you thought you saw someone skulkin’ about the place. That ought to bring him out quick.”
“And then we gun him,” Kid Slade said.
“You expect us to betray his trust?” Martha said. “What if I refuse?”
Roy marveled at her courage. She was the one who had grown uneasy having the Southerner stay with them, yet here she was, refusing to be a party in his murder.
“If you refuse,” Kid Slade said, “I march upstairs and snuff your kittens. How would that be, bitch?”
Before Roy could stop himself, he took a step with his hands clenched. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
Quick as thought, Kid Slade’s short-barreled Colts swung toward him. “Or what? Fists against six-shooters, six-shooters win every time.”
“Enough,” Shotgun Anderson declared. “This ain’t a goddamned debatin’ society. Walk in front of us, you two. Sether, put your arm around your wife. Mrs. Sether, remember what my pard just told you about your kids. They’re dead if you don’t cooperate.”
Roy was convinced they were dead anyway. He needed to do something, but for the life of him, and his family, he couldn’t think of what. A sense of helplessness came over him such as he had never known.
Shotgun Anderson moved aside so they could go down the hall to the front door. “Let’s get to it.”
35
Ritlin came out of the boardinghouse and crossed the street. He walked north until he came to the Grand Lady and paused at the batwings.
Axel was at the end of the bar, nursing a drink.
Shoving on in, Ritlin strolled over. He plastered a smile on his face even as he placed his right hand on his gun belt close to his ivory-handled Colt. “Are you ready?” he asked.
Axel frowned. “I’ve been ready for days,” he said irritably. “You’re the one who kept puttin’ it off.”
“I said tonight would be the night and I’m as good as my word,” Ritlin said.
Draining the rest of his glass, Axel said, “About damn time. I was set to go out to the Sether place myself. We agreed that he would be next.”
“We did,” Ritlin said. “Let’s go.”
They walked out. At that hour the saloons were jammed, and music and laughter tinkled on the breeze. A half-moon added its pale glow to the few streetlights.
Axel went to the hitch rail and unwrapped the reins to his horse. He was about to mount when he saw Ritlin still standing there. “Where’s yours?”
“At the boardinghouse.”
“Why the hell didn’t you bring it with you?”
“I can get it on our way out.” Ritlin wheeled on a boot heel and headed back down the street. He whistled to himself and gave the impression he didn’t have a care in the world.
Axel followed, leading his mount. “I still think we should have done this sooner,” he complained.
“With that lawdog sniffing around?” Ritlin shook his head. “It was smart to wait. I saw him ride into town about an hour ago. He’s at the boardinghouse now, talking to Bessie Mae, the woman who runs it.”
“It was risky of you to take a room there.”
“I did it so I could keep an eye on him,” Ritlin said. “I’ve already told you that three or four times.” He grinned. “You’re turning into more of a grump than One Eye ever was.”
That shut Axel up.
When he was directly across from the boardinghouse, Ritlin
crossed to the hitch rail. He had tied his sorrel at the far end, where it was darkest.
Axel led his zebra dun up and stared uneasily at the boardinghouse. “Let’s light a shuck.”
“I’m for that,” Ritlin said. He checked the street to be sure no one was near them, and turned and opened a saddlebag. “Care for some jerky? I bought some today at the general store.”
“Hell,” Axel said. “Can’t that wait until we’re out of town?”
“Grumpy as hell,” Ritlin said, and his hand closed on what he had really bought. He slid the hammer out and spun and struck Axel on the side of the head. Axel staggered, and clawed for his Merwin Hulbert. Ritlin slammed the hammer against his head a second time. Axel’s hat went flying and Axel crumpled into a bow, his body twitching briefly before it went still.
Ritlin looked around. Satisfied he had gone unseen, he stooped, relieved Axel of the six-shooter, got hold of him around the waist, and slung Axel over the zebra dun, belly down.
Quickly climbing on the sorrel, he snagged the zebra dun’s reins and hurried out of Teton. When he was well past the last of the buildings, he drew rein. From his saddlebag he took two short lengths of rope and proceeded to tie Axel’s wrists behind his back, and to bind his ankles.
“Soon, you son of a bitch,” Ritlin said to the unconscious form.
Climbing back on, Ritlin rode another half a mile, to a well-marked trail that led up to a timber camp. He climbed for about fifteen minutes, to the edge of a meadow. Veering across, he entered the trees at the far end, and once again stopped. Dismounting, Ritlin dumped Axel to the ground. The firewood he had gathered earlier that day was still there, and he soon had a fire going. He put coffee on and sat on a small log he had dragged over for a seat. He was humming to himself when he sensed eyes on him and said, “Surprised?”
Axel shifted so he was on his side facing the fire. “What the hell is this?”
“I reckon you already know.”
“You about bashed in my head, damn you.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.” Ritlin looked at him, and grinned. “Not until we have our little talk.”
“Talk?” Axel said.
“The biggest mistake of your life was taking me for a fool,” Ritlin said.
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