by Jake Logan
Still, it didn’t sit right with Slocum. In theory, the hammer should have been resting on an empty chamber. Always.
And in theory, Charlie should have removed the cylinder before he did anything else.
If, as he’d claimed, he’d really been cleaning the gun.
Slocum set the gun back down on the table and said, “Thanks, Charlie.”
Charlie didn’t answer. He just sat there with his head in his hands.
Slocum let himself out the front door. Lil was still standing where he’d left her—staring at the body—and Kiefer had gone off somewhere. Probably to find somebody to help him with the corpse.
“Kiefer go to get a couple of the hands?” he asked Lil.
“And he said something about a wagon,” she replied.
“Should’ve waited to send ours back,” he muttered and cast a glance toward the barn.
“What?” Lil asked, then said, “Oh. Never mind.” She looked as though the event had drained her heavily. Well, why shouldn’t it? It wasn’t often one was that close to two murders in two days.
But still, she seemed more upset about Messenger’s demise than she had about her husband’s.
Odd.
He slid his arm around her shoulders. “I think you’d better finish your dinner, gal.”
She said, “Yes, Slocum,” rather limply and turned to go back to the house.
Lil closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, blowing out air through pursed lips. Of all the dumb luck!
Still, it had been quite a shock, seeing Bill lying there on the ground, dead. More than she’d thought it would be, back when she was trying to plan his demise. He’d always been so full of life.
How strange and bizarre that he’d fallen victim to an accident just when he had. After all, he’d likely come here to kill her. Expose her, at the very least.
And it was probably Bill who’d shot and killed David yesterday.
A little chill ran through her, and she rubbed at her arms. He’s dead now, she told herself. He can’t hurt you or anybody else, anymore.
And then she realized how silly that was. He’d probably never hurt so much as a fly in his life, until she’d conned him. She’d made out pretty well on that one, she reminded herself.
Well, he’d just been asking for it, being so rich and so gullible and all . . .
She stood up straight, walked to the dining room table, and seated herself. She also served herself another enchilada before Slocum had a second chance at them.
She poured herself a second cup of coffee, too, and as she did, she began to hum some nameless tune. Despite all the hubbub, she was suddenly feeling almost chipper. She had the money, she had Slocum—for a little while, anyway—and she was rid of Bill Messenger for good and all.
She was the cat who’d swallowed the canary, and she knew it.
Slocum answered the knock at the door this time. It was Miles Kiefer again.
He said, “Slocum, we got the body loaded in a wagon, but I’m thinking that it’s getting late, and I’m not much in favor of driving a rig all the way back to town when it’s this dark.” He pointed up, indicating the faint crescent moon.
Slocum nodded. It would throw a wrench into his plans for the evening, but he threw the door the rest of the way open and said, “You’re welcome to stay over, Kiefer.”
But the sheriff shook his head. “No. I’ll be just fine in the bunkhouse. But I’m tellin’ you that Cookie isn’t any too handy with a stove. If you’ve got any leftovers . . .”
Slocum laughed. “Sure, sure. C’mon in. We were just cleanin’ up.”
Miles stepped inside, and Lil herself served him dinner while Slocum sat at the far end of the table, smoking. David Chandler had had good taste in cigars, and Slocum had found his humidor.
“You know,” Kiefer said, when Lil was out in the kitchen, “between you and me and the fence post, Chandler wasn’t any angel. Miss Lil was probably lucky he got killed when he did.”
Slocum scowled, midpuff. “What you mean?”
“I mean that Chandler wasn’t his real name.”
Slocum gave a shrug. “That, I know. I told you about it, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Kiefer continued, chancing a quick look toward the kitchen, “Sorry. But it was robbery, murder, you name it. Killed your friend, you said. But, so long as a man keeps his nose clean in my town, I ain’t got no grudge against him. I’ll watch him close, but that’s it. Until he tries to pull something, anyhow.”
“I guess Chandler didn’t try to pull anything in Poleaxe?”
“That’s right,” Kiefer replied and took a large bite of enchilada. “Damn, these are good, Slocum! You make this?”
Slocum ignored the question. He merely picked up his cigar again, rolled the ash off against the china, and stuck it in his mouth.
Around another mouthful of enchilada, Kiefer mumbled, “If this is your idea of campfire cookin’, I’ll ride with you anytime . . .”
“I been thinkin’, Kiefer,” Slocum said. “I’m wonderin’ if you got any paper on Messenger back at the office.”
“Any paper? On Messenger?”
“Current, or old, maybe,” Slocum said. “Just wonderin’, you know? And another thing. How well do you know this Charlie Townsend?”
Kiefer put down his fork. “Why?”
“Because I don’t think that shootin’ was any accident.”
Kiefer’s brow furrowed. “Charlie’s been in Poleaxe since before I came. Hell, he used to own this ranch until Chandler bought him out!”
“He did?” Slocum’s mind really started into spinning, now.
“Oh, sure. I wonder how he’s gonna take to having a lady boss. Never been one for the ladies, has Charlie. Always figured him for a woman hater, as a matter of fact.”
“No accountin’ for some feller’s tastes,” said Slocum, and blew a smoke ring.
“Oh, I don’t mean nothing like that,” Kiefer added quickly. “I always just figured that somewhere along the line, a woman did him wrong in a real big way. He just doesn’t trust any of them. I remember one time—before Chandler came to town—we had a couple of nuns come through on their way to the mission, down south. One of their horses went lame, and they tried to buy one from Charlie. He charged ’em double, said they looked sneaky to him.”
“Nuns?” Slocum nearly choked. “Sneaky?”
“Nuns,” replied Kiefer, with a nod. “Damnedest thing I ever heard of. I mean, I wouldn’t even have expected that kind of horseshit out of Jess!”
Slocum laughed, and said, “By Christ!”
24
The sheriff had retired to the bunkhouse, Lil was back down the hall, unpacking, and Slocum sat in the parlor, smoking his second cigar and drinking a glass of the late David Chandler’s port. It was pretty damned good port, too.
If you liked port, which Slocum really didn’t. But it seemed that Chandler hadn’t kept anything else around the place.
He was thinking over the information that had come to him tonight, which, all in all, was a whole lot. Too much to digest at once, almost. But he did his best.
This used to be Charlie’s place, which gave Charlie a pretty damned good reason to take a shot at Chandler—especially since Kiefer said that Charlie hated women, and, well, Chandler was marrying a woman with a capital W in Lily.
That might have been just enough to push him over the edge.
But if Charlie had been in the hotel for the wedding, surely somebody would have recognized him. And he didn’t match Mrs. Tinny’s description, not at all.
Bill Messenger did, however. He wondered if the sheriff had noticed. Probably. Kiefer didn’t strike him as being slow off the mark.
Again, Slocum wondered about Lil’s past, and if Messenger had anything to do with it. Of course, she hadn’t given herself away if indeed, he had, but then, Lil was a con woman. She wouldn’t go all to pieces and just holler out, “Oh my God, I’m married to him.” Or engaged, or, “I took him for th
irty grand,” or whatever.
No, Lil was the Queen of Lies. Always had been, always would be.
He stubbed out his cigar, stood up, and walked down the hall. He went to Lil’s room, where he found her suitcases lined up on the bed and Lil, herself, sitting on the floor before her open trunk.
“Hello, darling!” she chirped when she saw him.
“Just wanted to tell you,” he said. “I’m goin’ to bed.”
“Oh! Well, pull those valises off the mattress, then, and—”
“Told you, honey. I ain’t gonna sleep in a dead man’s room.”
Her brows knitted prettily. “Very well, then. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He grunted and went back to the room they’d used before. He lit the lamps and pulled the shades down and stripped out of his clothes. The sheets felt nice and cool, better than the linens at the hotel. David Chandler hadn’t skimped on anything, he guessed. At least, he’d bet anything that ol’ Charlie Townsend hadn’t had stuff this nice in the house when it was his.
Charlie Townsend sat in his parlor, waiting. His lights were out, and he stared up toward his late boss’s room. The bitch had the lamp lit but hadn’t pulled the shade. He could tell that by the strength of the light spilling out, but he couldn’t see more. From this angle, the window appeared like a mere slit in the house.
He’d thought about going and looking out the bedroom window, but why? He didn’t give a damn what she was doing in there, so long as she was there.
Again, he picked up his gun, feeling the cool reassurance of its metal, the solidity of its ebony grip. He’d hoped to kill that nosy sheriff earlier, but he’d hit the new hand instead. Well, it couldn’t be helped, he supposed.
He’d had to shoot from back here, where he’d be sitting if he were really cleaning his gun, as he’d claimed, and had to aim for the sound of the men’s voices, rather than the actual sight of them.
All things considered, it was pretty much a miracle he’d hit anybody.
He’d have done better if he’d had his rifle, though. He was better with a rifle.
But his shoulder reminded him why he hadn’t relied on the other weapon. Slocum’s slug had pierced him only an inch away from where the long gun nestled into his shoulder, and it still hurt like hell. He’d put up a good front before the other men today, but it pained him something fierce.
At least his face was almost completely healed. The only way he could find the cuts amid the wrinkles on his face was to feel for them. The glass had been thin and sharp, and although they’d bled like a son of a bitch, once he’d gotten them cleaned up, the wounds had practically disappeared.
He congratulated himself on his luck—for not the first time—and took another look toward David Chandler’s window. The situation was unchanged. The lights were undimmed.
“Might’s well have a cup’a coffee,” he muttered, and went to refill his empty mug. “Bitch is sure takin’ her own sweet time. Don’t she ever get sleepy?”
Lil, having retreated to the front of her room to change into a nightgown—a green one, which really set off her hair, she thought—walked back to pull down the shade of her window. Best not advertise to the rest of the ranch that she wasn’t sleeping in here, but with Slocum. That is, if “the rest of the ranch” ever came around to this side of the house.
For the sake of tidiness, she threw a coverlet over her bags, leaving them on the bed, then bent to blow out her lamp. Closing the door behind her, she padded softly to Slocum’s room, rapped on the door to announce herself, then let herself in.
It was dark inside, but she remembered where the bed was and made her way to it. Just before she reached it, though, a large hand snaked around her fanny and pinched her left buttock.
“’Bout time you got here, girl,” came Slocum’s baritone rumble. He pulled her to him, and she tumbled onto the bed—and him.
“You don’t have any lights lit,” she purred as she wriggled into a more comfortable position. “I wanted you to see my nightgown.”
His fingers undid the little ribbon that tied it at the front. “I’ll see it in the morning.”
“It won’t be the same,” she whispered hoarsely as she felt the gown fall down to her waist, felt his hand cup first one breast, then the other, then felt the moist heat of his lips and tongue upon her nipple.
“Um,” Slocum said. The sound rumbled through her bosom and radiated through her body, nearly toppling her over the edge, and she gasped.
This time, he chuckled, her nipple still caught between his teeth, and the vibrating sound, following so closely on the heels of the first, pushed her directly into an orgasm.
She seized in his arms, crying his name.
He held her until she stopped trembling, and then he shifted her, removing the gown completely and pushing back the bed linens. He was naked beneath them, and he rolled on top of her, his legs between hers. Nothing had ever felt so good as Slocum, naked, mounting her.
She spread her legs farther and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply.
He returned it, embellished it, and as he did, he slid himself inside her. She knew she was wet, for he met no resistance, and he began to move slowly, rhythmically.
Her light was finally out.
Charlie Townsend eased himself out his bedroom window and landed softly on the dirt outside. Keeping low, he crept across the darkened lot to her window.
The shade was pulled, but the window itself was open. Gingerly, he pushed aside the shade a little using two fingers. He couldn’t see much, but he could make out a shape on the bed.
She was a lot fatter under that coverlet than she looked in clothes, that was for sure.
He brought up his gun and aimed it at her. He couldn’t see her head, so he aimed for her back. At this range, his slug could sever her spine and go right through the heart, if he was lucky.
Maybe.
He studied on it a little more.
He’d only have the time for one shot, he knew that. He wanted to make it count.
Stinking bitch. She wasn’t going to take over things, not if he had anything to say about it!
He’d halfway given up on getting the ranch back. That had been a stupid idea. Where did he think he’d get the money? But still, he wasn’t going to work for some hussy who strutted the stage!
He took careful aim through the gloom, or at least, as careful as he could.
He fired.
Caught in the throes of orgasm, it took Slocum a half second to figure out that the loud noise he’d just heard was a gunshot, and a close one, too. Beneath him, Lil had stopped her spasms and turned her head dumbly toward the sound.
Slocum clambered off of her and jerked open the shade. There was nothing in the side lot, although he thought he saw some movement over at the caretaker’s cottage. But Charlie might have come to the window at the sound, just as he had.
“Stay down,” he whispered to Lil, and he grabbed his britches and gun as he crawled out of bed. He had his pants on by the time he made it to the hall, and his gun belt strapped over them before he entered Lil’s room.
There wasn’t much to see in the dark, but he made out a little spray of gunpowder at the edge of the shade. Someone had fired from there, and doubtless into the room from the outside.
Thank God Lil had been with him!
He went to the bed, struck a match, and discovered a neat round hole piercing the coverlet Lil had tossed over her line of bags. From the window, the shooter had mistaken the valises for a sleeping body.
He shook out the match and went back to Lil. He was certain now that the bullet that had killed Chandler hadn’t been meant for him. Lil had been the target, all along.
Halfway into his room, somebody pounded on the front door. “Get yourself decent,” he whispered to Lil, and left.
Charlie Townsend was on the front porch, followed momentarily by Miles Kiefer, who was trying to run and button his shirt and buckle his gun belt all at the same time.
&nb
sp; “What was it? Who shot who?” Charlie demanded.
“What he said,” cried Kiefer. “Is everybody all right in there?”
Slocum swung wide the door and let them pile in. He said, “Nobody’s hurt, unless you count one of Miss Lily’s satchels.”
Charlie’s face screwed up. “What? One’a her bags?”
“That’s right,” Slocum answered. “Want to come back and take a look? I’ll show you.” He knew he wasn’t giving Lil much time, but she was good at thinking on her feet. In her business, she had to be.
25
True to her nature, Lil stood waiting for them across the hall in the doorway of the third bedroom, wearing her nightgown plus a robe, which she’d pulled tight around her. She’d even thought to muss the covers of the bed.
“Someone, please!” she beseeched the men. “Tell me what’s going on!”
“There, there, Miss Lil,” Kiefer muttered as he passed by. It didn’t appear to Slocum as if he even looked at her. Townsend did, though. He slid a quick glance over her that was pure, unadulterated loathing.
The look passed in the wink of an eye, and nobody noticed it except Slocum, but his first instinct was to punch old Charlie Townsend into next week. If not farther.
But by then they were in David Chandler’s old room, and Slocum thought better of it.
Kiefer was lighting one of the lamps. He set it on a bed stand and said, “All right. Which piece of luggage?”
Slocum pointed to the coverlet, then pulled it aside to expose the bag beneath. The stench of perfume suddenly permeated the air in the room, and he thought, Lily’s gonna pitch a fit, all right . . .
“Hit her smack in the stink pretty,” Kiefer muttered.
“That it did,” replied Slocum, then regained his composure. “Bullet came from that window.” He pointed to the aperture, and they all trooped round to take a look.