Strong Suspicions (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 2)

by GP Hutchinson

  Juanito snapped his fingers and grinned. “How would just any random band of desperados know to lie in wait for Taft and Mackey at that exact place? That exact time?”

  VanDorn shrugged. “Maybe Taft—or Mackey—was careless talkin’ in front of customers. Maybe somebody overheard one of the two mentioning they needed to go make that deposit.”

  “Or maybe they trusted someone,” Li said. “Someone they thought was loyal, but who really was not.”

  “What’s that?” Emmett looked Li in the eye.

  “You know—Taft may have thought a friend was trustworthy. He quietly mentioned he was going first thing the next morning to deposit his earnings in the bank. But the friend…” Li stopped and shook her head. “No. He would have recognized the friend during the robbery. As angry as he may be at you, he would have to be even angrier at a friend who betrayed him, wouldn’t he?”

  Tarnation! She’s as smart as she is beautiful, Emmett thought, a grin spreading across his face. “That trusted friend didn’t have to do the deed himself,” Emmett said. “He could’ve scared up some owl-hoot pardners to do the actual robbing.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why Taft and his lookout man would blame the robbery on you,” VanDorn said.

  “The so-called witnesses—they’re the ones who described the outlaws running away with the cashbox as looking like us.” Emmett motioned between himself and Juanito.

  Juanito smacked his hands together and then pointed at Emmett. “But the so-called witnesses were the outlaws.”

  “So who did Taft trust who might have betrayed him?” Li asked.

  Emmett looked at Juanito. “What about the madam? Miss Lindsey?”

  “She could still be loyal to the former owner—the one who lost the place to Taft to begin with,” Juanito said.

  “Makes sense.” VanDorn rubbed his chin. “She and the former owner might both have an axe to grind with Taft.”

  “And getting the ‘witnesses’—who may, in fact, be the real outlaws—to blame us would draw folks’ attention away from them,” Emmett said. “Especially seeing as how Taft and Mackey already had reason enough to want to believe it was us.”

  “So we need to look into these witnesses,” VanDorn said. “Find out who they are. Find out what kind of connections they may have.”

  “And don’t forget—we’ve got witnesses, too.” Emmett felt a ray of hope. “And a hotel ledger in San Elizario with my John Hancock in it that says that’s where we were the morning of the robbery.”

  VanDorn bobbed his head. “If we find out Taft’s witnesses are rowdy-dow, the judge’ll likely believe honest, workin’ folk like them in San Elizario over a passel of porch perchers.”

  Emmett looked from Juanito to Li. “We need to borrow that ledger, first order of business in San Elizario.”

  In the next railcar forward sat Victorio Sanchez and Lope Mendez. They huddled close and spoke in hushed tones.

  “You have got to quit being so careless, Lope.”

  Mendez flipped both hands. “When was I careless?”

  “You walked the horses right by them. You should have waited until they got on the train.”

  “Why? They don’t recognize me.”

  Sanchez backhanded Mendez’s shoulder. “If Strong keeps seeing you, he may remember where he’s seen you before.”

  “Pshhh.” Mendez shook his head. “I don’t look anything like I did back then. You, however? You look exactly the same.”

  Eyeing his amigo, Sanchez said, “Just be more careful. The time will come when it won’t matter if Strong recognizes us. But before then, we don’t need him catching on.”

  The train car jostled the two then settled back into its steady rhythmic sway.

  Mendez smoothed both sides of his mustache with his thumb. “So when will we confront them—without worrying any longer about whether they recognize us?”

  A pretty gringo woman across the aisle caught Sanchez’s eye. “Well…I don’t want to shoot them in the middle of a train station full of people,” he murmured, only half thinking about what he was saying.

  “You already have a plan?”

  “Hm?” Sanchez could think of plans he’d like to arrange with the muchacha across the aisle. He liked her proportions. “Sí.”

  “Well…” Mendez said.

  “Well, what?”

  “You want to share your plan? Considering I’m the one funding this little expedition, you being without a single peso?”

  Sanchez left off ogling the pretty, young woman and scowled at Mendez. “You spend four years in prison and see how much money you have when you get out.”

  “That’s not the point. My money is your money, amigo. Likewise, your mission is my mission. True, I didn’t go to prison like you did. But I was there the day this all began. I could have ended up in prison right alongside you.”

  Sanchez’s brows relaxed. Lope was right. “Rest assured, my friend, once we’ve taken care of Strong, things will be like they once were—Victorio Sanchez will once again make your life rich and interesting.”

  “The good life.” Mendez grinned.

  One thing would be different, though, Sanchez mused. He’d be a just a little more careful. “The other Texas Ranger with them—the old one,” he said. “The people out in El Paso must have sent him to bring Strong and his amigos back to answer the charges, don’t you think?”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I don’t want to get him involved.”

  “If that’s who he is,” Mendez said, “you know he’ll stay with them all the way to the juzgado in El Paso.”

  Sanchez shook his head. “Strong will take his new woman aside somewhere between here and there. He’ll want some time alone with her.”

  Again, Mendez grinned. “And what about her? Do you care whether we get her involved?”

  Sanchez chuckled quietly. “Strong has never exercised good judgment when it comes to women. He’s bad luck for them.”

  “So if this woman gets caught in the middle when we’re ready to settle things with Strong—like the other one did?”

  “I don’t have nothing against the woman.” Sanchez’s gaze flicked back to the young lady across the aisle. “But she won’t stop me from paying back Strong if she happens to be in the wrong place when the time comes.”

  Mendez peered out the window at the distant hills. “I guess we’ll see, then…when the time comes. Maybe she won’t be with him.”

  “Maybe not…”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  McIntosh’s men, Lum and Jarvis, elbowed their way through the swinging saloon doors and marched across the barroom to Ned Cage’s table.

  Lum leaned over the table and murmured, “We found out where at least one of Emmett Strong’s men is stayin’.”

  Cage lifted his gaze to meet Lum’s.

  “The English fella,” Jarvis whispered excitedly.

  “Go on,” Cage said.

  “Jarvis and I seen him goin’ into a place over on Fourth Street,” Lum said. “Peeked through the window and saw him and a pretty blonde workin’ inside. Looks like they’re fixin’ the place up for business.”

  “Sign in the window said, ‘Coming soon, the Bowlegged Buffalo Saloon,’” Jarvis added, forming his hands into a placard-like frame.

  “‘The Bowlegged Buffalo’—how very clever.” Cage looked from Jarvis to Lum. “And you’re sure it’s him?”

  Lum nodded. “No doubt at all.”

  “Any sign of the others—Strong, the Mexican, the Chinese girl?”

  “Nary a sign,” Jarvis said. “Not so far, anyways.”

  “Hmm.” Cage rose casually, adjusted his burgundy vest and his gun leather, and said, “Let’s pay the Englishman a little visit, then. Find out whether he might be willin’ to tell us the whereabouts of his friends.”

>   Fifteen minutes later, Cage, Lum, and Jarvis were standing on the boardwalk across the street from what was soon to be the Bowlegged Buffalo Saloon.

  “Fresh paint outside and plenty of work goin’ on inside,” Lum said. “Looks as if they plan to stay.”

  Cage shrugged. “Won’t be stayin’ too long, will they?”

  Jarvis snorted. “Don’t reckon they will.”

  A bead of sweat ran down Cage’s back. “Enough standin’ around in this heat,” he said. After reseating his black Stetson, he stepped down into the dust of the street and sauntered halfway across. There he paused, Lum on his left and Jarvis on his right. He surveyed the avenue and the walkways in both directions. Not many folks out. None who gave him pause. He continued ahead, up the steps to the door of the Bowlegged Buffalo, where he let himself in.

  Geneve and Sikes had been playing a game while she brushed varnish onto the dark wood of the bar and he nailed pieces of wainscoting onto the bottom half of the wall across from her. She would sing or hum one line of a popular song, and he’d have to sing or hum the next line. He’d just finished his turn humming a line from “Don’t Tell Papa!” when the front door opened.

  Three men walked in.

  Still on his knees, Sikes said, “I’m sorry, but as you gentlemen can see, we’re not yet open for business. It’ll be a few more weeks.”

  Without a word, the tallest of the three—a thin chap with stringy hair, a thick mustache, and a goatee—ambled to the left. A shorter fellow who looked vaguely familiar closed the door and took up a place to the right.

  “Is this the man?” The dapper, burgundy-vested stranger in the middle gestured toward Sikes.

  “That’s him, sure ’nough,” the shortest one said.

  Not another word was necessary. Sikes didn’t know them by name, but he knew exactly who they were—and who had sent them. He cursed his bum leg and pulled himself to his feet. “Geneve, leave now.” He strove for a tone that communicated urgency, but not panic. “The back door.”

  Geneve hesitated, her lips parted, varnish dripping from her brush.

  “Go, Geneve! Now!” Sikes said, this time unconcerned about tone. He stepped toward the bar.

  “Both of you, just hold where you are,” the one in the middle—the hired gun, no doubt—ordered. His hat, while new looking, was bent up in the front, almost certainly for the rakish effect rather than from any kind of abuse or hard work.

  Sikes continued toward the bar. He needed the shotgun. Geneve gaped at him, immobile.

  “Don’t do it.” The hired gun’s manner was steady, matter-of-fact. He took a step forward.

  Sikes stopped in place, one hand on the edge of the bar. His other hand tightened around the hammer he’d been using.

  “Smart man,” the gunslick said. “Now drop that hammer on the floor. Easy. And keep those hands where I can see ’em.”

  Sikes hesitated then shook his head, deciding it would be smarter to let go of the hammer than to pretend it would accomplish anything against three armed men. It struck the hardwood with a bang and a clatter that he could feel through his boots.

  “Who are these men? I don’t recognize them,” Geneve said.

  “They’re not from around here,” Sikes answered. His mouth was going dry on him.

  “Nevada?” Her voice broke as she finished the word.

  “Smart girl,” the hired gun said. “Now where are your friends—Strong, the Mexican, the China girl?” The gunman’s cool gaze drifted from Sikes to Geneve. And remained on her for a long moment.

  When he realized the gunslick was ogling her, Sikes gritted his teeth.

  At last the gunman’s gaze returned to him. “Your friends, where are they?”

  “They left town.”

  The one with the stringy hair scoffed. “You expect us to believe that?” He glanced at the hired gun, and the hired gun shot him a glower that said Shut up, and stand ready.

  Sikes stole a glance at the quiet gunman to the right. Where had he seen him before? McIntosh’s ranch?

  The dandy in the middle took another step forward. Sikes’s heart pulsed faster. He and the hired gun were at opposite ends of the bar now with Geneve on the other side, halfway between the two of them.

  “So they left town, did they?” the gunman said. “When?”

  Sikes’s face glowed with anger. He’d let McIntosh catch him off guard. That was bad enough. Worse yet, though, was the growing sense that Geneve, too, would pay for his carelessness.

  “Don’t make me keep repeating myself.” The gunman narrowed his eyes. “When did they leave?”

  “This morning.” Sikes eyed Geneve, willing her to edge toward him. Maybe she could still make a run for the back door.

  “Look at me,” the gunslick said in a voice Sikes couldn’t ignore. “You know what I’m gonna ask. Tell me the rest.”

  Sikes shook his head slowly.

  “If you won’t tell me on your own account”—the gunslick motioned toward Geneve—“then think of your pretty piece of calico here. Tell me on her account.”

  Through clenched teeth, Sikes said, “Don’t touch the girl. She’s seen enough hard times already.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. She looks too pretty for a girl that’s seen hard times.”

  Sikes’s fists were ready to fly. He’d fought a few bare-knuckle bouts. He’d gladly go up against this fop, were he unarmed. But to rush him now would be suicide. It would accomplish nothing on Geneve’s behalf. “Don’t touch the girl.” He wasn’t asking. “McIntosh’s complaint is not against her. She’s never even been to Nevada.”

  “Then maybe it’s time she paid a little visit to the Silver State, meet Mr. McIntosh in person.” The gunslick gave an unconvincing grin.

  “You hurt her…or kill me, you’ll never know where my friends are. But they’ll know exactly where to find Mr. McIntosh. And they’ll do to him exactly what they did to his brother and to his boy, Seth Blaylock.”

  “Naw,” the gunman said with a sneer. “They’d have to get past me to get to Mr. McIntosh. And I can guarantee: not even the great pistolero Emmett Strong can get past me.”

  Geneve sidled a step closer.

  “Uh-uh, Miss Geneve,” the gunman said smoothly.

  Disregarding the gunman, she suddenly dashed Sikes’s way. Before she could reach the near end of the bar, however, the gunslick drew his revolver and sent a bullet smashing into the wall between the two of them. Geneve screamed and stopped in her tracks.

  The hired fast gun glanced at the stringy-haired one. “Escort the lady away from her friend—so she doesn’t accidentally get hurt.”

  The fellow started for Geneve.

  Sikes wanted to tell her to stay put, but with panic on her face, she again started toward him. He had to protect her, put himself between her and them.

  When the gunslick fired this time, Sikes felt sickening pain—as though his right ankle had been cleaved with an axe. There was no strength in it, and he collapsed unceremoniously to the floor, crying out as he fell.

  “No!” Geneve burst into tears.

  Blood oozed between Sikes’s fingers as he gripped the ankle tightly.

  She dropped to his side, but the stringy-haired gunman peeled her away from him, saying, “Come with me, girly.”

  In a rage Sikes lashed out for the hammer he’d dropped.

  Another shot split the air.

  Pain coursed through him like a flash of white-hot light. He cried out and grasped his now-bleeding right hand.

  “Geneve, move away,” the gunman said dispassionately. “This won’t end well if you don’t.”

  Sikes’s hopes plummeted. There was little more he could do for her. Why did it have to end this way? Why couldn’t he have done better for her? “Move, Geneve.” he managed to say.

  Sobbing, she gave in and let the str
ingy-haired gunslick lead her out away from the bar.

  The shooter nodded. Pistol still drawn, he approached Sikes. He used the side of his foot to send the hammer skittering across the floor toward the shorter of McIntosh’s men. “Time to talk, Mister—” He paused expectantly.

  Sikes lay against the wall, breathing hard. He closed his eyes. He realized his blood was pooling beneath his hands. He supposed it was doing the same at his ankle. The pain was agonizing. But not as tortuous as the knowledge that they could do to Geneve whatever they wanted. They could force her to tell them what they wanted to know.

  How could he save her from that? Was there anything he could do?

  He sensed the shooter standing directly over him. He opened his eyes and saw the heel of the gunslick’s upturned boot resting in the puddle of blood at his own ankle. Then, like a thousand burning pokers, pain shot from his ankle to every quarter of his body as the gunman began to grind the ball of his foot into the gunshot wound.

  Sikes gasped and struggled to maintain consciousness.

  “I asked you your name,” the gunslick said. “You didn’t answer.”

  Between breaths, Sikes muttered his name.

  Cage released the pressure on his ankle. “I believe you see now that I’m not here to play, Mr. Sikes. I’m here on business. You will answer me.”

  “People heard your gunshots, mister,” Geneve said between sniffles. “They’ll be comin’ in here any minute. You’d better leave us alone and just go away.”

  Chuckling, the gunslick glanced at her and then turned back to Sikes again. “Your man here has been banging away with that hammer all morning. I’m betting folks’ll figure it’s just more hammering.”

  As he resumed pressing Sikes’s ankle beneath his boot, the gunman thumbed back the hammer of his revolver again. “I’m not going to waste a lot of time here, Mr. Sikes. Tell me where Strong and the others are.”

  Sikes groaned and shook his head.

  “So that’s the way it’s gonna be,” the shooter said. He motioned to the short, quiet fellow. “Come over here and keep your Colt pointed at Mr. Sikes for me. Meanwhile, I’m gonna take Miss Geneve into the back room there and persuade her to tell me everything I need to know.”