Strong Suspicions (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 2)

by GP Hutchinson

  He scanned the street. Where the hell did that Billy Thornhill run off to?

  He ventured another cautious peek inside. Willie was behind the bar as usual, and Miss Lindsey was at her preferred table over next to the stairs. Business was grand in there tonight.

  Little comfort that was, though—his new shotgun man was nowhere to be seen. No sign of the lookout’s cow-puncher buddies, either. He wondered whether Cage had summoned them upstairs. Or maybe he’d run them off. One way or the other, time was up. Cage was waiting.

  If Taft wanted an extra gun to back him up, he supposed Willie would be all right with that LeMat. On second thought, who the hell was he kidding? Those men upstairs—all three of them—had the look of seasoned fast guns. They’d burn down both him and Willie while the two of them were still yanking on their hog legs.

  He looked up at the Wild Hog’s exterior facade. The place had made him a lot of money in one short month. So what was it worth to him now? His life? Not when he could mosey on to any one of a dozen other towns and start over.

  Just then it struck him that he was getting way ahead of himself—he was still useful to that gunslick upstairs. He drew in a deep breath. You’re a persuasive man, he told himself. You just need to keep your wits about you.

  He shoved his way through the swinging doors and headed straight for the stairs. Willie, busy pouring drinks, paid him no attention. He met Miss Lindsey’s ever-watchful gaze. “Still up there, I assume?”

  She nodded. “Want me to follow?”

  “No, thanks.” He paused, hand on the stair rail. “Have you seen Billy Thornhill?”

  “Neither hide nor hair,” she said. “He left right after you finished talking to those Mexicans. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “Not a good start for our new shotgun man,” he grumbled. He’d have to deal with that later. As he took the stairs two at a time, he shoved Billy Thornhill out of his mind and tried to focus on Ned Cage and the pair of gunmen who backed him up.

  Just outside the guest room door, he drew himself straight, waited a beat, and then knocked and let himself in.

  His gaze darted to Geneve first. She was still on the bed. Arms folded tight, legs outstretched but crossed at the ankles, she looked even less comfortable than when he’d left her. The fellow with the gray hat was still beside her. His expression had taken on a foul edge.

  Cage—slouched in a cushioned armchair—had a book in hand. He closed it with a thump and tossed it to the floor. “Where’s Strong? Waitin’ downstairs?”

  Taft’s throat tightened.

  When he failed to give an immediate answer, the shorter gunslick shifted his stance.

  Taft swallowed. “He wouldn’t come.”

  Cage ducked his chin. “What’d you say?”

  “Said he wouldn’t come. Said he smelled a skunk.”

  Cage’s gaze flicked from Taft to the shorter gunslick. “That Strong’s a savvy fella, ain’t he?”

  “Yep,” the short one said. “A helluva lot of trouble.”

  “I would say I was disappointed in you, Mr. Taft,” Cage said. “But you see, I’ve learned a great deal about Mr. Strong over the past couple weeks. And from what I gather, he’s probably in a class above you.”

  Taft felt his cheeks flush. He licked his lips. “Whatever you may think of Strong, Mr. Cage, I’d encourage you not to be so quick to underestimate me. I’m quite certain you’ll find me a valuable ally as this…situation unfolds.”

  Cage rose from the chair and tugged on the cuff of one shirtsleeve, then the other. “We’ll see.”

  We’ll see. Relief swept over Taft. Apparently Cage wasn’t going to shoot him on the spot for this initial setback. He’d find a way to make the fast gun appreciate him.

  “The two Mexicans that came to see you…” Cage took a step forward and hung a thumb on his gun belt.

  “Yes?”

  “You said they had their own grudge against Strong, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d you leave things with them?”

  “I told them to come back after supper, that there might be things to discuss at that time.”

  “Good.” Cage nodded. “When they come back in, I wanna have a word with ’em. I’ll leave it to you to make the introductions.”

  “That can be done.”

  “Meanwhile,” Cage said, “I want you to have your madam bring some food up for Miss Geneve here. Me and the boys’ll take our meal downstairs while we wait on the Mexicans.”

  “That’ll be just fine.” Taft nodded. “How about some steak sandwiches?”

  Instead of answering, Cage took another step toward Taft. “Just want you to know”—he gestured with his chin toward Geneve—“this dove tried to fly away from me once. The fella that tried to help her ended up with a bullet right here.” He tapped Taft’s forehead to show where he’d shot Clive Mackey.

  Taft’s stomach knotted up on him as a vision of Mackey lying dead in the alley clawed its way into his mind.

  “If she flies again, maybe I’ll conclude that you or the madam helped her do so. Comprende?”

  Struggling to maintain his best poker face, Taft said, “Let me get that food for you all.”

  In a cheap cantina a few blocks from the Wild Hog Saloon, Victorio Sanchez was just finishing up his dinner. Lope Mendez, already finished with his, was now smoking a cigarillo.

  Through a mouthful of corn tortilla and pork, Sanchez said, “That damn saloon owner showed little appreciation for what it cost us to come all the way out here. I’ll bet nobody else is supporting his claim against Emmett Strong like we are.”

  “He played things close to the vest,” Mendez said. “There’s something he’s not telling us.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sanchez wiped his mouth with the back of his handthen took a swig of beer. “Damn, I wish we knew where Strong was staying!”

  Mendez exhaled cigarillo smoke. “Like I told you before, they were careful—once they left their horses at the livery, they split up.”

  Sanchez shook his head.

  “What?” Mendez said. “Strong and his girl went into that shop. I saw which one—very clearly. They just never came out of it.”

  “Just disappeared.”

  “That’s right, cabrón.”

  Sanchez eyed his amigo over one last spoonful of cheese-stuffed pepper. “All I can say is it wouldn’t have taken me thirty minutes to decide they must have gone out the back door.”

  Mendez rolled his cigarillo between his fingers. “It wasn’t thirty minutes. Nothing like that. You’d have done no better.”

  Sanchez grunted. “Perhaps not. Anyway, let’s go back to Taft’s saloon. See whether we get any further with him this time.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “We wait. Strong has to show up somewhere. And when he does, hell, we just shoot him. We get the damn thing over with and ride fast for Mexico.”

  “That’s all right with me. We can go find us some pretty señoritas over in Paso del Norte to keep us company while we hide out for a week or so—never see the light of day the whole time.”

  Sanchez chuckled and swatted Mendez’s elbow. “Now you’re talking, my friend.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Hope you don’t find yourself in too much trouble for allowing me to take a little walk this afternoon, Marshal,” Emmett said.

  The marshal chuckled. “Me? I didn’t do anything of the sort. Neither did my deputy here.”

  The twinkle in the marshal’s eyes suggested to Emmett that perhaps he’d underestimated him. Meanwhile, the deputy’s grin looked forced. Evidently the arrangement didn’t rest so well on the younger lawman’s conscience.

  It was crowded and warm in the tiny, dimly lit room at the Cantina Las Flores.

&n
bsp; “Anyway,” Emmett said, “I’m beholden to you.”

  “I suppose I can find it in myself to pardon you for breakin’ outta my jail,” the marshal said, “but I’m not so sure I can pardon you for holdin’ out on tellin’ me about the little lady here.”

  Emmett eyed Li, who was smiling coyly. “Just tryin’ to look after her, keep her safe.”

  “You’d better look after her. This one’s a keeper.”

  In the blink of an eye, a flood of thoughts cascaded through Emmett’s mind. Yes, indeed, Li was a keeper. More than anything, he wanted to take care of her. And part of that was helping her learn how to defend herself in a hostile world. He was becoming more comfortable with his decision to bring her along to El Paso. Sure, there was danger here. And the worst of it might well lie ahead of them. But had he left her behind in San Antonio, she might’ve been whisked away along with Geneve—wherever Geneve might be right now. Or worse yet, she might’ve ended up like poor old Sikes.

  “So, do you rangers have a plan?” the marshal asked.

  VanDorn leaned against the frame of the open door. Poorly played guitar music and raucous singing drifted into the room from somewhere outside. “We’re gonna question Taft’s witnesses tomorrow, aren’t we?”

  “Minus Clive Mackey, obviously.”

  Li was seated beside the thin pillow at the head of the bed. Emmett stood with a hand on the roughhewn headboard. “A lot happened today. Questioning those witnesses is fine, but there’s plenty more to find out.”

  “Jack told us about Taft’s odd behavior”—the marshal nodded—”offerin’ to drop charges such a short while after finding Mackey dead.”

  Deputy Livingston looked at his boss. “We still don’t know who killed Mackey.” His gaze shifted right away to Juanito.

  Juanito, leaning against the door, arms crossed, maintained a blank expression.

  “What d’you suggest, Emmett?” VanDorn said.

  “We need to find out who went to the Wild Hog this afternoon and got Taft to shift from pressing charges to dropping charges so quickly.”

  “I can do that,” the marshal said.

  “Good, ’cause I’ve already pressed my luck far enough down there—for one day, anyway,” Emmett said. “You gonna go tonight?”

  “Sure. And once we find out?”

  “Once we know what we’re up against, we can respond accordingly.”

  “You mean judiciously?”

  “Let me put it this way…” Emmett met the marshal’s gaze. “If somebody is looking to put me, my wife, or Juanito in the ground, I’d consider it judicious, as you put it, to defend myself and my party—by any means necessary.”

  The marshal raised his bushy eyebrows. “Put you in the ground? I get the sense Taft would be satisfied plenty enough just seein’ you off to prison.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m beginning to think there may be other influences now. Folks who have other ideas about where to send the three of us.”

  The marshal turned to VanDorn. “You thinkin’ the same thing?”

  VanDorn blew out a stream of cigarette smoke. “It’s possible.”

  “And I’m supposed to go have a look, then come back to tell you all, so you can decide whether to go down there yourselves and shoot up my town?”

  “Marshal,” Emmett said, “if you don’t go down and have a look, your town just might get shot up anyway—along with my wife, my brother-in-law, and me. Do you want that blood on your hands?”

  Marshal Perry and his deputy eyed one another. “Anything else I oughta know?” Perry asked.

  Juanito straightened up and looked straight at Deputy Livingston. “I didn’t shoot Clive Mackey. Don’t know who did, either.”

  Livingston said nothing.

  The marshal crossed the tiny room and clapped Juanito on the shoulder. “Nobody’s accusin’ you, son. Leastwise, nobody in this room.” He turned to his deputy. “Warren, let’s go see what kind of explanation Mr. Taft gives for his wafflin’ this afternoon.”

  The deputy started toward the doorway.

  “Hold on.” Emmett adjusted his holster. “Let’s all go down there together.” Indicating VanDorn, Juanito, Li, and himself, he said, “We’ll wait right across the street in the alley behind the telegraph office. Just in case we have to act fast.”

  The marshal’s expression changed. He took a step toward Emmett and shook a stubby finger. “Let’s get this one thing straight. I’ve been lettin’ you call the shots pretty freely up until now, Strong. But I’m still responsible for the safety and well-bein’ of the good folk of El Paso. You can all come down there like you said, just on the outside chance that the situation calls for force.” He rounded the narrow bed, his finger still pointed. “But don’t you go unholsterin’ that Colt till I decide it needs to be done. You understand?”

  With all due respect to the marshal, Emmett could not give his word. He wouldn’t end up like Sikes—not if he could help it. And he sure wouldn’t let Li and Juanito end up that way.

  “Let’s just get ourselves ready and let you go have a look, Marshal,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Ned Cage had selected the large, round table farthest from the front entrance to the Wild Hog Saloon. Back to the wall, he faced the doorway with Lum on his right and Jarvis on his left—plenty of elbow room between each of them.

  Through the haze of his own cigar smoke, Cage watched Franklin Taft approach from over near the bar. Judging from the way Taft carried himself, he wasn’t especially skilled with a gun, Cage decided. Might be a good, reliable man going up against the average cowhand—he seemed steady and resolute enough—but he wouldn’t make it against somebody who really knew how to handle himself, unless he got lucky. Real lucky.

  “You men enjoyed your supper?” Taft asked, hand on the back of one of the three vacant chairs.

  Cage peered past Taft, not bothering to acknowledge his question. “Your Mexicans are here.”

  Taft turned toward the door. “So they are.”

  Jarvis, who had been sprawling in his chair, sat up a bit.

  “Bring ’em on over,” Cage said.

  In no time, the saloon owner went and fetched Sanchez and Mendez and had them seated across the table from Cage. Once introductions were made, Taft asked, “Any of you gents want whiskey? Beer?”

  “Whiskey,” Cage said quietly without taking his eyes off the Mexicans.

  Lum answered with the wave of his trigger finger, Jarvis with a simple, “Same.”

  Sanchez’s eyes never stopped moving—face to face, hand to hand. “Whiskey,” he said.

  Mendez appeared calmer; he was apprehensive but self-controlled. He merely shook his head.

  While Taft went for the conversation juice, Cage continued to study the newcomers.

  Clearly uncomfortable with the silence, the paunchy Sanchez spoke up. “Señor Cage, you are a friend of Mr. Taft?”

  Cage didn’t rush his answer. “Only just met him today.”

  “Oh?” Sanchez scratched his stubbled cheek and glanced furtively at Mendez. “You have business with him, then?”

  After drawing on his cigar, Cage asked the Mexicans, “How do you two know Emmett Strong?”

  Now Sanchez and Mendez openly looked to one another for cues.

  Sanchez held up a thick hand, fingers spread, and leaned over the table. “Five years ago Emmett Strong raped my woman. I never got justice. Then, a few days ago, my friend, Lope”—he tipped his head toward Mendez—“overheard Strong in a saloon in San Antonio, boasting about robbing Mr. Taft. We came here to testify. I decided that if I could not get my own justice five years ago, then maybe I can get justice through seeing that Strong is punished for this crime.”

  Taft was back at the table now. He set out shot glasses and began to pour.

  Cage pointed with his cigar hand. “Thi
s man you brought to my table is a liar, Mr. Taft,” he said matter-of-factly.

  The saloon owner stopped pouring and took a step back, as though expecting Sanchez and Mendez to come up shooting.

  Mendez remained motionless, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, fingers folded across his waist.

  Sanchez, on the other hand, shifted. “Excuse me? What did you say?”

  “You’re a liar,” Cage said, intentionally eyeing his cigar, rather than the heavy Mexican. He sensed Jarvis tensing.

  Squinching his eyes, Sanchez said, “Am I supposed to know you or something, Señor Cage?” He waited a beat and then continued. “Because you act as though you are somebody muy importante. To tell the truth, I find your manners insulting.”

  Within half a heartbeat, Cage plucked his gun from its holster—left-handed—and had it out over the table, cocked and pointed at Sanchez’s face. “You insult me by lying to me, you fat bastard,” the gunslick said.

  Folks at a few of the nearer tables stopped their card games and conversations to gawk. Several craned their necks from where they sat. One or two got to their feet.

  Sanchez swallowed hard.

  “You got something to say to me?” Cage muttered.

  Sanchez licked his thick lips. He gave a slight nod. “OK, I lied.”

  As quickly as Cage had drawn his six-gun, he let the hammer down and, with a reverse flip, tucked the weapon away. “Sit down, Mr. Taft,” he said.

  Taft sat.

  “The truth now,” Cage, his voice low, said to Sanchez.

  The Mexican grabbed one of the shot glasses and downed the whiskey. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Strong sent me to prison for four years. He—”

  “You hate him?” Cage interrupted.

  After eyeing Mendez, Sanchez answered. “Sí, I hate the son of a bitch.”

  Shifting his gaze to Sanchez’s amigo, Cage asked, “What about you?”

  Mendez unfolded his fingers. “I am going to get a cigarillo from my pocket…if you don’t mind.”