No matter how many stories Sol had heard about the infamous Nester Quarles, he still found himself amazed that the old man could hit the nail on the head so perfectly. Not only was he able to get close to the camp using some of Nester’s advice, but he was able to get even closer because the men in the caravan were lazing about after finishing their supper. The acrid hint of cigar smoke hung in the air along with the lazy banter among the men.
Every so often, Sol would swear that he’d been spotted. He could feel eyes on his back like spiders crawling beneath his shirt. He froze and held his breath, but nothing happened. There were no alarmed shouts or shots fired, so Sol kept moving. When he got close enough to touch one of the wagons, Sol could scarcely believe it. When he heard footsteps approaching that wagon, Sol was certain his game was about to be brought to an end.
Reacting out of nothing but instinct, Sol dropped flat against the ground and rolled beneath the closest wagon. When he came to a stop, he swore he could see Patricia’s frightened face staring back at him in the darkness. In the blink of an eye, Sol was taken back to that night in Warren when he’d heard those shots fired and he’d thought someone was trying to rob Charlie. Now he was the robber sneaking around in the night and he was the one skulking about in the shadows.
Since he wasn’t quite certain how to swallow that notion, Sol pushed it from his mind and concentrated on the task at hand.
Whoever had been approaching the wagon kept walking. Sol could see the man’s boots pass by a few paces and then pause just long enough for Sol to think he might have been spotted. He heard a wet cough, which was followed by a juicy wad of spit that landed within inches of Sol’s face. Although Sol managed to keep from getting wet, he still got dirt kicked into his face as the other man walked away from the wagon.
Sol didn’t have any time to count his blessings. Another pair of men appeared and walked toward him. One set of feet was wrapped in old boots and the other was clad in more expensive, albeit dusty, shoes.
‘‘Fine meal, Cam. Fine meal,’’ one of the men declared in a smooth, even tone.
The second man chuckled, but was obviously trying not to laugh too hard. ‘‘There’s only so much a man can do with beans and jerky, Mr. Oberlee. Hopefully it didn’t stick in your craw too much.’’
Now that they were talking, Sol didn’t have any trouble guessing which voice belonged to which set of feet.
‘‘On the contrary! It was splendid. Of course, the whiskey didn’t hurt.’’
Both men laughed as one of them pulled on the wagon’s door.
Sol’s fingers clenched at the ground as thoughts of the wagon moving slowly away to leave him in the open churned through his head. Even though the wheels surrounding him didn’t move, both men were still close enough to hear if Sol let out so much as a hiccup. In fact, they were facing the wagon as if contemplating on hunkering down to get a look underneath.
‘‘Locked up tight?’’ the more refined of the two voices asked.
After a bit more rattling from the wagon, the other man replied, ‘‘Looks that way, Mr. Oberlee. You should probably be heading to your tent for the night.’’
‘‘You think any robbers will attack me in the four steps it’ll take me to get there?’’
After a brief pause, the gruffer of the two replied, ‘‘I suppose not. Just shout if you catch sight of anything peculiar.’’
‘‘I’ll be sure to do that, Cam. Have a good night.’’
‘‘I’m on first watch, so my good night won’t start for a bit. Thanks all the same, though.’’
Sol forced himself to look at the ground rather than at the feet directly in front of him. He’d been staring at those ankles so intently that he thought the men attached to them might just feel it. After the time it would have taken to tip a few hats, the boots turned away from the dusty shoes and walked away. The shoes turned around, but stayed put. Sol almost knocked his head against the bottom of the wagon when he saw something drop down directly to the right of his spot.
Thankfully, it wasn’t a gun barrel or set of eyes being pointed at him. It was a match that had been dropped directly beside the wagon. Judging by the smoke still curling from the matchstick’s charred tip, it was recently struck and promptly blown out.
In a matter of seconds, Sol could smell more cigar smoke. If Mr. Oberlee meant to have one last cigar before retiring for the night, Sol figured he could accommodate him.
The rifleman sat with his legs stretched out in front of him and his back against a rock. It wasn’t the most comfortable spot he could have picked, but it did allow him to watch over the camp from a good height and at a safe distance. From where he was sitting, the rifleman could see both wagons, the campfire and all the tents without having to move his eyes. His rifle was propped against the rock beside him and his horse was tied to a branch a few paces behind the rock.
A place for everything and everything in its place.
While he wasn’t close enough to smell the cooking fires or the cigars that had followed the meal, the rifleman could watch as the men in the camp had their little social and prepared for a comfortable night’s sleep. Surely, the dandies traveling surrounded by all those guards would have considered the accommodations barbaric, but it beat the stuffing out of eating some scraps of jerky and washing them down with water. Running his tongue along the top of his mouth, the rifleman swore he could still taste the bit of rust that had formed at the bottom of his canteen.
Not wanting to make the noise of spitting the sourness from his mouth, the rifleman swallowed it and reached for another swig of rusty water. His eyes never strayed from the camp. He’d been paid to watch it, so that’s what he intended on doing.
When he got his canteen in hand, he brought it to his lips and tilted it back. Just then he spotted some movement that seemed out of place. What caused his hackles to rise was the fact that the movement came from beneath one of the wagons.
The rifleman took his sip of water and narrowed his eyes as if he could filter out the shadows from the little bit of starlight. He still couldn’t see much more than some movement on the fringe of the camp, so he reached out with his other hand for the spyglass lying on the ground next to him. While letting the water trickle from the canteen into his mouth, he put the spyglass to his eye and settled his view upon the wagon.
‘‘What the hell?’’ he muttered.
Despite what he’d just seen, the rifleman wasn’t about to dump his last canteen. He set it down so it would remain upright and then used both hands to steady the spyglass. Sure enough, it wasn’t just some critter scampering out from beneath that wagon. It was a man. Now that man was sliding along the backside of the wagon and making his way toward the largest tent.
The rifleman didn’t hear anything that didn’t belong in the night. There was a bit of wind and some dust or fallen leaves brushing against the rock, but nothing whatsoever that would have alerted him before the leathery hand clamped around his mouth from somewhere behind his spot.
He tried to reach for his rifle, but the weapon was gone. The rifleman’s fingertips scraped against rock as he was pulled backward over the same boulder he’d been leaning against. Before he could do anything about it, his legs were flailing toward the sky and his back was being dragged against the top of the rock.
For a few seconds, the rifleman was upside down. Once gravity had its way with him, the rifleman slid toward the ground and landed awkwardly upon his neck and shoulders. His next breath became wedged in his lungs as the lower half of his body folded down to crush what was normally the upper half.
Reflexively, the rifleman swatted at the hand that still pressed tightly against his mouth. His hands knocked against forearms that felt more like thin iron bars. The hand that kept the rifleman quiet now pushed down hard enough to press the back of the rifleman’s head into the dirt.
Still flailing and fighting, the rifleman felt one of his boots connect with something solid. He knew it wasn’t rock, because whatever he’d
hit gave way for a second and then came right back at him. In the next moment, the rifleman could see only a gnarled old face scowling down at him like a kid inspecting a trapped spider through greedy fingers.
‘‘ ’Fraid that wasn’t good enough,’’ Nester said as he raised his free hand up close to his ear. ‘‘This just ain’t yer lucky night.’’
Rather than stare too long at Nester’s leering face, the rifleman caught the glint of metal in Nester’s hand. The knife clutched in the old man’s hand had a short, curved blade that had a wickedness in its very shape. Using all the strength he could muster, the rifleman twisted to one side before he was slit open by that blade. He pulled his head and torso in the same direction, straining to clear a path for the incoming blade. He pulled his legs that way as well, hoping against hope to catch Nester with any sort of kick.
Gritting his teeth, the rifleman felt the rush of air next to his face as Nester’s fist dropped. The blade drove into the dirt like a stake and didn’t stop moving until the knife’s guard thumped against the earth. Rather than waste a single moment, the rifleman kept twisting at the waist until his shins caught Nester in the ribs.
The old man grunted and rolled with the impact. He moved swiftly for someone of his years, but never let go of his knife. Instead, Nester pivoted around the embedded knife until he’d put some distance between himself and another kick. As soon as he saw the rifleman get himself upended, Nester gathered his own legs beneath him and locked eyes with his opponent.
Squatting with his back to the rock, the rifleman glanced around for his weapon and couldn’t find it. His hand then went to the pistol at his side and immediately wrapped around the carved wooden grip. Before he could get the pistol from its holster, the rifleman saw Nester move again. This time, the old man lunged forward. Nester’s right arm snapped out, pulling the knife from the ground and delivering it straight into the rifleman’s midsection.
For a moment, the rifleman couldn’t breathe. Then, like some sort of miracle, he was able to pull in a gulp of air. The action didn’t even hurt much. That was when he realized the old man hadn’t been able to flip the knife around and had only managed to deliver a blow using the blunt end of the knife’s handle. Although he wasn’t gutted just yet, the rifleman had been hit hard enough to force the wind from his lungs. When he saw the old man flip the knife around so its blade was pointed at him, the rifleman leaped away from the incoming swing and refilled his lungs before landing on his side. Nester’s blade slashed through empty air, hissing loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the rifleman’s landing.
‘‘I don’t know who the hell you are,’’ the rifleman wheezed, ‘‘but you just made the last mistake of your life.’’
Nester grinned and tossed the knife back and forth between his two hands. ‘‘Oh, we’ll just have’ta see about that.’’
Sol chose a quiet moment to crawl out from under the wagon. He regretted his decision the second he realized that it was so quiet that he could hear every one of his own breaths echoing in his ears. Hopefully, the rest of the camp wasn’t able to hear him so well. Since it was too late to take back what noise he’d made, Sol was a bit more careful as he kept going.
The few gunmen he could see were in their spots around the camp’s perimeter. Since they were expecting trouble to be coming at them from the outside, not one of those hired guns was paying much attention to what was going on within the camp itself. Figuring he’d know soon enough if he’d been discovered, Sol continued working his way toward the largest tent.
A dim flicker glowed from within that tent to cast a man’s hazy outline upon the canvas. The outline of that figure looked like a charcoal drawing that had somehow come to life. It made its way from one end of the tent to another before finally growing big enough to blot out one entire half of the tent. After a quick exhale, the man inside blew out the flickering light and the shadows reclaimed their territory around the dying campfire.
Sol briefly entertained the notion of getting out while he was ahead and crawling away from the camp. That thought flew from his mind as soon as Sol reminded himself of why he was there. Matt had been shot, but Charlie didn’t care about that. All he or any of these bosses cared about was their money and making certain it was escorted safely so it could be stashed away.
Sol was glad he’d stolen Charlie’s shipment. The longer he thought about what had brought him to where he was now, the more Sol wanted to push the situation further. Whether he was doing the right thing or not, he was taking a stand. Things might not have gone the way he would have liked, but he couldn’t change them now. He was in his spot and playing his role, so he might as well see it through. At the very least, he’d let these greedy bosses know what it was like to be trampled.
Sol nodded as he squared all of that away within his head. All of his senses had become clearer. He could taste the air and feel the grit against his skin. His ears picked up every crunch of nearby boots against the ground and every tired clearing of a throat. The guards were still content to watch for threats coming from outside the camp, so Sol approached the big tent.
From what he could hear, the men inside that tent were settling in for the night. Sol could tell there was someone brushing against the canvas from the inside. Having been pitched in a rush, the tent wasn’t tied down as securely as it could have been. As such, the bottom edge fluttered loosely against the ground. Sol made his way to a spot midway between two stakes and tested the lowest edge of the canvas.
As he’d hoped, there was just enough room for Sol to get a look inside. He pulled the bottom up a few inches and saw the legs of a folded cot and the sagging canvas where a figure was suspended just above the dirt. There was no light within the tent and one man’s snores were already drifting through the air. Sol pulled the tent up a bit more and squeezed beneath it until he was inside.
At his first opportunity, Sol propped himself up on all fours. In the middle of the tent, there was a post to support the canvas ceiling. Hanging from the post, there was a shaving mirror and a small, unlit lantern. Two cots took up most of the space within the tent, each of which held a man wrapped up in a bundle of blankets. Next to each cot was a stool. The stool closest to Sol was topped by a set of neatly folded clothes and a small pistol that was so well cared for, it sparkled in what little light made it into the tent. Sol could also see something else in the darkness: a pair of frightened eyes staring at him.
The man was lying upon the closest cot and he was too frightened to move. For a moment, Sol was also frozen. Both men regained their senses at the same time and both of them made a lunge for the pistol resting upon the stool.
Since he’d been the one that was creeping in the dark, Sol wasn’t caught quite as off guard as the man in the cot. Therefore, Sol was able to snap his hand out and grab the pistol while the man in the cot flailed for the weapon in a blind panic. As soon as Sol got a hold of the shiny weapon, he jumped to his feet.
The man in the cot looked up and opened his mouth to say something, but was cut short when Sol pointed the shiny pistol at him.
‘‘What’s all the . . . ?’’
The man in the second cot was just stirring and had gotten those words out when he saw Sol standing in the middle of the tent with the gun in his hand.
Before he had a chance to think twice about it, Sol drew his own pistol and aimed it at the tent’s other resident. Now he held a gun in each hand and had both of the men in check. Since the first man was closest to leaving his cot, Sol moved in that direction and glared at him.
‘‘Just sit still,’’ Sol whispered.
‘‘Take it easy now, mister,’’ the second man said in a voice that was a bit too loud for Sol’s liking. ‘‘Whoever you are, I’m sure we can—’’
‘‘Be quiet,’’ Sol hissed.
Although he was quiet, the man in the first cot was still moving. He made a clumsy grab for the shiny pistol in Sol’s hand, leaping from beneath his blanket in the process. Seeing the sudden burst
of motion, Sol lashed out to crack the gun against the man’s temple.
There was a dull thump followed by the snap of wood as the shiny gun’s owner fell onto the side of his cot with enough force to crack one of the legs holding it up. That man let out a groan and rolled onto his back, letting one of his arms dangle over the side.
Sol blinked in confusion as he took a look at how the brief scuffle had ended. Still holding a gun in each hand, Sol turned to face the man in the second cot. That fellow’s eyes were wide as saucers as he held out both hands in a vain attempt to keep Sol away.
Backing up a step so he was out of both men’s reach, Sol kept his eyes bouncing back and forth between the other two until he was certain the first man was down for the count. The moment he saw the second man open his mouth, Sol aimed both guns at him and thumbed back the hammers. Those metallic clicks seemed louder than a pair of cooking pots bouncing against a tin floor.
‘‘Everything all right in there?’’ asked a voice from outside the tent.
Sol felt a mix of panic and fear stab through his chest. Doing his best to hide those things, Sol fixed his eyes upon the second man and wished he could put on the same murderous glare that Nester had shown him so many times over the last several days. If he couldn’t manage that, Sol knew he might just have to shoot his way out of that tent.
Whether the man in the second cot saw a glare or desperate intent in Sol’s eyes, he nodded and waved his hands in quick surrender.
‘‘Mr. Oberlee?’’ the man outside asked.
Sol glanced quickly to the man in the first cot and saw him still lying with one arm hanging off the edge. If that fellow hadn’t moved a muscle yet, Sol figured he would be out for a while longer. He turned his attention back to the second man and stared at him hard enough to burn holes through stone.
‘‘No need to worry,’’ the second man announced in a steady, if somewhat forced, voice.
‘‘I thought I heard something in there.’’
Smiling as if the man outside could see him, Oberlee replied, ‘‘Yes, well, Henry just slipped out of his cot.’’
Death of a Bad Man Page 21