Driven by rage, Trace threw the plate into McKenzie’s face, covering him in beans and beef fat. As the man jerked back, Trace threw a powerful straight right to his chin and McKenzie went down like a poleaxed steer, a scarlet fan of blood and saliva blood spurting from his mouth. Trace, insane with anger, advanced on the man, his boots ready to cave in McKenzie’s ribs and pulp his face. But he never got the chance. Something hard slammed into the right side of his head, and he found himself falling headlong into a bottomless pit of lightning-streaked darkness.
* * *
Trace Kerrigan woke to lamplight and a pounding headache.
It took an effort to open his eyes, but when he did he found himself staring into the amused face of Bat Boswell. The gunman held aloft an oil lamp that cast half his face in shadow. Trace was vaguely aware of Sky hovering in the background.
“You broke McKenzie’s jaw,” Bat said. “One of the Mexicans who says he’s a doctor tied it up for him.” The gunman’s smile stretched into a grin. “The cloth is tied at the top of his head. Makes him look like a demented jackrabbit.”
“Now he wants to kill you,” Sky Boswell said. “And I guess all things considered that’s understandable.”
“Then why didn’t he?” Trace said. Talking hurt his head.
“We stopped him,” Bat said. “Slide wanted to go at you with a wood ax.”
“Chop you up piece by piece, Kerrigan,” Sky said. He shrugged. “Messy.”
“Why did you stop him?” Trace said. “Out of the goodness of your hearts?”
Bat shook his head. “There’s no goodness in our hearts, Kerrigan. But we’re interested in your welfare on account of how you’re our ace in the hole.”
“McKenzie already told me that very thing,” Trace said.
“This is nothing to do with McKenzie,” Bat said. “Just suppose that rich mother of yours decides to hang McKenzie instead of paying him. Now where does that leave Sky and me? McKenzie told us that if he wasn’t back in a reasonable amount of time we were to shoot you. But where’s the profit in that? We’d waste ten cents on a cartridge, lose our meal ticket, and end up with nothing.”
“So if McKenzie gets his suspenders cut you hold me for ransom, huh?” Trace said.
“Right first time. What a clever feller you are, Kerrigan. Your mother must be very proud of you. Ain’t he clever, Sky?”
“As a tree full of owls,” Sky said.
“Of course we won’t be as greedy as McKenzie, because all that does is create ill-feeling,” Bat said. “Fifty thousand will be enough for me and Sky, and we can’t say fairer than that. We got a man to track down and kill, and that takes money.”
“My mother will never pay a ransom,” Trace said.
“I think she will,” Bat said. “We’ll start off by sending her the fingers of your left hand. If she doesn’t pony up, we’ll send the fingers of your right hand. By the time we get to your left ear I reckon Ma will figure that paying the piper is better than getting her son and heir back home one piece at a time.”
Trace’s anger flared. “Boswell, you and your brother are lowlife trash,” he said. “You’re—”
A shotgun roared and buckshot slammed into the wall above Trace Kerrigan’s head, showering him with chunks of ancient plaster. He dived for the floor as Bat Boswell roared, “McKenzie, no!” Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Boswell yelled, “Sky! Stop him!”
Fearing a second shotgun blast, Trace rolled to his left behind a pile of bricks and debris that had fallen from the roof at some time in the past. McKenzie was on the stairs battling Sky for possession of the shotgun. Finally the bigger, stronger Boswell wrenched the gun from McKenzie’s grasp and said, “Get the hell out of here, Slide.”
McKenzie, the band around his chin tied at the top of his head like ears, saw Trace, who was slowly getting to his feet. The man made strange gggnnnn—gggnnnn noises though his jammed-shut teeth, and his bloodshot eyes were wild and made him look like an escapee from a mental asylum.
Sky Boswell tossed the shotgun to his brother and then hustled McKenzie out the door and slammed it shut behind him.
But although he’d been unable to form coherent words, McKenzie’s meaning had been clear—Trace Kerrigan was a dead man.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Davy Hoyle was buried beside Andy Porter in the Kerrigan cemetery on the ridge overlooking Kate’s mansion. Bill Cody said the eulogy and the Wild West show’s young pastor, the Reverend Sam Houston Dinwiddie, led the assemblage in prayers for the dead.
“A nice sendoff, I thought,” Bill said as he escorted Kate down the rise toward the house, her arm in his. He lowered his voice. “The only one absent was the Indian.”
“Yes. But he’s safe for the time being,” Kate said. She was deeply troubled.
Bill talked on about his coming visit to Europe and his desire to meet old Queen Vic, but Kate was only half listening, enough to smile at the right times and nod. It was the unladylike behavior of Annie Oakley and Ingrid Hult that occupied her mind.
The two women had pushed through the crowd of Bill’s performers and Kate’s punchers to the graveside as the plain pine coffin, hammered together by one of the show’s carpenters, was lowered.
Annie Oakley had started it.
To Kate’s surprise the girl moved to the edge of the hole, stared down into its depths for a few moments and then kicked dirt on top of the coffin. As debris drummed onto the lid, Ingrid Hult, her face pale as though carved from marble, joined her. She raised her bright red skirt a few inches and then used the toe of her high-heeled boot to kick soil and loose rocks onto the coffin. Like Annie Oakley had done, Ingrid’s act was violent, as though she’d imagined herself kicking dirt into Davy Hoyle’s face.
Kate had looked around at the rest of the mourners. Beside herself, had someone else noticed? Bill Cody’s head was bent, listening to the preacher’s leaden words, and most of the other mourners were doing the same, although a few looked up warily at the sky where massy ramparts of gray and black clouds had gathered and distant thunder boomed.
Then, as Kate watched, the two women turned their backs on the grave and pushed their way though the crowd. A moment later a woman hooted, loudly. Kate frowned. Was that a cry of grief or a whoop of laughter? Yes, she was sure it had been laughter. It had come to Kate then that only someone who truly hated the deceased would hoot with glee at his funeral.
Kate came back to the present. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cody,” she said. “I was woolgathering. What did you say?”
Bill smiled and patted Kate’s hand. “Laying the dead to rest can be so trying. I asked you if you cared to come back to my camp. Random Clark, remember him?”
“I remember his wonderful pea soup,” Kate said.
“Yes indeed. Well, Mr. Clark has prepared a funeral breakfast and I’d very much like you to join us.”
“I’d be delighted,” Kate said. “I do feel a little sharp set.”
“Splendid! You know I love to show you off, Kate,” Bill said. “If I had a walled garden I’d invite you inside so the roses could see you.”
“And you, sir, are most gallante,” Kate said. “That was a poetic thought, but I’m afraid all I’m thinking about right now is bacon and eggs.”
* * *
Davy Hoyle’s funeral breakfast was well attended by a somewhat rowdy crowd, but when Kate Kerrigan glanced around the tables Annie Oakley and Ingrid Hult were notably absent.
As a major shareholder in the White Star shipping line, Kate mixed business with pleasure and advised Bill Cody that when he left for England he must travel on the new Oceanic liner, a steamship so large she could accommodate the entire Wild West show with room to spare. Bill was extremely interested and promised that he’d have his accountant look into the dollars and cents of such a crossing.
“If it can be done, dear lady, Bill Cody will do it. The Oceanic, you say? Such a leviathan must be the wonder of our modern steam age.”
“It is indeed, Mr. Cody, and yo
ur comfort will be assured, because I will insist that you occupy the finest first-class parlor suite available,” Kate said.
“Your generosity overwhelms me, Kate,” Bill said. He forked a chunk of sausage into his mouth. “I am very touched.”
As casually as she could, as though it was just away of making conversation, Kate said, “Davy Hoyle was very handsome. I suppose he was popular with the ladies?”
Bill nodded as he chewed. “He seemed to be.”
“Did Annie Oakley walk out with him?”
“Oh goodness gracious no,” Bill said. “Annie is a married lady. Her spouse is Frank Butler, the marksman, and one of my employees.”
Kate knew she was pushing it, but Bill seemed to be engrossed in his breakfast and was only half-listening. “Ah, then the unmarried ladies like Ingrid Hult must have vied for his attention,” she said.
Bill dipped a chuck of bread into an egg yolk. “No, not Ingrid. She and Jim Benson plan to get married in London next year.” Bill chewed on the bread and then said, “I often saw Davy and Polly Coulter canoodling together. But I don’t know how serious they were.”
Kate was disappointed. She’d wanted to hear that Annie Oakley and Ingrid Hult were spurned lovers and as a result they both hated Hoyle enough to kill him. But that was obviously not the case. There must have been another reason for their graveside behavior.
Bill Cody loudly greeted a couple of young Sioux warriors who passed the table and then turned his attention to Kate again. “Polly Coulter is a trick rider and doubles as a lady in distress in the stagecoach attacked by Indians sequence. She has a wonderful scream, has Polly. You can hear it all over the arena.”
“How nice for her,” Kate said. She dabbed her lips with her napkin. “This was a wonderful breakfast, Mr. Cody. And now I really must be going.”
“I will escort you, dear lady,” Bill said.
“No need. I’d like to walk alone today. I have some thinking to do.”
Bill bowed. “As you wish, Kate. And may I say that your company this morning has been a sweet distraction.”
Kate gave a little curtsey. “And I enjoyed yours, as always. You won’t forget about the White Star line and the Oceanic, now will you?”
“To travel on your bark will be the greatest experience of my life, exceeding anything I encountered on the Plains,” Bill said. “But, oh, that it was your fair hand on the helm to make my happiness complete.”
“I will be there in spirit,” Kate said. And as a White Star shareholder, she meant that most sincerely.
* * *
The threatening thunderstorm had stalled somewhere above the Guadalupe Mountains, but the violent sky looked as though ramparts of black breakers were cresting gray before crashing onto a dismal shore. The air had thinned and smelled of ozone. Kate Kerrigan snapped open her lace parasol and then lifted her dress to avoid grass stains and worse. Now she regretted sending Shorty Hawkins home with the carriage because the rain might start before she reached her front door.
Kate was thinking how difficult it was to walk quickly across uneven ground in high-heeled ankle boots under a sky black as the wrath of God when the drum of galloping hooves behind her brought her to a halt. She turned and had to step smartly to her left as Annie Oakley drew rein on her horse, the buckskin mare rearing as it fought the bit.
When the horse settled and stood, Kate said, “Why Mrs. Butler, what a pleasant surprise.”
“This is not one of your social occasions, Mrs. Kerrigan,” Annie said. She held a Winchester across the front of her saddle and the muzzle pointed casually at Kate as though it was unintentional.
“Then what can I do for you?” Kate said.
“Just one thing,” the girl said. She was angry, her masculine jaw set. “Keep out of our affairs and mind your own business.”
“And what business would that be?” Kate said.
“Whatever a fine lady does to occupy her time.”
“I wasn’t always a fine lady, you know. In fact there were times when I was no kind of lady.” Kate smiled, keenly aware of the Winchester. “I was raised in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood of New York where there were no ladies, fine or otherwise. Have you visited there? No? I’m afraid you wouldn’t like it much.”
“Nothing that happens in Bill Cody’s camp is any of your concern,” Annie said. “Take my advice and stay well away.”
“Or what?” Kate said.
“Or suffer unpleasant consequences.” Annie Oakley’s finger was now inside the rifle’s trigger guard.
“Young lady, Bill Cody’s camp is on my property, so whatever happens there is very much my concern,” Kate said.
“I’ll tell you for the last time,” Annie said. “Stick to having tea and crumpets with your rich friends and leave us the hell alone.” Now the girl was making no pretenses. The Winchester pointed right at Kate’s chest. “Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly,” Kate said.
Annie nodded and swung the buckskin away, but she drew rein as Kate said, “One final word, Mrs. Butler, if I may. I’m afraid that what I’m about to say is not going to sound very ladylike. More Hell’s Kitchen than tea and crumpets in my parlor.”
“Then say it,” Annie said. “I’m listening.”
Kate smiled. “Mrs. Butler, I’ll go wherever I please . . . and if you ever point a rifle at me again, I’ll take it from you and shove it up your ass. Now, do we understand one another?”
After she got over her initial shock Annie Oakley said, “You’re a hard, profane woman, Mrs. Kerrigan.”
“You don’t know the half of it, sister,” Kate said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The thunderstorm that had threatened all day broke over the KK ranch just before midnight. Rain drummed on the canvas of Bill Cody’s tents, thunder crashed and lightning scrawled across the night sky like the signature of a demented god. The buffalo huddled together in their corral and rainwater dripped from their beards.
Buck Nolan, angry that he’d been forced to answer a call of nature on such a wild night, stepped from the latrine thumbing his suspenders over his shoulders, head bent against the rain. For security reasons he now occupied the tent next to Bill Cody’s but the great frontier hero’s stentorian snoring told him that he wasn’t taking his guard duties too conscientiously.
Nolan ducked into his tent, removed his wet clothes, and rolled into his cot. Tired out from Davy Hoyle’s funeral and the stresses of the day, he closed his eyes, and lulled by the ticking sound of the rain and rolling thunder, he closed his eyes and slept.
An intense, piercing pain deep in his chest woke Buck Nolan an hour later. He raised his head, gagging as he stared in horror at the handle of the bowie knife sticking out of his breastbone and the clenched fist that had driven it into him with so much hatred. Nolan tried to scream, shriek, cry out, but the sound drowned in his bloody throat. His eyes frantic, appalled by the manner of his death, he managed to utter a single word, “You . . .”
An open hand was placed on top of the fist. Pushed. The blade drove deeper, hewing Nolan’s faltering heart asunder. The pain was a terrible, dreadful thing, but the young man was unable to voice even a groan.
Later Bill Cody would say of Buck Nolan, “The poor son of a bitch died an awful death.”
And he was right.
As the assassin retrieved the bloody knife and left the tent to flee though the torrential rain-slanted darkness, Nolan gasped his last. His open eyes stared at the roof of the tent but saw nothing.
* * *
“Nobody saw anything,” Bill Cody said. “Well, it was dark and rainy, so maybe that’s not too surprising.”
“Apart from being saddle buddies, did the three murdered punchers share anything else in common?” Kate Kerrigan said.
“Not that I’m aware of, Kate,” Bill said. “I’ll talk with Polly Coulter. She might know something.” He drained his glass and said, “You pour good bourbon, dear lady.” He rose to his feet, a tall, silver-haired and
elegant man dressed in white buckskins, the fringes on the sleeves of his beaded coat a yard long. “Now I have to get back. My people are scared, and the question on everyone’s lips is ‘Who’s next?’”
“I don’t believe that there will be more murders, Mr. Cody,” Kate said. “Besides being drovers, the three dead men did have something in common. They were the ones who beat up Josiah Mosely and—”
“Were attacked by Cloud Passing,” Bill said. “It always comes back to the Indian. Somebody sure wants to see that Cheyenne hang.”
“Before you leave, Mr. Cody, I wish to ask you a question,” Kate said.
“And I’ll do my best to answer it,” Bill said.
“Why did Annie Oakley warn me yesterday to keep my nose out of the investigation into the deaths of the cowboys?”
Bill Cody smiled. “She’s a caring gal, is our little Annie,” he said. “She told me all about that. She says her warning was for your own good since if you pried into the murders too closely the killer might make you a target.”
Kate frowned. “Is that what she said?”
“Yes, she did, dear lady,” Bill said. “You have a friend and protector in Annie. Now, by your gracious leave,” he bent and kissed Kate’s hand, “I must wrench myself from your delightful company and reassure my frightened people with my stalwart presence.”
Kate smiled. “You are a most devoted employer.”
“Indeed I am,” Bill said, white gloved hand on chest, striking a pose.
“Please tell Mrs. Butler that I feel much safer now that she’s watching over me with her Winchester,” Kate said.
* * *
“It’s an honor to bring you the money you need, Kate,” Hiram I. Clay said. He smiled under his walrus mustache. “That’s why I have twenty of my best riders camped on your doorstep.”
“And why it’s now under the guard of my son and my segundo,” Kate said. At close to three hundred pounds Clay always looked too big for the slender furniture in Kate’s parlor, but she’d steered him to the overstuffed bergère chair that she kept for large visitors, away from her Louis XIV antiques.
Hate Thy Neighbor Page 14