She gave the middle one serious consideration. He had a commanding way about him. A serious sense of leadership. When the ranch’s ramrod had died, trampled by a stallion when they were out mustanging, her father had named the middle brother the new ramrod. He was also the fastest with a gun and the best fighter of the group. A true gunhawk. But he was strong willed. and while he was the best leader of the three, she doubted he could be led.
She then focused her attention on brother number three. The eldest of them. He had a way of speaking that made people want to listen. And he was the most civilized of the three. He looked natural in a tie and jacket. She had seen the other two dressed as such. The middle one kept pulling at his collar like he just felt uncomfortable, and the younger one had seemed comically awkward. No matter how they tried to fix his tie, it simply veered to one side or the other, and he wore his jacket like it was made of lead.
No, her husband was to be the eldest. Matthew, his name was. Winning his heart wasn’t hard. After all, if you can break a horse, you can break a man. You just had to do it more subtly. You had to know which strings to pull, like with a puppet. You had to know how to approach a subject. How to get him to do what you wanted while letting him think it was his own idea. It helped that he was delightfully naïve.
The only ones who could have tripped her up were his brothers. The only two he would have listened to. The middle one set his eyes on the daughter of the local doctor, and she was killed only a few years after they were married. Fortuitous, Verna thought. The man took his family and moved them off to the wilds of Montana, far from the reach of her husband. If she had known that was what it would take to get him to leave the area she would have hired the killing done herself. And the younger one simply disappeared. Hadn’t been heard from in years.
And so she controlled Matthew. Through him, she bought gold mines and got into the railroad. Through him she had built the empire her father had always dreamed of.
Her father had always wanted a son. Fate had denied him this, but Verna had proven he didn’t need one.
And so she sat by the fire in her rocker. In her hand was glass of sherry. She sat, staring into the fire, sipping at the sherry and thinking. The next step, the most unfortunate in her years-long strategy, had finally arrived. She regretted what had to be done. Matthew had been a loving husband, but she simply no longer needed him. He had outlived her usefulness. Hiram was now old enough to take his father’s place as the public face of the McCabe empire. He had his father’s gift for speech and charm, and best of all, he didn’t have to be manipulated. He shared Verna’s vision and would work alongside her. This meant Matt had to disappear, and if she let sentiment get in the way, then she wouldn’t deserve the success she was building.
She heard a rapping on the door. This was her time to be alone. She was never to be disturbed, except by one man.
“Come in,” she said.
The door opened and he stepped in. A tall man with pale skin and high cheekbones, and short cropped white hair. He wore a dark jacket. Even though he was nearly fifty years old, he was solidly muscled and his shoulders were wide and filled the jacket out. His shirt was white and he wore a black tie and white gloves. At his waist was a red cummerbund.
He stood silently, waiting for her to speak. The firelight caught his white hair and gave it the color of sunset.
She waited, knowing he would not speak until so commanded. She relished the power that held him motionless.
She indulged in this for a moment or two, then said, “Yes, Timmons?”
“Does the lady require anything else?”
She nodded. “Yes, Timmons. Another log on the fire. The air carries a chill, this evening.”
“Yes, indeed it does.” He knelt by the hearth and selected a piece of oak from the wood box and set it atop the already blackened chunks of wood.
“Timmons,” she said. “We’ve been together a long time.”
Still kneeling, he nodded his head. “We grew up together, ma’am, under this very roof.”
“You’re one of the few people I can truly trust.”
He rose to his feet. “You know I’ll always be there for you.”
She allowed a slight smile, and some of the commanding sense left her voice. “I know. I’ve always been able to count on that. Timmons, there are some hard decisions I’ve got to make. Hard things that are going to have to be done.”
He nodded. She doubted he knew exactly what she was talking about, but she knew it didn’t matter. This man would take a bullet for her without even a question.
There was sudden noise in the hallway, beyond the door Timmons had left ajar. Footfalls from more than one man. And they were moving with a sense of urgency.
“Timmons,” she said. “See to that.”
He had been already turning toward the door. Part of having been with her family for so many years meant he could anticipate her needs.
He hurried into the hallway. Verna heard his voice, and the voice of another man. Then Timmons was back in the room again.
“Ma’am,” he said, “It’s Wells, from town. I know this is your time to be alone, but I think you might want to hear this.”
One thing about Timmons, he had discretion and judgment. She had relied on both more than once. Whatever it was, she figured it must be pretty urgent.
She said, “Send him in.”
Timmons went to the doorway and ushered Wells in. He was tall and needed a shave. His hat was in his hand, which she found made little difference because his hair was long and didn’t look like it had seen water since the previous rain. A pistol was holstered at the left side of his belt and turned backward for a cross-draw. Verna’s father had worn a gun the same way. At the right side of this man’s belt was sheathed a knife.
The man was clearly intimidated to be in her presence, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other nervously.
“All right,” she said, “Don’t keep me waiting. What is so incredibly important that you had to ride all the way out here at this time of night?”
He said, “You told us to watch out for certain men. You give us a list.”
She could tell by the way he spoke that he was nursing a wad of tobacco in one cheek. If he should spit any of that juice onto one of her floors, she was going to have Timmons take a bullwhip to him.
“Well,” he said, “one of ‘em has shown up in town. Tonight. Right out of the blue.”
“Which one?”
“Johnny McCabe.”
Timmons said, “How sure are you?”
“Well,” he shifted his feet again. “We didn’t know who it was at first, and I started pressing him with questions. Threatened to take him down to the jail. It was after he rode out I found out from the bartender Crocker who he was. Lucky I didn’t wind up dead.”
Verna nodded. “Indeed. Where is he now?”
“Rode out of town maybe three hours ago. I figured he might be on his way out here.”
Timmons said, “We haven’t seen him.”
“Nor are we likely too,” Verna said. “At least tonight. If he hasn’t changed from the way I remember him, he always preferred to sleep under the stars. He’s probably asleep by a campfire somewhere.”
“So, tomorrow, then.”
She nodded thoughtfully, letting her gaze drift back to the fire. Then she said, “Thank you, Wells. That’ll be all.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and turned and was out the door.
“Timmons,” she said, “shut the door.”
He did as instructed, then stood by the fireplace with his hands folded together in front of him, waiting.
She said, “This puts a whole new crimp in my plans. We’ll have to make adjustments.”
Timmons said, “We always knew he’d show up again.”
“Yes. We always knew that, sooner or later, he would come to California to visit that grave, and then ride by here to say hello to his dear brother. Speaking of my husband, where is he?”
“In his room. Sleeping. I checked on him before I came here.”
“And Hiram?”
“He’s ridden into town. Presumably to visit some of the female companions he has there.”
Which meant he was going to have a romp with one of the saloon whores. She so hated this side of him. But he was young, and young men seemed to have their needs. She was going to have to make finding a wife for him one of her top priorities. Once she dealt with Johnny McCabe.
She said, “Johnny will be here probably by morning.”
Timmons said, “Maybe we’ll be lucky and he won’t be here for a long visit.”
She glanced at him. She hated it when the people around her tried to think, but held back her reprimand. He had always been loyal, the one person she could trust. And in the upcoming days she would need his loyalty more than ever.
She said, “Think about the time of year it is. September. Unless he’s changed entirely, he traveled all the way from Montana on horseback. Probably sleeping in the woods like a savage. He always seemed drawn to Indians and their ways. He will be heading back the same way, but the passes through the mountains are already probably buried in snow, or will be soon. No, Timmons, he won’t be leaving until spring. And if I know my husband, he will insist his brother spend the winter right here, under this roof.”
“That could present a problem.”
“Indeed. Johnny McCabe always had an annoying sense of duty and honor, and self-righteousness. He must be swept out of the way.” She hesitated while ideas swirled about in her head and took cohesion. “I want him arrested.”
“On what charge?”
“Murder. That ought to keep him out of our hair.”
“Murder? But he hasn’t killed anyone.”
She shrugged. She thought it was obvious. This was also an opportunity to kill the proverbial two birds with one stone.
She said, “What’s the name of that saloon whore Hiram spends most of his time with?”
“Belle,” Timmons said. “I don’t know her last name.”
“Belle. Yes. How quaint. I want her killed. And then have the good sheriff go after Johnny. It shouldn’t be hard to find witnesses who can say they saw Johnny with her, going into her place of doing business.”
Timmons looked a little confused. “Begging the lady’s pardon, but how can we find witnesses who don’t exist?”
She sighed wearily. Why was it no one could keep up with her? “You buy them, Timmons, like everyone else does. A small roll of cash, and you can get some people to testify to anything you want them to.”
Timmons said nothing. He looked at her expressionlessly, which she knew meant he was appalled. She knew him well enough to read him like you would words on a page. But he would do as she said, regardless of how he felt.
“Ride into town. Once Hiram leaves the brothel, then find the girl and make it quick. I want you to do it yourself, that way we know it is done right. Nothing messy, just a broken neck. It has to be done quickly and without spectacle.”
He nodded.
She said, “Once Johnny is here, I’ll find some reason to get him back into town. Then the sheriff can make the arrest.”
“What if he refuses? Is there anyone in town who could really stop this man, if he didn’t want to be stopped? If everything I’ve heard about him is true?”
“Oh, it’s true. He’s the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. But one thing about the McCabe men, they’re law-abiding. If the sheriff orders him to surrender, I think he will. But if he shoots Wells and runs, then all the better.”
She said no more. There was nothing more to say. Timmons had his instructions. He gave a light bow, indicating he knew the meeting was over, and left the room and shut the door.
She was once again alone with a fire crackling away in the hearth. She took a sip of sherry and stared into the flames.
6
The following morning, Johnny rode out to his brother’s ranch. The first time he and his brothers had been in this part of the world, it had been called the McCarty ranch. Johnny had actually been on McCarty range—or McCabe range as it was now called—for an hour before he came to the front gate.
The ranch house was twice as long as it had been the last time Johnny saw it, and it had been sizeable then. The central section was two floors high, with a single-floor wing that shot out from one side, and another that shot out from the other. The outer walls were made of adobe, and the roof was tiled. There were actually pillars standing by the front door, holding up a porch roof. Those hadn’t been there the last time Johnny had seen this place.
This was the ranch Johnny and his brothers had been working on when Johnny had met Lura. The ranch had been run by the McCarty family back then. Matt had married old man McCarty’s daughter, and it was now known as the McCabe Ranch. One good thing, Johnny thought. They didn’t have to change the brand. The Bar M.
Matt had never bragged about his success in his letters to Johnny, but he alluded to a few things, and Ginny got some details in letters from friends in Frisco. Johnny knew Matt owned at least two gold mines, including the one in Greenville. He had bought into the railroad. He was clearly the most successful of Tom and Elizabeth McCabe’s sons.
Johnny wasn’t a bit surprised, either. Matt had always been the more eloquent one. Gifted with smooth, fluid speech. Johnny wasn’t much for talking in front of a crowd but Matt could hold a group of people enthralled. He knew how to use words. Simply off the top of his head he could conjure up the right word and use it with just the right amount of flourish. He could give a eulogy and have you nearly in tears even if you had never met the dearly departed. There was talk in one letter of Matt considering a run for the California State Senate, but nothing more had been mentioned. Johnny wondered what had come of it.
Johnny rode along the small wagon road that led up to the ranch house itself, and two men came out to meet him. They were on foot, and it struck Johnny that they didn’t look like cowhands. More like gunmen. They each wore their pistols low and tied down, and one had a scattergun in his hands. They were also a little older than you would expect for men working on a ranch. Most cowboys were somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five, hence the term cowboys. These men were a mite older. The one with the scattergun had a full beard and was chewing tobacco and Johnny would have put him somewhere in his thirties. The other one had serious lines cut into his face and a mustache that was streaked with silver.
He was the one who spoke. “Hold up there.”
Johnny gave Thunder’s reins a little tug, but the horse was already slowing its pace. Some folks considered a horse to be a stupid animal, but a horse that knows its rider learns to anticipate what’s coming.
These two were sentries, Johnny realized. He had never seen a cattle ranch that needed to post sentries. You didn’t post sentries unless you were expecting trouble.
The older one said, “State your business.”
“Are you folks expecting trouble of some sort?”
The older one was becoming visibly perturbed. “I said, state your business, mister.”
“I’m here to see Matt McCabe. Tell him his brother’s calling.”
“It’s okay, boys, let him through.” A voice from the front porch. “I doubt you could really stop him if you wanted to.”
Johnny glanced toward the porch. A man was standing there. His hair was white, and he stood tall but thin. It took Johnny a moment to realize it was Matt.
Matt had always had a build that was longer and rangier than Johnny’s. And he was the tallest of the four McCabe brothers. But the man who stood on the porch was downright thin. His collar was buttoned and he wore a string tie, but there was some empty space between his collar and his neck, and his jacket sort of bagged on him. Matt had always stood ramrod straight, but this man’s shoulders were stooped a little.
The two men were looking toward the porch, too. The older one said, “Yessir, Mister McCabe.”
The younger one looked at Johnny with a hint o
f defiance in his eyes. Almost a look of challenge. He was young enough that it rankled him a little to be told he couldn’t stop someone even if he tried. He was young enough that he took it as a challenge to his manhood. The older gunhawk had lived enough years to realize that bullets flying did nothing to prove anyone’s manhood and there was no shame in picking your fights, so he gave a slap to the younger one’s shoulder and said, “Let’s go.”
The younger one let his gaze linger on Johnny a moment longer, and then followed the older one back to one of the side wings of the house.
The wagon road had become a driveway by this point, and it curved its way around to the front of the house. Just like it had in the old days, except now there were pillars standing tall and announcing Matt’s success to the world. Nothing wrong with it, Johnny supposed, but their father Thomas McCabe had been a simple man who took joys in the simple things in life, and he had raised his boys as such.
Johnny nudged Thunder forward. Thunder had already been inclined to do so, shifting his hooves a little. The horse knew as soon as the men with the guns turned away there would be no gunplay. The horse had been through more than one gunfight with Johnny and apparently knew what to expect. Johnny didn’t have to give any instructions to the horse about direction—the horse just turned of its own volition and followed the driveway around to the porch, and stopped in front of Matt.
“Matt,” Johnny said, grinning and squinting a little in the sun.
“Johnny.” Matt was also grinning. “It’s been too many years. Too many.”
Matt stood with a cigar smoldering away in on hand. At some point over the years he had grown a mustache that was as white as his hair. He stepped down from the porch as Johnny swung out of the saddle, and they took each other in a hug.
Return of the Gunhawk (The McCabes Book 3) Page 6