CHAPTER 17
JED GIBBON’S FACE looked like hamburger, and it felt as bad as it looked. The ankle and knee he’d twisted when Magnusson had pulled him from his saddle throbbed with every beat of his heart.
What hurt worse, though, was his pride. This surprised him some. He hadn’t thought anything could damage his self-respect worse than the Old Trouble.
But having ridden out to the Double X all horns and rattles, intent on solving the whole problem in one fell swoop, then getting the shit kicked out of him and sent back to the Sundowner on his horse … well, that was just a little too much for even Jed Gibbon to take.
Knowing that riding out to the Double X had been motivated by booze and visions of grandiosity made him feel all the more silly. That’s why tonight, while the Double X was gearing up for Suzanne’s party, and after two and a half days of lying abed healing up and feeling sorry for himself, Gibbon limped into the Sundowner and ordered a glass of apple juice.
“Apple juice?” Monty Fisk said, wincing at both the request and the sight of Gibbon’s battered face.
“Until I’ve got King Magnusson and his men all locked up together in my little jail, I’m gonna be drinkin’ apple juice. So lay in a good supply of it. I’ll just pretend it’s whiskey.”
While Fisk looked around under the counter for apple juice, Gibbon turned and scanned the room. It was nearly five o’clock, but the only business was a couple of mule skinners and a sour-looking drummer.
“Where in hell is everybody?” Gibbon exclaimed, feeling a twinge of unrest.
Fisk flushed a little and shrugged. He uncorked a stone jug of apple juice and sniffed the lip. “Probably all to home. It’s pretty cold out there, you know.”
Gibbon narrowed his eyes at the bartender, who did not return the gaze as he filled a glass. “All to home, you think, eh?” Gibbon said indulgently.
Fisk was feigning a casual air. “No doubt.”
Gibbon nodded and dropped his gaze to the glass of juice. A fine froth covered the surface of the glass. Bubbles popped and fizzed. “It don’t feel any colder than usual to me.”
“Well, who knows?” Fisk said, replacing the jug under the counter. His ears were nearly as red as the stove, which had been stoked to glowing.
Gibbon picked up the glass, scrutinized the pulpy fluid, and took a tentative sip. He made a face and spat the juice on the floor. “How long you been aging that stuff? It’s liable to get me drunker’n your snakewater.”
“Sorry, Jed, I guess that’s a pretty old jug. How ’bout some prune juice?”
“Nah, it’ll just get me runnin’. Tell ya what you can do instead, though, Monty—you can tell me where all your regulars are.”
Unable to meet Gibbon’s eye, Fisk lifted his gaze to the dimming windows at the other end of the long room and fashioned a look of exasperation. “I told you—”
“Cut the shit, Monty. They’ve gathered somewhere, haven’t they?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Jed.”
“Those stupid bastards are plannin’ an attack on the Double X, aren’t they?”
Fisk sighed, giving up the ruse.
“Where are they?” Gibbon prodded.
“I’m not supposed to tell you, Jed.”
“Tell me, Monty, or I’ll arrest you for tryin’ to poison a peace officer.”
Fisk sighed again. “They’re gathering out at the Rinski place, in his barn. They’re pretty fired up this time, Jed; I don’t see them calling it off.”
“Who says I want ’em to call it off”
Fisk blinked. “What?”
Gibbon drew his pistol and checked the loads. “Hell, no, I just want to make sure they don’t get spanked and sent home like I did. I think it’s about time we stop playin’ make-believe and get organized … don’t you, Monty?”
Gibbon was high on his newfound pride, a sense of position and duty he’d never had before. Before, he’d been afraid of death. It had made him feel small and alone—a man apart. Now he realized there were things worse than death, and shame was one of them. Odd how he had King Magnusson to thank for this new insight.
Fisk returned Gibbon’s smile and shrugged. “Whatever you say, Jed.” The barman paused, his face clouding. “Say, you want me to go with you? I could grab my Greener?”
“No, you stay here and watch the town for me. Consider yourself deputized.”
The man said nothing. He smiled with relief.
Gibbon left the saloon and stiffly mounted his horse, reining the big gelding around and heading him south out of Canaan on a snowy trace that rose and fell over a series of watersheds.
It was a little-known shortcut, and he hoped it would get him to the Rinski ranch before the ranchers had pulled out for the Double X. Gibbon had been thinking long and hard about an assault on Magnusson, and he thought he’d come up with a good plan. He didn’t want the small ranchers going off half-cocked and mucking it up.
When he pulled onto the headquarters of the Rinski ranch, it was full dark. Gibbon saw a light on in the cabin and the silhouette of someone rocking in the window. The sheriff knew it was Rinski’s daughter, and the vision of her rocking there, all alone in the dim cabin, gave him a chill beyond anything this winter night could provide.
Hearing voices in the barn and seeing over a dozen horses in the corral, their steamy breath rising toward the stars, Gibbon rode over and dismounted. He tied his reins to the corral and opened the barn door with a grunt.
A crowd of about twenty ranchmen milled in the alley before him. They stood leaning against square-cut posts and sitting on milk stools and hay bales. Two of Thornberg’s men sat with their legs dangling off the end of a wagon box. Another was stretched out in the box, head propped on an elbow. Homer Rinski was drawing in the hay-flecked dust with a stick.
Two lanterns hung from posts, spreading weak yellow light against the shadows at the back of the barn.
The men gave a start at the rasp of the door sliding open. Several went for their guns.
“It’s too late!” Gibbon yelled. “I’m King Magnusson and you’re all deader’n winter roses!”
The men froze, looking sheepish and slowly relaxing. Gibbon walked into the barn, pushed through the crowd, and shuttled his eyes around the group.
“Damn foolish, not postin’ a guard,” he said. Then, seeing that one of the “men” was Jacy Kincaid: “What in hell are you doin’ here, Jacy?”
“What are you doin’ here?” Jacy piped back, as disgusted with the man as any of them. His singling her out because she was female didn’t help.
Homer Rinski stood slowly. “She’s one of us, Sheriff. She ranches here just like the rest of us, so just like the rest of us, she’ll defend her ranch. Lord knows nobody else is gonna do it”—he fed Gibbon a cold gaze—“so we have to.”
Gibbon regarded the man with irritation. “Don’t get your dander up, Homer. I didn’t ride out here to try and quash your rebellion. I rode out here to give you a hand.”
The men and Jacy shifted their eyes around, muttering.
“Maybe you better leave this up to us, Gibbon.” It was Verlyn Thornberg.
He rose from a hay bale holding a tin cup. The cup wasn’t steaming, and Gibbon figured it held something stouter than coffee. Thornberg’s eyes were as cold as Rinski’s, and his jaw was a straight line beneath the shadow his farm hat slanted across his face.
Gibbon’s cheeks warmed. “I deserved that, Verlyn,” he said with a slow nod. “I truly did; I understand that. I haven’t done one goddamn thing to earn your respect or your trust. But there’s something you haven’t done to keep me out of your hair, and that’s fire me.”
Thornberg stepped toward him. “You’re fired,” he said with a growl.
Gibbon shook his head. “That would take a majority vote of the city council, and”—Gibbon lifted his head to look around—“I see only three or four of you here.”
He paused, listening to the angry sighs and muttered curses
.
“What’s your point?” Thornberg said.
“My point is that we’re going to declare war on King Magnusson, but we’re going to do it all real legal-like. You’re all going to be deputized, and you’re going to follow my orders. I’m in charge. Anybody doesn’t like that can go on home and keep out of my way.”
He stopped to let this sink in. Glancing around the room at the five or six ranch owners and their dozen or so armed riders, he said, “Any questions?”
Someone said very softly, “Shit.”
Homer Rinski just stared at Gibbon, as did Thornberg. Neither said anything. They saw the cold determination in Jed Gibbon’s wasted face.
“All right, then,” he said, straightening. “Raise your right hands and repeat after me …”
CHAPTER 18
TALBOT AND HIS two captives made a silent procession along an old horse trail that rose toward the headquarters of the Double X. The sun had gone down and a few stars were kindling in the east, but the west still glowed with last light. A coyote howled. The horses blew and shook their bridles, hooves grinding snow as they walked with their heads down.
The cowboys rode stirrup to stirrup, hands tied snugly to their saddle horns, ankles shackled with rope. Talbot rode behind them, his rifle aimed at their backs. He knew he’d run into more riders, and sure enough, two cowboys appeared on the trail ahead. In the fading light they were little more than shadows.
Behind them the Magnusson mansion rose on a hill like a Bavarian castle lit up for Christmas. It was still half a mile away, but piano music carried crisply on the frosty air, like sonorous strains from a music box.
“Tell them to back off,” Talbot ordered the foreman.
Donnelly said nothing.
“Tell ’em.”
“Stay back—he’s got a gun on us,” Donnelly said.
The two horsemen stopped about twenty yards away. “Rag, Tex … that you?”
“Give me some room,” Talbot ordered. “I mean no threat to you or your boss, but these men bushwhacked me, and if you try the same, I’m gonna let ’em have it!”
They said nothing, just sat there wondering what to do.
Talbot peeled back the hammer on his Winchester. The man named Tex must have heard it. “Get the hell back, goddamnit!” he yelled, his shrill voice cracking.
The men sat there for several more seconds. One mumbled something, and they reined their horses off the trail. One rode left, the other right, and stopped about fifty yards away. As Talbot and his captives continued, the outriders paralleled them, keeping their distance. Talbot eyed them warily.
There were two guards at the open front gate, and Talbot had Donnelly order them back. Both men obeyed. One ran into the mansion. The other watched Talbot from a distance, tracking him, an air of defensive caution in his bearing.
Turning, Talbot saw the two outlying riders drift into the compound behind him. They fanned out around him but kept their rifles pointed skyward—for now, anyway.
Talbot and his captives halted at the hitch rack to the left of the mansion’s broad wooden steps. The house rose before them—a great peaked shadow with squares of yellow light dulled by curtains. It blocked out the stars. The deep verandah ran the length of the house, its railing decorated with fir boughs and red ribbons. From inside came the smell of roasting beef.
The piano music had stopped. It was replaced by the muffled sounds of angry male voices and boots pounding wood floors. The pounding increased in volume until the front door was thrown open and a tall figure appeared, strode across the verandah, and stopped.
The man loomed over the steps, partially silhouetted by the windows behind him, his face further obscured by a cloud of sweet-smelling cigar smoke.
“Rag, what in the hell is going on!”
The foreman’s head lowered as he expelled air from his lungs. The man wagged his head slowly but said nothing. The other cowboy simply stared at his horse, shoulders sagging with the pain of his broken nose.
“Just a little misunderstanding, I believe,” Talbot said.
“Who the hell are you?”
“The man you ordered bushwhacked. And you must be the great King Magnusson.”
Magnusson said nothing.
“I’m a friend of your daughter’s. She invited me out to join your little shindig here tonight.” Talbot paused, then added with a curled lip, “Just couldn’t wait to meet you.”
Magnusson cut his eyes at his foreman. “Rag?”
Donnelly shrugged, gave a phlegmy sigh. “He gave us the jump, boss,” he confessed.
“For Christ’s sake!” Magnusson growled. To the young man who had followed him onto the porch he said, “Cut them loose.” Like the rancher, the young man was decked out in a swallowtail coat, winged collar, and tie. The smell of bay rum was nearly as thick as the cigar smoke.
With a caustic snort, the young man moved down the steps, producing a pocketknife, and went to work on Donnelley’s ropes.
Magnusson stared at Talbot, sizing him up. Smoke puffed around the stogie between his teeth. Talbot stared back. His eyes were cool.
He said, “If I knew for sure this was all a mistake, I could put my rifle away. In the meantime I think I’ll keep it aimed your way … just so one of your men don’t get trigger happy.”
Magnusson said nothing. The smoke drifted to the roof over the verandah and hung suspended in the still air.
Another figure stepped out of the mansion.
“Mark, it is you!” Suzanne ran up beside her father, her head rising to only his shoulder. She looked from Talbot to Magnusson, frowning. “What’s going on?”
“I think we just had a little misunderstanding,” Magnusson said with an artificial smile. “Wouldn’t you say that’s what it was, Mr. Talbot?”
“Yeah, just a little misunderstanding,” Talbot said dryly.
Donnelly had dismounted and, holding a handkerchief to the bloody side of his head, regarded Talbot with a rancorous scowl. “Listen, asshole, you may have gotten the jump on me back there, but—”
“Rag!” Magnusson hissed, jerking his head at Suzanne.
Hunching her shoulders against the cold and grasping a night cape closed at her throat, Suzanne looked up at her father. She was dressed for the evening, her long chocolate hair in ringlets. “Papa, what is going on here?” she asked with reproach.
“Just a little misunderstanding,” Magnusson said, his eyes on Talbot. “Rag and Tex mistook your friend here for trouble, that’s all.”
“Are you all right, Mark?”
“No problem.”
Confident Magnusson wouldn’t try anything with his daughter present, Talbot slid his rifle into its boot, dismounted, and tied his horse to the hitch rack. He came up the steps and stopped about three rungs down from her. “You look lovely.”
He gave a playful bow and reached for her hand. She laughed and gave it to him. He took it gently, gently kissed it, consciously easing the tension.
Laughing, Suzanne turned to her father. “Papa, I want you to meet the incomparable Mark Talbot.”
Magnusson was watching his riders leading their horses off to the stables.
Suzanne cleared her throat. “Papa?”
The rancher jerked his head to Talbot. “Oh, yes, of course. Mr. Talbot, how nice it is to make your acquaintance.”
They shook hands.
King said affably, “I’d like to apologize for the trouble. I should have sent someone to inform my outriders you were coming. I hope you can forgive my error.”
“I’ll work on it,” Talbot said.
He and Magnusson shared a look of bemused understanding. The rancher gestured at the door, revealing his long horse teeth in a broad smile. “In the meantime, why don’t we all get in out of the cold?”
Talbot followed Suzanne into the house. Magnusson paused with a hand on the door and looked again toward the stables.
Randall Magnusson mounted the steps behind him. “Never seen Rag with so much egg on his fac
e,” he said with a self-satisfied chuckle.
King had forgotten he was back there. He glanced at his fleshy-faced progeny, said distractedly, “No … me neither,” then went inside.
KING CAUGHT UP with Talbot and Suzanne in the foyer, where a crushed velvet settee sat beneath an ornately carved mirror. “I’ll take your coat and hat, Mr. Talbot,” he said. “And your gunbelt, of course. Don’t allow the nasty things in the house.”
“Of course not,” Talbot said dryly as he started removing his coat, looking into Magnusson’s steely eyes with a tight smile.
A maid had appeared, a harried, glassy-eyed girl of no more than sixteen. Magnusson gave her Talbot’s coat, hat, and gunbelt, and the girl disappeared down the hall. Talbot watched her go, feeling naked without the gun.
Taking his hand, Suzanne led him through a long, narrow sitting room redolent with pre-dinner cigars, and through a pair of glass doors where a long table covered with snow-white linen and silver stretched between two gargantuan stone fireplaces. The head of a mountain goat was mounted over one mantel, the head of a grizzly over the other.
The cedar logs popped and sparked, tossing shadows this way and that, giving the room a warm, intimate feel. There was no intimacy apparent among the four women and six men gathered at the table, however. Dressed to the hilt in dark suits and bright gowns, and sitting ceremoniously in their high-backed chairs, they looked as festive as Lutheran deacons.
Suzanne made the introductions, and Talbot nodded at each guest in turn. Dr. Long sat beside a Mr. Wingate from Philadelphia, a stuffy little wedge of a man with a bald head and carrot-colored muttonchops connecting beneath his nose.
Harrison appeared bored. Holding a Siamese cat in the crook of his arm, he acknowledged Talbot with a slight dip of the chin and curl of the lip, eyes bright with alcohol. “We meet again, Mr. Talbot!”
“Harrison, I can’t believe you’re still here.”
The doctor shrugged. “To be honest with you, Mr. Talbot, I can’t either.”
“Why would he leave when our whiskey’s free?” Randall Magnusson said with a caustic snort.
He’d retaken his seat next to his father at the head of the table. He was a soft young man with a baby face, a thin dark beard, and chestnut hair hanging over his collar like a beaver tail. Talbot knew now why Rinski suspected Randall and another man of killing Jack Thom and raping Rinski’s daughter. Randall had snake written all over him.
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