Mouth of Hell (The Law Wranglers Book 2)

by Ron Schwab

  9

  Josh took a chair in front of Danna's desk, and set his coffee mug on a leather coaster she kept there for the desktop's protection. Sometimes she was disgustingly tidy. He thought the interconnecting watermarks on his own desk gave it character.

  "You look tired," Danna remarked. "Rough night?"

  Did he detect a knowing smirk on her lips? "Yes, I'm tired. I've spent several weeks on the Staked Plains, taken a bullet in my shoulder, and slept with one eye open all that time. Damn right, I'm tired," he said irritably.

  "A bullet?"

  "Somebody ambushed me. Not Comanche. They saved my hide. She Who Speaks patched me up. It was a flesh wound high on my left shoulder." He rubbed the spot gingerly, although there was no lingering pain.

  "She Who Speaks? That's the woman who interprets for Quanah."

  "Yes, and she's sort of a secret counselor to him as well. I think she's more influential than most of the Kwahadi are aware. Very intelligent. She was known as Jael Chernik when she was taken captive at age fourteen. Speaks four or five languages fluently."

  "Interesting woman."

  "Yes, she'd make a hell of a good lawyer. I guess, in a way, she's already lawyering for Quanah . . . speaking of which, this was pushed under my door last night." He plucked the note from his coat pocket and handed it to Danna.

  She studied it for a moment, and then she looked up and seemed to be scrutinizing him with her penetrating blue eyes. "Don't even think about it. Don't you have a contact for Quanah?"

  "Yes, but I haven't seen him since I've been back. And he does prefer privacy when we talk. He came to my room the last time we spoke."

  "So why doesn't he just come to your room again?"

  "I don't know. Maybe I'll find out tonight."

  "I don't like it. You said you've already been ambushed once. This could be a set up. St. Mary's is a pretty remote place."

  "If it's an ambush, this time I won't be caught by surprise." He changed the subject. "Hatter said you had something important to talk to me about."

  "Several things, actually. The first has to do with operation of the office. We need another lawyer . . . two more would be nice, unless you plan to spend more time here in the near future. We could handle the lawyers without additional staff, and I'm certain we could find someone who would work for a share of his or her gross billings . . . it would be no risk for us income-wise."

  "We're doing well. I can't argue that, and I know you're overworked. You've created something close to order out of chaos since you joined me in the practice."

  "I just think there are great opportunities to grow the firm, and we should be taking advantage of them."

  "So, who did you hire?"

  Her Nordic complexion flushed with crimson. "Well, I didn't hire him yet, but I told him there was a possibility. I told him, as senior partner, you had the last word."

  "Tell me about him."

  "His name is Martin Locke . . . goes by Marty. Confederate veteran. Virginia law school graduate."

  "Your school. Did you know him there?"

  "No, he's about your age and must have finished a few years before I enrolled. He practiced with a small firm in southern Virginia before he withdrew from the partnership and came west with a wagon train."

  "Why did he leave the other firm?"

  "His wife and daughter died during childbirth. He says he headed west to escape the ghosts . . . but it hasn't worked. He decided it was time to quit running, and he thought Santa Fe was as good a place as any to stop."

  "You can't escape the ghosts."

  "No, but you can learn to deal with them. Remember, I have my ghosts, too. I saw my parents and little brother murdered by Comanchero. I won't ever forget it. But the ghosts remind me that I am fortunate to be alive and that I have memories of times and people that gave me joy. My ghosts are a part of whatever I have become. I ran for years from the ghosts, but once I learned to embrace them, life got better."

  "Sounds like something the former Jael Chernik might say. Anyway, go ahead and work out a deal with this Marty."

  "Not until you meet him. We're having dinner with him tomorrow evening at La Castillo."

  "I just ate there last night."

  "I know."

  "You do?"

  "I do."

  That pretty well confirmed she knew the generalities about the remainder of his evening as well. "You said there was something else we needed to talk about . . . something important."

  "This is more difficult. It's about your son . . . Michael."

  Josh leaned forward in his chair, a shiver of apprehension racing down his back. "What about Michael?"

  "It's not bad news. I just don't know what to make of it."

  "Spit it out. Please."

  Danna told him about her meeting with Clayborne Pierce and the man's proposal to ransom Michael. She explained the necessary financial arrangements in detail while Josh listened intently. She could feel the tension and seething anger build as she spoke.

  "Where is the son of a bitch?" Josh asked. "I want to talk to him . . . in a way he'll understand."

  "I have no idea. I'm sure he knows you've returned, and I suspect he'll make an appearance in the next few days. As I indicated, he was concerned about your reaction and wants to give you time to cool down and think about what he is proposing."

  Josh glowered at her.

  "Don't look at me like that. I'm the messenger."

  "I realize that, but I don't think much of these bastards that make money off of human misery."

  "We make some money off of human misery, too. Death, divorce, family feuds. Nobody comes to a lawyer for a laugh. We help solve their problems and get paid for it."

  "You sound like Pierce's lawyer right now."

  "I'm sorry, Josh. But if you want your son back, I suggest you think of this as a business deal. What about the money?"

  "Pierce's fees, I can handle. I assume we have enough in firm funds for me to draw against my share for that."

  "That shouldn't be a problem."

  "Ransom would be another matter. After I talk to this Clayborne Pierce, I'll send word to Dad. He might be able to help, if necessary."

  10

  St. Mary's sat in the foothills not more than a mile northwest of Santa Fe, set back some fifty yards from a narrow, dusty trail that led to nowhere in particular. The small adobe church was maintained by the Catholic Church as an outpost of sorts. Mass was conducted monthly or upon request of one of the scattered local Mexican farmers for a funeral, wedding or baptism for someone who still claimed a traditional connection with the church. The church did not have its own priest, but members of one of the Catholic Orders rotated duties to provide for the occasional services.

  Josh had been surveying the church and grounds for nearly half an hour from his perch on a mound of rock rising from the rugged terrain on the opposite side of the trail. When he arrived, a sorrel mare and sleepy donkey were hitched to the rail in front of the church, a strange combination, he thought. He assumed his contact was waiting inside the church, but why two animals? And he worried about the outbuildings behind the church. What he assumed was a former rectory nearest the church proper was crumbling into oblivion and offered no shelter, but the remnants of a roofless adobe barn could hide three or four men and horses with ease.

  It was nearly sundown and a time for choosing. He slid down the backside of the slope, got up and crept over to the buckskin he had tethered and left grazing the sparse, dry grass that wedged its way between the rocks. He pulled his Winchester from its scabbard and started walking toward St. Mary's. Out of habit, he caressed the Army Colt at his side.

  When he reached the church door, he stopped and pondered what might lay behind it. His church visits were infrequent. Levi Rivers had assured his children they were all baptized Methodists and ready to meet their maker, but there was not a church within twenty miles of the Slash R in remote northeastern New Mexico. Their mother, Auralie, had read to the family dail
y from the Bible, so he was not ignorant of things religious. He just did not know much about church structures. His adult proximity to such structures had not improved his attendance. Of course, Santa Fe had no surplus of things Protestant. The Catholic churches he had observed at the occasional funeral generally included a vestibule inside the entrance--just like Jessica's theatre--and a sanctuary, at the rear of which was a door through which the priest and other ritualistic participants entered and departed. He assumed this was some type of preparation area. It was likely St. Mary's conformed to the pattern, he decided. But the door at the rear concerned him.

  He pulled his Colt from its holster and slowly opened the door. He would not surprise anyone, for the thick, sagging door creaked loudly on rusty hinges. He cast his eyes about the sanctuary which was laid out with a center aisle and rows of pews lining each side, and, as he had guessed, the closed mystery door off to the speaker's right side behind the pulpit. To his left, on her knees, near the wall in front of the second pew was a nun, her hands meeting in prayer. That would explain the donkey, he supposed. But where was the horse's rider?

  The nun was problematic if this was an ambush. He also considered the possibility that the nun was not a nun, but the person he was to meet--or a hired killer. He pondered the questions for only a moment when the door behind the pulpit opened. Out of the door came walking a short, stocky man with hands tied behind his back and a thin rawhide rope looped in a hangman's knot drawn snugly about his neck and held taut by someone behind the door. The young Mexican's eyes were wide with terror and fastened pleadingly on Josh's.

  A deep voice from behind the door called, "Rivers, throw your gun up front where I can see it, or I put a hole in the back of this greaser's head."

  "I don't think so."

  "We just want to talk."

  We? That could mean there were two of them behind that door. "You didn't have to go through all of this to have a chat. I'm sure you know where my office is. Let this man go and then we'll talk."

  He eased the Army Colt out of its holster just as he heard the door creak behind him. He turned toward the door, and suddenly a deafening explosion filled the sanctuary. The door from the vestibule flew open, and a huge, bear-like man stepped in, his pistol ready. Josh heard two quick gunshots from the front of the sanctuary but focused on the new intruder. "Drop it," he said.

  The man did not, and Josh fired twice and sent two bullets tearing into the big man's chest. The gunslinger stared at him in disbelief and then looked down at the blood starting to trickle from his wounds, before his legs gave way and he slumped to the floor. Josh swung around, his gun ready, but saw instantly that the weapon wasn't needed. The young Mexican was sprawled on the floor, the back of his skull obliterated by what was obviously a shotgun blast. Another man lay nearby, apparently the bearer of the shotgun.

  He looked toward the nun, who stood at the far end of her pew, the pistol in her hand still showing a haze of smoke. "Thanks," he said, "but--" Then he recognized his tall partner.

  "You're welcome," Danna said, pushing back her cowl. She moved toward the pulpit. "The bastard shot the young man before I could do anything. It all happened so fast."

  Josh joined her at the front of the sanctuary. He shook his head in disbelief. "Maybe I should have dropped my gun. Antonio might still be alive."

  "You would both be dead. I probably would be, too. Nun or not, they couldn't leave witnesses. You knew the young man?"

  "He was our contact with Quanah."

  "So it's no coincidence that Antonio was the victim. Do you have another contact?"

  "No, but Quanah's people are very resourceful. When they're unable to establish communications with Antonio, they'll find another way to reach me. I'm a little concerned I couldn't send a message Quanah's direction right now, but it will likely be several months before I need to. What bothers me most is that someone knows that Antonio was our contact. Killing him was some kind of message, I suppose. But they obviously intended to kill me as well. Whoever hired these men want to break our link to Quanah. It's obviously the same man . . . or men . . . who wanted to see me killed out on the Staked Plains. Somebody is aware that we are working with Quanah, and, for some reason he has a huge stake in stopping our efforts. I suspect Oliver McKenna, but I can't prove it. And I can't figure out why it's so important."

  "What do we do about this mess?"

  "I'll visit the U.S. Marshal tomorrow morning and tell him my version of what happened here, and he can investigate and get the bodies removed."

  "Your version?"

  "Yes, for one thing you weren't here. How would we explain your presence? What are you doing here anyway and how'd you get so damn good with a gun?"

  "Answering your first question, the note was an obvious set-up, and I'm not ready to lose my law partner yet."

  "Yet?"

  "Yet. It's more or less inevitable I lose you sooner or later given the life you've chosen. Anyway, I thought you might need some back-up. Your friend, Jessica, dug out my nun's habit from her costume wardrobe, and I rented Pedro out there from the livery. Now your second question. My father taught me how to fire a rifle when I was eight years old, and after he was murdered, I made it my business to learn to fire every kind of gun that might be helpful in protecting me. I have no interest in being a victim."

  "Well, Sister Danna, we'd better get out of here. I'm not going to ride your donkey, but Buck won't mind if I walk with you . . . unless you want to race."

  11

  La Castillo was a poor excuse for a castle, Josh thought, but the food was good enough for a king. From the outside, a customer was lured by a single, crumbling spire, all of a dozen feet in height, which erupted from the flat rooftop of the compact building and leaned toward the front like a rhinoceros horn. The plastered interior walls were bare and pocked, and the dining area was cramped and packed with patrons.

  Danna and Martin Locke were taking advantage of the vast Mexican menu offered by the restaurant, but Josh had downed a bit too much of that a couple nights ago and was sticking with steak and fried potatoes. According to Danna and Locke, the red wine was excellent, and Josh sipped at it agreeably, although he had never been able to discern much difference in wines. He would have preferred a sarsaparilla.

  He found Locke to be an interesting man, intelligent and easy to engage in conversation. Locke was nearly as tall as Josh, with thick, short-cropped black hair and steel-gray eyes that always seemed to be probing for something. Women no doubt found him handsome, and his mellow Virginia drawl had a seductive quality to it.

  "You mentioned your father was a lawyer," Josh said. "Where did he practice?"

  "Williamsburg. Mostly real estate and probate. I have a preference for the courtroom. I probably would have joined Dad's practice, though, if he hadn't died at Gettysburg. He was an infantry colonel, the quietest, most peaceful man you could imagine. Ironic that he died at war."

  "A lot of ironies come out of war. I'm sorry. Any other family?"

  "None in Virginia. My mother died when I was ten, and before that I lost a little sister to smallpox. I have an uncle, Myles Locke, who practices law in Manhattan, Kansas, a little town not far from Fort Riley. He has a son, Cameron, who practices with him. Cam attended school at Virginia when the war broke out and joined the Confederate army, and we spent some time together during the war years. Cam's twin is a lawyer in Nebraska . . . he fought for the North . . . a Medal of Honor recipient."

  "Marty, Danna told me about your personal loss, and I empathize, I assure you."

  "I know. You've dealt with your own loss."

  "Danna thinks you're a good fit for our firm."

  Danna remained silent but nodded her agreement.

  Josh continued. "I agree. Danna wants to focus on commercial and real estate law, and you like the courtroom. That would make a good match. I'm more of a generalist . . . and I'm out of the office a lot."

  "I understand."

  "My only concern is whether you are c
ommitted to a future in Santa Fe. Danna and I have agreed that, after a year's trial period, we would be able to offer a phase-in to partnership. But, if we're going to take on another lawyer, I want someone who sees our office as more than a stopover."

  "I love this place," Locke said. "It's so completely different from the life I lived before. It's the perfect place for a new beginning. You won't be sorry you took me on. And I'll have to let you find out for yourself, but my word is good."

  "Then I'll see you at the office in the morning."

  "And I've set up your first appointment," Danna said.

  Locke raised his brow in surprise. "Seriously?"

  "Seriously. His name is William Bonney. He's about fifteen years old."

  12

  Tabitha Rivers was impatient for a story, as she straddled the smoke-gray gelding--Smokey--she had confiscated from her father's Slash R ranch when she took up residence in Santa Fe. She had been in the saddle for eight days with the fifty-man detachment out of Fort Union. Her butt was sore as a toothache, and she would die for a bath, but damned if any of the soldiers would hear a complaint. She had dispatched several mundane stories of life on the march with a military courier. Unfortunately, her editors at The Santa Fe New Mexican would soon shove these to the back page if she didn't come up with some blood and gore. Unfortunately, that's what sold papers; it always had and always would, she supposed.

  It was about an hour short of noon, she guessed, as they rode deeper into northern Texas, following the course of the Canadian River. It was only late May, but it might as well have been July. The sun was bearing down like a fiery kiln, and her cotton shirt was already sweat-soaked. She knew she stunk, just like everybody else in the column. She tugged her wide-brimmed Plainsman hat down over her forehead to block some of the sun's glare, nearly covering her shorn hair, and then she saw the smoke. Lieutenant Kelly must have seen it, too, because he signaled the column to a halt, and then, with one of his Tonkawa scouts, galloped his horse a short distance away from the troops. He pulled his binoculars from his saddlebags and raised them to his eyes. He seemed to be scrutinizing something on the eastern horizon.