“Kilgore!” Sarah Hilleboe cried.
The lawyer sagged, caught the rail, fell to his knees and smelled the dust and oil of the flooring. Clem Erskine was at his side at once. “Oh, Mr. Kilgore!” he cried in alarm. Troubled faces looked down.
“Fever!” Kilgore muttered. “Burning fever! Damn this, collapsing in court like a weakling! I—”
He winced, then shuddered as a fresh wave of pain shot through his skull. Clem’s strong hands held him tight. Kilgore heard a confused hubbub of voices, saw Sarah, Clem, Carlotta.
“Take him home,” a voice said. He recognized it as that of Dr. Vance. “I’ll examine him straightaway.”
Kilgore felt them lifting him, carrying him out. He railed inwardly at the absurdity of collapsing this way, in his moment of triumph.
He caught sight of a man standing alone. He caught Clem’s arm and whispered, “Go to Dan McCandless. He’ll need someone to help him.”
The lawyer was borne out.
Dan McCandless shook his head when Clem approached. The big man wanted to be left alone with his heartache. He had seen his son’s outburst—and then he had seen the United States marshal step briskly forward to place Joel Tilley under arrest for the murder of Alfredo Lucero. Tilley had left—but not before vowing revenge.
So it had all been to no purpose, McCandless thought sadly, this betrayal of the code on which his life had rested. Harry had not needed his sacrifice. McCandless’ shoulders slumped. He had known the boy was unbalanced, perhaps unbalanced enough to kill—but he had failed to foresee the extent of Harry’s sickness.
“Let me take my son home,” Dan McCandless said. “Julian—help me—”
There had been a cold purpose in Harry’s action, he thought blackly. Revenge. Revenge against the man who had benefited from the murder of his father-in-law for the sake of obtaining the Lucero Grant.
McCandless walked slowly toward the door, oblivious of the excitement around him, leading his party into the plaza. People who had scorned him yesterday rushed up to him, pumping his hand as though he had won a great victory, instead of losing all.
It was Harry who had won after all, McCandless thought. For now the murderer of Don Alfredo would be punished— and the informer, the murderer’s accomplice, he, too, would be punished. It would not be long before Tilley’s hired murderers paid him a call.
Dan McCandless knew where he would be at that time. He would be in the malpais, by the white oak where Don Alfredo Lucero had been murdered. He would wait there, without a weapon, for Tilley’s men to close in. And he would be calm, for this fate was that which he had earned.
The cold spell had ended finally, late in February, a week after the bullet-riddled body of Dan McCandless had been found in the badlands. Wa-po-nah was shuttered; a purchaser was being sought; the McCandless empire was in the hands of the receivers. Carlotta and Isabella McCandless were gone, taking their mourning elsewhere, traveling to Europe to forget the violence of the past weeks. Harry McCandless had been committed to an institution in San Francisco.
Jake Kilgore stood at the door of his law office. He was fully recovered now from his operation, and only the stubbliness of his sideburn where the doctor had shaved it served as a reminder of his recent illness. He stared out at the warming earth, at the golden sun and cloud-fleeced sky.
“Another month, Clem, and it’ll be warm again.”
“It’s warm now, Mr. Kilgore. They say it’ll hit close to fifty today!”
Kilgore spat. “Fifty! Clem, when Kilgore says warm, he means ninety degrees and above! The fine dry heat of New Mexico is what he means! And we’ll be having that soon enough!” He glanced up at his lanky clerk. “The coming of the warm weather will be important to you, young man. Do you know why?”
“I’m sure I don’t, sir.”
Kilgore grinned broadly. “Because when it’s warm, Kilgore likes to travel. And one of the first trips he’ll be making will be to Santa Fe. He’ll see the sights there. He’ll pay a call on Laurie Morgan—and not at her sporting house—and try to patch up the wounds, if that’s possible. And—incidentally—old Kilgore will move for the admittance of Clem Erskine to full membership in the Territorial bar.”
Clem’s eyes were shining. “Are you serious, sir?” He was thinking of the impression that his becoming a full-fledged lawyer would make on Carlotta when she returned in six months’ time.
Kilgore snorted. “Erskine, I am always serious. But I enter the stipulation that I’m likely to change my mind if I find you slacking off.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Kilgore. There isn’t a chance!”
“We’ll see about that. And I think we’ve wasted enough time out here, Erskine. We’ve got a brief to prepare in this foolish damage suit the livery stable is instituting.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And while you’re at it,” Kilgore said, “I think the spittoon could stand a shine. It takes more than reading Blackstone and Gildersleeve and Prince to make a lawyer, Erskine. I want that spittoon to gleam.”
And he turned and walked quickly back into his office, before Clem could catch sight of his broad grin.
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