“Hell, no. Why? I’m dyin. Hell, I haven’t done none of that evil stuff for nigh on three months now. Haven’t had the energy to work up the effort! And what do I need with a persnickety bitch in my bed? Or a stage line?
“Sure, mine’s still runnin’, but I’m losin’ help faster than Texas was losing cattle to Kansas a few years back. Pretty soon I’ll be broke and all of this—the saloon, my mines, my stage line—crap, it’ll peter out like a locomotive runnin’ on an empty firebox. Most likely, it’ll be sold for back taxes...long after I’m more maggots than flesh.”
Creed smiled at the long-nine’s coal. “Goddamn, that’s a good cigar!”
“If not you, who is terrorizing the Manghams? And why?”
“Look at me, Sartain. Do I look like I know a goddamn thing about anything anymore except how long it takes to evacuate a set of cancerous bowels?”
“Why did Dan Tucker send you that telegram?”
“Crap, I never even saw the telegram. That’s how dead I am. I don’t know. Maybe he hasn’t gotten word I ain’t been at my best lately. Silver City’s a long ways away, and some of the boys down here likely been trying to keep it as quiet as they can so we don’t lose business so fast.”
Sartain had walked to a window and was staring at the mud-brick wall of the next building to the east. “Who ambushed my camp? Who sicced Dangerous Dan and them other three on me and Edina?” He shook his head slowly. “And why?”
“Must be someone else after Mangham’s business,” Creed said. “Say, you and me are a lot alike, Sartain. I like your Cajun accent. Bet you fought in the war, didn’t you? Why don’t you spend the night here? As my guest. Free of charge. We’ll have us another beer, another game of pool, and then we’ll dine in my... Hey, where you goin’?”
Sartain paused at the door. He was remembering something the French doxie, Emmanuelle, had told him back in her boudoir.
“Things are complicated here. They may seem simple, mon cher, but that is the trick. Not everyone is as they seem.”
Now, Sartain was starting to understand what she meant. And maybe she’d said it because she’d just seen him walk out of the Mangham’s mercantile.
He glanced back at the old outlaw scowling at him.
“Tell you what,” Creed said with an urgent air, desperately wanting company, “I’ll haul you in a whore or two from another place. Just keep it down, though, will you? I don’t wanna get all frustrated!”
“Sorry, Creed, but I have to get back to Silver City.”
“How ‘bout I fix you up with three whores!” Creed bellowed as Sartain went out and strode toward the batwings. “Oh, come on, you came here to kill me! The least you can do is accept my hospitality!”
* * *
Seated atop his calico steed, Scott Mangham fumbled a silk handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his crisp frock coat and clutched it hard against his mouth and nose. He stared down in horror at a sight almost too horrific to be believed, one that emanated such a thick, sickly-sweet, coppery stench that young Mangham was having trouble keeping his breakfast down.
It was the torso of a man. Or what was left of a man after predators—likely mountain lions or wolves—had finished with it.
All that was left of the man’s upper body was the bloody mess of his exposed ribs, his spine running up through the back of his ribcage, his neck, and his head. It was the head that made the sight especially grisly because there was enough of the skin left on the face to identify the revolting carcass as that of Dangerous Dan Tucker, town marshal of Silver City. Without the head, the rest of the remaining body might have belonged to an animal of some kind.
But the head identified it as a man. As Dangerous Dan.
Mangham convulsed violently, swallowed back a retch.
One of Dan’s eyes remained in its socket. The other was gone. Dangerous Dan’s ears were there as well, and so was his hair, although it was a matted, bloody mess.
Everything below the man’s ribs was gone. The legs were nowhere in sight. They were likely not far away. The autumn leaves and the ground had been torn up and splattered with blood as the predators had obviously fought over and devoured their prey.
Though it appeared they were not what had killed Dangerous Dan. Scott Mangham was not accustomed to violence—he left that up to others—but he was sure that the gaping hole in the middle of Dan’s right ear marked where a bullet had passed through his skull.
Improbably, Dan’s bloody, dirty lips appeared to be smirking.
Scott’s innards recoiled violently. His breakfast geysered up into his throat.
Quickly, half-falling, he climbed out of the saddle, dropped the reins, stumbled into a hawthorn thicket, and spewed his breakfast. He leaned forward, convulsing, wave after wave burning up from his belly and hurling itself across his tongue and out his mouth.
When he finished, he stepped back, dropped to his knees in exhaustion, and ran the handkerchief across his lips. His intestines were trembling. Glancing through the shrubs, Scott saw something else scattered across the ground about twenty feet away.
“Oh, Christ,” he muttered, drawing a calming breath.
Reluctantly, he walked around the hawthorn thicket and over to where more bloody bones were scattered through the autumn-cured grass, pine needles, and aspen leaves. There had to be parts of at least two more men over here. Maybe three.
That would mean that the entire posse Scott Mangham had sent after Sartain was dead—which meant that Sartain was either on his way to Silver City at this moment, or he’d already arrived.
If he’d already arrived, he probably knew...or would soon know...that it was not Lucius Creed who had lately been terrorizing the Mangham family. It would likely take him some time to figure out who the real culprit was, but when he did, Scott Mangham would probably end up in the same condition as Dangerous Dan and the other fools strewn through these woods in bloody, bony piles.
On the other hand, why would The Revenger suspect Scott? All the men who’d been taking his orders and who thought they’d been taking his orders via Lucius Creed because they thought Scott had thrown in with Creed were dead.
The only one who could really put it together was laid up in the Mangham house back in Silver City.
That man was Scott’s own father.
His heart racing, Scott ran back to his horse, mounted up, and galloped back in the direction of town.
Behind him, from deep in the bloody woods, a wolf gave a high, ululating cry of satiation. Scott glanced fearfully behind him, then whipped his reins ends against the calico’s hips, urging more speed.
Chapter 17
Scott checked the steed when he reached the outskirts of Silver City.
“Jesus Christ, boy!” said a man in a wagon rolling toward him. “You’re gonna kill that hoss!”
The man was Lester Forecastle, an old, ten-cow rancher from these parts and one of the mercantile’s relatively steady cash-paying customers, one of those few customers making it possible for the Manghams to remain in business despite how deep in debt they were.
Scott’s ears burned with embarrassment. The old man was right. The steed was sweat-lathered and loose-kneed, blowing hard. Scott didn’t know what to say, so he only gave a sheepish smile and pinched his hat brim to Forecastle as he continued walking the calico on into town.
The old man and the wagon passed, old Forecastle turning his warty face back to track Scott with his admonishing glare.
When Forecastle was behind him, Scott felt his upper lip curl an angry snarl. “Boy,” the old man had called him.
Scott Mangham was pushing thirty, but everyone around Silver City still referred to him as Mangham’s ”boy.” For some reason, Scott had never been able to separate himself from his father’s shadow. He supposed it had something to do with his weak personality and the fact that he’d always been more comfortable working in the back office, balancing the business’s books—or at least trying to balance those books—than working with the customer
s.
He’d always been rather shy and retiring, at least in public, so he supposed he deserved the lack of veneration he was shown. But he hated to be patronized.
Hell, the folks around Silver City treated his younger sister with more respect than they did Scott. When he did work up front in the store, everyone asked for Sarah. Even when she was busy with other customers, they’d avoid Scott and wait for Sarah to be free.
Behind the meek, deferring grin Scott couldn’t help wearing no matter how hard he tried to look confident and tough—a businessman to be reckoned with—a fire of anger and resentment had burned hotter and hotter over the years.
Now it was finally time to do something decisive. It was time to finish what he’d started.
As he rode along the town’s main street, he brushed a fist across his mouth to squelch a giddy yelp of laughter. Ahead on his right lay Aunt Irma’s place. As she often was this time of the morning, Emmanuelle was standing on the second-floor balcony smoking a long black cigar, one arm over her chest.
She wore a gauzy black wrap over her corset and camisole. As she lifted the cheroot to her lips, she turned her head toward where Scott was approaching the whorehouse and let the smoke curl out from between her sweet red lips.
Her gaze had landed on Scott. He reined the calico to a stop and smiled up at the girl. He dipped his chin, unable to contain the broad smile blossoming on his face until he was afraid he’d break out in raucous laughter.
His visits to Aunt Irma’s place—specifically, to Emmanuelle’s boudoir—had always been done under cover of darkness and via the back stairs. This morning, however, he couldn’t help doffing his bowler hat, giving a courtly dip of his chin, and saying, “I’ll be seeing you later.”
Emmanuelle glanced around the street as though wondering if anyone else had heard, then returned her befuddled gaze to Scott. He set his hat back on his head and continued riding. His sister, Sarah, stood out on the mercantile’s front porch. She’d probably been arranging the merchandise, but now she stood staring at him dubiously.
She’d obviously seen him stop in front of the whorehouse. Had she heard what he’d said to Emmanuelle?
Scott didn’t care. In fact, he hoped she had heard him.
He almost chuckled again.
Sarah shaded her eyes against the climbing morning sun. “Scott, where’ve you been?” Her eyes slid toward where Emmanuelle was standing on the balcony of the building sitting catty-corner to the mercantile. “Your horse looks blown.”
Scott kept the tired horse moving, slowly riding past the mercantile and through the slow-moving mid-morning horse and wagon traffic. “Took a little longer ride this morning than usual, sis.”
“You’ve been taking quite a few long rides of late,” Sarah said, turning her head to follow her brother with her gaze.
Scott raised his gloved hands. “I get turned around out in those mountains. You know how I am, sis. Sometimes I can’t find my ass with both hands.”
Sarah’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Scott, what did you just say?”
Scott chuckled and turned his head forward. “I’m gonna go on home and get cleaned up. I’ll be to work soon. I’m sure you can manage without me!”
He threw up a hand in a parting wave and gigged the calico into a trot.
He was aware of more than a few heads along both sides of the street turning to follow him with puzzled gazes. He reined up in front of his father’s—no, his own as well his father’s and sister’s house—ten minutes later. He climbed down from the saddle, dropped the reins, mounted the front porch, and threw open the front door.
He stood there in the foyer, heart thudding.
What now?
He fingered the .41-caliber pocket pistol he carried in his coat pocket.
He had no more men to do his dirty work for him. Recently, Dangerous Dan and others of his ilk had burned one of the Mangham Line’s stage relay stations, killed a couple of station managers and shot a driver, all to further drive the old man out of business. Scott had given the orders, but Dan and the others had believed they were working for the notorious Lucius Creed.
But those men were dead.
There was only Scott now.
His father’s voice yelled from the second story, “Sarah, is that you, honey?”
Scott licked his lips nervously, then called up the staircase rising along the foyer’s right wall. “It’s me, Poppa.”
He fingered the little pistol in his pocket again.
“Scott, what are you doing home?”
Thinking quickly, Scott said, “Sarah was busy with customers. She wanted me to check on you.”
An upstairs door opened. Brian Mangham’s voice was clearer and louder now. “Isn’t that just like her?”
The old man appeared fully dressed at the top of the stairs. He started down slowly, using his cane, one hand on the banister. His face was still swollen, but the cuts were healing.
Scott’s heart sank. He’d decided he’d smother the old man with his own pillow, make it look like a heart attack. But that had been assuming he’d find the old man asleep in bed after washing his pain pill down with brandy.
Now what would Scott do? He didn’t think he could shoot him.
“What’re you doing up, Poppa?”
“I’m getting bedsores. I need some exercise. I’m glad you’re here. I was a little hesitant to go out walking myself.” Brian Mangham was moving down the stairs one step at a time, the cane shaking in his quivering hand. “Besides, I’d like to talk to you, son. It’s been a long time coming, this talk.”
For a moment, Scott considered causing his father to have an accident on the stairs. But before the younger Mangham could make his move, the older Mangham was nearly to the bottom of the staircase.
Scott sighed.
“A talk?”
“Let’s go out the back. I’d like to walk along the arroyo. So nice out there in the fall.”
“All right. Here, let me help.”
As Mangham stepped down into the foyer, Scott sidled up to him and wrapped his arm around his father’s thick waist. They began moving through the morning-quiet house, heading for the rear. The smell of eggs, side pork, and coffee lingered in the pent up air from their breakfast.
“You smell like horse, Scott,” Mangham said. “Have you been out riding again?”
“Yeah, I thought I’d take ole Jud out for a morning jaunt.”
“Some jaunt. How far and how hard did you ride, anyway?”
“Got turned around out there, Poppa. You know I have no sense of direction.”
They were moving through the kitchen now, where a barren lilac branch was scraping against the sunlit window over the range. In another window, chickadees peeped in a small mountain honeysuckle.
“You should stay out of those mountains, boy. The office is where you belong. You’re a bookkeeper, not a cowpuncher. Leave the horseback riding to the cowpunchers and saddle tramps. Unfortunately,” the old man added as they made their way out the back door off the kitchen, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to find a job keeping someone else’s books.”
Scott didn’t say anything. He bided his time, letting the old man have his say. Then Scott would have his say. He couldn’t wait, in fact, to tell the old man what was really happening around here.
And who was responsible for it.
They walked together around the privy and woodshed and followed the path down into the arroyo, which was Mangham’s and Sarah’s favorite place to stroll together summer evenings. Scott was rarely invited. Those times were for the old man and his beloved daughter, only. Scott had always been seen as a little strange to them, and while they had never been overly obvious about how they’d seen him, they’d never done much to make him feel loved the way they loved each other.
They walked slowly along the breezy arroyo, the old man reaching up occasionally to snug his bowler hat down tighter on his head.
“Son,” he said, “I tried to get Joe Di
amond and Mel St. John to float a note for me to help us dig out of the bad spot we’re in financially, but I couldn’t do it. Those men and I were some of the first successful white businessmen here in Silver City, but they refused to back me. After considering it—indeed, after throwing a considerable temper tantrum over it—I think they were right to turn me down. No point in going even deeper into debt. There’s no shoving crap back into a dead horse, as my old man used to say.”
Scott didn’t say anything. Anger burned in him. It was tempered by only his satisfaction that he now had the upper hand. Brian Mangham might have ruined himself and Scott’s sister, but Scott had fortunately been looking out for himself.
After they’d walked in silence for a time around a bend in the arroyo, Mangham stopped walking and frowned curiously at his son. He blinked, then scowled. “What in the hell are you smiling about?”
Scott toed a fist-sized rock. “Poppa, you’ve been burying this business for the past five years. You were slow to change with the times, and you overextended yourself with the bank. And you were one piss-poor investor. You poured money into all the wrong mines, most of which have gone belly up.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Not only that, but you’re old and losing your wits. That’s another thing I’ve noticed for the past couple of years. Your memory is going, and your mind is muddled. That’s why it’s been so easy for me to milk the cow after hours and skim off a nice bowl of cream for myself.”
Mangham only blinked under bushy, gray brows, his lower jaw sagging.
“That’s right, Poppa. I’ve seen you failing and making bad business decisions for years. You were prime prey for a more skilled and less scrupulous businessman like Lucius Creed. That’s why I wanted to throw in with Creed and help him ruin you. From the inside. Not only to get your messy, failing businesses out of our way so we could make some real money, but because, quite frankly, Poppa, I hate you. You’ve never loved me, so I’ve never loved you. Mother loved me, but she’s gone.”
Scott gritted his teeth in anger. Old Mangham just stared at him in shock.
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