The Silver Shooter

by Erin Lindsey

  “I don’t know what—”

  “How did you do it? Is the magic yours, or someone else’s?”

  My anger was genuine, but it served a purpose, too. Parnell was truly distressed now, which gave Thomas an opening.

  “Agent Gallagher,” he said in his most eminently reasonable tones. “Let us not be premature. We don’t know for certain that Mr. Parnell was directly involved in these matters. If he was merely acting on behalf of his client, there may be scope for cooperation.”

  “Cooperation? He should hang for what he’s done!” Lord help me, I actually meant it.

  Parnell swayed a little in his seat, as though he were in danger of swooning.

  “Someone will certainly hang,” Thomas said mildly, “but we must be sure it is the party or parties responsible, and not merely their agents.”

  “Th-that’s right!” Parnell leaned past me, appealing to the more rational of his tormentors. “I’m just an agent! All I do is acquire the land! I don’t know anything about the rest. Magic?” He gave a hysterical little titter, as if to say, Is she mad?

  Much as I hated to admit it, he was awfully convincing. “How long has this been going on?” I growled.

  The lawyer hesitated, but when he saw the unforgiving look in Thomas’s eye, he answered. “Since last summer.”

  “You’ve been here a year, then?” Thomas asked.

  “Not continuously. I only stayed for about a week, to inform prospective sellers that my client was in the market. It wasn’t until this spring that I was obliged to return. That’s when the floodgates truly opened.”

  “And what do you suppose opened those floodgates?” I asked coldly. “Are you going to sit there and tell us you didn’t know what was going on?”

  He gave a helpless little shrug. “What’s going on is that a terrible winter has decimated the beef industry, and all but the stubborn and the well financed are getting out. It’s a pity for those concerned, but it’s the way of the world.”

  “And the animal attacks? I suppose you didn’t know anything about those?”

  “Of course I heard the same rumors as anyone. I admit the attacks were convenient, but I don’t see how we can be blamed for that. It’s a wild animal, for heaven’s sake!” That nervous titter again, as if this whole conversation were ridiculous. I wanted to throttle him, and I made sure my expression said as much.

  “Who’s we? Who’s the client?”

  “That information is—”

  “As God is my witness,” Thomas murmured, “if you say the word privileged, you will regret it.”

  Parnell dropped his face in his hands. “Please, sir. You will ruin me.”

  “You are already ruined,” Thomas said. “The only question now is whether you will live. You weren’t merely preying on the desperate like any red-blooded capitalist. You knew perfectly well that your client was employing immoral tactics in pursuit of his greed. You admitted as much when you acknowledged working with Howard. Whether his coercion involved a marauding predator or the barrel of a gun is quite immaterial. You are accountable, sir, and you will face justice. Your only hope for leniency is cooperation.”

  The lawyer was weeping now, still shielding his face with his hands. “God,” he said. “Oh, God.”

  The Bible tells us the Lord forgives all sins, but I found myself hoping He might make an exception in this case.

  Thomas leaned over our sniveling suspect. “For the last time, who is your client?”

  “I don’t know,” he wailed. “I’ve never even met him! Everything was done through Howard. The payments, the transfer of deeds—all of it!”

  “What name did he give you? You would have needed one for the property deeds.”

  “He only gave me initials. CA. I was to leave the rest blank, so he could fill it in himself. He was adamant that he remain anonymous.”

  Thomas glanced at me, and I answered his unspoken question with a reluctant nod. I didn’t want to believe the lawyer, but I did. Which made two of us, apparently. I could sense Thomas’s frustration behind the icy mask he wore.

  “This ledger.” He snatched the leather-bound book from the lawyer’s lap. “It contains the details of each transaction?”

  Parnell nodded miserably.

  I was feeling pretty miserable myself by that point. We’d finally managed to put the pieces together, to connect Ben Upton’s murder with the mysterious marauding predator, and what did it get us? A set of initials and yet another book. At least we’d have the satisfaction of throwing this bloodsucker in jail.

  We tied the lawyer’s hands and walked him out the back, the better to avoid any trouble in the saloon. Rumor spread faster than smallpox in this town, and I had no doubt there would be plenty of cowpokes itching to use Parnell for target practice when they found out what he’d done. The sheriff would have his hands full protecting the lawyer from a lynch mob, assuming he had any mind to do so.

  The jailhouse was a little down the way, on the other side of the main street. “Let’s hope the good sheriff isn’t indisposed,” I said sourly as we started across. “It is nearly five o’clock, after—”

  A gunshot rang out, punching a hole in the clapboard behind us and sending passersby scrambling. Parnell shrieked and tried to hightail it; Thomas could barely keep hold of the man, grabbing him by the scruff and fairly throwing him at the nearest cover, a wagon loaded with goods from the general store. We’d just hunkered down when the second shot came, striking a sack of flour and sending a fine white cloud into the air. The draft horse hitched to the wagon grunted and stamped, but he stayed put—for now.

  There are some things you never get used to. Whatever they say in the dime novels, I can tell you that getting shot at is one of them. Every nerve in my body buzzed, as if Mr. Tesla had attached some of his wires to my bones and thrown the switch. Even so, my voice was surprisingly steady as I said, “We can’t stay here.”

  As if to prove the point, a bullet tore through the side of the wagon, showering us with splinters.

  “A rifle,” Thomas said. “That gives us a moment to break between shots.”

  “Assuming there’s only one.”

  “If there were a second shooter, one of us would be dead already.”

  Parnell whimpered.

  “When he fires again, we break for that alley.” Thomas pointed at a gap between the buildings. It was only about twenty feet away, but it might as well have been a mile. “Are you ready, Parnell?”

  The lawyer nodded feebly.

  The next shot was aimed at the feet of the draft horse, and it did the trick: The animal spooked and lunged against his harness, dragging our cover with him. By that time, Thomas and I were legging it to the alley, shoving Parnell as we ran; we made it just as another shot whizzed past, ricocheting noisily.

  I dared a peek around the corner, but I couldn’t see anyone. The shooter, whoever he was, had found cover of his own. “Howard?”

  “Most likely. He has reason to want all three of us dead.”

  “What?” Parnell glanced between us, wide-eyed. “Why me?”

  “To keep you from talking.” As I spoke the words, it dawned on me that the bullet that took Skinny might not have been a stray. Which would make Howard a pretty crack shot, considering he’d been firing a rifle one-handed. Behind his back. At a full gallop.

  I swallowed.

  Thomas started to lean out from cover, only to jerk back when a bullet bit a chunk off the wall. “Damn! He’s somewhere across the street, but where?”

  If only we had something we could use as a …

  My gaze fell on just the thing. Holstering my weapon, I reached for Thomas and started unbuckling his belt.

  “Good heavens,” said Parnell.

  “Er,” said Thomas.

  Yanking his belt free, I removed the buckle, a silver disc about the size of a dinner roll, and flipped it over, revealing a smooth, polished surface. I couldn’t help grinning when I saw my own reflection staring back at me, a little w
arped from the curve of the buckle but otherwise clear as a bell.

  “Rose Gallagher, you crafty little…” Thomas snatched the buckle, turned his back to the street, and gingerly eased the makeshift mirror around the corner.

  The rifle cracked again. Thomas flinched back, but he’d seen what he needed to. “The roof above the hardware store. Cover me.”

  I fired off a couple of blind shots, and quicker than you could say Jack be nimble, Thomas was across the street and scrambling hand-over-hand up a drainpipe. I thought I’d seen every trick up those impeccably tailored sleeves, but apparently I was wrong. He reached the parapet in moments, racing across the roof of the gun shop and leaping over the gap between buildings like he did this sort of thing every day. I dared a look around the corner when I heard his Peacemaker fire, and I saw the sniper break cover and start running.

  Not Howard, my brain registered. I was about to take a shot of my own when a bang-bang-bang from the street sent the sniper tumbling behind the false front of the hardware store. A burly man stepped into view, his revolver trained at the rooftops. He took aim at my partner next, and my heart froze.

  “Stop!” I cried. “Pinkerton Detective Agency!”

  How I wished for that badge then—but as it turned out, I didn’t need it. “I know what you are,” said Hell Roaring Bill Jones, holstering his weapon. He kept his gaze on the rooftops, watching as Thomas advanced warily toward the place where the sniper had fallen. “Hoy up there! He dead or what?”

  Thomas disappeared from view as he crouched over the body. “Quite dead, I’m afraid.” Straightening, he added, “Which means we shan’t be able to question him.”

  The sheriff snorted. “Next time I’ll let ’em have you, ungrateful bastard. Now get your arse down here.” Turning to me, he added, “I guess it’s time we had a talk.”

  CHAPTER 19

  A THOROUGHLY COMPETENT FRONTIERSMAN—SMELLS LIKE MONEY—THE HAND THAT FEEDS

  Sheriff Jones locked our prisoner up in the same cell as Two Horses. Parnell looked terrified at the prospect of bunking in with a Lakota. Two Horses, meanwhile, didn’t so much as glance up, not even when I said his name. As before, he just stared straight ahead, determined not to acknowledge any of us. “Ain’t spoken a word in twenty-four hours,” the sheriff said. “Suits me just fine.”

  Thomas could tell my temper was coming to a boil again, and he headed me off before I landed us both in hot water. “I imagine you have questions, Sheriff.”

  “Oh, I got questions, all right. Starting with how come me own deputy don’t see fit to tell me he’s gone and hired Pinkertons to see after this business with his missing beeves.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny—”

  “Spare me.” Jones made a curt gesture for us to follow, leading us into an adjoining room separated by a heavy door. A rumpled cot and the reek of stale whiskey suggested he’d taken this side of the jailhouse for his private quarters. “Sit,” he instructed, rapping his knuckles on a table. He himself perched on the edge of the bed. “So, you wanna tell me who that fella is I got Snyder scraping off the roof of the hardware store?”

  Thomas sighed. “I wish we could.”

  Hell Roaring Bill Jones considered us with an irritable expression. He was a big man, with a cold gleam to his eye; I had no doubt he could intimidate most of the roughs in this town just by looking at them. But we’d faced down the toughest coppers in the New York City Police Department. We weren’t about to be cowed by a small-town sheriff, and I made sure my gaze said as much.

  “What does your outfit want with the lawyer?” The question was put to Thomas, as the man of the operation.

  “Mr. Parnell is a key player in a conspiracy to intimidate local ranchers into selling their land.”

  “Conspiracy, is it?” The sheriff raised his eyebrows wryly.

  “Indeed, one that includes the foreman at Cougar Ranch. Mr. Howard has been acting as hired muscle.”

  Jones grunted. That part, at least, didn’t seem to surprise him. “George is a mean enough cuss for the job, sure enough. But what’s this about forcing ranchers off their land?”

  Thomas and I glanced at one another. Mr. Roosevelt had explicitly asked us not to involve his friend the sheriff. On the other hand, Bill Jones wouldn’t take kindly to being given the stone wall.

  Thomas tried to finesse the matter. “We would require express permission from our client to discuss the details. What we can tell you is that Mr. Howard and some of his associates, formerly of the Buckshot Outfit, have been employing various unlawful and immoral techniques in order to persuade local ranchers to sell their land to Mr. Parnell on behalf of parties unknown.”

  The sheriff made a sour face. “I don’t speak tenderfoot. You wanna try that again?”

  “Howard and Skinny murdered Francis Oliver,” I said, since that seemed simpler.

  He glanced at me. “Frank Oliver wasn’t a rancher.”

  “No, but he had something Parnell wanted. A book with some valuable information in it. Parnell offered to buy it first, and when Oliver refused, Howard and Skinny murdered him and tried to break into the safe. My guess is they were interrupted before they could finish the job.”

  “Your guess.”

  “There’s still a lot we don’t know.” It sounded thin even to me, and it certainly didn’t impress the good sheriff. His gaze shifted between Thomas and me, as if he couldn’t decide whether we were a burr under his saddle or something much worse.

  “I could believe Howard and Skinny robbed Frank Oliver. But the rest of it? I’ve not had a single complaint about being tricked or bullied into selling, by the Buckshot Outfit or anyone else. Meantime, I don’t see what none of this has to do with cattle rustling, which is why Roosevelt hired your outfit. My point being, you’re herding somebody else’s beef, friends.”

  “I can certainly understand how it would appear that way,” Thomas said. “But these matters are closely related. You see—”

  “Let me tell you what I see. I see a pair of New Yorkers”—he pronounced the words with roughly the same inflection as sewer rats—“who been nothing but trouble since they turned up. You’re in town all of a day before you start busting up Lee Granger’s place. Three days later you’re having a hoedown in the middle of main street. In between, you go and kick the hornet’s nest with a rambler I been keeping warm for Seth Bullock—who ain’t the most understanding fella, by the way, so the two of you can be the ones to explain to him why Bowie Bill Wallace is in the wind again.”

  I sputtered in protest. “Why, but you can hardly blame us for that! Couldn’t you just have arrested him?”

  “This ain’t New York City, girl. Did you see how many boys he’s got riding with him? Roosevelt ain’t here, so that leaves me ’n’ Snyder, unless I’m gonna deputize a bunch of cowpunchers and watch ’em get gunned down like prairie chickens.”

  Well, there wasn’t much I could say to that. I’d all but dismissed Hell Roaring Bill Jones as a drunk and a buffoon. He might be the former, but he certainly wasn’t the latter. A thoroughly competent frontiersman, Mr. Roosevelt had called him, and it seemed to me a careful choice of words. Not a good man, necessarily, or even a competent sheriff. A frontiersman—with all the rugged, cold-eyed pragmatism that implied. He’d rather let a notorious outlaw slip through his fingers than risk the lives of ordinary townsfolk by picking a fight he didn’t think he could win. I suppose I even understood it, up to a point. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.

  “We regret the inconvenience,” Thomas said. “And we shall certainly endeavor to maintain a lower profile from now on.”

  “You do that. I’ll keep your lawyer in the cage for now, but like I told Gus’s boys, you best come up with some real evidence.”

  Except as far as I could tell, Gus Reid wasn’t bothering with evidence. Instead, he was planning to round up the rest of the Lakota, too. “Did you know Reid is threatening to bring in the cavalry? Or even hired guns?”

  I felt
sure Jones would object to his town being overrun by armed men who didn’t answer to him, but apparently I was mistaken. “I already had Charlie Morrison in my ear about it, and I’m gonna tell you what I told him. Round these parts, it’s understood that a man’s got a right to defend what’s his. Reid wants to hire some stranglers to keep his stock safe, I got no reason to stop him. ’Specially not if he means to drive off the rest of them young bucks prowling around where they got no business being. I know you eastern types got a soft spot for Indians, but I got a town to protect, and Indians spell trouble.”

  “Those young bucks are hunting the animal responsible for all those deaths,” I said coldly.

  “Yeah, well, we got hunters enough round here as it is, and we’re about to get more. Couple of these rich eastern landlords figured it’d be a good idea to offer a five-hundred-dollar reward for whoever bags the Medora Monster.”

  My mouth fell open. Five hundred dollars? Not so long ago, that would have been six months’ wages for me. I could only imagine how rich it would seem to a bunch of Dakota cowpunchers. A reward that size would have every fool with a rifle and a bellyful of liquid courage out in the bush looking for something, anything, to shoot. Which meant things had just gotten a whole lot more dangerous for John Ward and the Lakota.

  Jones knew it, too. “If your Indian friends got a lick of sense, they’ll hit the road before they end up full of lead, accidental or otherwise.”

  “You’re just going to allow that? A free-for-all shootout in your own backyard?”

  Bill Jones fixed me with an icy look. “The last thing you want to be doing is telling me how to do my job.”

  I started to protest, but a discreet touch on my arm held me back. I could read the meaning of that gesture as clearly as if Thomas had spoken. There’s no point in antagonizing him further. He’s not going to change his mind.