Pray for Death

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Doc laughed out loud. “Sonny, all I said was that I’m not as good as I used to be. But I can still beat you. Let’s go.” He began the struggle to rise, and Matt quickly came to his assistance.

  “You don’t mind, do you, Kate?”

  “Keep a good eye on him, will you, Matt?”

  “I will,” he promised.

  Doc was able to walk on his own, but his frailty meant that the walk from the Glenwood Springs Hotel was quite slow. When they stepped into the saloon a few minutes later, he was greeted warmly by all as two of the bar girls approached.

  “We’ll get him seated,” one of the girls said as she took one arm, and the second bar girl took the other.

  “Your table, Doc?” one asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  After they were seated, one brought a whiskey for Doc and a beer for Matt. Shortly after that, two more men came to the table and a game of poker ensued.

  They had been playing for about half an hour when Matt saw a man come into the saloon. He stood just inside the swinging batwing doors, surveying the saloon until his perusing came to a stop at the table where Matt, Doc, and the two others were playing poker. The man pulled his pistol from the holster and held it down by his side.

  Matt had no idea who this man was, but it was pretty obvious that he was on the prowl. For him? It could be. He had made a lot of friends over the years, but he had also made a lot of enemies.

  “There you are!” the man said. He didn’t shout the words, but they were easily heard. Curiosity had halted the conversations when he’d first come into the saloon. With his raised pistol, the curiosity had changed to apprehension.

  “An old enemy, Matt?” one of the players asked.

  “No, gentleman. I’m afraid that one is after me,” Doc said.

  “Stand up, Holliday! Stand up and face me like a man!”

  “I’m not armed, Hartman. In case you haven’t noticed by my emaciated appearance, I am in the advanced stages of consumption, so you can just put your gun back in its holster. If you are all that set on seeing me die, all you have to do is hang around for a short while and I’ll do it for you. Your personal participation in the process won’t be needed.”

  “Yeah? Well, I want to participate,” Hartman said.

  “All right. Well, go ahead and shoot me. I’ve no way of stopping you.” Doc’s voice was calm and measured.

  “I wonder if I could intervene for a moment?” Matt’s voice was calm and conversational just like Doc’s.

  “Mister, you ’n them other two that’s sittin’ at the table there had better get up and get out of the way. I come in here with one thing in mind, ’n that was to kill the man that kilt my brother. ’N I aim to do it.”

  The two others at the table heeded Hartman’s advice and moved out of the way.

  Matt stood, but remained in place. “Speaking as John Henry’s friend, and on behalf of several others who I know are also his friends, I’m going to ask . . . no, I’m going to tell you to put aside any grievance you may have with Doc, and let nature take its course. Let him die in peace.”

  “Mister, I’m standin’ here with a gun in my hand and you’re tryin’ to tell me what to do? Suppose I tell you I’m goin’ to kill him anyway?”

  “You’ll have to come through me first.”

  “All right, if that’s what it takes. Doc, I’m going to ask you to get out of the way for a moment,” Hartman said. “I intend to kill you, but I don’t want it to be an accident. When I kill you, it’s goin’ to be purposeful.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about it, Hartman. I’m in no danger here. If you really are dumb enough to engage my friend here, you won’t even get a shot off.”

  “What is he, some sort of fool? I already have my gun in my hand,” Hartman said as if explaining something to a child.

  “Yes, well, go ahead and do what you feel you must do,” Matt said.

  Hartman lifted his thumb up from the handle of his pistol, preparatory to pulling back the hammer, but his thumb never reached the hammer. Matt drew and fired. His bullet crashed into Hartman’s forehead, then burst out through the back of his head taking with it a little spray of pink. Hartman was dead before he ever realized that he was in danger.

  “My God. I’ve never seen anything like that!” said one of the other card players.

  A buzz of excited chatter came from all the others in the saloon, and several gathered around Hartman’s body.

  “Gentlemen,” Doc Holliday said, “can we please get back to the game? I plan to teach this young whippersnapper here a lesson he won’t soon forget.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Sweetwater County, Wyoming Territory

  The man who dismounted and walked over to examine the fence was in his midforties, about five-feet-nine with sloping shoulders and a slight, but not pronounced, belly rise. He had steel-gray eyes below heavy brows, a narrow nose, and a pronounced chin dimple. This was Hugh Conway, owner of the Spur and Latigo, a horse ranch.

  Seeing the loose end, he picked up the piece of barbed wire and examined it closely. This strand, as were the five other strands he’d found, had been cut, leaving behind an empty pasture that, yesterday, had held thirty horses. The horses would have brought one hundred thirty dollars apiece at the market. That meant a loss of nearly four thousand dollars, money that the Spur and Latigo Ranch could ill afford to lose.

  Hugh shook his head in disgust and despair, then rode back to the house, where he was met by a somewhat larger than average man in denim trousers, a red and black plaid shirt, and a hat that may have been white at one time but was so stained that the actual color was nearly indistinguishable. This was Ed Sanders, Hugh’s foreman. At the moment, though, he was a foreman without anyone to supervise. Economics had forced Hugh to let all of his hands go. Sanders had agreed to take a cut in pay “until things got better.”

  “Did you see any of the horses?” he asked as he took the reins to Hugh’s horse.

  “No. Every horse we put out there was gone. All thirty of them.”

  Sanders shook his head. “We shouldn’ta separated ’em from the others, most especial when we don’t have no men to keep an eye on ’m.”

  “It’s my fault,” Hugh admitted. “I’ll be honest with you, Ed. I don’t know why it is that you’re staying on. You’re doing the work of three men, and I had to cut your pay in half.”

  “Once you get your horses sold, you’ll be back on your feet again,” Sanders said.

  “That’s assuming I will have enough horses left to sell. We’ve lost more than fifty in the last three months. And when I say lost, I don’t mean they just wandered off.”

  “No, sir, they didn’t. They was stoled is what they was,” Sanders said. “ ’N there ain’t no doubt in my mind but what them Regulators is the ones that’s doin’ all the stealin’. They may call themselves deputies, but what they actually is, is horse thieves. ’N they’re stealin’ cattle, too, if you ask me. I was talkin’ to Harley Mack Loomis the other day, ’n he said that they been missin’ cattle over at the Rockin’ P.”

  Hugh nodded. “Yes, Mr. Pollard shared that information with me.” Darrel Pollard was the owner of the Rocking P Ranch.

  “Mr. Conway, you go on in ’n get yourself some dinner. I know Miz Conway has been some worried about you. I’ll get your horse put away.”

  “Thanks, Ed.”

  When Hugh stepped into the house, he was met by the enticing aroma of fried chicken.

  “You’re just in time,” Lisa Conway said. “I’ll have supper on the table in a minute.”

  Lisa was only one inch shorter than Hugh, slender but with hips and breasts that the long gingham dress she wore did little to hide. Her hair was auburn, and her eyes were almost green. She had long lashes, high cheekbones, and a narrow nose. She was, in short, an exceptionally pretty woman, and because Hugh was some fifteen years older, those who didn’t know them sometimes mistook Lisa for Hugh’s daughter.

  “Were the horses gone?�
� she asked as she put a pan of freshly baked biscuits on the table.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought they probably were, but Mr. Sanders didn’t want to tell me. He didn’t want to worry me, I guess.”

  “The problem is, we have no one to keep an eye on the herd. I can’t afford to hire anyone right now, and Ed and I can’t do it by ourselves. To make matters worse, the mortgage payment is coming due soon and we don’t have enough money to pay it. If I can get the bank to give us an extension until we can get the horses to market, we’ll be all right. You said you wanted to do some shopping tomorrow, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. We’ll go into town tomorrow. You take care of your shopping, and I’ll see Mr. Foley at the bank. I’m sure we have enough equity in the herd for him to grant the extension.”

  * * *

  “Do I understand you correctly that you want to buy the mortgage the bank holds on the Spur and Latigo Ranch?” Bob Foley asked.

  “Yes,” Garrett Kennedy said. He and Sean O’Neil, partners on the Straight Arrow Ranch, sat across from the bank president.

  “You do understand that in order to do that, you will have to pay the principal and all interest due. You will also have to honor the bank’s obligation to the owner. In other words, if Mr. Conway makes the payment on time, he will retain ownership and all rights.”

  “There’s a payment due now, isn’t there?” Kennedy asked.

  “Not for another month, then it’ll be six more months before the next payment is due.”

  “We understand,” O’Neil said. “If Conway is able to make his payment, we will have the satisfaction of knowing that we have helped a neighbor. If he isn’t able to make the payment, this will be a good business investment for us.”

  “Yes, as it was for the other three properties you have done this for, and subsequently taken possession of, I believe, when the notes could not be met.”

  “Why would that be your worry?” O’Neil asked. “The bank didn’t lose any money.”

  Foley sighed and drummed his fingers on the desk. “I am inclined not to do this, but the board of directors has strongly suggested that I accept your offer.”

  “The board knows that it is a way of protecting the bank’s loan,” Kennedy said.

  “You would know, since the two of you make up two-fifths of the membership. I suspect you brought a little pressure on the other three.”

  “I wouldn’t call it pressure,” O’Neil said. “I would call it good business sense.”

  “Very well. Pay the principal, plus interest, and the mortgage is yours.”

  “Bob, we would like to hire you to manage this investment for us,” Kennedy said.

  “Manage it?”

  “Yes. We will pay you a management fee. That way, Conway need never know that we, and not the bank, hold the paper on his ranch.”

  “How much of a management fee are you willing to pay?” Foley asked.

  “Fifteen percent.”

  “Fifteen percent?” Foley replied in surprise. “Why man, interest on the loan itself is only six percent.”

  Kennedy smiled. “Then you are getting a good deal, aren’t you?”

  As Foley considered the money he would make from the arrangement, any concern over the ethics of the deal faded, and he returned Kennedy’s smile. “Gentlemen, I accept your proposal.”

  * * *

  The next day Hugh Conway was standing outside the mercantile leaning against the post that supported the awning and smoking a cigarette while he waited for Lisa to finish with her shopping. They had come into town by buckboard earlier, not only to get some necessary shopping done, but also for Hugh to visit with Robert Foley, president of the Bank of Rongis.

  Like many of his neighbors, Hugh had little regard for railroads or banks. Railroads had made long drives unnecessary, but they charged too much, whereas banks had a tendency to foreclose too quickly without regard to whatever difficulty the rancher was going through, be it weather or rustlers.

  Hugh took a deep puff of his cigarette, then squinted through the exhaled blue cloud of smoke as he thought about the meeting that he had just concluded with Foley.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Conway, but I’m going to have to turn you down,” Foley told him. “I’m afraid my board would consider the extension of your loan too risky.”

  “Where is the risk?” Hugh asked. “I have more equity in the ranch than the amount of the loan. And once I get the horses to market I’ll have more than enough money, not only to make the loan payment, but to completely retire the mortgage.”

  “I’m sorry,” Foley said. “Your note is due one month from now, and we will expect prompt payment.”

  It had not escaped Hugh’s attention that Foley had addressed him as Mr. Conway rather than Hugh. At one time it had been Hugh and Bob, because the two men moved in the same social circles. But now that Hugh was facing some financial difficulty, it was Mr. Conway and Mr. Foley.

  Being turned down for the loan was disappointing, but not devastating. A horse broker in Cheyenne was paying $130 per head. Hugh had a few over two hundred head remaining. The difficult part of that operation would be in getting the horses to market. To do that he would have to drive the herd one hundred miles through a pass in the Sweetwater Mountains and across the Red Desert to get to Bitter Creek.

  At Bitter Creek it would cost him ten dollars a head to ship the horses to Cheyenne. But even after shipping costs, he would have enough money to completely retire the mortgage, as well as operating expenses to get him through until he could build up his herd again.

  The question was, could he and Ed Sanders get the horses delivered without help? The long drive and number of horses would be quite a challenge for only two men to handle.

  Kennedy and O’Neil had offered him fifty dollars a head. That would be enough to make the payment, but not enough to retire the debt. And he wouldn’t have enough operating funds left to rebuild his herd. It was not an offer he took seriously.

  * * *

  “Hello, Mrs. Conway,” said a young woman, also a customer in the mercantile.

  “Hello, Colleen,” Lisa replied. “Will I be seeing you at the Rongis Betterment Social next week?”

  “I would like to attend, but I’m not sure I would be welcome.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Colleen. Nobody holds against you that your father is . . . let us just say an aggressive businessman. You surely have nothing to do with any of that.”

  “No ma’am, I don’t, but my last name is O’Neil. And I’m branded by that name as surely as are all the cows on the Straight Arrow ranch.”

  “Here are your purchases, Mrs. Conway,” Ernest Dunnigan, owner of the mercantile, said. “I’ll have Tommy carry them out for you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dunnigan. Colleen,” she said to the other customer, “do try and come to the social next week.”

  “I’ll try,” Colleen replied. “And thank you for the personal invitation.”

  * * *

  “You can put them in the back of the buckboard,” Lisa said, her voice interrupting Hugh’s thoughts.

  He turned to see that Lisa was emerging from the store and giving the directions to young Tommy Matthews.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What did Bob Foley say?” Lisa asked as she settled on the seat beside her husband.

  “He said no.”

  Lisa put her hand on Hugh’s arm. “Oh, Hugh.”

  “Don’t worry about it, my dear.” He snapped the reins to get the team started. “All we have to do is get our horses to Bitter Creek. From there it’ll be an easy thing to ship them on to Cheyenne.”

  “But can you and Mr. Sanders drive the horses there by yourselves? And do we have enough money to pay the rail freight?”

  “We’ll figure out a way,” Hugh replied.

  “By the way, I saw Colleen O’Neil in the store. Such a sweet girl. I feel so sorry for her.”

  “What’s there to feel sorry abou
t? Her father is one of the two wealthiest men in the entire county. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool son of a bitch, but he is wealthy.”

  “Now, Hugh, we can’t hold Colleen accountable for the sins of her father.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  * * *

  That night as Lisa lay in bed with her husband sleeping beside her, she thought of their situation. Perhaps they should just sell out to Kennedy and O’Neil. She had once suggested to Hugh that they might consider selling out and moving away, but Hugh had been adamantly against it.

  “We wouldn’t even get half of what the ranch is worth,” he’d said. “We wouldn’t get as much as we can get from the horses once we get them to market.”

  “Yes, but can we get them to market?”

  “We will, somehow,” Hugh had assured her.

  But Lisa wasn’t so sure.

  Never, while she was growing up, did she think she would wind up on a horse ranch. But being married to Hugh Conway was every bit as unlikely as being a rancher. Sometimes she asked herself if she really loved him.

  Lisa had tremendous respect for Hugh, for his intelligence as well as his character. Was their relationship the kind of fair young maiden–knight in shining armor partnership of the romance stories? No. But was there really such a thing?

  He was honest, he treated everyone fairly, and from the very beginning of their relationship, he had been nothing but kind and considerate of her. She reached over to lay her hand on his.

  Yes, she decided. She did love him. And she was going to do something to help, but she would have to do it without consulting him. Above all else, Hugh was a man of great personal pride. And he would disapprove of what she had in mind.

  She was going to do it, anyway. She would write the letter tomorrow.

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the bestselling series Smoke Jensen, the Mountain Man, Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Flintlock, and Will Tanner, Deputy U.S. Marshal, and the stand-alone thrillers The Doomsday Bunker, Tyranny, and Black Friday.