A Knife in the Heart

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Tully,” Christina finished. “Tully is heading home. And Tully knows the quickest way to get to the Sni-A-Bar from here. That wagon’s like all the others in this country. I doubt if anyone will be able to identify it as the boy’s.”

  “Maybe,” Hardin said. “Maybe not. But the mules are likely branded. The mules will be checked.”

  “Mules,” Christina argued. She felt right pleased with herself, that the instincts of lying came naturally, that she could make this all up after more than five, closer to six, years now away from the American Detective Agency. She was still a damned fine operative. “Mules can be replaced. Traded or stolen. Easy as that.”

  Hardin turned to MacGregor. “I hear tell she worked for you,” the killer said. “So what do you think?”

  “It ain’t foolproof,” Tully interrupted. “That’ll be me on that seat, a sittin’ duck for any lawman or angry farmer with a rifle.”

  “No plan’s foolproof,” MacGregor said with a certain amount of humility in his voice. Prison had changed him. “I know that better than all of you criminals. But her plan is solid. It might get us out of here and into Mexico. Alive.”

  “All right,” Hardin said. “How do we get in that wagon with you and Bootsey?”

  Christina nodded. “Head a mile down the road. We’ll be traveling fast. Have to. I need to get to the doctor. We’ll pick you up.”

  She wasn’t sure if she should have suggested this, because it might just be death warrants for her and Janice. But at least she thought she had saved the lives of these innocent, God-fearing, poor farmers.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Sni-A-Bar Creek flowed through Jackson and Lafayette counties on its way to the Missouri River, meandering through the small but rough Sni-A-Bar hills. It wasn’t much of a waterway, more stream than creek, often little more than a ditch, and the hills weren’t high or treacherous. But the country was. The thickets proved dense, and the people who settled here were hard as the cedar, and sharp as the briars that could rip the skin off a squirrel or jackrabbit. During the Civil War, William Quantrill’s bushwhackers often hid in the hills between murderous raids. The country was filled with Confederate sympathizers. More than three decades after the war’s end, it still was.

  Unionists and federal troops had always kept their distance from Sni-A-Bar. So did lawmen.

  “Disgusting.” Ben Lawless spit tobacco juice at a cricket but missed. “This country has tamed down since I last seen it.”

  Fallon swatted a mosquito on his neck. The air felt heavy, dense, and the humidity seemed suffocating. Riding on the single-track path through trees that seemed more like a fort than forest, he had to ride behind Lawless. It was like riding in a cave, the foliage proved to be so thick, and vines, briars, and branches hung close to the trail, scratching chaps and shoulders, but the horses plowed on.

  “Can you find Tully’s hideout?” Fallon asked, lowering his head and letting his hat deflect a low, leafy limb.

  “We’ll find out at O’Neal’s grog shop about a mile down this path,” Lawless said.

  Fallon blinked sweat out of his eyes. “You haven’t been here in years. What makes you think O’Neal’s grog shop is still in business?”

  “Because a place like O’Neal’s never goes out of business. Not in this country.”

  Roughly one mile later, they saw the lean-to, the corral, the hitching rail, and the rough-timbered one-story dogtrot cabin in what amounted to a clearing. An ass, two mules, three horses, a goat, a ewe, and a milk cow stood listlessly in the corral, which hadn’t been cleaned in months, maybe years. A mule and three horses were tethered to the hitching rail, but Lawless and Fallon found room for their mounts.

  Lawless tugged on the gun in the holster, pulled his hat low, and looked at Fallon after the warden followed him onto the warped, rotting porch. “You just watch my back, pard,” the murderer said. “Don’t get all uppity about law and order. This is my play. You savvy?”

  Fallon made sure his revolver could be drawn smoothly from the holster, let it slide back into the leather, and looked Ben Lawless in his lone dark eye. “I’m an ex-con, Ben. Don’t forget that.” And he walked to the heavy door, pulled it open, and held it for Ben Lawless to enter first.

  The place was dark, lighted only by candles, the windows shuttered. The smell of sour beer and cigar smoke filled the room, though no one was smoking, and the drinks being served came from a jug that contained corn liquor. The bearded bartender poured two glasses with the clear liquid when Fallon and Lawless stepped toward the walnut plank that stretched over old chicken crates.

  Fallon flipped a silver dollar that the bartender caught. This was the kind of bar where there was no choice in what you drank.

  Lawless found his glass, and shot down the whiskey, coughed, sniffed, and chuckled. “Not as potent as it used to be,” he said, and nodded at the bartender for a refill. Fallon picked up his glass in his left hand, and turned to look at the other patrons. Two men, one old, one middle-aged at one table, a big man in the corner, drinking alone, and the last man, tall, lean, leathery dealing solitaire by a cold stove.

  “Where’s O’Neal?” Lawless asked.

  “Who’s that?” the bartender said.

  “This is O’Neal’s place. Or used to be.”

  The old man at one of the tables laughed. “O’Neal. Hell, he got gut shot . . . hmmm . . . fifteen years back.”

  “That ain’t no surprise,” Lawless said.

  “Been two, three, maybe four owners since,” the middle-aged man sitting with the old-timer added.

  Lawless killed another shot, nodded at the barkeep, who filled the glass, surprised that one man could drink that much rotgut. “You the current owner?” he asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Lawless laughed, drew the gun, and broke the bartender’s jaw with the butt, spun around, and shot the man in the corner, who was standing up, pulling a hogleg from his pants pocket. The man toppled back into his chair, and held his broken, bloody arm, whining.

  “Ben Lawless wants to know,” Ben Lawless said.

  Fallon slid his untouched whiskey toward the killer, who lifted it with his free hand and raised it to the patrons in salute.

  “Ben Lawless,” said the middle-aged man. “Ain’t he dead?”

  “Nah,” the old man said. “But he’s in prison.”

  “He ain’t now, is he, pard?” Lawless said with a grin, and killed the whiskey with his free hand, then thumbed back the hammer of his revolver.

  “He ain’t,” Fallon said casually.

  “Look into my eye—no look into my eye where there ain’t no eye—and tell me I ain’t Ben Lawless.” He laughed. “Now, since that rude bartender ain’t likely to be able to answer me so that I can understand, I’ll give you folks time to satisfy my curiosity. I’m lookin’ for the location of a feller from these parts. What’s his name?”

  “Tully,” Fallon answered.

  “Right. Tully. Knows these creeks, knows this country, and knows the Big Muddy.”

  When no one answered, and the gambler kept playing solitaire, Lawless shot him in the left foot. He crumpled to the nasty floor, whining, cursing, trying to stanch the blood coming from the hole where his big toe once was. Lawless walked over to him, and kicked him in the head. He rolled over, knocking the table and chairs to the floor, and lay still.

  “You boys still think I ain’t Ben Lawless?” Lawless said. And came to the old man. He cocked the pistol, and put the barrel between the middle-aged man’s eyes. “Your son?” he asked the old man.

  “Grandson,” the man said.

  Lawless laughed. “You look good for a feller your age.”

  The old-timer bowed his head in thanks. “You look pretty good for a man who’s been in prison all these years,” he said.

  “That’s because I ain’t in that hellhole. And I’m sowin’ my oats. So, I come here for information, mostly just to ask directions, and that’s what I’m doin’. So far, I ain’t been p
leased with the lack of cooperation. Now, here’s what we’re all gonna do. I’ll ask a question, again, and if I don’t get what I want, I’m gonna go behind the bar, and I’m gonna mix my own drinks. And you folks is gonna drink them one at a time, till someone tells me what I want. And y’all remember ol’ Ben Lawless. The Cherokees down in the Indian Nations shore does. That ol’ skinflint behind the bar, he might have trouble swallowin’ with his jaw busted to hell. But it won’t be painin’ him after a shot of Ben Lawless’s Cherokee liquor.”

  He laughed, raised the revolver, and put a ball into the ceiling.

  “Tully.” Lawless spoke to the old man as he returned the revolver’s hot barrel close to the middle-aged man’s nose. “Or you won’t never have no great-grandsons.”

  “P-p-Pa,” the now white-faced middle-aged man said. “If we tell him, he leaves. And there ain’t no man here to charge us for the whiskey.”

  The old man sighed. “Place don’t bring in the same kind of men as it done when O’Neal run this joint.”

  “Ain’t that the gospel truth,” Ben Lawless said. The gun did not move an inch.

  “Ain’t seen Tully in a while,” the old man said.

  “He had business in Leavenworth. Should be home directly. If we see him, you don’t have to worry about ever seein’ him ag’in.”

  “That’d be fine.” The old man nodded. “Real fine.”

  * * *

  “You done good in there, Hank,” Ben Lawless said as they rode down the track.

  Fallon managed a short laugh that held no humor and said seriously, “What if Tully and the others stop at O’Neal’s first?”

  Lawless was busy tearing off a chunk from a twist of tobacco he had stolen from O’Neal’s. “We’re east of Tully’s place. He won’t go there.”

  “Other men might,” Fallon said. “And come after us.”

  “They won’t.” Lawless remained confident.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because nobody, not even folks livin’ in the Sni-A-Bar hills, would come after Ben Lawless.” He shifted the mouthful of tobacco, shoved the rest of the twist into his saddlebags, and looked Fallon directly in the eye. “Would you?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  From the woods, they looked down the hill at the shack, corral, and barn in what amounted to a clearing in a dense pocket of timber. Eight horses wandered around in the corral. No smoke rose from the chimney in the shack. The horses looked to be hungry, but then, from the looks of Tully’s hideout, no one had been around to feed them for days.

  “I’d hate to have to depend on those mounts to get me anywhere,” Fallon whispered.

  Ben Lawless spit. “Well, when you’re runnin’ from the law, you can’t be too particular.” Lawless rolled over and looked up at the warden. “I got you here. So this is your play from here on out.”

  “If Hardin actually gets here,” Fallon said.

  “There’s a chance he might not. Ain’t no rules in life.”

  Fallon let himself smile. “I’ve learned that the past few days. No rules. No laws.”

  “Not in the Sni-A-Bar,” Lawless said.

  “And not behind the walls of the Leavenworth pen.”

  Now Lawless shook his head. “Maybe before you come, Hank. But not now. Those things you done, helpin’ me learn my letters, changin’ things aroun’. Those are good ideas. You might even be able to rehabilitate some of us hardened criminals. And ’em younger convicts, well, when they get released, they might even have a chance. Wasn’t like that before you come. And I think you know it. You’re a pretty good fellow, boss, and a fine warden. This is a job that suits you.”

  But he drew his revolver and showed it to Fallon.

  “But some folks is beyond rehabilitation. I reckon I’m one of ’em. There ain’t nothin’ you can do for a fellow like Bowen Hardin—it’s way too late for him—and there sure ain’t nothin’ to be done for a low-down sneak and rat like Indianola Anderson. Except kill ’em. You ready to do that, hoss? Or you want to leave it to me?”

  “You said you were tracking, the killing was up to me,” Fallon reminded him.

  “Yeah, well, maybe I changed my mind. This fresh air. Does somethin’ to a man. Hell, I ain’t kilt more’n a couple in twenty years. More’n twenty. And I ain’t hardly shot nobody in nigh thirty . . . till today.”

  Fallon did not hesitate. “We need to get these horses out of here,” he said. “They whicker, we’re dead.”

  “If it was just me,” Lawless said, “I’d slit their throats.”

  “And bring the buzzards and wolves out in droves.”

  With a grin, Lawless spit, wiped his mouth, and gestured to the northeast.

  “Remember that drainage ditch about a mile back?” Seeing Fallon nod, he continued. “You just follow that deer path. Picket ’em so they can drink, loosen the cinches, but don’t unsaddle ’em. If some of them get away, we’ll have a hard time catching up with ’em—especially if we have to saddle those horses once we get to that ditch. Think you can handle that?”

  “You handle it,” Fallon told him. “After all, this is my wife, and those are my responsibility.” Fallon pointed to the barn. “I’ll be in there when you get back. Where will you be? So I don’t shoot you by mistake.”

  Lawless pointed. “Up here. I like bein’ high up. That’ll give me a clear shot at any fool who tries for the horses. That is, if you’ll loan me that big Marlin.”

  “It’s in the scabbard,” Fallon told him.

  Lawless drew his revolver, handed it butt forward. “Take it,” he said. “You won’t have much time to reload, and a short gun won’t do me no good up here.”

  Fallon shoved the pistol in his waistband.

  “How far ahead of them do you think we are?” Fallon asked.

  “Depends. If they’re still afoot. Maybe a day. Even more. If they ain’t dead. But, on the other hand, they may have killed Tully and lit out for the Nations. Life’s a gamble. I hope we bet on the right hand.”

  Both men stood. It was Ben Lawless who extended his hand and grinned as they shook.

  “Good luck,” Lawless said.

  “Don’t miss your aim,” Fallon told him.

  “I never have,” Lawless replied, and moved quickly for their horses. “And I don’t have to close one eye to line up my sights these days.”

  * * *

  His instincts had been sharpened through years as a federal lawman in the Indian Nations and Arkansas, and even more as a convict in Joliet—not to mention those tours for the American Detective Agency in Yuma, Jefferson City, and Huntsville. You learned to have patience as a lawman. Even more so in prison. But Fallon did not wait long after Lawless left with the horses. He knew enough from watching Tully’s place for the past hour or more that no one was around. He picked a patch that would give him cover in case the killers showed up. And he took his time, so not to alert the horses, or anyone in the woods around them doing the same thing Fallon and Lawless had been doing.

  At the edge of the clearing—the Tully homestead, farm, whatever you want to call it (“dung heap” came to mind)—Fallon caught his breath, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and looked. The horses caught his scent and began prancing around the stinking corral. He could see the ribs on those poor animals and had to fight back the urge, that humanity, to go give the horses some grain or hay. Instead, he breathed out, breathed in, and ran lightly to the well, ducking behind the crumbling stone.

  He glanced back. Good. No tracks to make out from where he had come. The barn door was closed, but cracks were prominent in the walls, and he noted a big hole in the wall facing the east. That would be his entrance point. His head inched to the side of the well, and he looked at the wooded hills, saw a trail—a real path, wide enough for horses, even wagons, not one made by animals—that wound up those hills. That would be, in all likelihood, the way from which Hardin—and Janice and Christina—would be coming down. Once he got the layout of the barn, he could figure out which way he co
uld have the best chance to set up his ambush. Although with only six-shooters, his range would be limited.

  Seeing nothing, he pulled his head back behind the well. He looked up the other hills, trying to see if he could spot Lawless or the horses, but he knew he wouldn’t. Ben Lawless was too savvy to make that kind of greenhorn error.

  Fallon looked again at the barn, and that hole in the side of the wall. He drew in a deep breath, came to his knees, and prepared to run.

  That’s when one of the horses in the corral whinnied.

  And a moment later, Fallon heard an answering whinny.

  That came from the wide path coming down the western hills.

  He sank, feeling his heart pounding and the sweat bathing his armpits, neck, and forehead. He had to wipe his clammy hands on the chaps.

  The horses ran to the edge of the corral, staring at the hills behind Fallon, snorting, whickering, and neighing.

  Next came the faint jingling of a trace chain.

  The horses loped around the corral, excited, and Fallon realized that now it was he who was in the tight spot. They were coming down the hill—most likely Tully and the others—and Fallon was caught behind the well. Tully. Hardin. Anderson. Holderman. MacGregor. Providing this was indeed the party they were after, and not just some worker or neighbor.

  Like anyone would work for a miserable and disgusting pig like Tully. Or any neighbor would come calling.

  All right, Fallon thought. They couldn’t have killed Tully. They couldn’t find this place without him. Holderman. MacGregor. Hardin wouldn’t have killed them, either. Not yet. Once he sees the condition of the horses, he might kill them to save himself. But for now . . . five men. One can keep Christina and Janice covered. It won’t take them long to find a way to get me in a cross fire.

  Fallon glanced up the eastern hills. How far away would Lawless be? How soon could he get back? And what if they threatened to put a bullet in the head of Janice or Christina?

  This was going to be hell, he knew, but he did not move, except to draw the Peacemaker from the holster and cock it now, while Hardin’s men were too far away to hear to clicking. Next he pulled Lawless’s smaller Colt from his waistband. He checked the percussion caps and breathed a little easier as he thumbed back the hammer of the .36. Ben Lawless had filled all six chambers. So had Fallon. A lot of men kept the chamber under the hammer empty, or without a percussion cap on the nipple, for safety reasons. But when a man was facing killers like Indianola Anderson and Bowen Hardin, every shot counted.