by Jory Sherman
Don’t overdo it, Quince, Brad thought.
Jigger stepped toward the open doors, his shadow preceding him like a fat blob of tar sliding along a block of flat stone.
Closer, closer Jigger came, his arms bowed, his hands poised just above the twin butts of his pistols.
Come on, you bastard, Brad thought. Make your move.
“I’m inside, Storm,” Jigger said, his voice weaker now. He sounded, Brad thought, not so sure of himself. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, man. I’ll get you a sawbones if you need one.”
Brad held his breath.
He inched his left hand up from his belt.
“Where you at?” Jigger asked, taking another step toward the rear of the shop.
Jigger stopped to listen.
Brad saw Quince tiptoe away from where he had been standing. He disappeared, out of sight, out of his line of vision, out of harm’s way if bullets should fly.
Brad’s fingers closed around the thong with the set of rattles. He scraped his left toe back and forth.
“You in that second stall, Storm?”
Brad moaned low in his throat. The sound seemed to come from the stall to his left, as if he were a ventriloquist.
“You just stay put,” Jigger said and took another step.
Brad waited in the silence. He shook the rattles, and they made the hairs on his own neck bristle and stand on end.
He rattled again, and Jigger went into a fighting crouch, his hands like two hawks suspended above prey, ready to plunge into a steep and unerring dive.
Fate held its breath.
Patient, ever-patient Fate, which was never in a hurry but was relentless in its pursuit of naked and helpless man, its claws open, talons sharpened, to grab and squeeze, push and shove, guide and lead.
In that one silent moment, Brad felt all these forces at work in his mind, and he was ready.
He was ready for that next fateful moment.
THIRTY-TWO
Pete had faced armed men before. Elijah was a large man and an imposing figure with bulging muscles under his faded chambray work shirt. And that double-barreled shotgun in his hands was a formidable weapon. But the man wasn’t pointing the shotgun at him, so, from experience, he reasoned that such a man was reluctant to fire his weapon, much less take the life of a fellow human being.
“You put down that scattergun, Elijah,” Pete said in a smooth, calm tone of voice, “or I’ll have the deputy sheriff blow Mr. Wolfe’s brains into mush. We are officers of the law, here on a legal warrant issued by a magistrate.”
“You is?” Elijah said.
“My other deputy here, or I, will also shoot you if you raise those barrels another inch. You got that?”
Pete’s voice was still level and soft-toned, but it was now steely as a forged hammerhead.
“I got it, mister. The missus here said you all was rob-bin’ us.”
“Well, we’re not, Elijah. Now you bend down and set that shotgun on the floor and back away.”
This time, Pete drew his pistol, so fast, it caught Elijah by surprise. Elijah swallowed hard and bent over, laid the shotgun on the rug. He then backed away slowly, nearly knocking Gerta down. She let out a huffing sound of protest and stepped aside, lowering the rolling pin.
“Shut the door, Mrs. Wolfe,” Pete said and cocked his pistol. The click made her jump, and she dropped the rolling pin. It hit the Persian carpet with a thump and rolled in a half circle. She rushed to the door and slammed it shut.
Pete eased the hammer down and slipped his Colt back in its holster.
“You are an insufferable pig,” Wolfe groused under his breath.
“Yes, sir, I am,” Pete said amiably.
He turned back to the desk and opened the drawer. There was a slim notebook inside. He pulled it out and opened it. He began to read, his eyes widening and narrowing at intervals as if he couldn’t believe what was written on the few pages of the journal.
He looked up and stared at Wolfe.
“Did you write this?” he said.
Wolfe swallowed hard.
“I am the author, yes,” he said.
“Then you’re the insufferable pig here, Wolfe.”
“What’s it say?” Wally asked.
“I’ll read some of it to you, Wally. It may turn your stomach. It did mine.”
“Go ahead,” Wally said.
Pete began to read.
Proclamation of the Golden Council
It is hereby proclaimed that the Mexican is an inferior version of the human race and does not belong in these United States, this State of Colorado, or this City of Leadville. Therefore, it is the aim and obligation of the Golden Council to drive out or eliminate every man, woman, and child of the Mexican race. Toward that end, each member is dedicated to the extermination of every Mexican in Leadville after first extracting due payment from each and every shop owner, storekeeper, or laborer, a toll in the amount of 2% of each man’s earnings to repay those debts each owes to the populace of Leadville, and, further, those who hoard money in their homes, instead of depositing their earnings in the Leadville Bank & Trust, shall be held accountable to the point of extreme torture or death.
Pete slammed the book shut and closed his eyes against the rush of burning tears that flooded his eyes.
“Jesus Christ,” Wally said.
“Madre de Dios,” Julio said. Then he crossed himself.
“Many men here feel as I do,” Wolfe said.
“Cuff him, Wally, and then let’s load his booty in the wagon. You’re going to jail, Wolfe. And with this evidence, you’ll probably go to the gallows as well, you sick, murdering bastard.”
“I have murdered no one,” Wolfe said, pulling himself up and jutting out his chin in an act of belligerence and defiance.
“Sit down, Wolfe, and don’t move. Don’t open your mouth again or I’ll stuff your shirt in it.”
Wally made Wolfe put his hands behind his back, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and tightened them around his wrists. He backed the banker into a chair and slammed him down hard. Wally’s eyes blazed with malevolent fire, and he couldn’t resist kicking Wolfe in the shin before he turned to the vault and began taking out bags of money.
Gerta stood by in horror as Pete and the others carried silver bullion and bags full of money out to the wagon. Elijah had left the study, but they saw him hoeing the flower bed on one side of the house, his shirt plastered to his skin by sweat, his arms streaked with perspiration.
They brought Wolfe out, and Gerta began to sob.
“Where are you taking him?” she wailed. “Where are you taking my husband?”
“To jail,” Pete said. He carried the journal and the other papers in one hand.
“What will I do, Adolphus?” she called to him as Wally and Julio pushed him up into the wagon.
“Go get Sam Leadoff,” Pete said. “Tell him what happened. Elijah can drive you to his office.”
She began to cry, but Pete ignored her. He climbed into the wagon and told Julio to drive.
“Where do we go?”
“To the Clarendon.”
“Not to the jail?”
Pete looked at Wally.
“If Jigger’s there, he’ll sure as hell let him out.”
“I agree,” Pete said. “The Clarendon. Until we know Jigger’s out of the way, we can’t take any chances. This piece of shit back there is going to hang.”
“He should, for sure,” Wally said.
“I’d like to nail his ass to the barn door and set the barn on fire,” Pete said, and there was still no humor in his voice.
“You’ll never get away with this,” Wolfe said.
“I told you to shut up,” Pete said. “Carlos, if he says another word, club him with the barrel of your pistol.”
“With much gladness,” Carlos said.
The wagon rumbled down Chestnut, past all the offices and buildings. Some people on the boardwalk stared, others scratched their heads, and most just ignored the wagon
with its odd cargo of men, oblivious to the treasure it carried in its bed.
Pete flexed his shoulders to take out the kinks that a tenseness in his muscles had brought and breathed in a gulp of fresh, sun-washed air. He felt a sense of accomplishment even though he knew there was still much to do.
But now he had the names of the cowardly men who belonged to the Golden Council. He had the names of every one of them.
And he knew where they were staying in Leadville.
THIRTY-THREE
Brad shook the rattle one more time, then released his grip on the thong.
“That don’t fool me none,” Jigger said. “I know there ain’t but one snake in here, Storm, and it’s you.”
But there was no conviction in Jigger’s voice. The rattles had rattled him. Slightly, at least.
Brad said nothing. He just watched Jigger.
“You hear me, Storm? I know they call you ‘Sidewinder.’ Ain’t no matter to me.”
“Drop your gun belt, Jigger,” Brad said, staying to the shadows.
“Like hell. You step out. If you got the guts.”
Brad considered it.
Jigger wasn’t going to give up without a fight. He knew that. And it was said he was fast. Wally had been impressed with the speed of Jigger’s hands. But catching flies was a lot different than jerking pistols out of holsters and taking dead aim and firing, all in the proverbial blink of an eye.
There was only one way to find out who was fastest, Brad reasoned.
“You got it, Jigger,” Brad said, then stepped to the side until he was facing the erstwhile sheriff.
“I’m openin’ the ball, Storm,” Jigger snarled, and his hands dove like hawks to his guns.
He was fast, Brad thought, mighty fast.
But in that infinitesimal fraction of a second before Jigger’s hands moved, Brad’s hand was already on his gun butt, and he thumbed the hammer back as the pistol rose from his holster like some iron beast with a six-inch black snout. He leveled the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The beast belched fire and lead just as Jigger was clearing leather with two pistols, a pasty look of surprise on his face as if his pores had sprouted putty.
“Ah,” Jigger said as the bullet from Brad’s gun slammed into Jigger’s gut with all the force of a sixteen-pound maul. Jigger doubled over from the impact and thumbed back the hammers of both pistols as the front sights slipped from the holsters’ mouths.
Brad shot him again as he crouched and took direct aim.
The lead ball ripped into Jigger’s chest, just below his Adam’s apple. Jigger’s fingers squeezed both triggers, and the pistols bucked in his hands, both firing almost at once. Plumes of orange sparks and white smoke belched from the barrels. The bullets plowed divots and furrows three feet in front of Jigger as he collapsed into a heap. Blood spurted from his belly and chest. His belt buckle turned a brilliant crimson, and the front of his shirt looked as if it had been splashed with barn paint.
Brad stepped over to Jigger, his legs bent under him, his head cocked back, his face tilted upward.
Jigger made a gurgling sound in his throat.
His eyes glazed over as Brad looked down into them. Jigger’s fingers twitched, and his hands opened, releasing the pistols. They fell into the bloody dirt next to the horse apples, the bent horseshoe nails, the sliced sections of matter trimmed from horses’ hooves that looked like decayed onion peels.
Jigger gave one last death rattle in his throat. His eyes frosted over and turned jet-black as the last vestige of light fled from their depths.
Brad slid his pistol back into its holster, slow as winter molasses.
The slab of sun shrank to a small rectangle just inside the open doors of the shop.
Jigger lay in a puddle of shadow and blood.
“Brad?” came a voice from outside, querulous as a gull’s lost cry across an empty ocean.
“Yeah, Quince. Come on in.”
Footsteps. Quince stopped outside the open doors.
“That you, Brad?”
“Yeah.”
Quince stepped inside, one wary boot at a time, as if he were entering a sacred place or one that was profane.
“You got him. Sure as shit, you got that sonofabitch. Gawd almighty, Brad.”
“Yeah.”
“And him supposed to be so almighty fast. You hit? I heard two or three guns go off.”
“No, he killed a couple of small specks of ground.” He pointed to the disturbed dirt on the floor.
Quince chuckled, a mite nervously, Brad thought.
“Well, that’s that, then,” Quince said.
“No, that’s only part of it. As they say, there’s more where he came from.”
Quince took off his hat to scratch an itch on the top of his head.
“We still got to get the man who killed Hugh Pendergast, I reckon. That damned Earl Fincher.”
“Fincher and the whole bunch of them.”
“Like Judgment Day, I reckon.”
“Yeah, Quince. Just like Judgment Day. Or spring roundup.”
Brad felt queasy and could not look at Jigger anymore. He had, once again, taken a life, and it felt as if some part of his soul had been ripped away, some deep part of him forever tarnished and condemned to burn in hellfire. He was glad Jigger was dead because he had forced the fight, the gunplay. But he took no pride in Jigger’s death at his hand.
He was not proud of what he had done, but he felt some satisfaction that he had killed a snake, just as he had killed the sidewinder that had bitten him.
“Let’s get out in the sunshine, Quince,” Brad said, stepping over Jigger, stepping over the dead snake he had ground into the dirt with the heel of his boot.
THIRTY-FOUR
Mort Taggert agreed to store the valuables from the Wolfe house in the hotel’s large safe. He gave Pete a receipt. Pete put all the pertinent papers he had taken from Wolfe’s study into his satchel, along with the warrants and other papers. He kept the list of Golden Council members and their hotels. He folded that sheet and stuck it in his pocket.
“Guard this with your life, Mort,” Pete told him as he handed the satchel to Mort. “It’s more valuable than the gold or silver.”
“It will be kept safe,” Mort said, and stored the satchel on a shelf at the back of the safe. As Pete stood by, Mort closed and locked the safe.
“Don’t reopen this safe unless I am here, Mort. I will see that you are well compensated by our agency.”
“Luckily, none of the other guests have valuables in the safe. I shall do as you wish, Pete.”
Brad and Quince arrived at the Clarendon shortly after the wagon had been emptied. Carlos sat on the driver’s seat, the reins in his hand.
“Where are you going?” Brad asked.
“I wait for Pete. He say I take the wagon to the livery.”
“You wait here, Carlos. I’ll talk to Pete.”
“It makes much heat in the sun, Brad.”
“Just wait. Quince, wait out here with Carlos, will you? I won’t be long.”
“Sure,” Quince said. “I ain’t got nothin’ else to do.” Pete met Brad in the lobby. He and Mort were just winding up their conversation.
“A moment, Pete,” Brad said. “In private.”
“I understand,” Mort said. “Gentlemen.” He took his leave and returned to his office.
The two men walked to the front window, where they were alone.
“Jigger’s dead, Pete.”
“Good. I’ve got Wolfe up in my room with Wally and Julio. I can put him in jail where he belongs. But we can’t let word get out that Jigger is dead. Here, take a look at this.”
He reached into his pocket and brought out the list of wanted men.
“Pete,” Brad said after he read the names of the men and hotels, “from here on, you have to take charge. For legal reasons.”
“Yeah. First, we haul Jigger’s body to the coroner. Where is it?”
Brad told him.
“You
have to swear Doc Rankin to secrecy about Jigger.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll all meet at the jail when that’s taken care of. That will be our headquarters.”
“What do you plan to do, Pete?”
Pete smiled.
“I’ll let you know as soon as Wolfe is locked up and we can all go over my plan together.”
“I’ll send Carlos and Quince to lug Jigger’s corpse to the infirmary. I’ll walk with you, Wally, Julio, and Wolfe to the jail. Seen Felicity or Pilar?”
“They’re both in your room. Felicity went out earlier to buy baby things, diapers and whatnot. I think she’s back up there by now.”
“Good,” Brad said. “Maybe I can see her on the way up to your room.”
“Just for a minute, okay?”
Brad went outside and told Quince and Carlos to pick up Jigger’s body and take it to the coroner’s office at the infirmary. He also told them to swear Doc Rankin to secrecy.
“Cover him up, Quince. We don’t want the town knowing their sheriff is dead just yet.”
“I should cover him with horse manure,” Quince said.
“Use those blankets in the bed of the wagon. Then return the wagon to the livery and meet Pete and me over at the jail.”
Quince climbed up on the seat next to Carlos.
“Where do we go?” Carlos asked.
“I’ll show you. Let’s go.”
Carlos released the brake and snapped the reins on the horses’ rumps. The wagon rumbled off, and Brad went back inside the hotel, a great weight off his shoulders.
He knew he had to see Felicity, and the thought filled him with dread. He knew that she hated his work as a private detective.
She would pepper him with questions. Where had he been? When would they be able to go back to the ranch? When would their lives return to normal?
And, once again, he would have to lie to her, commit the sin of omission, at least. Which was the same as a lie, he knew.
He climbed the stairs to his room, another weight settling on his shoulders, another heaviness in his heart, as hard as stone, as weighty as lead. And he still had to reload his pistol, put two fresh cartridges in the cylinder and hope that the pungent aroma of gunpowder did not reek on his skin and clothing.
