“Shh . . . don’t say that. He hates that name.”
“I’ve been hired to save Jamie McPhee’s life, not kill him, and that’s what I intend to do. Tell him so.”
Barnabas slowly turned to mist but his eyes still burned like blue sapphires and his laughter echoed.
“Like you saved Billy?” he said. “You could’ve taken that damned scarecrow Pat Garrett any day of the week, any hour of the day. You damn well know you could.”
“Excuse me, Barnabas, but you know I’d lit a shuck by then,” Flintlock said. “I was in Texas.”
“You could’ve come back, Sam. Saved poor Billy Bonney but you didn’t. Same way as you ain’t gonna save Jamie McPhee.”
A wind sprang up from nowhere and shredded the mist and then Flintlock saw nothing but land and sky.
He sat his saddle for long moments, head bowed, deep in thought. Then he said, “I couldn’t save you, Billy. I couldn’t change what fate intended for you.”
He swung his horse away from the wagon, his expression solemn.
Laughing, loving Billy was five years dead and lying cold in his grave.
Lord God Almighty, that was still hard to believe.
Jamie McPhee saw Sam Flintlock ride past the cabin on his way to the barn.
He ran outside brandishing something in his right hand. “Look, Sam! I found the key!”
Flintlock drew rein. “The key to what?”
“The padlocked building. It was hanging on a hook in the kitchen.”
“Put it back, McPhee. It’s got nothing to do with us.”
“I bet that’s where the infernal machine is.”
“And that’s where it should stay.”
Flintlock kneed his horse forward.
“You see anybody, Sam?” McPhee called after him.
“Not a living soul,” Flintlock said.
After he took care of his horse, Flintlock’s plan was to return to the cabin, drink coffee and convince McPhee that he should hightail it out of the Oklahoma Territory and never come back. But the wide-open door of the large building stopped him in his tracks.
“Damn you, McPhee,” he yelled. “You’ll get us all killed.”
The young man appeared from inside, grinning. “Come take a look, Sam. It’s a modern-day wonder.”
Flintlock laid his Winchester against the building’s front wall and thumbed back the hammer of the Hawken.
“If the damned thing cuts up nasty, this here long gun will blow it apart,” he said.
“The machine is asleep, Sam. There’s no danger.”
Flintlock stepped to the barn door and his eyes got as round as coins. “What in God’s name is that?” he said.
“Isn’t she a beauty?” McPhee said. He was dancing with excitement. “She’s steam driven with a separate mechanism for the fire thrower. Amazing to think that Mr. Constable and Jules Verne will take her to the moon.”
“You sure this contraption ain’t ready to blow?” Flintlock said.
“Nah. You’d need to fire up the boiler to get her started and I don’t know how the flame gun works. But I plan to find out.”
“It’s an unholy thing,” Flintlock said. “It don’t belong in this century or any other.”
“Now don’t go touching off that blunderbuss, Sam,” McPhee said. “You could damage her. She’s got very delicate mechanisms.”
“I doubt it I could damage it,” Flintlock said.
“That thing is as solid as a house.”
The infernal machine got its motive power from what looked like a tiny steam locomotive with a cabin large enough for only one person. A pair of dark goggles dangled from behind its thick glass window. The boiler, painted bright red, was covered in shiny brass tubes and in front of that was a complicated machine consisting of more brass tubes, pistons and vessels of differing sizes, some polished bronze, others of tin-plated iron.
In front of this machine was a flat Studebaker wagon with massive yellow wheels. Four brass cylinders in the shape of recumbent dragons lay side by side on the wagon bed, their gaping, snarling mouths blackened by soot and flame.
Flintlock, raised by superstitious mountain men, figured that Lucifer and his fallen angels used a weapon like the infernal machine when they fought their rebellious war against God.
McPhee read the stunned look on the other man’s face, and said, “And lookee here what I found. It’s to Frank Constable from the government’s War Department, no less.”
Flintlock made no move to take the letter, so McPhee read it to him:
“Dear Sir: I am instructed to inform you that my department will make no further tests of your fire machine and, unfortunately, there the matter must end.
“The weapon lacked sufficient range and had an unsettling effect on cavalry horses. It also did not perform well on rough terrain and is quite unsuitable for anything but urban warfare. This hardly justifies the weapon’s price and the high cost of transporting it to the battlefield.
“Thank you for your service to our great nation.
“I remain, Sir, Your Obedient Servant, Michael J. Maxwell, Captain, United States Army.
“Kind of puts a damper on things, doesn’t it?” McPhee said. “And a letter from a general would have been more polite.”
“Where did you get that letter?” Flintlock said.
“From the little box there on the wagon.”
“Then put it back and lock this thing up again.” McPhee shook his head. “I’m going to get it running, Sam.”
“Are you crazy, McPhee? I don’t know how much noise that thing makes, but I’d guess it’s as loud as a steam locomotive. You’ll draw posses like wasps to honey.”
“Remember the talk about Bobcat Ridge being haunted by a fire-breathing dragon? A posse takes one look at the infernal machine and they’ll scamper.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Too many hard cases who want you dead ain’t afraid of dragons.”
Flintlock held up a hand for silence. “And while I’m on the subject, we’re getting out of here. Tomorrow at first light.”
“I’m not leaving, Sam. I told you that and I told Wraith that,” McPhee said.
“How are you going to prove you didn’t murder Polly Mallory? Or the Circle-O cook?” Flintlock said.
“The first thing I plan is to talk to Steve McCord and ask him why he lied about me.”
“How will you manage that?”
“Ride over to the McCord ranch and wait my chance.”
“You’ll get yourself killed. You’re a bank clerk. Have you ever shot a gun?”
“Sure. A lot of times.”
Flintlock took the Colt from his waistband. “Here, pick a target and cut loose.”
“Noise could draw a posse. You said that yourself.”
“Not today. There’s nobody around. Now let me see you shoot.”
“See that little pine tree over there,” McPhee said.
“Yeah. It’s a good ten paces. Sure you don’t want to try something closer?”
“I’ll hit the trunk.”
“It’s only two inches wide.”
“I know.”
“Then let me see you get your work in,” Flintlock said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After the smoke cleared, Sam Flintlock said, “The safest place in the whole territory was right here beside you.”
“I didn’t hit it with five shots?” Jamie McPhee said.
“I don’t know where the bullets went, but none come near the pine.”
McPhee was crestfallen. “Geez, I thought for sure I’d hit it.”
“Anybody ever tell you that you close your eyes when you pull the trigger?” Flintlock said. “And you hold the Colt like a maiden aunt?”
“That bad, huh?”
“Maybe the worst I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen plenty of bad, most of them dead now.”
McPhee swallowed hard. “Could be it was the gun,” he said. “Can you hit with it, Sam?”
Without a word Flintlock t
ook the Colt and reloaded with rounds he took from a deerskin pouch that hung on his belt.
He raised the big revolver and fired. Thinking back on it later, McPhee couldn’t remember hearing individual shots, just a continuous roll of gun thunder that lasted a second or two.
The pine jerked, splintered and then fell over. McPhee whistled between his teeth then did a little dance. “Huzzah for the man in the buckskin shirt! I’ve never seen the like.”
“And me only half trying,” Flintlock said.
“Five shots just like—”
“Six. I loaded six. So it wasn’t the gun.”
“Just like, like lightning. Can you teach me how to shoot like that?”
“I can teach you how to hold and shoot a firearm, but I can’t teach you how to do it like me. It’s a skill you’re born with and maybe one man in a thousand has it.”
McPhee shook his head in wonder. “Then you’re just a natural-born shootist.”
“Something like that and I’m glad you appreciate it. Now let me tell you something, Mr. Bank Clerk, I’m scared right now of the hard times coming down, so imagine how scared you should be.”
“I can take care of myself. I’ll manage,” McPhee said, his face stiff, defensive.
“No, you won’t manage. You’ll die. You heard Wraith, this thing hasn’t even begun yet. Understand me? I think the wheels will be set in motion real soon.”
Flintlock read the young man’s eyes and decided McPhee wasn’t catching his drift.
“I believe you didn’t kill Polly Mallory,” he said. “For one thing, I don’t think you’ve got the nerve for it. But the man who did has plenty of nerve and he’ll make his move soon. He has to kill you, McPhee, and he needs to make a show of doing it legally.”
“Then he’ll know where to find me,” McPhee said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Horn Tate and Willie Litton were blunt instruments, and thus they suited Lucian Tweddle’s purposes perfectly. Dull, brutish, violent and drunken, the pair killed with the lead-filled sap, the billy club and their own bare hands.
“Glad you could come, gentlemen,” Tweddle said, slightly amused that the last word of his sentence was so badly misused. “I trust your recent business trip out of town was a successful one.”
Tate, whose coarse black hairline began just above his eyebrows, grinned. “Successful enough, boss. But robbing two by twice sodbusters don’t return much of a profit. You need a killing done?”
“Not quite. But it is a distinct possibility for the future,” Tweddle said.
He sat forward in his chair, his great belly hanging between his thighs like a sack of grain. He looked like a great bullfrog.
“I want you to set a fire,” he said.
“Burn down this stink-hole town?” Willie Litton said. “I’m all for that.”
“No. Not Open Sky, you idiot,” Tweddle said. “My business interests are here.”
“Nobody likes me in this town,” Litton said. “They hate me, especially the women.”
His black eyes were never still and when he stood, as he did now, his hands hung in front of him, the thick fingers curled like meat hooks. “Miss Polly never liked me,” he said.
“Yes. She was lacking in good taste, that one,” Tweddle said, his face straight.
“I liked her a lot,” Litton said. “But she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
He was four inches over six feet and his shoulders and chest were massive.
“What do you want burned, boss?” Horn Tate said.
“A barn, I think. Yes, that will do nicely, a barn full of hay and horses.”
“Where?”
“At Trace McCord’s home ranch.”
Tate winced like he’d been punched. “Boss, Trace McCord is a hard man. If we get caught he’ll hang us.”
“I know,” Tweddle said. “That’s why the job is worth a thousand dollars.”
The banker let the two thugs stew on that for a while. He reached into his desk and produced a bottle and glasses. He poured the cheap rye he kept for low-class guests and smiled at them like an obese cherub.
“Well, Mr. Tate? Mr. Litton? Have you reached a decision?”
“Boss, why can’t we just kill somebody like we done the last time?” Tate said. “Break somebody’s neck for you, huh?”
“You can and you will. But burn the barn first. A thousand dollars, gentlemen. How much whiskey and whores does that buy?”
Tate rubbed his mouth, his eyes working. Finally he said, “All right, we’ll do it.”
“Do you agree, Mr. Litton?” Tweddle said.
“Sure. Why not?” Litton said.
“Indeed, why not?” Tweddle said.
He glanced out his office window and smiled when he saw dear Mrs. Barrett on the opposite boardwalk, pretty as a picture with sunlight tangled in her corn-silk hair and a shopping basket over her arm. Her shapely body moved with that languid elegance only the true Southern belle possessed and when she smiled at friends and neighbors, her white teeth flashed. The girl had traded Tweddle mattress time for his promise not to foreclose on their mortgage, with her husband’s blessing, he supposed.
The banker’s smile faded. He still planned to foreclose.
The young lady had lacked a bed partner’s necessary enthusiasm and inventiveness. That was as unfair as it was unforgivable. Tweddle felt cheated. Mrs. Barrett had promised much and delivered little and that was so unjust. The uppity bitch had taken advantage of him.
“When do you want it done, boss?”
“Huh?” Tweddle said, his mind still in bed with Mrs. Barrett.
“When do you want the barn fire?” Tate said.
“Oh, tonight will be fine,” Tweddle said.
“That soon?” Tate said.
The banker’s eyes hardened. “I said tonight will be fine. Is there anything about that simple sentence you don’t understand?”
Tate took a gulp of his whiskey. “Whatever you say, boss. Whatever you say.”
“Now we’ll move on to the next item on the agenda,” Tweddle said. He leaned his elbows on the table and clenched his fists, an aggressive posture that Tate believed could only signal a killing. It did.
“This Jamie McPhee person has to die, Horn,” the banker said.
“The one that done fer Miss Polly?” Willie Litton said.
“Are there two men by that name in this town?” Tweddle said.
Litton had proven himself to be a reliable dark-alley killer, but sometimes the man’s stupidity irritated Tweddle.
“I liked her,” Litton said. “I called her my Miss Pretty.”
“Yes, we know, Willie,” Tate said. He laid his empty glass on the desk. “Where is McPhee, boss?”
“I don’t know. But that O’Hara breed is hanging around town, so when you leave, send him to me. He’ll find McPhee for you. He says he can smell a white man at a mile.”
“Sounds easy, boss,” Tate said.
“No, it ain’t easy. A gun by the name of Flintlock is with him.”
Horn’s eyes widened. “Sam Flintlock, the bounty hunter? Got a tattoo of a big bird on his throat?”
“I’ve only seen the gentleman at a distance,” Tweddle said.
“And that’s a good place to keep him,” Litton said. “He’s pizen.”
“He scare you that badly?” the banker said.
“He’s as mean as a teased rattlesnake, boss,” Tate said. “And he steps from one side of the law to t’other as it pleases him an’ he picked up some right unfriendly habits along the way.”
“And he’s good with a gun I take it?” the banker said.
“Chain lightning with the Colt’s gun. Yeah.”
“So you’re afraid of him and don’t want to take the job?”
“I didn’t say that, boss. Me an’ Willie ain’t met a man yet we can’t kill.”
“Can you kill Flintlock?”
“Sure we can. May take a day or two longer, is all.”
“My main conc
ern is with McPhee. He’s the one I want dead first,” Tweddle said. “Don’t waste too much time on the kill.”
“We’ll get him,” Tate said. “You can depend on Willie and me.”
The banker lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair. He looked smug and self-satisfied, a man who knew how to operate.
“One more thing,” he said. “I presume you’ll kill McPhee and Flintlock at a distance, yes?”
Tate nodded. “We have our ways, me and Willie. An’ that’s one of them.”
“That’s all good and well, but I want one of you to take a bullet,” Tweddle said.
“Huh?” Tate said, surprised.
“Make it look good, you understand?”
“Boss, I ain’t catching your drift,” Tate said.
“You and Willie, just a pair of innocent sportsmen, were deer hunting when McPhee bushwhacked you and shot . . . well, one of you,” Tweddle said. “Wounded, you had no choice but to return fire and kill him.” The banker smiled and squeezed his cigar. “Nobody’s going to ask questions after that. No second-guessing. The young man’s guilt will be obvious, his death cut-and-dried and I’m well out of it.”
“But why do we need to get shot?” Tate said.
“To make it look good, of course, Mr. Tate.” The man blinked, his mouth hanging open. “Well, I can understand that,” he said. “I guess.”
“Only one of you, Mr. Tate,” Tweddle said. “It doesn’t have to be a serious wound. I suggest you simply lay the muzzle of your rifle against the meat of Willie’s shoulder and pull the trigger. All we need is a grazing wound.” He waved a dismissive hand. “A mere scratch you understand.”
“Why me?” Why not Horn?” Litton said. “How come I always get the dirty end of the stick?”
“Because I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for the kill and extry five hundred dollars for the inconvenience of the wound, Willie. I can’t say fairer than that. Think of the whores, man.”
“Why do you want this man McPhee dead so bad, boss?” Litton said. “Were you sweet on Miss Polly?”
Tweddle’s anger surged. Cigar smoke flared out of his nostrils and mouth like incense pouring from the statue of a fat Oriental monk.
“That’s none of your business, damn you!” he said.
Gut-Shot Page 9
