After O’Hara disappeared into darkness, Sam Flintlock thought long and hard.
Lucian Tweddle and Steve McCord had forged a relationship from hell and their plan was diabolically simple. Gun two ranch owners, take over their ranges and sell the right-of-way across the land to the railroad. Millions of dollars would be involved. Even split two ways, Tweddle and Steve McCord could live like kings for years.
But how to prove all this? How to prove any of it?
Flintlock believed Steve was the weakest link. He could make him talk.
In the past Flintlock had seen the remains of men who’d been worked over by Apaches. Good ol’ Geronimo was a master of the art. He could keep a man alive for days, burning and cutting just enough to draw out the torment. The lessons Flintlock had learned from the old reprobate could be applied to Steve McCord. First he’d tell what he knew and then beg for a merciful death.
But would a confession obtained by unspeakable torture hold up in court?
No. A judge would frown on it for sure, pat Lucian Tweddle on the back and set him free.
Flintlock peered through the rain-beaded glass of the skylight window at a rectangle of black sky. The night seemed endless. Restless rats rustled in the corners and shared their lodging with eight-eyed spiders.
A thought crept up on Flintlock like a dark assassin. He considered its implications.
There was a way he could end it and only the guilty would suffer. It was a risk, but then any bold endeavor was associated with risk. Flintlock smiled to himself.
And it was what Barnabas would do.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Half drunk, Steve McCord stood on Lucian Tweddle’s doorstep, rivulets of rain running from the shoulders of his slicker. Behind him lightning shimmered inside the clouds and thunder growled low and angry, like an aggressive hound dog.
When Tweddle answered, McCord said, “You heard?”
“Come in, you fool,” the banker said. He let McCord inside then stuck his head out the door. Open Sky was shrouded in darkness. Nothing moved and only the hissing downpour and the distant thunder made any sound.
Tweddle closed the door and said, “Yes, I heard. They brought Nancy’s body here and she bled all over my damned floor.”
He told McCord to hang his slicker in the hallway then ushered him into the parlor.
“What do we do now?” the youngster said. He toed a dark stain in the floorboards. “Is that where she lay?”
“Yes. Drink?”
“Sure, Lucian. I could use one. It’s a miserable night out.”
Tweddle poured whiskey, handed a glass to McCord and sat in his chair. “Nothing has changed,” he said.
“We don’t even know if Nancy delivered the messages. I can’t kill men who ain’t there.”
“She delivered them, all right.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the whore was scared I’d tell Tom Lithgow that she killed Frank Constable. She knew she’d hang. She spoke to your pa and O’Rourke, depend on it. She wouldn’t have shown her face in town otherwise.”
“Why did big Herm chop her, do you know?”
“He tried to get something for free that he could have bought for two dollars.”
“I never done her,” McCord said. “Ah well, it’s too late now.”
“You didn’t miss much.” Tweddle squeezed his cigar. “Drink up, then go find Hank Stannic. As far as I know he’s still in town.”
“He’s lost both his boys,” McCord said. “Makes him kinda shorthanded, don’t it? And besides, I’m not your messenger boy, Lucian.”
“No, Steve, you’re not my servant. But I’ve been feeling a trifle unwell recently and don’t want to venture outdoors on such a rainy night.”
“What do you want Stannic for? I can handle any gun work that comes along.”
“I know. However, I’m prepared to lose Stannic, but not you, Steve.”
As Tweddle expected, his words mollified McCord.
“I’ll find him if he’s in town,” he said. He drained his glass and stood. “Why Stannic?” he asked again.
“He’s good with a gun,” Tweddle said.
“Not as good as me,” McCord said. He looked defiant, like a callow boy boasting in the company of belted men.
“Of course he’s not, Steve. After all, you’re the man who killed Beau Hunt.”
“And don’t you forget it, Lucian.”
“I won’t,” the fat man said. “I will never forget it.”
After Steve McCord stepped back into the rain, Lucian Tweddle stubbed out his cigar and walked to his bedroom. He unlocked the lid of the large, dome-topped steamer trunk that stood at the bottom of his bed and opened the lid. After rummaging through a pile of worn-out nightshirts, he extracted an oilskin-wrapped bundle tied with string.
Tweddle laid the package on the bed and untied the string.
He unwrapped a pair of beautiful 1851 model Navy Colts in .36 caliber, both adorned with yellowed ivory handles. Tweddle smiled as men always do when they fondle a fine firearm, then, with marvelous speed and dexterity, he spun the big revolvers and let the butts slap back into his hands.
The banker believed he’d killed eighteen white men with the Colts, though Bloody Bill himself once told him that in his estimation he’d gunned two score. Eighteen or forty, it didn’t matter. The main thing was that Tweddle planned to add a few more very soon.
He stepped back to the trunk, checked his supply of powder, ball and caps, then replaced the Colts. There were two belts and holsters with the revolvers, but Tweddle didn’t even try them. He’d been as lean as a lobo wolf during the war and knew they wouldn’t meet around his middle as they once did.
The banker sighed. Eating too much rich food made a man fat . . . yet another example of the unfairness of his life.
Tweddle closed the lid and stepped back to the parlor, where he lit another cigar and poured himself a whiskey.
Come the daylight, he’d take matters into his own hands and resolve this problem once and for all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The next day, just before sunup, three men rode separate trails through morning mists.
One was Lucian Tweddle. The second Brendan O’Rourke. The third, at a discreet distance behind the old rancher, Sam Flintlock reined in his eager buckskin to a walk.
Tweddle was determined. O’Rourke was wary. Sam Flintlock was both those things.
Steve McCord had not found Hank Stannic and when Tweddle entered the young man’s hotel room he found him too stinking drunk to ride that morning. Tweddle had some long riding to do and in his present state McCord would only have slowed him down.
His plan was to meet O’Rourke at the old trading post near Courthouse Gap and kill him. Then head for Red Oak and do for Trace McCord. To meet the men in fair fight did not enter Tweddle’s thinking. Somehow he’d find a way to kill them both without any real risk to himself.
Damn! He’d not ridden a horse in quite some time and the saddle galled him. Steve McCord galled him too.
But these were minor discomforts compared to the money that was at stake. Two quick kills and then he’d be on easy street.
The thought pleased Tweddle so much, he felt like singing.
Brendan O’Rourke genuinely believed that Steve McCord would surrender and take the consequence for his actions. The Chinaman said Audrey would not die, and O’Rourke felt more inclined to be charitable. Fair was fair, and he’d settle for a sentence of thirty or forty years behind bars for McCord. He’d explain his change of heart to the young man and was sure he’d jump at the chance.
After all, a spell in prison was a hell of a lot better than the rope.
Flintlock was relieved that O’Rourke never checked his back trail and the rain had laid the dust. But the downpour showed no sign of slacking and for the first time since it had begun, thunder banged closer. A keening wind stirred the pines and once he passed a small cattle herd huddled among their trunks, their shaggy brown
and white shapes almost invisible in the mist.
Courthouse Gap lay in hill country two miles north of Blue Mountain.
According to O’Rourke an Irishman named Kelly, with more faith in Apaches than good sense, had built a post near the gap and for a while traded peacefully with the warlike local tribes.
But in those times it didn’t take much to irritate an Apache and Kelly’s thumb on the scale was more than enough. The post was burned down with Kelly inside and the consensus among the Indians was good riddance.
That had been in the early 1870s and now all that remained of the Kelly store was a scorched fieldstone fireplace and a few charred logs.
But in a remote wilderness of mountains and forest it was an excellent spot to meet—and to commit murder.
Lucian Tweddle had forgotten how heavy a pair of Colts were. After an hour of riding the big revolvers dragged down the pockets of his caped greatcoat and added to his discomfort. As a young man he’d carried two or even three brace of revolvers, but those days were long gone.
His rented grade horse had a rough gate and its McClellan saddle was designed to favor the mount, not the man. Tweddle’s great buttocks bounced so hard his jowls juddered and the teeming rain added to his misery, dripping off the brim of his derby hat.
Angry that circumstances had forced a man in his position to such a ridiculous course, Tweddle rode with grim, enduring determination. He knew the stakes were high and he was about to play his last hand. And by God, he would make sure it was a winner.
The black and silver rosary in Brendan O’Rourke’s left hand clicked with each whispered Hail Mary as he neared Courthouse Gap, riding through a rainy half-light before the dawn.
Half a mile to his north wound the tortuous course of Fourche Maline Creek, where a tribe of warlike Old Ones once prospered then disappeared hundreds of years before the Caddo moved into the area. It was said that if a man was quiet he could hear the battle chants of ancient warriors in the wind, but O’Rourke heard nothing but the fall of the rain and the steady plod of his horse.
He admitted to himself that he was scared, a ridiculous emotion for a man of his years. But suddenly he valued his life highly, not for himself but for his wife. Audrey would need a lot of care and he wanted to be around to give it to her.
The wind had picked up and drove the rain among the trees with a sound like a forlorn whisper. The sky was as black as spilled ink and every now and then a fork of lightning cracked and the air smelled of electricity.
His eyes on the trail ahead, Sam Flintlock listened to the wind and his thoughts strayed to what O’Hara had told him about Barnabas and the devil’s buffalo herd. He guessed Ol’ Scratch liked his buffalo meat. Roasted of course, the only way it could be served in hell.
A volley of revolver shots rang through the solemn silence of the dawn.
O’Rourke was in trouble!
Flintlock drew the Colt from his waistband and kicked the buckskin into a gallop. The destroyed post swung into his vision, then fleeting images he tried to take in at a glance . . . a horse standing head-down near the ruin . . . a gray-haired man sprawled at its feet . . . a drift of gray gun smoke.
Flintlock heard the departing beat of a running horse, but reluctantly drew rein. His first duty must be to O’Rourke. But when he took a knee beside him he saw that the old man was dead, his chest shattered by bullets. A black rosary lay in his outstretched left hand.
Sam Flintlock was stunned. It seemed that he had badly underestimated Steve McCord’s skill with a gun.
From what he could put together from the rain-smeared tracks, McCord had fired from horseback and at least six rounds had hit O’Rourke’s chest dead center. By any measure it was excellent shooting by a man who knew his trade.
McCord called himself a gunfighter and it seemed that’s what he was—a natural-born shootist. Flintlock had seldom seen the like in a man so young. Bill Bonney maybe? Or Beau Hunt? McCord could be their equal, or even better than either of them.
Flintlock didn’t know the how or the why of the thing, but Steve McCord had transformed himself into an elite shootist who could take his place among the most dangerous men on earth.
He rose to his feet. The hoof beats had faded into distance and he stared into the rain and made up his mind that tracking the killer was both dangerous and useless. Steve McCord had grown up in this country and probably knew it like the back of his hand. He could lose a pursuer easily among the rugged hills and tree-lined valleys.
And if he chose, set an ambush.
Despite being raised by mountain men who’d taught him the ways of the rifle, Flintlock was a draw fighter. In a saloon or in the street a fast gun had its advantages. But in a wilderness like the one that surrounded him, it was a skill that counted less than a dog turd on an ant nest.
Flintlock shoved the Colt back into his waistband. A man who carries a gun has to know his limits, and Sam Flintlock had just discovered his.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Someone once told Lucian Tweddle that shooting was a perishable skill. But he didn’t believe it, not any longer. His mounted charge at the gallop, a bucking Colt in each hand, had gone splendidly, just like in the good old days when he rode with Bloody Bill and them.
O’Rourke, the stupid, trusting old coot, was dead when he hit the ground.
Hell, he’d actually arrived unarmed, some popish bauble in his hand instead of a gun.
Tweddle smiled. Well, more fool him. He should have put his trust in Sam Colt, not God.
Now on to Red Oak and take care of another fool.
The fat man had little doubt that Trace McCord would be just as stupid and trusting as O’Rourke. And why wouldn’t he be? Were they not cut from the same cloth? Arrogant men who believed themselves too rich and powerful to die?
The thought pleased Tweddle as he drew rein under a wild oak and struggled out of the saddle. He sighed as he pissed a hot stream against the tree then recharged his revolvers.
Remounting was a painful chore but when he regained the saddle he tilted back his head and opened his mouth wide to the rain. Refreshed, Tweddle lit a cigar, then urged his horse in the direction of the Red Oak settlement.
With all the contentment of a rich man who knows he’s soon going to be richer, Tweddle rode and smoked in a leisurely fashion.
Things were going well and he had plenty of time, all the time in the world.
It was not yet noon when Lucian Tweddle arrived in Red Oak. A nerveless man, confident of his own ability, he felt a little niggle of hunger and decided he had plenty of time to eat lunch.
As he had O’Rourke, he planned a mounted attack on Trace McCord followed by a fast getaway. But he’d take care of all that after luncheon.
There were a couple of men in the saloon when Tweddle entered, miners by the look of them. The owner, the man named Slaton, came from behind the grocery counter and asked the fat man to name his poison.
“Lunch,” Tweddle said.
Slaton had met amiable, even jolly fat men before, but when he looked into Tweddle’s pale eyes, direct eyes he realized this man was neither.
“I got some roast beef,” Slaton said. “And corn bread.”
“That’s all?” Tweddle said, disappointed.
“Cheese. Do you like cheese?”
“I’ll have the beef and I want coffee.”
“Oh, and I got apple pie,” Slaton said.
“Is it any good?”
“My wife baked it.”
“I asked you if it’s any good?”
“Yeah, it’s real good.”
“Then cut me a wedge.”
Tweddle nodded in the direction of a vacant corner table. “I’ll eat over there.”
As Tweddle waddled across the floor the two miners exchanged glances but offered no pleasantries. The front pockets of the fat man’s expensive greatcoat were weighed down by heavy loads, obviously pistols, and judging by his conversation with Slaton he was not inclined to be an affable gent. Such men
were better avoided.
“How was it, mister?” Slaton said.
Tweddle stared at the man, his piggy little eyes mean. “The beef was tough, the corn bread tasted as though it was salted through with broken glass, the coffee was like mud and tell your wife she should quit baking. Anything else you want to know?”
Slaton shook his head. “No, mister, I reckon you summed it up for me.”
“Then take the damned plates away, makes me sick to look at them,” Tweddle said.
He stood, brushed past Slaton and stepped to the flyspecked window.
The rain fell heavier and the sky looked like curled sheets of lead. Thunder beat a bass drum to the north over the Sans Bois. Tweddle glanced at his watch then snapped it shut. It was ten minutes until one.
Would Trace McCord show? He shook his head, annoyed by his own negative thought. Of course he would show. He had to.
Then the fat man saw a sight that made his heart sink. Four tall men rode through the rain, stopped opposite the saloon and looked around them. Despite the upturned collar of his slicker and lowered hat brim, Tweddle recognized Trace McCord. Beside him sitting a rawboned gray was Frisco Maddox. The other two men he didn’t know.
Bitterly, the fat man abandoned his plan to kill McCord. Even he couldn’t buck those odds. The rancher and his three gun-slick riders would be too much to handle.
He saw McCord turn his head and say something to Maddox.
The big man nodded and kneed his horse to the hitching rail, where he dismounted and then stepped into the saloon. He and Tweddle saw each other at the same time.
“Mr. Tweddle, what are you doing here?” Maddox said.
“On my way to the Gentleman’s Retreat cathouse,” Tweddle said.
“A tad off the trail, ain’t you?”
Tweddle shrugged. “I enjoy riding in the rain.”
Gut-Shot Page 24
