by Joe Slade
‘The next bottle’s on me,’ he said, finishing his drink in one gulp.
The two men standing by the door of the Fool’s Gold weren’t drinking. Dressed alike in black suits, hatless and well-groomed, they didn’t warrant a second glance. Average height, average build, one dark, one blonde, both keeping to themselves, no one noticed them and no one would remember seeing them. They moved very little, said nothing and never let their eyes linger long enough to cause an uneasy feeling.
‘Spencer, go tell the boss Maggie O’Bannen’s friends are in here getting drunk,’ the dark-haired man said without shifting his gaze from the three men at the bar.
They had bought and drunk one bottle and paid for a second. Now they were looking for a table.
Spencer nodded and slipped out between the split doors. The other rested his hand on the .45 holstered at his hip, then settled his shoulder against the wall to watch and wait. He didn’t realize it but he was scowling as he watched Rick Talbot toss back another shot. The kid had almost nailed him last night in the alley. His cheek still smarted where the bullet had ripped splinters from the wall. Another couple of inches and he would have taken it in the eye.
‘Enjoy the time you have left,’ he snarled under his breath as Rick threw back his head and laughed at something the boy said. ‘Before this is over, you’ll be a dead man.’
Twenty minutes later, Spencer tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Time to go, Latimer. The boss says it’s happening tonight. There’s an extra hundred in it for whichever one of us kills the bitch.’
With the light of day fading into night, Maggie lay on the bed, linked her hands behind her head and stared at the boarded ceiling. She had no intention of sleeping, but somewhere between mind-numbing sadness for her father and an irrational hatred for his wife, she dosed.
A light tap at the door brought her out of the twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness. ‘Who is it?’ she called groggily.
No one answered. The light was gone and, coming fully awake, she lit the lamp on the nightstand and looked towards the door. As she continued to listen, she heard a gentle whoosh and the sound of footsteps retreating along the hallway. Whoever had been there, had decided not to wait and, as she rolled out of bed to take a look, she noticed a piece of paper on the floor. She scooped it up and wiped the sleep from her eyes as she unfolded it.
Carlotta. I must see you. Come at midnight. Alone. The door will be unlocked.
She barely recognized the hand but, from memory, it held a vague resemblance to her father’s. She checked the time on the small travel clock Doc had given her. It was prone to gain a few minutes but 9 o’clock seemed near enough. Quickly, she went to Doc’s room, then Rick and Leo’s. There was no answer at either. Going back to her own room, she lay down again to wait but sleep was elusive and the hours dragged.
It was twenty-five minutes to midnight when she heard a loud clomping on the stairs. Leo was giggling and Doc was trying to quieten him. They sounded drunk. She cracked open the door and peeped out. They were drunk. Holding on to each other they fell into the room opposite. Something crashed and someone swore. Obviously, they were in no state to go up to the house with her.
Quickly, she changed into shirt, pants and boots, buckled on the Schofield and grabbed her hat. As an afterthought, she pulled on her coat. The other guests were awake now and had taken to the hallway. The night clerk was there too, demanding to know what the ruckus was about.
Maggie glanced nervously at the clock. Time was ticking away and the disturbance showed no sign of ending soon. With a plan forming, she ran to the window and eased it open. Leaning out, she gaped at the darkness below, gauging the drop to the hard ground from memory. The noise outside her room was dying down but the clerk was arguing with someone who seemed intent on airing his grievance then and there. Maggie glanced again at the clock. The minutes were ticking by too quickly. She had to go. Climbing onto the sill, she turned and lowered herself until she hung by her fingertips. Below her, the drop looked more ominous than it had with her feet on solid ground. For a moment she doubted her sanity but, her mind was made up.
No sooner did she let go than the ground rose up hard and unyielding to meet her. Splinters of pain shot through her arm and wrist when she hit the hard packed dirt and rolled, taking the brunt of the fall on her hip. For a moment, she lost track of time and place, then fear of discovery kicked in and the need to get away drove her on as if Bull Braddock were chasing her.
She kept running, only stopping to catch her breath when she reached the iron gates of the Stanford house. At close to midnight, it was mostly in darkness. Looking towards her old room, she noticed the doors were ajar, the light breeze creating a gap between the drapes and allowing a sliver of light to filter through. She entered the grounds, walking shy of the stone path and circling around to the back of the house where she again surveyed the dark exterior.
As promised, the door into the kitchen was unlocked and on the table a lamp burned with a low flame. A quick look around showed everything in its place. Alert for any slight sound, she made her way through the kitchen and along the passage to the narrow stairs that would take her up to her father’s room. At the bottom, she stopped to listen but nothing stirred. She made her way up the stairs two at a time and emerged on the landing moments later. Faint light showed beneath the door to her father’s room. She pressed her ear against the polished wooden panel and listened. For a moment she thought she heard a moan but the sound was drowned out by several clocks simultaneously striking midnight.
She eased open the door and peered inside, her gaze drawn to the bed as her vision adjusted to the sudden change in light. Standing with her back towards Maggie, Emma was leaning over the bed. As she turned, Maggie saw the pillow covering her father’s face, and the Smith & Wesson .38 in the woman’s other hand. It was cocked and aimed at Maggie.
She realized her mistake immediately. Although the woman bore a vague resemblance to her father’s nurse, it wasn’t her.
‘Lucille?’
‘Come in, close the door,’ Lucille replied, calmly. ‘And keep your hands where I can see them. I know you carry a gun but my finger is already on the trigger and I’m sure you’re not that fast.’ She pointed to a chair standing before the dresser. ‘Take a seat. I’ve got a few questions before you see your father again.’
Chapter Nine
Maggie did as she was told.
Lucille tossed aside the pillow and pulled the blankets up over George Stanford’s lifeless face. Keeping the gun on Maggie, she walked to the windows, opening them wide and breathing in the fresh air that wafted in on a light breeze.
‘That’s better. The smell of death is repugnant, don’t you think?’
‘Why?’ Maggie asked, fighting a suicidal instinct to attack. ‘Why did you do it?’
Lucille straightened her crisp white nightgown and smoothed her loose brown hair before coming to stand a few feet in front of Maggie. In the dim lamplight, her brown eyes glowed.
‘For the same reason I made a deal with Frank O’Bannen.’ She paused to let the information register. ‘Yes, I was responsible for your kidnapping, but we’ll get to that. The answer to your question is simple; I did it because of you.’
Maggie kept her gaze on the gun. It wavered, dropping slightly, as though it were too heavy for the small hand holding it.
‘What did I ever do to you?’ she asked.
‘You got in the way.’
‘So you had Frank kidnap me?’ It was a fresh idea but it stank just the same.
‘No, that was just luck. It was only later, when your father arranged to pay the ransom, that I was able to make a different deal. Frank O’Bannen wanted five thousand dollars to let you go. I offered him ten thousand to kill you. I didn’t expect him to double-cross me.’ She gripped the gun with both hands and straightened her aim. ‘How did you convince him not to kill you?’
‘I don’t know. He just never did.’
Lucille
’s lip curled in the semblance of a grin. ‘I imagine every time you look in the mirror, you wish he had.’
The remark smarted but, holding the gun, Lucille had the upper hand. All Maggie could do was keep her talking, hope Lucille’s arm weakened, wait for an opportunity to strike.
‘Why kill my father now?’
Lucille tutted. ‘Because when I heard you might be alive, I knew George would stop at nothing to get you back. He would have divorced me. I couldn’t risk you coming and taking everything that was mine.’
‘So you poisoned him for money.’ Maggie couldn’t contain her contempt. ‘You heartless bitch.’
Lucille laughed. ‘Nobody can prove that, especially now. I’m sure even an idiot like your husband will be able to tell he was suffocated.’ The gun was dropping again and she snatched it up. ‘You’ll get the blame. I’ll get everything else.’
‘How do you figure that?’
‘You’re a sick woman, Maggie. Who could blame you after everything you’ve been through? Your husband told me you’re a bad tempered drunk and one of my men saw you in the saloon the other night. I’ll tell them you turned up here, crazy drunk and killed your father. You confessed to me that you blamed him for everything that had happened to you.’ She slipped into a dramatic retelling. ‘I tried to stop her but she was beyond reason and tried to kill me. I had to shoot her. It was self-defense.’ She finished with a dramatic catch in her voice.
‘I’d say you’re the crazy one but that was quite the performance. Hell, I’d believe you.’
The closet door creaked, disturbed by the light breeze. Lucille’s eyes flickered towards it but not enough to afford Maggie the chance she was looking for. Instead, it seemed to snap Lucille back to the harsh reality of the situation.
‘Enough talk,’ she said coldly. ‘Turn around.’
Maggie didn’t move. If Lucille wanted to kill her, she’d have to look her in the face when she did it.
‘There’s a bottle of whiskey on the dresser.’ She shifted the muzzle of the gun slightly indicating where the bottle stood. ‘I want you to have a drink. A nice long drink.’
Maggie refused to move. Why should she make it easy? With every second that passed Lucille’s arm was tiring. Her grip on the Smith & Wesson getting feebler.
‘It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about, so drink up. Or I can shoot you and pour whiskey down your throat after you’re dead.’ She was starting to sound edgy, flippant almost. ‘To be honest looking at your face is starting to wear on my nerves, so I don’t care either way.’
Maggie weighed her choices. With Lucille’s finger on the trigger, there wasn’t much Maggie could do. She could make a grab for the gun but Lucille couldn’t miss at close range. Maybe she’d only wing her but the sound would bring the whole house running. Dressed like a man, as Maggie was, Lucille’s hired guns might shoot and ask questions afterwards.
It seemed to be a hopeless situation, but she had been in those before and lived to tell the tale.
She reached around and felt for the bottle. It was half empty, the stopper removed. ‘Don’t I get a glass?’ she asked impudently.
‘You can drink from the bottle.’ The gun wobbled as Lucille jabbed it towards her. ‘I’m sure it won’t be the first time you’ve done that.’
Maggie put it to her lips and took a small swallow, hoping that if it was poisoned she wouldn’t ingest enough to kill her. Lucille waved the .38, urging her on.
‘Just tell me one thing, Lucille,’ she said, adjusting her grip on the neck of the bottle as she pressed it to her lips. ‘The note bringing me here—you wrote it?’
Lucille shrugged.
‘How did you know my father called me Carlotta?’
‘Carlotta?’ Lucille’s confidence had been riding high but the question confused her. She let down her guard.
Maggie tossed the bottle and lunged.
The gun went off as it spun away. The room plunged into darkness as the bedside lamp smashed and fell to the floor. Small flames licked at the rug, spreading quickly as the oil seeped out. Lucille’s head hit the polished boards with a crack as both women went down. Her eyelids fluttered and she teetered on the brink of consciousness.
‘What was that?’ someone shouted beyond the bedroom.
Maggie scrambled to her feet and grabbed the chair, jamming its high back against the door. It wouldn’t keep anyone out for long but it might give her a few precious seconds to think.
Behind her, Lucille moaned as she regained her senses. ‘Emma. Emma!’
Maggie toed her in the ribs. ‘Shut up or I swear I’ll kill you.’
She should after what Lucille had done to her father but the odds would definitely be stacked against her if she were found with two dead bodies. The reasoning was sound but it couldn’t stop Maggie drawing back her foot again and smashing it into Lucille’s face. Blood gushed from her shattered mouth, her strangled shriek mingling with the distinct crack of ribs breaking as Maggie kicked her in the side.
Still, above it all, the ominous creak of boards moving under foot warned her that someone else was in the room.
Maggie grabbed for her gun.
‘Don’t!’ the woman warned.
Maggie froze, her palm touching the butt of the Schofield still in its holster. Again, she found herself staring into the black abyss of a gun barrel. This time, the hand holding it was rock steady. The face behind set with grim determination.
‘Kill her!’ Lucille gurgled.
Emma tipped her ear to the sound of footsteps coming along the hallway.
‘Mrs. Stanford? Are you in there?’ The knob turned as someone tried the door.
‘Do it!’ Lucille hissed. ‘What are you waiting for? Kill her, before they get in.’
‘Shut up, Lucille.’
The door groaned as it was forced from the other side. Wood splintered as the frame started to give way.
Emma lowered the gun. ‘Run, Maggie,’ she said. ‘Run!’
Without hesitation, Maggie sprinted for the window. A gunshot exploded behind her. She threw herself through the opening without thinking, hitting the roof of the porch on her hands and knees, the momentum carrying her over the edge. Desperately she clawed for something to grab on to, finding the tall trellis with its covering of roses. Thorns tore at her skin and clothes as she fought to slow her fall, but the hard ground soon came up to meet her. It winded her, jarred every bone in her body, but somehow she forced herself to move.
‘Do you see him?’ someone shouted from above.
‘It’s too dark. I’ll get some men and search the grounds,’ another voice answered.
A woman’s scream added to the confusion.
Maggie stumbled away. She ran without looking back, almost reached the gate before she saw a silhouette forming against the darkness. The click of a hammer being drawn back warned her. She lunged to the side, heard the bullet whistle past her head. Instinct brought the Schofield up. She fired but the man kept coming. He fired again, on the run, and missed. She lashed out with her left hand, catching the muzzle of the gun with her wrist and sending the next shot high into the air. With her right, she smashed the Schofield against his jaw. It surprised him but didn’t slow him down. He grabbed her hand, crushing it until the gun fell from her numbed grip.
She heard him spit. ‘She told me you’d be trouble,’ he growled.
He brought his gun up for another shot. She grabbed the muzzle, squirming as it lined up against her body. He was too strong. She clawed at his fingers, feeling the tension as he tried to squeeze the trigger, but she had unsettled his grip.
‘Spread out,’ someone shouted. ‘He can’t have gone far.’
Panic surged through her like a bolt of lightning. She stamped down hard feeling the man’s foot crunch under her heel. His grip slackened and she shoved against the gun. It bucked between them and they went down together, the feel of hot blood spreading sickeningly across her torso.
For a split second, she
was transported back to a moment weeks before when Walt McLean had tried to rape her. Again, she could feel his hands on her, rough and hurting her as his foul breath overwhelmed her senses. It didn’t matter that this man’s moans were anguished and weak with the nearness of death. Just the feel of him, pressing down on her was enough to send her into a blind panic.
She scrambled free, grabbing the Schofield as it dug into her knee. The voices were getting closer and the reality of the situation was dawning on her. With no time to waste, she sped towards the gate. It creaked under her touch but she didn’t stop to worry about it. Her only instinct was to get away and she ran stumbling along the road, hoping that the darkness would obscure her.
It did—too well.
She didn’t see the shape coming towards her until it was too late, and even then, she never saw the stranger’s face. Like a wraith he appeared as no more than a shadow emerging out of the darkness. Maggie tensed against whatever was to come. There was nothing else she could do, no way to move out of harm’s way in time. In desperation, she flung the Schofield at him.
The flare of a muzzle flash rent the night. Pain like a firecracker exploded at her temple. Her legs folded and she fell hard. The ground seemed to slope away beneath her outstretched arms and she tumbled head over heels. Tangled bushes whipped at her face and eyes, jagged rocks gouged and tore at her hands and knees. The pain amplified, stifling her screams until there was no more it could take from her. As the world ceased its frantic rotation, she landed with a jolt that knocked the last breath from her lungs and plunged her into oblivion.
Chapter Ten
Sheriff Anderson didn’t appreciate leaving his comfortable bed and the soft curves of his wife in the middle of the night. He answered the door of his little house with sleep in his eyes and a scowl on his face.
