‘You poor, poor child. What have those sons of bitches done to you?’
Sal wept convulsively and copiously. She wept for Ed, for herself and for life. It was a full half hour before she finally subsided, laying her head on the table, totally exhausted.
Margy helped her over to the rocking chair and covered her in a blanket and Sal slept a deep sleep, for once untroubled by nightmares. Margy sat and watched the vulnerable looking young woman and four hours later, when Sal opened her eyes, she was still there.
Sal blinked and for a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she saw Margy’s smiling face.
‘How long . . . what time is it?’
As she spoke a knock came on the front door. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was eleven thirty. Margy had forgotten to wake her in time for her appointment with Tucker. Sal put her fingers to her lips, asking Margy for silence, then she noiselessly fled to her room, leaving Margy to open the door to Sheriff Tucker.
‘Hi, Margy. I jest came to enquire as to what happened to Mrs McIntyre. I got kinda tired waiting. In fact, I got real tired and jest a bit annoyed. Where the hell is she?’
Margy was about to shrug in a non-committal reply when Sal’s voice echoed from the parlour.
‘I’m in here, Sheriff.’
Tucker went into the parlour and found Sal sitting with her elbows resting on the table. She looked up at him, giving him the benefit of a charming, pretty smile which, for reasons which he didn’t fully comprehend, infuriated him.
‘Good morning Mrs Cars – or is it McIntyre?’
Sal said nothing, but she continued to fix him with the same dazzling smile. His anger gave way to a feeling of slight confusion. The fact that a pretty young woman seemed to be getting the better of him was rousing his temper. He breathed deeply, determining to remain cool, at least on the surface.
‘Now why would you like to be called by two different names, ma’am? Seems kinda strange, wouldn’t you say? Kinda like you might have something to hide.’ He emphasized his point with an expression created to display a theatrical, over the top confusion. Sal, on the other hand, said nothing and still smiled beatifically. Tucker was growing dangerously angry.
‘Y’know what I think, ma’am? Well, I’ll tell you what I think. I think your husband was Ed McIntyre, whose murder is described loud and clear on this here poster.’ He waved the official poster under her nose.
WANTED!!
Shep Cassidy and Pete Robinson
for the murder of Ed McIntyre. Reward $100
‘It came this morning, Mrs McIntyre, and I kinda put two and two together and made four. I knew who you said you were but I also knew that our friendly storeowner had sold you stuff. I asked Mrs Evans about the new woman in town and she said, “Oh! That’ll be that nice Mrs McIntyre”.’
Sal was still sitting impassively, still smiling at him and showing no apparent concern. Tucker moved his face close to hers. She smelled the tobacco and stale alcohol on his breath. He snarled. A deep, guttural snarl.
‘By my reckoning, you, ma’am, are a woman tryin’ to do a man’s work. You are trying to get revenge for your husband. You are after Shep Cassidy and let me tell you, you stupid bitch, that you stand no chance.’
He laughed in her face, then continued, his voice a hissing, hateful sound.
‘If – and it’s a big if – you are right about who killed your husband, you still stand as much chance as a snowflake in the fires of hell of getting them who killed him. Even if you wuz a gunman you’d have no chance.’ His nose was almost touching hers now and he spoke in the same grating whisper. ‘You are out of yor depth, little lady. Truly out of yor depth.’
Sal wasn’t sure what would happen next. She expected him to make threats, to tell her what would happen to her if she didn’t get out of town and forget her business with Shep Cassidy. What he actually did do shocked her. He drew his revolver and held it with the barrel pointing at and almost touching her forehead.
‘And now I’m gonna wipe that stoopid smile off your face. Permanently. Sorry, Mrs McIntyre. Nothing personal.’ He smiled a broad smile and clicked the hammer back.
The explosion caused by a gun firing in a small room is deafening. It was the last sound that Tucker heard before the agonizing pain in his stomach drove all thought from his mind. He stared at the Winchester rifle which Sally McIntyre had been holding under the table and which had appeared silent and unnoticed. Tucker was flung back from the table and he smashed against the wall. For a moment which seemed like an age he stood there, clutching at the spreading scarlet stain and groaning in agony. Then, in a bizarre parody of Jack Farrow, his hand raised in a plea for mercy.
Sal shook her head very slowly and spoke in a slow imitation of Tucker’s own voice.’Maybe you gave a little bit too much notice of your intention, Sheriff Tucker. You know what I think? I think you were outa yor depth. Truly out of yor depth, you murderin’ heap of dung. Bit like Jack Farrow, huh? Mebbe a bit like Ed? Waddya think, Sheriff? Do you think you’re out of yor depth?’
Tucker’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. Although no words came he was clearly pleading for his life.
‘You may live or die here, Tucker. I’m not a doctor so I couldn’t say. But if you live, it’ll only be long enough fer the hangman’s noose. Believe me, I’d like to finish you off here and now, but I guess that’d make me as bad as you.’
Tucker tried to take a step towards her, arms outstretched as if his intention was to strangle her, then, as if by magic, a Derringer pistol appeared via a sprung holster in his sleeve.
Too late.
Sal fired at point blank range. He was flung backwards again and he was already dead as he hit the wall. With the look of amazement still fixed on his face he slid slowly to the floor.
Margy ran into the room and stared open mouthed at the horror before her. Her home was a scene of devastation. The large figure of Tucker sat in a pose which reminded her of the wooden string puppet which had been her favourite toy when she was a little girl. The flowery wallpaper was covered in splatters of blood and some china ornaments which had adorned the mantelpiece were scattered in pieces around the bulky body of the sheriff. Sal McIntyre was standing in the middle of the room holding a Winchester rifle in her right hand and staring at her victim. Her lips were moving slightly as if she was talking quietly to herself and Margy knew that the young woman was not even aware of her presence in the room.
Slowly, very slowly, Margy’s hand went to her mouth and she covered her lips before breaking down with a wail. She turned her attention to the body again and saw a red stain beginning to seep into the light rag rug which she had made some thirty years ago. Her home, a place of quiet and refuge for so many years – the place where she had brought up her family and seen births, baptisms, illnesses, weddings and funerals had in a matter of seconds become a place of violence and death. She knew she would never erase the scene from her mind and she sat on the floor and wept.
The sound brought Sal out of her private world and she stared at the scene of carnage. Margy sat, distraught and Sal wanted to comfort her and tell her everything was going to be OK but instead she heard her own voice, speaking as if it wasn’t engaged to her brain.
‘Hi, Margy. Glad I’ve got a witness. Not every day you get to kill a sheriff. Even a murdering liar like Sheriff Tucker.’
Without any display of emotion she checked her sidearms. She felt pretty certain that Tucker would have spoken to Cassidy before meeting with her. If that was the case then Cassidy would be aware that she wasn’t a casual visitor. Amazingly, no one had come to see what the gunfire was about. Then again, gunfire wasn’t unusual with the drunken men in the street and she reasoned that Cassidy wouldn’t be unduly perturbed by gunfire coming from Margy and Frank’s house. Indeed, he would have been expecting gunfire, assuming that Tucker had dispatched her, rather than the opposite.
She took another look at Margy, who was still staring at the body and shak
ing. The horror of what had happened slowly dawned on her and she emerged from her shocked trance.
‘I . . . I’m sorry, Margy. It was him or me. I had no choice.’
It seemed to Sal to be a wholly inadequate explanation to a friend whose life she had just turned upside down, but Margy nodded dumbly, then averted her eyes from the body and nodded at Sal.
‘Time for you to get out before Cassidy finds out what’s happened, Sal.’
Without another word, Sal gave Margy a faint smile of gratitude, then turned and walked out into the street. She tried to walk slowly, to avoid drawing attention to herself. Her insides were shaking and her mind was beginning to whirl. What was she becoming? She had just killed a man, albeit a violent killer. But she was feeling no remorse. How could anyone kill – take the life of another person – and feel nothing?
When she mounted her horse she wanted to kick in her heels and hightail out of Redwood forever. Instead, she nudged the horse’s flank and rode at an even pace up the main street, expecting with every step to hear Shep Cassidy’s voice ordering her to stop, or to feel the sharp pain of a bullet ripping into her back. But there was nothing except the muffled sound of horse hoofs on the sandy ground and the heat of the sun on her back.
She had arrived in Redwood as the hunter. Now, she reflected, she was the quarry.
Chapter Ten
Coulson
Reuben Kane had ridden hard trailing Sal McIntyre. It had been pretty easy to follow her. Basically he kept his ears open and followed the body count, knowing that she was trailing Cassidy’s men with revenge on her mind. He was glad to reach Redwood and he wearily dismounted before tying his horse to the rail. He was standing outside the saloon and his intention was to rid himself of the cloying dust in his throat by sinking a beer, but first he surveyed the street. People were going about their everyday business and Mr Dawson was making neat stacks of sacks of flour outside the emporium. The livery stable boy was leading a sleek black stallion into the stable, which meant that someone else had just arrived in town. A middle-aged woman was walking hand in hand with a little girl.
Suddenly there was a shot from somewhere down the street. Reuben’s right hand instinctively went for his gun and rested on the butt, ready for action. He was the only one to show any concern. A few seconds elapsed and there was another shot. The residents of Redwood still appeared unmoved and continued with their routines as if the shots had never been fired.
In truth, as Sal had already discovered, a couple of shots seemed as commonplace here as a horse passing down the main street. Reuben relaxed then walked thoughtfully into the saloon and ordered a beer.
‘Comin’ right up, sir. That all?’
‘For the moment.’
Reuben leaned on the bar and looked at the reflection in the big mirror. He drained the glass in one long draught, washing the dust of the ride from his throat, then he smiled at the barman.
‘Tell me something. Has there been a lone woman riding into town this last day or so? ’Bout thirty or so. Slim, tall an’ black hair.’
The barman looked warily at him. Redwood wasn’t the sort of town where you gave information about people without checking who was asking and why. He deliberately avoided eye contact and stared with studied concentration at the glass in his hand as he answered.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Oh, just an old friend. I’ve got some news for her from back home.’
The barman continued to examine the glass which he was now polishing as if his life depended on it and he thought for a couple of seconds before answering.
‘Can’t say I’ve noticed anyone like that,’ he lied. A lone woman arriving in Redwood was news. He was fully aware of Sal’s arrival but he considered, for reasons of self-preservation, that it was none of his business.
Reuben had picked up on the slight hesitation and the reluctance to make eye contact and he knew that the man was prevaricating.
Sal was in Redwood. He was certain of it. It was a pensive Reuben Kane who walked through the saloon doors out into the heat and the brilliant brightness of the street.
Reuben’s routine – and it was one which had been responsible for saving his life on more than one occasion – was to sit on the sidewalk and survey any new town in which he found himself. He found a rickety old chair and sat in his familiar pose, hat low over his eyes, watching what was happening, working out what were the most likely places for someone to hide in the event of a gunfight. He gauged the angle of the light to ensure that if the worst happened he wouldn’t be faced with the sun shining in his eyes and blinding him.
Over the street he could see the livery stable boy had finished settling the black stallion in. The kid was sitting in the shade on a barrel outside the stables, chewing on a piece of straw and drawing lines in the dust with a stick.
Reuben rose slowly from the chair, unhitched his horse from the rail and led it slowly across the street to the livery stable, where he handed the reins to the boy, before telling him to water and feed the horse. He looked at the sleek black stallion, as if he hadn’t seen it before. He knew that anyone who could afford such a steed was comfortably off, if not downright rich. Placed on the wooden rail next to the horse was a beautifully crafted saddle which bore the inscription A. Coulson. He called the boy over.
‘Say, this here stallion looks like the horse of a friend of mine. I didn’t realize he was headed in the same direction as me. Can you tell me where he’s gone?’
‘You say he’s a friend?’ asked the boy warily. ‘How do I know that yor telling the truth, mister?’
Reuben scratched his head, as if deep in thought.
‘I guess you don’t, son.’ Then he smiled as if he had had a brainwave. ‘Tell you what. I’ll describe my friend to you, then you’ll know I’m on the level. You can even ask me questions about him.’
The boy smiled a half trusting smile.
‘OK, mister.’ He sounded unsure and cautious. ‘What’s this friend of yors like?’
‘Well, he likes steak and eggs and dark haired women.’
The boy laughed and relaxed a tad.
‘Naw. When I said what’s he like I meant what does he look like, not what he likes to eat and . . . well, y’know . . .’
‘Oh, I see. Well, he’s slim, tall – about six foot and more – usually wears a grey frock coat and a sort of sissy frilly shirt. Most of the women say he’s a good looker too.’
The boy smiled.
‘That’s yor man, mister. He’s gone to the restaurant. Lee Hing’s – you cain’t miss it. He wuz going to meet Shep Cassidy.’ The boy stopped suddenly, wondering if he’d given too much information. Reuben grinned disarmingly and tossed the boy a coin.
‘Thanks, sonny. He’ll be mighty pleased to see me. You see, it’s a kind of surprise. Can you keep a secret?’
‘Sure can.’
‘Well, I’m his cousin and it’s his birthday tomorrow so I’m expecting his sister to arrive any time and we’ve got a kinda secret celebration arranged for him. That’s why I need to be able to trust you not to tell a soul.’
Reuben bit his tongue at his stupid mistake. The boy didn’t seem to have noticed the holes in Reuben’s story. Reuben wondered if he would suddenly realize later that he had said he didn’t know Abe Coulson was around and then had later said he had a surprise celebration planned. He scrutinized the boy’s expression but it conveyed no sign of confusion or mistrust. He nodded at the boy. ‘I appreciate that, son. Remember. Not a word.’
He tossed another coin in the direction of the boy, who caught it deftly and smiled a broad smile, indicating that the deal had been struck.
‘You can rely on me, mister. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it from me.’
‘Thanks, son. I appreciate that.’
Reuben sauntered back to the chair outside the saloon. He glanced up and down the street but there was no sign of Cassidy or any of his men. His brow was furrowed in thought. He was sure now of what he had guessed when
he had first seen the stallion. It was owned by Abe Coulson.
Coulson was an easy man to spot on account of the fact that he always wore the same style of immaculate light grey frock coat and fancy silk shirts. He was also strikingly handsome and charming but even way back in his twenties he had earned a reputation for being a hard, ruthless killer who could be hired by anyone, whichever side of the law they were on, for the right amount of money. Reuben cast around in his memory and recalled his previous meeting with Abe Coulson.
He had been on business in a small backwoods town called Holme when Coulson had arrived. Coulson had been aware that a small time gunman called Walt Smith was looking for him. He had killed Smith’s nephew in a gunfight and Walt Smith was seeking revenge.
Smith had spotted Coulson getting off his horse in the main street and immediately drawn his Remington and aimed at Coulson’s back with the intention of giving him no chance. Reuben had expected him to fire but instead, Walt Smith made his fatal mistake.
‘Coulson!’ The shout had echoed down the street. ‘Coulson, you murdering son of a bitch! Prepare to mee—’
The sentence was never completed. With amazing speed and grace, Coulson had spun on the balls of his feet and flung himself sideways, simultaneously drawing his gun with his left hand. Before Smith had time to squeeze the trigger on his Remington, Coulson’s Colt had fired twice and two deep red patches had appeared on Smith’s shirt, signifying where the bullets had entered before piercing his heart.
Coulson, Reuben noted, was not only ruthless, he was fast and accurate.
There was a lot for Reuben Kane to ponder as he sat in the shade outside the saloon in Redwood. He leaned back in the chair and watched the townsfolk go about their business. As he squinted under the brim he saw a woman riding a horse up the street. She was riding slowly.
There was something familiar about her.
Crooked M Killings Page 7
