by Kristin Holt
“How long has it been since the shooting?” Four days? Five?
“Come this afternoon,” Skipper, the night shift supervisor, answered, “it’ll be exactly one week.”
Seven days?
Richard had resigned himself to never finding the shooter.
Whoever had pulled the trigger would be long gone. Even if they figured out who, this long of a head start could put that fellow in New York or Canada or Mexico.
One week proved to be a very long time.
“It’s time to round up the men,” Richard said, “figure out who’s missing and infer a thing or two.”
“Already done.” Skipper tapped the snow off his boots against the steps of the office where Richard and Lessie had slept that first visit to Big Ezra.
Why hadn’t he seen the danger in bringing her here? He’d castigated himself far too often since the shooting.
“Hmmm. Where’s Gibbons?” He’d thought the foreman would’ve answered the summons to meet.
“He’s missing.” Edgar Kerry, the day shift supervisor shared a meaningful glance with Skipper. “Been gone since the incident. Best as we can tell, he left straightaway on horseback.”
Richard clenched his jaw and fought the rising disappointment.
But only guilty men ran. The innocent stayed…
But wait… “Gibbons was on the wagon with Lessie and me when the shot went off. She was shot from the front, off to the right.” He gestured vaguely in the direction the bullet must have originated. “Gibbons couldn’t have been the one to pull the trigger.”
Skipper rocked forward on his boots. “I ain’t sayin’ he pulled the trigger, I’m just sayin’ he’s the only one not in camp.”
“No sense going after him.” Richard sighed. “I need you two to question all team captains. Find out what everyone knows. I need answers.”
Richard would have paced if the closet-sized office shack if the crowded space allowed it.
Maurice Gibbons, the runaway site foreman, sat on a chair before him, his head drooping from rounded shoulders. He slumped like a whooped puppy.
Both day and night supervisors stood in the back corners. The two had asked a few pointed questions that led them to find Gibbons a short three or four miles up-canyon from Big Ezra, reclining by a campfire as if on holiday.
The only reason Maurice Gibbons wasn’t in irons or immobilized with rope was he’d come in without resistance. He’d gone so far as to hand both pistols to Richard, butt first, upon dismounting and passing his horse off to one of the stable boys.
“Suppose you tell me what’s going on.” Richard’s patience was nearly gone. He’d been away from Lessie long enough. The little room was significantly overheated but he couldn’t open the door and let everybody outside overhear the conversation just yet.
Not until he understood what happened that fateful day.
Gibbons looked up, but seemed far more concerned with the presence of Kerry and Skipper behind him.
Richard didn’t care if Gibbons was uncomfortable with the audience or not. He needed the truth, straight from Gibbons. “You ran. Why?”
Gibbons shrugged but still wouldn’t talk. Richard already knew, thanks to the shift managers, Maurice Gibbons had been neck-deep in dishonest behavior, for months.
Finally, Gibbons tossed his hands up. “I had nothing to do with shooting your wife.”
“I know.” Richard’s gaze bored into the man he once trusted. “You were on the wagon bed, with me. I want to know who pulled the trigger.”
Silence.
Richard’s patience wore mighty thin.
“Look, Boss.” Gibbons held Richard’s gaze a little too long for comfort. “I thought I saw a muzzle flash off from that direction.” Gibbons half-heartedly indicated what would have been the right-side of the crowd. Correct, given the bullet wound. “I chased someone fleeing.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I have no tracking skills. I’m no good at that kind of stuff.”
Frustration ate at Richard’s gut.
“I think you took off for different reasons, altogether, Maurice.” He used the man’s Christian name on purpose. Gibbons hated his name, and using it now was an intentional sign of disrespect.
By the way Gibbons’ nostrils flared, he hadn’t missed the jab.
“I think you knew. You knew I’d find discrepancies in the books.”
“Now, see here—”
“And I’d find you’ve been lying to me for six long months.”
The other man fell silent, but Richard had to keep pushing. “You knew I wouldn’t stop until I found out who wanted my wife dead.”
“I had nothing to do with that shooting.”
But the flexing of Gibbons’ jaw told a different story. “No, I don’t know that. In fact, I think you received my telegram. You knew I was returning with my wife to hold a meeting. You didn’t want me talking to everyone.”
Gibbons locked his jaw and glared.
“You wanted to see this camp continue to lose money, eventually fold, and everyone move on.”
Gibbons’ ice-blue gaze hardened.
Yeah, he’d struck a nerve there. “But my news, my plans, would breathe some life and hope into Big Ezra, and you couldn’t let that happen.”
Richard looked to Skipper in one back corner, then to Edgar Kerry in the other. “Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”
Gibbons whirled on his chair. “You two shut up, right now.”
Richard kicked the chair beneath Gibbons with all the rage he’d suppressed. The chair rocked and slid back a couple feet but Gibbons remained upright and glared at Richard.
“That show of temper, Maurice, proved everything they told me.” His chest heaved with barely suppressed fury. “Gold is worth my wife’s life?”
“No, no—”
“In fact, this mine isn’t losing money on coal production, is it?”
He should’ve been here, in Big Ezra far more often, watching and listening and seeing for himself all that happened on his property the minute reports had begun showing losses.
But that was the nature of the business…
Wasn’t it?
“Well, Boss, I—”
“You buried news of the gold strike, bribed these two to keep their mouths shut, and saw to it the team who’d seen the vein lost their lives. Men died because you value secrets and money more than life.”
Richard’s chest heaved. He wanted to plow Gibbons into the floorboards with nothing but his bare fists. “Why did you set off the explosion to kill another forty men? Was it to get me up here, so someone could put a bullet in my heart? Was it me they were aiming for, or my wife?”
The thought that Lessie had taken a bullet meant for him had burned a hole through his gut for the past week. He might never know.
He’d needled, jabbed, accused, and baited. Gibbons ought to be singing. He kicked the chair beneath Gibbons sending it sliding another several inches. Another vicious kick and the chair slammed into the wall between the two shift supervisors.
Why wouldn’t Gibbons crack? “What about Herman Trengove? You conveniently smelled his corpse on our way to the shaft? You knew where to find his body because you killed him.”
Gibbons surged to his feet but Richard was ready.
He blocked the punch Gibbons threw before it slammed into his nose.
Question answered.
Richard didn’t have a chance to bring out winning moves honed on Harvard’s boxing team. And he wanted to punch the liar’s face. And then his kidneys. And break a few ribs.
But Kerry pressed a Colt to Maurice’s temple. Skipper had one iron bracelet locked about Maurice’s right wrist and secured the left with a metallic click.
Gibbons lunged, cracking his head against Richard’s chin. The sly move caught Richard off guard, and as if the puzzle box spun in his hand, he recognized another dimension he’d failed to consider.
Another layer of intrigue.
The onl
y reason why Gibbons would strike, would seek death by gunshot at close quarters. An explanation as to why Gibbons had held Richard’s eye too long for comfort while the shift supervisors watched and listened. He’d tried to communicate—
“No!” Richard ordered, but he wasn’t quick enough.
The Colt in Kerry’s hand had already discharged. The noise in the small room deafened.
Gibbons bucked as the slug struck him. Blood splattered Richard, face to belly, hot and wet and pungent. Gibbons twisted and fell, sliding down the wall and leaving a red streak along the boards.
Regret burned— this shouldn’t have happened.
Gibbons laughed. Blood bubbled on his lips.
Skipper drew his Colt, aimed at Kerry the lazy hold of a hired gun. “Drop your iron.”
“Stand down, Skipper.” Richard had seen enough, heard enough.
As if he couldn’t quite believe the order, didn’t believe Richard wasn’t in danger from the trigger-ready Edgar Kerry, Skipper kept his weapon trained on Kerry…
… and in a flash, Kerry aimed at Richard.
Edgar Kerry? The steady, reliable supervisor, who’d held his day team together, managed racial friction better than anyone he’d ever known.
Edgar Kerry, the giant of a black man who’d looked him in the eye that morning over a private breakfast and lied.
So smoothly, so effortlessly, Richard hadn’t seen it coming.
His heart seized.
He’d miscalculated.
He’d been so sure, so certain—
Where had Kerry been in the audience, one week ago when Lessie had taken a bullet? Where had Skipper stood?
Which man had shot her? Or had they?
Oh, God. Who was with Lessie now?
Chapter Twenty-One
Richard’s hands had risen of their own volition. He stared at Edgar Kerry’s steady gun, pointed with less than eighteen inches to spare, directly at his heart.
If Edgar pulled the trigger, he wouldn’t miss.
Richard wouldn’t recover, would never again hold his wife. No years of normal life, side by side, no filling that beautiful residence with children.
Unacceptable.
The two Colts he’d taken from Gibbons were on the telegraph table, behind Richard. Even if he made a dash for the guns, he’d never claim one in time. Kerry would shoot him in the back, easily twice or more before he had half a chance of claiming a weapon to defend himself.
Skipper palmed the hammer back, his attention never wavering from Edgar Kerry’s face. “Last chance, man. Put it down.”
Edgar’s impossibly dark eyes darted to Skipper, as if weighing the likelihood of the other man actually firing. His steady hand slipped, trembling slightly. Perspiration beaded his forehead.
A man with nothing to lose armed and backed into a corner made a very dangerous enemy.
The blood smeared on the wall and pooling beneath Gibbons’ body underscored just how dangerous and desperate Kerry had become.
The potbellied stove seemed to produce even more heat. Sweat rolled down Richard’s spine.
Outside, a clamor arose. Voices shouted.
“I heard gunfire,” a male voice bellowed.
A shadow fell across Richard’s back— someone had stepped on a log or stone in order to see through the window and get a peek inside.
Whoever it was would get an eyeful. The distrusted boss with his hands in the air, one supervisor pinning him at close range with a loaded pistol, and the other supervisor ready to shoot to kill the gunman. And Gibbons already dead on the floor.
Looked like the only one coming out of this mess alive was Skipper.
Perspiration glued Richard’s union suit to his back. He wore too many layers.
The crowd outside grew restless, shouting orders, everyone yelling at once. Richard could no longer pick out individual statements, much less words. But the tension outside was ratcheted as tight as a bowstring.
Kerry’s trigger finger flinched. This close, Richard could see every movement. Would he feel the bullet drill a hole in his heart before his ears registered the explosion?
I’m sorry, Lessie.
She’d wept with widows, for widows she’d barely met.
This— his death— would be hard on her.
He prayed someone would see her safely off the mountain. Heaven help her… she wasn’t well enough to be moved, wouldn’t be for a while yet.
A thud slammed against the door. The lock held.
Why had he locked the blasted door?
Skipper’s aim remained steady. “What’ll it be, Kerry? Is today a good day to die?”
The racket outside intensified. Voices raised. Another hard thrust of shoulders or boots, he couldn’t tell which, connected with the solid door.
It held.
Richard hadn’t known how secure he and Lessie had been in this building the nights they’d slept on this very floor. And now his blood would pool, mingle with Gibbons’.
Unacceptable.
Today is not a good day to die.
He had no weapon, no hope of immediate reprieve. The man at the window had had enough time to fire, had that been his inclination.
He had to go down fighting. No Cannon took a bullet to the back— or the face— without fighting.
With two fists, two feet, he made the decision.
Another thrust to the door cracked the door jamb.
Kerry’s attention diverted for the slightest of seconds.
Richard grabbed the only chance he’d ever have.
He executed a favorite blocking move honed on the boxing team, thrusting a fist up and out, connecting with Kerry’s gun arm as if it were an opponent’s thrown punch.
The door crashed against the inside wall.
Behind him the glass of the window shattered.
At least one Colt fired— maybe both.
Men charged through the breached doorway.
Another Colt discharged— from where, he couldn’t tell.
His blocking move thrust Kerry’s aim up and away. The bigger, stronger man’s attention whipped back around, snagging Richard’s eye.
Time slowed, stretched, paused…
Pounding feet on the floorboards. A man screamed in pain.
Kerry’s Colt clattered against the wall, but he didn’t lose his grip.
Men shouted orders, demanded Kerry and Skipper drop their weapons.
If Kerry heard, he gave no response.
The man’s sole focus remained locked on Richard, his eyes sparking with an emotion so terrifying, Richard blanched.
Too many men had crowded inside. Someone jostled Richard and he lost his balance.
Kerry took aim.
Another gun fired.
Richard’s ears rang with the deafening sound.
Not Kerry’s pistol…
He would have seen the flash, the barrel pointed at himself, this close.
Kerry’s eyes widened.
In the jostle, the crush of too many men, shouted orders, Richard watched the life dim from his would-be-killer’s eyes.
He could do little but grab Kerry’s pistol as the bigger man pitched forward, dead.
In the end, only two men died in the office building.
Edgar Kerry, the day shift supervisor. And Maurice Gibbons, the site foreman.
Both had been on the payroll of Cannon Mining for over ten years. Both had worked for Grandfather long before Richard and Adam had taken over at the helm.
Richard sat at Lessie’s bedside, holding her hand while she slept, and doing his best to shed the terror and panic of those horrible minutes.
He kept two loaded pistols on the table beside him, should he need them.
It might be a good long while before anyone knew the full extent of those involved. But just as Richard and discovered in a flash of insight at the moment Skipper shot Gibbons— all three men had a hand in the pot.
One team on Kerry’s day shift had discovered the gold deposits and brought the in
formation to their team captain, who reported to the supervisor.
In his excitement, Kerry nearly hadn’t let Skipper in on it. It hadn’t been long and Gibbons had determined exactly how they’d handle it and what needed to be done. According to Skipper— as untrustworthy a source as ever existed— Gibbons had ordered the accidents that silenced the men who knew too much.
Men who’d either disclose the find to the mining company or who would want some of it themselves.
Their plan had been to see Big Ezra fail, close, leaving the site a prime candidate for poaching.
All in the name of greed. Fifty-one men, dead.
Numerous grieving widows. Children who’d never know their fathers.
The waste and unnecessary loss grieved Richard deeply, but what scared him most was the realization from bits that Skipper confided— and these sounded the most true of anything— Gibbons had a contact, a source outside of camp. Someone else he answered to.
Robin Hood.
As in rob the rich and give to the poor.
Which made absolutely no sense, because so very few of the men would have benefitted from the greedy plan hatched by three men.
Gibbons had drawn Herman Trengove into the plot and killed him.
Richard had come desperately close to losing his life, as had his precious wife.
It didn’t matter who’d pulled the trigger— whether it had been Skipper or Kerry. One of them had wanted Lessie dead because her dreams of improvement for Big Ezra worked against their plot.
Lessie shifted in bed and her eyes fluttered open.
“Hello, Mrs. Cannon.” He brushed fingertips over her brow, relieved to feel the fever had well and truly broken.
She smiled, just a little. “You’re here.”
The women who’d sat with him said she’d awoken just once during the battle in the office. The gunfire must’ve alerted her to trouble. They said she’d been awake for less than a couple minutes and had been unaware of all that had transpired.
Things were going to stay that way. If he could enforce the decision, she’d never learn of the shootout, the deaths, how close he’d come to dying.
