by Matt Braun
Easing around, he took a quick peek from behind the tree. The gang was aproaching the corral, and the farmer walked forward to greet them. The woman, standing at the corner of the house, looked on in silence. He thumbed the hammer on his carbine and wedged the butt into the hollow of his shoulder. He centered the sights on Red Ned Adair.
A shot cracked and bark exploded beside his head.
Cursing savagely, he crouched and swung around as the gunfire became general. His gaze went across the creek and he saw Kelly jacking another shell into his own carbine. Without thought, operating on sheer instinct, he caught the security chief’s chest in his sights and levered three quick shots. The slugs jolted Kelly backward a step at a time. The last one slammed into his brisket, splattering bone and gore, and he dropped the carbine. His hands splayed and clawed at empty air, then his legs buckled. He hit the ground and went tumbling head over heels down the knoll.
Starbuck whirled even before the body rolled to a halt. All around him the guards’ rifles continued to bark, laying down a heavy volume of fire. He stepped around the tree and saw that Red Ned Adair and three of the gang were still mounted. Their horses were spooked, pitching and rearing in wild gyrations. Yet their sixguns were out, and while their aim was none too good, they were blazing away at the treeline. A quick glance confirmed that the farmer and the other robbers were down, either dead or dying.
All in an instant, Starbuck realized his only chance was to drop Adair’s horse. He stepped clear of the trees, looking for an opening, and advanced toward the corral. Behind him, a staccato volley of gunfire broke loose, and the last three gang members pitched from their saddles. He saw Adair look in his direction and sensed he’d been recognized. A split-second later the outlaw leader fired, and a slug snarled past overhead. Then, before he could align his sights, Adair got control of his horse and took off down the road at a gallop. He let go a snap shot, but knew he’d missed even as he pulled the trigger. Horse and rider vanished in the next moment, blocked from view by the house.
Starbuck sprinted toward the corral. The gunfire abruptly ceased and an eerie silence descended over the farm. From behind, he heard the guards shouting to one another and vaguely noted the sound of running footsteps. The outlaws’ bodies, grotesque in death, littered the ground closer to the barn. He charged past them, only to spot Adair far in the distance. He swore, skidding to a stop, and flung the carbine in the dirt. Then, almost a reflex action, he turned and caught up the reins of a loose horse. He stepped into the saddle as the guards approached and slowed to a walk. His finger stabbed out at the man in the lead.
“You!” he ordered. “Arrest the woman in the house and charge her with accessory to robbery. Then take Kelly’s body to Charles Crocker. Deliver it personally! Tell him it’s a present from me.”
The guard gawked at him. “A present?”
“You heard right,” Starbuck growled. “A present named Judas.”
“What about you, Mr. Starbuck? What’ll I tell him about you?”
“Tell him to look for me when he sees me.”
Starbuck reined sharply around and gigged the horse in the ribs. Some distance away he saw a plume of dust drifting upward against the muslinblue sky. He rode toward San Francisco.
CHAPTER 14
Late that afternoon, Denny O’Brien arrived at the Snug Café. After pounding on the alley door, he was admitted by a startled Chinese dishwasher. Knuckles Jackson, who doubled as one of Buckley’s bodyguards, was hurriedly summoned from the front of the café.
O’Brien, whose manner was agitated and somewhat irrational, demanded to see Buckley. His appearance at the café during the daytime was unprecedented, and led to a heated argument. At last, albeit reluctantly, Jackson left him in the storeroom and went upstairs. Several moments passed; then the door opened and Jackson gave him a look reserved for fools and harebrained Irishmen.
Buckley was seated behind the desk. His composure was monumental, and his expression betrayed no hint of aggravation. Yet, when he spoke, his tone was clipped and stiff, angry.
“You were told never to come here in daylight.”
“I’m sorry, but I had no choice.”
“On the contrary, only an imbecile fails to exercise choice. Your presence indicates that you deliberately chose to ignore my wishes.”
“For Chrissake, nobody saw me!”
“You miss the point,” Buckley said with sudden wrath. “I will not allow anyone to override my orders.” He took out a pocket watch, opened the lid, and deftly fingered the exposed hands. “Five-o-seven! Which means it will be dark in less than two hours. I presume that never occurred to you?”
“What I have to say wouldn’t wait.”
“Indeed?” Buckley returned the watch to his vest pocket. “Has the Bella Union burned down, or is it some lesser calamity?”
“Lots worse.” O’Brien dropped into a chair before the desk. “We’ve got trouble! A shitpot full of trouble.”
“Perhaps you could be a bit more specific?”
“It’s Harry Lovett,” O’Brien said, clearing his throat. “I just found out the son-of-a-bitch is a Pinkerton.”
Buckley received the news with surpassing calmness. “What leads you to believe so?”
“Him and a squad of railroad bulls jumped Ned Adair and his boys this morning. Suckered them into a trap and blasted the whole gang straight to hell.”
“Does that include Adair?”
“No,” O’Brien said quickly. “Ned fought his way clear. It was nip and tuck, but he came through without a scratch.”
“A pity,” Buckley observed dryly. “Exactly what happened?”
“Ned and his boys robbed the morning train to Los Angeles. His inside man at Central Pacific—the chief security bull—told him there wouldn’t be any guards on the express car. Sure enough, there weren’t, and the holdup went off slick as a whistle.”
“No guards,” Buckley mused to himself. “Offhand, I’d think that would have alerted Adair. It seems patently obvious.”
O’Brien spread his hands in a gesture of bafflement. “None of it makes any sense. Kelly—that’s the security bull—hadn’t never tipped him wrong before. But goddamn if Kelly don’t show up at the farmhourse—”
“Farmhouse?”
“Yeah, a farmhouse south of town. Ned used it as a cover whenever he pulled a holdup.”
“Go on.”
“Well, like I said, Kelly was there. Ned says he fired the first shot, evidently at someone in his own party. Then all of a sudden, Kelly goes down and the next thing you know, Lovett pops out from behind a tree. Ned thinks Kelly tried to get Lovett, and instead, Lovett got him.”
“Brilliant.” Buckley invested the word with scorn. “Did Adair deduce all that by himself?”
“Ned’s no dimwit,” O’Brien said defensively. “The way it looks, Kelly got himself boxed in and couldn’t get word to Ned. Then he tried to turn it around at the last minute, and ended up dead.”
“Greater love hath no man,” Buckley added with satiric mockery. “Perhaps we could move on to the part about Lovett.”
O’Brien hunched forward in his chair. “Ned spotted him the second he stepped out of the trees. Lovett was trying to draw a bead on him, but Ned winged a shot and took off. All his men were down, so it would’ve been suicide to stick around any longer.”
“He’s quite certain it was Lovett? In the heat of the moment, he couldn’t have been mistaken?”
“No mistake,” O’Brien said dourly. “It was Lovett, all right. Ned swears to it.”
Buckley considered the thought. “Then we can surmise that Lovett had already identified Adair as the gang leader. Working backward, we can assume that Adair led him to you, and quite recently too. That would explain Lovett’s little charade over the past week.”
O’Brien looked blank. “What’s a charade?”
“A deception,” Buckley replied with cold hauteur. “One specifically engineered and acted out for gullible louts like yours
elf. It would appear our Mr. Lovett is an undercover operative for the Central Pacific.”
“That’s what I said!” O’Brien blurted out. “The bastard’s a Pinkerton!”
“Perhaps.” Buckley examined the notion a moment. “Whether he is or isn’t seems a moot question at this point. What concerns me most is that you and your merry band of train robbers led him directly to me.”
“The hell it did!” O’Brien denied hotly. “It was Fung! Except for him, you wouldn’t have never heard of Lovett.”
“You have a short memory.” Buckley’s voice dropped. “Fung was suspicious of him from the start. You also forget that I’ve warned you repeatedly about train holdups. I believe my comment was to the effect that the return in no way justified the risk.”
“What’s train holdups got to do with Fung?”
“Everything,” Buckley said gruffly. “All of it involves greed, your greed. I gave you the Barbary Coast, but you weren’t satisfied with that. You had to have something extra, smalltime side deals. Train robbery was one, and introducing Lovett to Fung was another. So you see, it’s all of a piece, Denny. Bluntly put, you’re too greedy for your own good … or mine.”
“Wait a minute!” O’Brien objected. “You’re not blaming me for this Lovett thing, are you? Jesus Christ, how was I to know he’s a Pinkerton?”
“Again, the point eludes you.” Buckley dismissed it with a brusque gesture. “Let’s press on, shall we? At the moment we have a larger problem, and unless I’m mistaken, it has little to do with today’s train robbery.”
“Oh?” O’Brien appeared thoroughly confounded. “What problem’s that?”
“Harry Lovett,” Buckley told him. “If his primary target was Adair, then why did he concoct such an elaborate cover story? Why get involved with you or Fung? Why risk a hundred thousand dollars merely to gain my confidence?” He paused, reflective. “Something of an enigma, isn’t it?”
“I give up,” O’Brien said, attentive now. “Why?”
“Because Adair was only a means to an end. On balance, that seems the only logical conclusion. Lovett was after bigger game from the very start. Whether or not he suspected it would bring him to my door, we’ll probably never know. What matters is that it did, and he capitalized on it quite cleverly. Quite cleverly, indeed.”
“You think he’s after you?”
“I think that’s precisely what he’s after.”
“So what do we do now?”
“A good question.”
Buckley placed his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepled his fingers. His eyes, shaded by the tinted glasses, appeared metallic, glittering yet dead. O’Brien had the strange sensation that behind those eyes was something inhuman, even demonic. An elemental force that fed itself on hate and power, and the bones of anyone who stood in its way. One thought led to another, and he dimly pondered where that left him. Then, suddenly, Buckley’s voice jarred him back to the present.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Denny.”
“What kind of bad news?”
“Ned Adair is expendable,” Buckley said with chilling simplicity. “I want you to get rid of him … today.”
“Kill him?” O’Brien gave him a murky look. “What the hell for?”
“For the best of reasons.” Buckley permitted himself a grim smile. “Without Adair there’s no link to you, and therefore no link to me. Lovett will be left with nothing but allegations. And as we all know, allegations aren’t worth a dime a dozen.”
O’Brien massaged his nose, thinking. He knew, though the message was left unstated, that Ned Adair was not the subject at issue. His own knowledge of Frisco’s underworld, and how the operation was structured, posed a far graver threat to Buckley. One false step and he himself would end up at the bottom of the bay. Yet, like many Irishmen, he was cursed with an obdurate nature and a volatile temper. He also possessed loyalty to those he considered friends; betrayal for the sake of expediency was to him the greatest blasphemy. His code had little to do with common standards of decency, but it was nonetheless the code by which he lived. He never welched on a deal or gaffed a friend—and he never betrayed a trust.
“I won’t do it,” he said stoutly. “Ned’s been with me since the old days, and I’ve no better friend in the world. I’d sooner kill my own mother.”
“An admirable sentiment,” Buckley said with wintry malice. “However, in this case, we have to concern ourselves with the practical solution. If Adair were caught, and persuaded to talk, then your arrest would be a virtual certainty.” He stopped, slowly shook his head. “You know I can’t allow that to happen, don’t you, Denny?”
“Ned won’t talk,” O’Brien protested. “He’d go to the gallows before he opened his mouth. As for me, I’ve never ratted in my life, and I’ve no intention to start now.”
“Indeed?” Buckley’s tone was icy. “Then let me put it to you this way, Denny. Are you willing to risk your neck to save Adair?”
“Look here,” O’Brien said stubbornly. “Why kill Ned when there’s a better way? I’ll put him on a ship tonight and send him off to China. Christ, he’d be gone two years, maybe more! By then, this whole thing will’ve blown over and be long forgotten.”
Buckley immediately thought of Fung. Once in China, Adair could be dispatched by Fung’s associates with Oriental efficiency and a minimum of fuss. For the moment it would salve O’Brien’s rebellious mood; later, if necessary, Fung would be delighted to dispatch the Irishman, as well. Overall, it seemed the perfect solution to an unwieldy problem.
“Very well,” he conceded with a show of tolerance. “We’ll strike a compromise. You put Adair aboard the first clipper bound for China. Not tomorrow or the next day, but tonight! Any delay in shipping him out and all bets are off. Fair enough?”
“Plenty fair,” O’Brien agreed. “I’ll handle it myself so there won’t be any slipups. Before midnight, Ned will kiss Frisco goodbye, and that’s a promise.”
“Don’t fail me,” Buckley reminded him. “Otherwise, I’ll be forced to call your marker. Adair or you, that’s the proposition. Understood?”
“Understood,” O’Brien said in a resigned voice. “One way or another, I’ll have him on his way with the evening tide.”
“I’m sure you will, Denny.”
O’Brien looked into the dead eyes and an involuntary chill touched his backbone. Unless he delivered on the promise, there was no doubt the marker would be called. Either Ned Adair vanished tonight or his own life was forfeit. There was no third choice.
Nell sensed trouble when O’Brien hurried through the door of the Bella Union. He looked not just angry, but somehow shaken, unnerved. A moment later intuition turned to certainty. He brushed past High Spade McQueen without a word and rushed up the stairs. Something was seriously wrong, and the source of the problem was hardly in question. Somehow it involved Red Ned Adair.
Earlier that afternoon, on her way downstairs, she’d seen Ned Adair enter O‘Brien’s suite. Covered with sweat and grime, he had left the impression that the Devil himself was on his heels. Before she reached the stairwell, O’Brien had erupted in a burst of profanity. The sound of his curses carried clearly along the hall, and she’d thought at the time that Adair had finally pulled one boner too many. Then, dismissing it from mind, she had gone on about her business.
Now, watching O’Brien take the stairs two at a time, she was struck by a wayward thought. She wondered if it somehow involved Harry Lovett. He hadn’t put in an appearance last night, and she’d heard nothing from him today. That seemed to her very strange, out of character. Knowing she expected him, he was too considerate not to have sent a message. Unless he was unable to send a message!
Stranger still was the fact that Ned Adair hadn’t set foot out of O‘Brien’s suite since arriving. Try as she might, she couldn’t imagine a connection between Adair and Harry Lovett. Yet she was no great believer in coincidence. Adair was hiding from something or somebody, and whatever he’d don
e, it had thrown O’Brien into a towering rage. Added to Harry Lovett’s curious disappearance, it seemed altogether too timely for mere coincidence. She suddenly decided to do a little eavesdropping.
A glance toward the barroom confirmed that McQueen’s attention was diverted elsewhere. She casually mounted the stairs and made her way to the third floor. As she passed O‘Brien’s suite, which was next to her own room, she heard loud voices from inside. Quietly, she entered her room and went directly to the washstand. Long ago, she had discovered that the wall separating her quarters from O’Brien’s was wafer-thin clapboard. Further, she’d found that a girl could easily get an earful, and learn all sorts of secrets. All it required was a water glass.
She placed the open end of the glass flush against the wall. Then she pressed her right ear tightly to the bottom of the glass, and stuck her finger in her left ear. The effect was not unlike that produced by a megaphone. Sounds were amplified, and voices carried with remarkable clarity. She listened closely, and the wall seemed to evaporate. An argument was raging, and in her mind’s eye, it was not difficult to imagine their faces.
“I won’t go! I don’t give a shit what Buckley says. I won’t go, and that’s that!”
Ned Adair stopped pacing, suddenly turned and glared at O’Brien. Dull despair was etched on his features, and dark bruised-looking rings circled his eyes. He sat down heavily on a sofa, his face doughy and stunned. His stomach rolled, and an unmanning sense of nausea seized him. He shook his head wildly.
“Mexico, maybe.” He passed a hand across his eyes and swallowed hard. “But I’ll be goddamned if I’ll go to China. Not me!”
“You’re damned if you don’t.” O’Brien’s voice was firm. “Unless you sail tonight, you’re a dead man. No two ways about it, Ned.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Adair said morosely. “All I need’s a fast horse and an hour’s head start. Buckley wouldn’t never find me! Not in a million years.”
