“Your visit,” Beaumont said.
“I see. I hardly know you. I’m an Easterner, and the daughter of the new manager of what promises to be the largest ranch in the Badlands. And my coming to see you is unseemly, according to most people.” Isolda paused. “Is there anything I’ve missed?”
“That pretty much covers it,” Beaumont admitted. “Not that I don’t like havin’ you come. I took a likin’ to you at first sight when I saw you out in the street.”
“And I to you,” Isolda said. She sighed and gazed about the saloon. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m sick to death of what I do. Mainly I’ve been my father’s bookkeeper. I write in ledgers all day. Compile receipts. Catalog expenses. It’s tedious. I’ve reached the point where it bores me so much I can’t stand to do it anymore. I’ve wanted something different for a long time. Not just in my work, but in my life.”
“Different how?”
“All my life, I’ve done what my father wanted me to. It was his idea I go to school, his idea I take business courses, his idea I work for him. I went along with it because, quite frankly, I had no idea what I wanted. It gave me something to do. And it was easy.” Isolda pinched her lips together. “But when my mother died, I began to see things differently. I realized I could spend my whole life doing something that didn’t mean anything to me. And I grew to hate it.”
“Ah,” Beaumont said. He thought he saw where this was going. “So you came west for excitement and adventure.”
“No. That might have been at the back of my mind, but I came because my father and sister were coming and they took it for granted I’d work with them as I always have. That it could be an adventure didn’t occur to me until we arrived in Whiskey Flats and encountered Scar Wratner, and then I saw you.”
“Since you’re bein’ so frank,” Beaumont said, “what is it you want of me? To take you on picnics? Go on moonlit rides together?”
Isolda laughed. “I’m far more practical than that. Tell me. What are your plans? To run this saloon for the rest of your days?”
“I aim to take this town over lock, stock, and barrel,” Beaumont revealed. “To become so rich and powerful I can do whatever I want.”
“That’s your life’s ambition?”
“I admit it’s not one a churchgoer would approve of,” Beaumont said. “But I live by my wits and my cards and my guns. I’ve lucked into somethin’ here. I’m in the right place at the right time to set myself up as a king, and I’d be a fool not to seize the crown.”
“I like how you put that,” Isolda said, and smirked. “Every king needs a queen, and I’m interested in being yours. With my head for business wedded to your guns and cards, you’d be unstoppable.”
“What about your pa and your sister? They might not take kindly to you associatin’ with a no-account like me.”
“You’re hardly that, and I don’t care what they think. I’d like to see more of you. If things work out, fine. If you decide you want nothing to do with me, well, I can’t say I didn’t try to interest you.”
Beaumont sat back and whistled softly.
“What?”
“You’re the most remarkable gal I’ve ever met.”
“Because I know what I want and I go after it?” Isolda grinned. “I get that trait from my father.” She looked toward the batwings and her grin died. “Oh, damn. I forgot about him.”
“Who?” Beaumont said, turning.
Jericho had just walked in.
• • •
Neal Bonner was going to shout a warning to Alexander Jessup, but once again he hesitated.
Yellow jackets were common most everywhere. They were a type of wasp, not a bee, as some thought. They nested in great numbers and could be a nuisance when people ate outdoors. The females were prickly and prone to sting.
This particular one flew past Alexander and down around the mustang’s rear legs. The horse wasn’t moving, and it appeared to Neal that the yellow jacket would fly on. Then it did the last thing he wanted it to; it landed high on one leg. The mustang flicked its tail to swish it off, and all hell erupted.
The yellow jacket must have stung it, because the mustang let out with a whinny and kicked with both legs. A hoof caught the puncher who had been helping Holland, and Neal heard the sharp crack of a rib breaking. The puncher cried out and fell, clutching himself, and the mustang arched its back and launched itself at the sky.
“Father!” Edana cried.
Alexander Jessup clutched at the saddle horn and somehow managed to stay on. “Whoa, horse, whoa!” he shouted.
Neal and Holland closed in to help. Holland lunged at the bridle, but a sweep of the mustang’s head sent him sprawling. Neal leaped, grabbed hold, and was lifted off his feet and whirled as if he were weightless. The mustang was in a panic.
Neal dug his boots into the ground in an effort to hold the horse still so Jessup could dismount. “Get off!” he shouted.
Alexander nodded and unhooked a foot from a stirrup. He pressed both hands to the saddle, about to push off and jump down.
Neal could never say what made the mustang do what it did next. The sting couldn’t have been that painful. He’d warned Jessup that the horse wasn’t entirely broken yet, but Jessup didn’t listen. And now, without any warning, it lowered its front shoulders and slammed into the snubbing post in an effort to be shed of Jessup.
Edana screamed.
Alexander was swinging his other leg over the saddle and in another moment would have leaped clear. The sudden pitching threw him off balance. He fell between the mustang and the post, and this time the crack of bones was even louder.
Neal let go of the bridle to try and grab Jessup and pull him out of there, but the mustang whipped around, knocking him down. He scrambled up again as cowboys hollered and vaulted over the corral. Holland tried to grab the bridle and was again sent tumbling.
“Father! Father!” Edana rushed in and a leg clipped her and she was knocked away, staggering.
Neal spied an arm sticking out. Darting around the mustang, he saw that Alexander Jessup was on his side, evidently unconscious, blood trickling from his mouth and nose. Gripping the man’s wrist, Neal sought to drag him out of there before the horse could do more harm. But the mustang reared, kicking at Billy and Yeager and others trying to gain control, and a front hoof came down on Alexander’s hip. Neal was sure he heard a crunch.
Beside herself, Edana screamed and pushed at the mustang and was bowled over.
Billy drew his six-shooter, but Holland yelled, “No!”
Springing forward, Neal got his hands under Alexander’s arms. As he pulled, the mustang wheeled and its hindquarter struck his shoulder. He nearly lost his hold. Pulling for all he was worth, he dragged Jessup out. But he’d only taken a couple more steps when the mustang plowed into him. He cartwheeled, the sky and the ground changing places. The next he knew, he was on his back and the world was spinning. Tides of pain washed through him, but he made it to his knees.
Bedlam reigned. A dozen or more punchers were trying to lay hold of the plunging, kicking mustang, and having no success whatsoever. Several were down, one man spitting blood.
Edana was trying to reach her father. She went to dash past the mustang and the horse reared yet again, its hooves above her head. Edana raised her arms in a vain bid to protect herself. She would be borne down, crushed, trampled.
Neal wasn’t aware of drawing his Colt. Suddenly it was in his hand, and he thumbed back the hammer and fired. He was pointing it at the mustang’s head, but he could well miss; he wasn’t Jericho.
At the blast, a hole appeared near the mustang’s eye, and the mustang whinnied stridently and folded in on itself, missing Edana as it crashed to earth. It kicked once and was still.
Shock turned the punchers to stone. Shooting a horse for any reason was rarely done.
Neal he
aved up and reached Alexander at the same moment Edana did. Sobbing, Edana cradled her father’s head. “Look at him.”
Blood continued to ooze from Alexander’s mouth and nose. His one arm was bent at an unnatural angle and his clothes were torn and caked with dust.
“Get him to the house,” Neal barked at Yeager. “Find a board or somethin’ to carry him on.”
Punchers scrambled to obey.
Edana clasped Alexander’s hand and stroked his brow. “Father, can you hear me?”
Neal put his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t reckon he can,” he said. “We have to get him inside.” He was going to add, “And send for the sawbones,” but there wasn’t one. Whiskey Flats didn’t have a doctor yet. They were entirely on their own.
“Oh, Neal,” Edana said in despair. “What will I do if I lose him?”
“Don’t talk like that,” Neal said. But they just might. It depended on how busted up Jessup was inside. Neal wasn’t feeling so good himself. He’d taken a couple of hard hits, and his shoulder wouldn’t stop hurting. “Are you all right?”
“What?” Edana tore her gaze from her father. “I’m sure I’m bruised but I’ll be fine. You look bad off yourself. Someone should check you over.”
“After your pa is tended to.”
A lot of commotion preceded four cowboys arriving with a long plank. It wasn’t that wide, but with a puncher at either end and on both sides to prevent Alexander from falling off, they hurried from the corral and crossed to the house. Edana bid them carry him to his bedroom and place him on the bed. It was done as gently as possible, but Alexander groaned a lot and continued to bleed badly.
Neal issued commands. For water to be put on the stove and heated. For towels to be brought. For the mustang to be disposed of.
In the middle of everyone hustling about, the cook showed up. His name was Kantor and he had some medical experience in that he’d driven ambulance wagons during the Civil War and sometimes had to assist the doctors and nurses. After the war he’d found a job as a cook’s helper at an eatery in St. Louis and stayed long enough to learn the essentials. City life hadn’t appealed to him, though, and when he’d heard of a ranch that was looking for a cook, he signed on. Other ranches and nearly twenty years later, here he was. He favored a stovepipe hat and had a big belly. “I came as soon as I heard, Neal. What can I do?”
“Have a look at Mr. Jessup.” Neal put an arm around Edana and tried to pull her off the edge of the bed, where she was sitting, but she resisted.
“Let me be. I’m not leaving his side.”
“We need to let Kantor examine him,” Neal said, “and he can’t do it with us in the way.” He was struck speechless when Edana buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed. Awkwardly patting her, he said, “There, there.”
“He’s not going to make it.”
“We don’t know that yet,” Neal said. He drew her away, then motioned at the cowboys in the room and the hall. “Everybody doesn’t need to see this.”
Nodding, Yeager commenced to shoo the rest out.
Kantor had taken Alexander’s left wrist and was feeling for a pulse. “It’s awful weak,” he announced, and when Edana sobbed, he looked at Neal as if to say he was sorry for being so careless.
Yeager got the last of the hands from the bedroom and shut the door behind them, saying as he closed it, “We’ll wait outside for word.”
“Maybe I should go with them,” Neal said.
“No!” Edana virtually shouted it, and clutched his shirt. “I’d like you with me. You’re the only friend I have here.”
Kantor set to removing Alexander’s clothes, slowly, carefully, piece by piece, and setting them aside. When he unbuttoned Alexander’s shirt and parted it, he inadvertently recoiled.
“What is it?” Edana asked.
“You don’t want to see, ma’am,” Kantor said.
Edana pulled loose from Neal and looked over the cook’s shoulder. “Lord, no,” she gasped.
22
The entire saloon fell silent.
Isolda met Jericho’s gaze as he came toward their table. She refused to act embarrassed, refused to behave as if she’d done anything wrong. She was a grown woman. She could do as she pleased.
Men playing cards at another table got up and moved back. Others who were close by did the same. The bartender put his hands under the bar and kept them there.
Dyson and Stimms had been at one end and now started toward the table but stopped at a gesture from Beaumont Adams.
Smiling, Isolda said, “Look who is here.”
Jericho stopped about six feet out. “You snuck off on me, ma’am.”
“That I did,” Isolda admitted.
“I wish you hadn’t,” Jericho said. “Your pa gave me orders.”
“Which is why I did it,” Isolda said. “I knew you’d have objected if I’d told you I wanted to come here. You might even have tried to prevent me.”
“You need to leave now, ma’am,” Jericho said.
Isolda barely contained a surge of temper. “What will you do if I refuse? Sling me over your shoulder and carry me out.”
“If it comes to that.”
Beaumont Adams had been listening intently. “Hold on,” he said. “What’s this about orders?”
“Her pa doesn’t want her to talk to you,” Jericho said.
“What did I do to deserve that?” Beaumont asked in surprise.
“There was mention of your eyes bein’ too free,” Jericho said.
“Well, hell,” Beaumont said.
“I don’t care what my father thinks or wants,” Isolda said. “No one is going to stop me from talking to whomever I desire.”
“I have it to do, ma’am,” Jericho said. “I’ll take you out whether you like it or not. It’d be best if you come along peaceable. If you don’t, there’s liable to be blood spilled.”
“What will you do? Hit me?”
“It won’t be your blood, ma’am.”
Isolda was furious that he refused to do as she wanted. “You would resort to violence? Is this more of that riding-for-the-brand nonsense?”
“It is, ma’am.”
“Quit being so polite. Can’t you see I’m mad? What will you do? Grab me by my arm and drag me out?”
“If it comes to that,” Jericho said again.
Isolda looked at Beaumont. “I’m sorry about this intrusion. These cowboys take their jobs much too seriously. I refuse to be intimidated. I’ll stay and talk to you for as long as I want.”
Jericho, too, looked at Beaumont. “Tell her what will happen if she does. Tell her how it is.”
“Tell me how what is?” Isolda said. She noticed that Dyson and Stimms stood poised as if ready to resort to their pistol and rifle, respectively, and that Floyd appeared to be holding something behind the bar.
“He’s been quite frank with you, my dear,” Beaumont said. “He doesn’t have any choice in the matter. He’ll try to take you out and I’ll try to stop him and that’s when the blood will be spilled.”
“There are more of you than there are of him,” Isolda said. “Surely he won’t dare defy all of you.”
“Oh, he’ll dare hell itself to do as your father wants,” Beaumont said. “It’ll be him or us, and I wouldn’t bet money on us bein’ a sure thing. I’ve heard tell that Jericho here is mighty quick on the shoot.”
“I am that,” Jericho said.
“Listen to him boast,” Isolda said in disgust. “You’re saying you can’t beat him?”
“It would be a close thing,” Beaumont said, “and, even if I tied him, he’s not apt to miss at this range.”
“This is intolerable,” Isolda said. “I’m being treated as if I’m a child and have no say in my own life.”
“Ma’am,” Jericho said. “You’d best get up now.”
>
“I’ll be damned if I will. You’ll just have to drag me out.”
“Oh, ma’am,” Jericho said. “What you’ve done.” He took a step but stopped when Beaumont Adams started to straighten. “Don’t,” he said.
The gambler grinned. “I’m afraid I don’t have much choice, either.”
“You try to point that arm with the hideout up your sleeve, I draw,” Jericho said. “You reach for either pocket, I draw.”
Over at the bar, Dyson said, “Boss? What do you want us to do?”
“Say the word,” Stimms said.
Floyd’s mouth was twitching. “To hell with this. Who does he think he is, actin’ so high and mighty?” Glowering at Jericho, he declared, “I want you out of this saloon, mister, right this minute.”
“Floyd, don’t,” Beaumont said.
Either Floyd didn’t hear him or he ignored him, because when Jericho didn’t move, Floyd snarled, “I will by God blow you in half.” With that, he jerked a scattergun up, cocking a hammer as he did.
Jericho shot him.
There was the flash of nickel plating and pearl, and the boom of the Colt, thunderous in the confines of the room. A hole appeared in the middle of Floyd’s forehead even as the back of his head exploded, showering hair and blood and brains on the mirror. For a few moments Floyd swayed. Then the scattergun fell from fingers gone limp and Floyd followed it to the floor with a loud crash.
Jericho twirled the Colt into his holster so blindingly fast the revolver was a blur.
“God Almighty,” someone said.
Someone else whistled.
Facing the table, Jericho said to Beaumont, “There doesn’t have to be any more. She might listen to you.”
Isolda was struck speechless. She’d never seen anyone killed before. The brutality of it should horrify her, but it didn’t. She watched a gob of brain slide down the mirror, leaving a trail of goo in its wake, and wasn’t the least bit appalled. She didn’t feel sick to her stomach. She didn’t feel anything except a strong sense of excitement.
“You can see how it is,” Beaumont said.
Badlanders Page 16
