The Killing Look

by J. D. Rhoades

  “This is a whorehouse.” Cade didn’t holster the pistol, but he did relax and let it dangle by his side.

  “Indeed. That doesn’t offend you, does it?”

  Cade shook his head. “No, sir. But I thought we were on a business errand. Not pleasure.”

  Hamrick’s voice sharpened. “We are on whatever errand I say we are on. Is that clear?”

  Cade kept his voice even. “As clear as day, sir. But with respect, it’d make my job of protecting you a damn sight easier if I knew ahead of time where we were going and why.”

  Hamrick stared for a moment, working his jaw, pride and the need to dominate fighting an internal war with practicality that played out on his face. Finally, he swung himself down to the dirt floor of the tiny courtyard. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Sir…” Cade protested, but Hamrick had vanished into a nearby doorway. Cade gritted his teeth.

  The whores in the shadows began calling out to him and Samuel.

  “Hey, big man.”

  “Want to come upstairs with Big Molly? I don’t mind a little dark meat.”

  “Want me to ride your pony, cowboy?”

  Cade stole a glance at Samuel. The black man sat as rigid and deaf as a statue, ignoring the offers coming out of the gloom. One of the bolder whores swaggered up to the carriage and looked Cade over with one bright blue eye. The other was covered with a leather patch. Her long curly hair was dyed a shade of red Cade was pretty sure wasn’t found in nature. “So how about it, cowboy?” she drawled. “Come upstairs with One-eyed Suzie. It’ll be the best piece of ass you ever had.”

  “Sorry, darlin’,” Cade answered. “I’m on duty. Maybe later.”

  Her face tightened as if she was going to say something vicious, but the little black boy who’d first greeted them ran out at that moment, clutching glass mugs filled with pale gold liquid in either hand. He ran up to the carriage and held the mugs out, one reaching toward Samuel, the other toward Cade.

  “Compliments of the house,” he panted, out of breath from hurrying. “While you wait.”

  Cade looked at Samuel, who looked back at him without expression before leaning down and taking the mug from the boy’s hand. He took a deep draught of the beer before lowering the mug and silently tipping his hat to the boy.

  Cade was surprised to see the stolid black driver partaking, but he followed suit, including the hat tip after a long swallow. “Much obliged, young fella.” That seemed to provide some signal to the gathered watchers. Their attention wandered away from the carriage and its occupants, and they began walking about, muttering and gossiping amongst themselves.

  Cade drank the rest of the mug and turned to Samuel. “How long does this here errand usually…” Before he could finish the sentence, a loud female scream split the air. The group gathered around beneath the balconies fell silent, froze, then every one of them vanished into the nearest doorway, leaving Cade and Samuel alone.

  “What the hell?” Cade slid down from the carriage and dropped into a crouch, the Colt up and moving as if searching for targets on its own.

  “Not our affair. Leave it.” The tightness in Samuel’s voice belied the nonchalance of the words. Another scream came from upstairs, but this time it was followed by a peal of hysterical laughter, apparently from the same throat. Cade was on the verge of heading into the warren of buildings surrounding them to seek out whoever was in distress, but that last sound drew him up short in confusion. It was followed by the sound of singing, a group of loud, unmelodious voices belting out “Oh, Susannah.”

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered.

  “You don’t know what’s happening.” Samuel spoke down from his perch on the driver’s seat, but there was no condescension or amusement in his voice.

  Cade looked up. “No, damn it. Do you?”

  Samuel shook his head. “No. But I’m used to it.”

  At that moment, Hamrick walked into the courtyard, his coat over his shoulder and a leather satchel in one hand. He tossed the satchel into the back of the carriage, where it landed with the clank of gold coin inside. Hamrick stopped to pull his coat on before looking at Cade. “I’m ready to go now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cade said. He holstered the pistol and climbed into the carriage beside his employer.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The quiet inside the carriage on the trip back was a distinct contrast to the noise and chaos they moved through. Inevitably, it was Hamrick who spoke first as they began the climb up the hill. “So, you’re wondering what our little errand was.”

  Cade looked straight ahead. “Haven’t looked in that satchel you brought out, but from the clatter, I figure it’s a rent payment.”

  Hamrick nodded. “And why, you are likely asking yourself, could the rent not be collected during the day, when business was not in full swing?”

  Cade said nothing. Hamrick chuckled. “Or maybe you didn’t ask because you already know. You know that there’s more than one form of currency in the Barbary Coast.”

  Cade said nothing. Hamrick went on. “So, Mr. Cade, I’m sure you were offered some of the local accommodation. But, unless I miss my estimation of time, you didn’t avail yourself.”

  “No, sir. Not while I’m working.”

  Hamrick nodded. “Indeed. Maybe we’ll need to take you back as a reward for your fidelity. I hear One-eyed Susie, in particular, is quite skilled in the French style.”

  After five years of traveling west, frequenting saloons, stews, and whorehouses, Cade was no Methodist prude. He knew exactly what was being described. Still, Hamrick’s prurient interest in his personal arrangements was beginning to make his skin crawl. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “but I reckon I can arrange for my own entertainment. In my own free time. Sir.” The rebuke was bland but unmistakable, and Cade felt Hamrick stiffen beside him. Well, Cade thought. Maybe I’ll be looking for work again tomorrow. Wouldn’t be the first job I lost for speaking my mind, but it’ll be the best paying.

  They passed the rest of the ride in silence, until they approached the Hamrick residence. Cade saw Samuel grow rigid as the house came into view. He leaned forward. “What is it?” he murmured.

  Samuel’s voice was tense. “The lights are out.”

  Cade frowned. “I don’t suppose that means everyone’s turned in.”

  Samuel pulled the reins gently to stop the team. “No. The lights stay on ’til Mr. Hamrick returns. I douse them myself.”

  “Right, then.” Cade drew the Colt. “I suppose you’re heeled.”

  “What’s going on?” Hamrick demanded.

  Samuel produced a small silver pistol from an inside pocket of his waistcoat. “I’ve got this.”

  Cade grimaced. The little pistol Samuel had looked more like a decoration than a useful firearm, and the man held it as if he’d never touched a gun before. He turned to Hamrick. “Maybe nothing, sir. The lights are out, and that’s not usual. You should wait here until I’ve checked it out.” To Samuel, he whispered, “That lady’s gun won’t do a damn thing ‘less you shoot the son of a bitch right in the eye. Stick with Hamrick and fire it in the air if anyone comes near you don’t like the looks of. Better yet, go and fetch the law.”

  “Wait a minute,” Hamrick spoke up, “my wife and daughter are in there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cade said as he dismounted the carriage. He knew his job was to guard Hamrick, but he’d be damned if he’d leave a woman and child in danger. “Stay here.” Before either Hamrick or Samuel could protest, he headed off down the sidewalk, the Navy revolver held out in front of him. His mind raced as he considered his options. A charge up the front steps, even in the dark, would expose him to the fire of anyone in the front of the house. Best to slip around back. He reached the iron gate to the driveway. Sidling up next to the iron slats, he fumbled for the latch, straining his eyes in the dark to look down the shadowed passage. He grimaced. There could be a dozen ambushers waiting in that g
loom and he wouldn’t know it until the first bullet split his skull. But in a situation like this, with nothing but bad options, the worst thing to do was nothing.

  When he lifted the latch, Cade opened the gate just wide enough to slip through. After closing it behind him, he crept as cat-footed as he could manage down the hedge-lined cobblestoned path. At the end of that leafy corridor, he stopped and peered around the end of the lane.

  The dim light of a waxing moon barely illuminated the dirt courtyard before the carriage house. At the foot of the back steps, Cade could see a cloaked figure pacing back and forth. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Whoever the sentry was, he was at least as nervous as Cade. When he’d taken enough deep breaths to change that balance, at least in his own estimation, Cade stepped out into the open, the Colt held out in front of him.

  “Hey,” he called out, “who the fuck are you?”

  The figure froze for a moment. Then, with a shrill cry, it charged. Something glinted in its right hand, catching the dim moonlight. Cade fired, the report sounding like cannon fire in the cloistered moonlit silence of the courtyard. The figure staggered, but kept advancing. Cade could make out the weapon in its hand, some kind of short-handled hatchet or tomahawk. He pulled the trigger again, then again. The charging figure slowed, stopped, then fell to its knees before falling forward soundlessly onto its face. Cade heard shouting from inside, male voices raised in a babble he couldn’t make out, then a piercing female scream. Cade stepped over the fallen figure and bounded up the steps. He heard more shouting, a mix of male and female voices, then the roar of a heavy firearm, most likely a shotgun. Cade saw the back door hanging halfway open. He kicked it out of his way, then stormed inside.

  He was back in the narrow hallway that led past the kitchen. Crouched, pistol at the ready, he crept down the gloomy passage, letting his eyes adjust. He could see a little better when he reached the doorway to the empty kitchen. Pots and pans hanging from racks reflected the moonlight that filtered in through the broad windows over the gleaming sinks. Cade paused, holding his breath, listening for any telltale signs of movement in the kitchen, fervently wishing he had a half dozen more trusted gunmen behind him to guard his flanks and rear. He hoped Samuel had done as he’d been asked and gone to fetch the law.

  Another feminine scream from upstairs pulled his attention away. With a last glance behind him, he moved down the hall toward the front of the house. He heard the thunder of footsteps on stairs. They seemed to be coming from behind a door on one end of the kitchen, by the stove. Servant’s stairs, he thought. There was more than one pair of feet crashing down those steps; it sounded like a stampede. Cade took up a position behind the high table in the middle of the room and turned to face the closed door as the commotion reached the bottom. He was so intent on what was in front of him, it was only by the stroke of good luck that he heard the dry creak of a floorboard behind him, turning at the last second to see a cloaked and hooded figure raising something above its head. The hatchet blade caught a stray beam of light as it came down. It can’t be the same man, Cade thought as he threw himself backward. It can’t. I shot the son of a bitch. He felt the hard edge of the table against his back and slid sideways, trying to find room to put between him and that wicked blade. He slid past the end of the table, stumbled, and fell flat on his ass, the vicious stroke burying the hatchet in the wood of the table and missing him so closely it tore a hole in the upper sleeve of his long coat. He raised the pistol again as the door from the stairs burst open. Two more cloaked figures emerged, gasping for breath. One seemed to be holding the other up. He turned back to the figure in front of him, who’d stepped forward, hatchet yanked from the table and raised above his head. Cade pulled the trigger once, twice. The report of the pistol was deafening in the darkened kitchen space. The figure staggered backward, but again didn’t fall. That’s five, he thought. One shot left. No time to reload. And three men, even if one of them’s wounded and the other ought to be dead. A cold feeling came over him. I am well and truly fucked now.

  He heard a footstep behind him and instinctively rolled to one side as a pistol shot chewed splinters out of the polished hardwood floor. Cade saw that the man from the stairs was still holding up his compatriot, but the gun in his free hand was pointed right at the center of Cade’s face. He’d made the mistake of rolling to his right, putting his pistol arm beneath him, and he knew his luck had run out. There was no way the next shot could miss, and then there was the seemingly unkillable man with the hatchet. He was fighting to get his arm free when the next shot came. But when it did, it came from the hallway.

  Cade looked over to see Samuel framed in the door to the kitchen, holding the little pistol he’d produced earlier. He fired again, the report sounding like a weak slap. This shot went wide of the man with the pistol, but it hit the man he was holding up with a sickening wet sound. Something warm and sticky spattered over Cade. The pistoleer screamed something in a high-pitched voice, raised his gun, and fired back at Samuel, but the carriage driver had ducked backward into the hallway. Cade heard another door bang open. Christ, what now, he thought as he turned. He saw moonlight through the side door as the figure of the hatchet man disappeared into the night. The remaining man dragged his limp burden around the other side of the table, keeping it between himself and Cade and heading for the door. As Cade began to rise up from behind the table, the man snapped off another shot, unaimed, but sufficient for its purpose of making Cade duck. Then they were gone out the side door. Cade considered following, but he’d used up five bullets without killing any of the mysterious intruders, and his bafflement quickly cooled any ardor for further gunplay. He looked down at himself. There was a dark stain across his front and he picked up the faint but unmistakable scent of blood. He checked to confirm that it wasn’t his own. It seemed the only one who’d made a killing shot was Samuel.

  “Cade?” Samuel called from the darkened hallway.

  “In here. They’re gone.”

  Samuel edged his way into the kitchen, his little gun at the ready. He let it fall to his side as he saw Cade. “You got blood on you.”

  “I’m not hit. That’s from the bastard you shot. Killed him, unless I miss my guess.”

  Samuel’s laugh was strained, with an edge of hysteria in it. “Well, you told me to shoot the son of a bitch in the eye.”

  “That ain’t exactly what I told you. But I’m in no mood to quibble. Much obliged, by the way.”

  Samuel nodded, took a deep breath, and got hold of himself with a visible effort. He looked at the open stairway. “Mrs. Hamrick? Violet?”

  “I heard someone hollerin’ upstairs. And a shot.” They started for the stairs together, then Cade stepped back and motioned for Samuel to go first. “They know you better. And I think the lady’s got a shotgun.”

  Samuel nodded, then started up the stairs. “Mrs. Hamrick?” he called up. “It’s Samuel.”

  There was no answer. Samuel looked back at Cade, who gestured with his free hand to the stairs. “Go on up. I’ll go round to the front stairs and check for stragglers. Just don’t shoot me when I get up there, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best.” He started up the stairs again. In the distance, Cade could hear shrill whistles approaching.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The lights were back on, the warm glow of the gas lamps casting a mantle of reassurance over the house. Cade and Samuel sat side by side on a lushly upholstered couch in the downstairs parlor, watched over by a large, stone-faced policeman with a bushy, grey-flecked mustache. They’d been relieved of their firearms, which made Cade feel unsettled. After what they’d just been through, he wanted his pistol.

  Cade leaned over and murmured to Samuel. “Was Mrs. Hamrick okay? And the little girl?”

  “Here, you two,” the big policeman said. “No talking.”

  The tone got Cade’s back up. “Says who?” He stood up.

  The policeman turned to face Cade, drawing his lon
g baton from beneath his coat. “Says me. And Captain Smith.”

  “And who the fuck, exactly, is Captain Smith, that I should be fuckin’ mindful of him? By the way, friend, you might want to be a bit more circumspect with that there little stick, lest you find it crammed into a place that might cause you embarrassment.”

  The policeman’s face reddened with rage until it was almost purple. He drew back the baton. Cade braced himself to charge to within the swing of the weapon. The man had a few inches of reach and more than a few pounds on Cade, but his blood was still up, and he was never in a mood to be bullied.

  They were interrupted by a dry voice that came from the doorway. “That will be enough, Sergeant Dunleavy.”

  The sound of the voice seemed to freeze the big policeman in mid-swing. He regarded Cade, eyes wide, nearly bulging with barely suppressed rage. Then he took a deep breath and stepped back, letting the baton fall to his side. When he spoke, it was in the tones of a child trying to justify a minor offense. “Captain, I think these two were tryin’ to get their stories together.”

  Cade turned to the man who’d spoken first. He was leaning against the doorjamb, smiling sardonically. He was short and slender, with a pale complexion and skin that seemed loose on the bones of his face, like that of a man recovering from a long illness. His clothing was in an expensive cut that rivaled anything Hamrick might wear. He held a bowler hat in his left hand, tapping the brim against his right. The only element that connected him with Dunleavy was the silver star on his left lapel that matched the one on the burly sergeant’s long gray coat.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said kindly. “I’ll take that into consideration. Along with your help in this investigation. I can assure you, these fellows are going to get everything that’s coming to them. Now, if you’d ask Lieutenant Webster to step in, so we can have a talk with these witnesses?”