“George Halstead? Are you sure?”
“I’ve done business with both Halsteads, Junior and Senior. That’s Senior, as sure as I’m standing here.”
Whiteoak spun around and charged down the alley. For as quickly as he moved, he made surprisingly little noise. It took some amount of effort for Byron to catch up without creating footsteps that echoed all the way down Second Street.
“Where are you going now?” Byron asked after he’d managed to close some of the distance between himself and the professor.
Without breaking stride, Whiteoak replied, “To get a closer look.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“I need to be certain.”
“Of what?”
When he didn’t get an answer to his question, Byron added some steam into his steps and caught up to Whiteoak. Grabbing the professor by his starched collar, he slowed him down with a hearty pull. Whiteoak came to an abrupt halt and yanked free of Byron’s grasp.
“Do you know how expensive this shirt is?” Whiteoak snapped.
Ignoring the professor’s love of his accoutrements, Byron asked, “What do you need to be so certain about?”
“I suspected Monroe was a bounty hunter when he was working for Davis and now it seems even more probable that that’s the case. It also makes it that much more vital that I find out who the hell he’s meeting with.”
“Why?”
“Because something is going on here and I aim to find out what it is.”
“What does it matter to you? It’s only a matter of time before you pack up your medicine show and drive that wagon to another town. Just make sure it’s a town with fewer greedy old men than this place and you’ll be fine.”
“There are more greedy old men out there than you might know,” Whiteoak pointed out. “And unless you haven’t noticed, I’m in this too deep to pick up and leave.”
“Something put a bee in your bonnet within the last few minutes. Tell me what it is or so help me, I’ll rain all kinds of hell on you.”
Although he wasn’t overly concerned by the threat, Whiteoak sighed and cast one more glance at the corner. There was still a bit more alley to traverse before he could get a good look at the men having the conversation, but he could still hear their voices. By the sound of them, they were still too wrapped up in their own business to take notice of anyone else’s. Knowing that good fortune wouldn’t last, Whiteoak positioned himself so he could watch Byron and the end of the alley at the same time.
“There’s something going on . . . ,” Whiteoak started to say.
“So you’ve already told me.”
“Whatever it is could start something that might affect this whole state.”
Byron’s face twisted into an expression of pure disbelief. “What?”
“Monroe has done some very nasty work for Michael Davis. George Halstead, Senior, is talking to him at this moment. Unless my skill at arithmetic is severely lacking, that’s half of this town’s Founding Four linked to a known killer. As you’ve already told me, those four men are responsible for a great deal of business in this state, hell, this entire region of the country.”
“I’m sure this isn’t the first deal those men have struck with violent men in the dead of night.”
“Maybe not,” Whiteoak said, “but it’s the first one I’ve been able to witness.”
“And what the hell does that matter?”
Stricken by the other man’s tone, Whiteoak looked at him exclusively for a few moments. He suddenly realized he’d taken his eyes away from the street corner and quickly checked to make sure nothing there had changed. “What’s gotten into you?” the professor hissed.
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
“Can’t we get into this some other time? Like when there isn’t an armed killer nearby?”
“And when will that be, exactly?” Byron asked. “From what I’ve seen, there could be armed killers around you at any given moment.”
“Nobody’s been forcing you to follow me.”
“You’ve already been seen with me and my sister on plenty of occasions. In case you haven’t noticed, this is a very small town and word spreads quickly through it.”
“And?”
“And if anyone might ask about you, like some killers from out of town for example, odds are pretty damn good my sister and I would be mentioned right along with you.”
The men at the corner were still talking. While their gestures were becoming more intense, their voices had dropped so low that they would’ve been tough to hear even for someone much closer than the alley Whiteoak had chosen. Although his eyes were still on the group of huddled men, Whiteoak’s thoughts circled around the points Byron had made.
“You’re right,” the professor admitted. “I apologize.”
“I don’t want your apology. I want real answers to my questions. And if you mention some nonsense about danger to the state of Kansas or the world at large, I swear I’ll knock your head off your shoulders.”
Whiteoak grinned. “Money.”
“Huh?”
“You want to know what this is about? Money,” the professor said. “That’s all it’s ever about.”
“You’d get killed for money?”
“I have no intention whatsoever of getting killed. Those men are connected to a large amount of money and they’re up to something. If we find out what that is . . .”
“We? I’m not going to lock horns with a killer and at least one of the town’s Founding Four.”
Whiteoak took hold of Byron by the shoulders and shoved him into the relative safety of the alley. “You want me to be level with you? How about you do the same for me?”
“I don’t want a part of something like this.”
“Then you could’ve stepped back and let me go about my business. Better yet, you could have kicked me out of your home or told the law to come after me. Your sister’s got connections to the sheriff, right?”
“Yes,” Byron said insistently before removing Whiteoak’s hands from where they gripped his shoulders. “And if she got wind of what you’re up to, she might do something about it.”
“Now you’re the one feeding me a line of nonsense,” Whiteoak said as he took a quick glance at the corner where the other men were still talking. “You just don’t want her to mess this up.”
“I still barely know what there is to mess up!”
“But you wanted to keep pestering me until you found out. I think you wanted to be a part of it because you knew it would lead to more profit than you could get ferrying papers and such from one town to another.”
Now it was Byron who glanced at the trio of armed men. “Looks like they’re about to disband. The arguing is settling down.”
“You’d best get home. Make certain your sister is safe.”
“Why wouldn’t she be safe?”
“I don’t know. All I’m doing is trying to think of every eventuality.”
“What about you?” Byron asked. “Have you figured some way to rob them before they move away from that corner?”
“Not yet,” Whiteoak replied, “but I’m working on it. And unless you want one or both of us to get shot, I’d suggest you decide what it is you’re after. Either go back to your family and home where it’s safe or throw in with me where it’s profitable.”
“Throw in with you?”
“Of course. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“All I wanted was to keep you from getting yourself killed. It’s the least I could do after you saved my life.”
As the three men in the distance said their farewells, they each walked in different directions. Whiteoak put his back against a wall and used one arm to push Byron back as well. “You’re a businessman,” he said in a whisper that was almost too quiet to be heard. “And you have a taste for adventure.”
Byron let out a snort of a laugh. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
“Drama adds spice to life. The trick is knowing how
much spice to add. Too much, and you become something you hadn’t bargained on becoming.”
“And what’s that?”
“Dead, if we don’t both keep our mouths shut. Now do you want to help me or leave? Choose right now.”
It only took a moment for Byron to make up his mind, although he let more time pass in the event that he had second thoughts. If he had them, those reservations were pushed out of his head when he got a closer look at one of the men who’d been talking on the corner. “Is that . . . ?”
“Yes,” Whiteoak snapped. “It’s Jesse Nash. I’ll follow him and you follow Halstead.”
Before Byron could say anything, Whiteoak’s hand was clamped over his mouth. Not only did it snuff any sound he was about to make, but Byron was also pushed against the wall with a surprising amount of force.
Nash came to an abrupt halt.
Neither Whiteoak nor Byron dared to move as Nash approached the alley.
“Run,” Whiteoak said.
Byron refused to make a sound and he was either unwilling or unable to move.
Giving Byron a mighty shove toward the far end of the alley, Whiteoak insisted, “Run!” and then turned to face the armed man who was now headed straight for them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Nash’s eyes set upon Whiteoak like a wolf that had just spotted its prey. The bank robber went for his pistol as Whiteoak lunged for him. Being more practiced with his gun, Nash was able to clear leather before Whiteoak landed his first punch. Even when he did land his punch, however, the professor wasn’t able to do much damage.
“That all you got?” Nash sneered.
“No,” Whiteoak replied. In the time it had taken for Nash to react to the ineffectual punch, Whiteoak had drawn his .38 from its holster. While it was a smooth motion that brought the gun to bear, he couldn’t pull his trigger before his arm was knocked aside by a chopping blow from Nash. The .38 barked once, sending its round into the dirt.
Nash took aim from the hip and fired a shot that would have burned a hole through the professor’s midsection if Whiteoak hadn’t dived to one side beforehand. Although that first shot missed its target, Nash was quick to sight along the top of his barrel to fire again.
Whiteoak rolled to one side to avoid a fatal injury, but felt the bite of hot lead gouging through the flesh in his side. As soon as he could stop himself from rolling any further, Whiteoak pointed his .38 in Nash’s general direction and unleashed two consecutive shots.
Both bullets hissed from Whiteoak’s barrel toward Nash. The bank robber had been fired at plenty of times before and didn’t panic on this occasion. By the time he’d taken his third shot, Whiteoak was climbing back to his feet and Nash had ducked out of the alley.
Gritty smoke burned the professor’s eyes and scraped at the back of his throat when he took his next breath. He backed up until he felt the wall against his heel, knowing there were three bullets left in his cylinder.
“You through?” Nash asked. Judging by the sound of his voice, he was around the corner at the mouth of the alley.
Whiteoak kept his mouth shut, took more careful aim and blasted a hole through the edge of the building that Nash was using for cover. Wood splinters flew from the spot he’d hit and more smoke smeared the air.
“You’re a real pain in the ass,” Nash called out. “Nothin’ we can’t handle, though.”
“We’ll see about that,” Whiteoak said, knowing all too well that Nash would use the sound of his voice as a guide for his next shots. Sure enough, the bank robber leaned around the corner firing several rounds into the alley without wasting a moment to get a clear look at his target. If Whiteoak hadn’t anticipated the other man’s skill and speed, he’d be dead where he stood. Instead, he dropped to a crouch and threw himself toward the other side of the alley.
Stabbing, burning pain lanced through the fresh wound in the side of Whiteoak’s lower back. He could feel his shirt and suit coat growing wet with his blood. Due to the thick haze of gun smoke in the already inky shadows, Whiteoak was all but blind. The only saving grace was that Nash was in the same predicament.
“What’re you after, huh?” Nash asked in another attempt to get a feel for where his next bullets should go.
Whiteoak wasn’t about to make a sound. The first time he’d spoken had been to draw Nash into the alley, but now he had a limited amount of time to act before the smoke dissipated or Nash found him on his own. It had been a stroke of luck that the professor was wearing a darker suit in the first place and the dirty smudges that now sullied his clothing helped him blend in even more. Reaching out with one hand, he found a broken bottle on the ground near one foot. Whiteoak picked it up and tossed it across the alley so it cracked against the wall directly opposite of him.
Nash’s first shot was quick as a thought, but he only wasted one bullet on the distraction before stepping closer to find what he was really after. Whiteoak charged straight at him with pistol in hand. His eyes burned with the smoke that still hung heavily in the air. When he fired at Nash, he did so while in a hurry and on the move, violating two of the biggest rules he’d been given when learning how to effectively use a pistol.
Without so much as flinching at the gunshot, Nash stepped to one side. His back leg came forward, driving his knee solidly into Whiteoak’s gut. The impact doubled the professor over while forcing the air from his lungs. Lifting his .38 took a great amount of effort and before he could take proper aim, Whiteoak’s wrist was encased in a vice-like grip.
“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” Nash snarled.
“So . . . I’ve been told.”
“Where’s the other fella?”
“I don’t know . . .” Pain lanced from Whiteoak’s wrist all the way up through his shoulder as Nash twisted his arm in the wrong direction. Whiteoak’s finger nearly clenched around his trigger, but the thought of wasting his last bullet gave him some extra incentive to resist.
“Last chance, asshole,” Nash said. “You working with the law or one of those rich men?”
“You mean, like one of the men you’re working with?”
“To hell with this. You ain’t got nothing I need.”
Even if there were any live rounds in his pistol, Whiteoak couldn’t move his gun hand well enough to fire a shot that would hit anything but the ground or a wall. His legs were too wobbly to kick and his vision was growing blurrier by the second. He couldn’t think of many other options and he figured there were precious few seconds for him anyway.
The next sound he heard was a gunshot, but it didn’t come from Nash. Although the bullet didn’t hit the outlaw, it came close enough to make him let go of Whiteoak and run in the opposite direction. Whiteoak spun around to find the closest thing to an angel he’d ever seen.
“Lyssa?” the professor said. “Is that you?”
She stood holding a gun in her hand as well, smoke curling up from the barrel. Once she got a longer look at Whiteoak, she gasped, “You’re hurt. There’s blood on your clothes.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“What are you doing?”
Whiteoak hefted his .38 in hand while fumbling to open its cylinder. “Reloading.”
In a stern voice, Lyssa said, “Henry! It’s over.”
“No, it’s not! He needs to be dealt with.”
“He will,” she said softly. “Just not now. Looks like it’s been a rough night. Come with me and I’ll clean you up. Again.”
“But he’ll come back.”
“When he does, Sheriff Willis will deal with him. He’s probably already on his way.”
“Not fast enough,” Whiteoak grumbled. His grip tightened on the .38’s handle as well as the trigger. Seemingly without an ounce of fear, Lyssa stepped up to him and placed her hand on top of the gun so she could lower it.
“It’s over,” she repeated.
Reluctantly, Whiteoak eased the hammer back down and holstered the pistol.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
> Whiteoak sat on the edge of the same chair he’d occupied when eating dinner in the Keag’s home. Instead of plates and glasses on the table, this time there were rags, a washbasin and a pitcher. And instead of using his hands to hold a knife and fork, he placed one on his knee while raising the other to give Lyssa an unimpeded view of the wound in his side.
“What were you doing out there?” Whiteoak grunted.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Thank you. Now what the hell were you doing out there in the middle of the night?”
“Looking for my brother,” Lyssa said. “His nerves have been a jangling mess since you got to town and I suggested he take a walk to calm them. When he didn’t return right away, I thought he might have gone to a saloon. He’s not much of a drinker, so I went after him before he got into trouble or passed out drunk in a gutter somewhere. When I heard the shots, I feared for the worst.”
“Do you always carry a pistol when searching for your brother?” Whiteoak asked in a softer tone.
“When he insists on spending his time with the likes of you . . . yes.”
“I suppose that’s fair.”
“I’m so glad you approve,” she scoffed while wringing a small towel over the basin. “Now take your shirt off.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re wounded and I told you I’d clean you up. Nothing more than that. Weren’t you listening before?”
“I was,” Whiteoak said as he peeled off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. “But hope springs eternal. After all, we are all alone here.”
Shaking her head, Lyssa removed Whiteoak’s shirt to examine the bloody mess underneath. “Just be quiet before I change my mind and tend to you outside so you don’t bleed on my floor.”
“I think you’re sweet on me. Maybe even a little bit?”
Without addressing that, she said, “Let’s clean you up so I can see the wound better.”
“Do you bring a lot of men to your home in the middle of the night?” he asked while holding his arm up high to give Lyssa an unimpeded view.
“Oh, sure. Usually just to give them a roll between my sheets.”
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