by Ralph Cotton
“It’s me, and him,” said Madden. He gave a wry grin in the dim glow light.
“Ma-Madden?” said the voice.
“Yeah, it’s me, Oakes, open up,” Madden commanded.
Inside, a shotgun uncocked. A latch bolt grated across metal and the door squeaked open on dry hinges. “I weren’t expecting you, Madden,” said an old white-bearded railroader in a pair of faded red long johns. “Have you already done it? I ain’t heard it if you have.”
“No, we haven’t done it, not yet,” said Madden. “I’m just going around tying up loose ends first.”
“Oh? What loose ends is that?” The old railroader looked concerned.
“Relax, Oakes.” Corio gave an easy grin. “I promise I’m not here to kill you.” He looked all around the dusty, cluttered shack. “We’re going to make ourselves scarce once this thing happens. I wanted to get you taken care of before we cut out.”
“You’re paying me off, ahead of the game?” He looked surprised. “That’s mighty dang thoughtful of you,” the old man said. He looked relieved as he shut the door and motioned them inside toward a bare wooden table with only one chair under it. “I always said you’re a man of his word.” He rubbed his weathered hands together in anticipation. “Can I get you something to drink? One of you can sit, I reckon.” He gestured a hand toward the only chair. “You could arm-wrestle for it.” He gave a broad half-toothless grin.
“A drink, yes,” said Corio. “But we’ll stand.” He looked at Dance and nodded toward a whiskey jug sitting on a wooden floor cupboard beside a wooden crate of airtights and dried food supplies. Dance stepped over and got the jug while Corio pulled out the chair with the toe of his boot. “You have a seat, Oakes,” he said.
“Well, all right, then, if it ain’t too impolite of me,” said the old railroader. He sat down and watched Dance pull a wooden stopper from the jug and hand it to Corio, who smelled it, then raised it to his lips.
“Whew, you make good whiskey,” said Corio, wiping his lips and passing the jug back to Dance.
The old man chuckled and watched Corio take a leather bag from inside his duster and pitch it onto the battered tabletop. “There’s five hundred dollars gold, Oakes,” said Corio. “I’d give you more but folks would think it strange.”
“Five hundred suits me just fine,” said the old man. He opened a drawstring and shook out a line of coins onto his palm.
“Count it some other time,” Corio said in a firm tone of voice.
“Yes, I will,” said the old man, hurriedly pouring the coins back inside the bag. “No offense intended,” he added.
“None taken,” said Corio as Dance took a long swig of whiskey. “Let’s talk some.”
“Yes, sir, sure enough,” said the old railroader. He sat as if at attention, his palms lying on either side of the leather bag. “Anything you want to talk about suits me.”
“Good,” said Corio. He drew a long knife from his boot well and tested its sharpness with the pad of his gloved thumb along the glistening blade. “Who did you tell about this job?” he said bluntly.
“Whoa!” said the old man, terror coming into his eyes at the sight of the knife. “I never told nobody about it, Madden, I swear I never.”
“You don’t lie to me, Oakes,” Corio warned, stepping in closer with the knife. “Now, who else knows about it?”
“Lord, nobody, Madden!” said Oakes. “Please don’t kill me. You said you wasn’t here to—”
“I know what I said,” Corio replied, cutting him off. He leaned down into Oakes’ face and dragged the sharp blade effortlessly across the man’s brow. Blood ran down behind the path of the blade. Dance watched, transfixed. “I can show you things worse than death,” Corio said almost in a whisper, “and still not kill you even if you beg me to.”
“Madden, so help me, I ain’t told nobody a thing! I’d be a fool to!” Oakes pleaded, feeling his warm blood flood his eyes, afraid to even lift a hand.
Corio stared at him, evaluating his words. Then he said to Dance without turning to him, “Get me that rope hanging by the mantel, Willard.”
“Rope?” Dance was as surprised as Oakes at what was going on. But even as he questioned it, he stepped over, took a rope from alongside a blackened mantel, walked over to Corio with it and held it out.
“Tie him down, good and tight,” Corio said, still staring menacingly into Oakes’ eyes.
“Tie him down?” Dance asked in disbelief.
“Are you going to repeat every damn thing I tell you to do?” Corio growled. “Am I going to have to tie you down too?”
Without a word Dance quickly circled Oakes with the rope and tied him down tight to the chair. Oakes put up no resistance, other than a sobbing plea for mercy to Madden Corio. “Please, Madden . . . I would never mention any—”
“Ah, come on now, Oakes,” Corio said, cutting the trembling man off, “I know how it is with you old rail hounds. You get with some pals, pass the jug a round or two, pretty soon you’ve got to swap stories, the bigger the better.”
“But never nothing like this,” Oakes said. “I know what would happen if the law found out! This was my retiring money!”
“Lying to me is going to cost you your nuts first off, old man,” Corio said. “Then we’ll see what you’ve got to say from there. The sooner you tell me the truth, the sooner I’ll stop carving.”
“Good Lord, Madden! I ain’t lying! I swear to God I ain’t!” the old man screamed, feeling the knife go down to his lap and slice his belt open, then the front of his trousers.
“Here they come, Oakes,” said Corio, “on the table, right there for you to see. You best confess up.”
“If I had told anybody I would admit it!” the old man sobbed.
“You would?” Corio asked matter-of-factly.
Dance winced and shut his eyes as Corio made a wicked upward slash along the old man’s privates. Oakes felt the burn of blade and screamed loud and long, not realizing that Corio had turned the blade over at the last second and used the dull edge.
“Now, listen to you, Oakes,” said Corio, “wailing and carrying on that way. I didn’t even break the skin.” He chuckled and forced the sobbing old man to lower his head and look at his exposed lap. “See? You’ve got everything you started out with.”
The old man trembled and choked and could not collect or right himself.
Corio gave Dance a slight grin, but Dance was too shaken to offer anything more than a grimace and a worried look.
“Damn,” said Corio, “I didn’t realize my own man here was so squeamish.” He straightened up. “Are you going to be ill, Willard?”
“Hell no,” Dance managed to say, trying to get himself settled down. “It takes more than a nut cutting to throw me off.”
“I sure as hell should hope so,” said Corio. He turned to the old man and wagged the knife at him for emphasis. “See, Oakes, here’s what worries me. If you known anything to tell me, you would have, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, I—”
The trembling old man started to answer, but Dance cut in, saying, “Hell, Madden, anybody would under them circumstances.”
Corio gave him a cold stare.
“I mean . . . you know. Maybe they would,” Dance corrected himself.
“Would you, Willard?” Corio asked flatly.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Dance said without hesitation.
“Good,” said Corio. He patted Oakes on his shoulder and said, “This man is telling the truth. He hasn’t told anybody anything. I can say that now without a doubt in my mind.”
Oakes looked relieved, but only for a moment.
“So right now is a good time to make sure that he never does,” said Corio. To Dance he said, “You’ll have to kill him for me, Willard. You heard me give him my word that I wouldn’t.”
At the hitch rail, Corio checked his pocket watch and looked over as Dance dragged a dried fallen pine into the shack, threw it atop a stack of other fallen limbs and dry br
acken and struck a match to it. “Let’s give it a minute to make sure it gets going real good,” he said as Dance walked back out of the shack. He took two cigars from his duster and handed one to Dance. “You didn’t like what I did in there, did you?”
“Let’s just say I saw no reason for it,” Dance replied. He had kept his right hand close to his holstered Colt even as he’d gathered fuel for setting the fire.
“You felt wrong killing that old man, didn’t you, Willard?” Corio asked.
“No, not particularly,” said Dance. “But I saw no need in it either.” He bowed his head to the lit match in Corio’s gloved hands and rolled the tip of the cigar back and forth in the flame, puffing on it.
“It’s as important to clean up before a big job like this as it is afterwards,” Corio said, “and believe me there’s going to be lots of cleaning up after this one’s over.”
“That ole man would not have said anything,” Dance said, blowing a long stream of smoke.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Corio. “We both know how these old fools are. As soon as word gets around about a big job like this, he’d be taking credit for the whole damn thing, just to make himself feel important.”
Dance let out a breath and considered the logic of what Corio said. “Hell, I guess you’re right.” He gave Corio a level stare. “Am I going to be one of the things that has to be cleaned up after this is over?” His hand rested close to his gun butt.
“No,” said Corio, watching the flames lick upward inside the shack, Oakes’ slumped body still tied to the chair. “You won’t have to worry about what happens after this job, you have my word.”
“That’s good to hear, after seeing all this,” said Dance.
Corio shook his head slowly. “I am not to blame for this man’s death. Neither are you,” he said soothingly, letting go a stream of cigar smoke.
“Oh?” said Dance.
“That’s right, my friend,” said Corio. “If you want to blame somebody for Old Man Oakes’ death, I’ll tell you who’s to blame. It’s those damned lawdogs who’ve been working this border on both sides. Can’t you see how they’ve got everybody edgy and overly cautious?”
“Yes, of course I’ve seen that,” said Dance, relaxing a little, smoking his cigar. “I’d have to be blind not to see it. They’ve got everybody out here not knowing who to trust and who not to.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Corio. “Those damn lawmen . . .” He took a deep breath and watched the flames in grim reflection. “Blame them. If I hadn’t had to be so concerned about them learning what we were up to, we would not have killed old Oakes. Hell, we just wouldn’t have. They killed him just as sure as if they’d pulled the trigger.” He dusted his gloved hands together while the fire began to rage inside the shack. “Far as I’m concerned our hands are clean.”
“Whatever you say, Madden,” said Dance. “You’re the boss.”
“That’s right.” Corio grinned. “I am the boss.” He turned to the horses and said, “Now let’s get out of here. There’s nothing more we can do for Oakes. He’s one less thing to be concerned about.”
As they both started to step up into their saddles, Corio stopped abruptly. “Damn it, I left that bag of gold in there.” He stepped away from his horse and looked inside the open door of the shack at the flames licking wildly. “Run in and grab it and get right back out here,” he said quickly.
“Run in there?” Dance said in disbelief.
“There you go, repeating me again,” Corio said crossly. “Hell, never mind, I’ll get it myself.” He gave Dance an angry look and started to walk into the shack.
“No, I’ve got it,” said Dance, not wanting to ride the rest of the afternoon with Corio in a dark and sullen mood. He handed him the reins to his horse and bounded onto the porch and into the open doorway.
“Careful, now,” Corio cautioned him. “If it’s too hot, just forget about it.”
“I got it,” said Dance, ducking his head against the scorching bellowing heat.
“Good man,” said Corio. As he saw Dance make a run for the table, he raised his Colt and fired three shots into Dance’s back. Dance let out a scream as the bullets hit him. Then he fell forward into the roaring flames and disappeared.
Corio patted the bag of gold coins that rested inside his duster. He grinned, watching as the fire consumed the shack. “Now you’ve two less things to worry about afterwards,” he said quietly.
Chapter 11
As darkness fell across the badlands, Lowe’s men sat near a fire playing poker with a battered deck of cards that New York Joe Toledo had rummaged from the bottom of his saddlebags. Off to herself, Tuesday Bonhart sat near the fire sipping coffee from a tin cup. She wore a heavy men’s coat, but with the dingy white wool lapels hanging halfway open down her chest. Beneath it she wore one of Dexter Lowe’s wool shirts, its front hanging open in the same manner.
From the circle of cardplayers, Bell Mason shot a glance at the woman and then shook his head and said to the rest of the players, “It’s hard being this close to something that warm and wiggly and not squeeze on it a time or two, just for luck—especially the way my luck’s been running.”
“Huh,” said Toledo, hunched over the cards in his hands, “if you thinks your luck’s been bad so far, squeeze that one. You won’t believe how much worse your luck will turn.”
“I see your point,” said Mason, holding the deck in his bob-fingered jersey gloves. He licked a thumb and dealt two cards around. “But still, it’s unnatural for a man to be this close to something like her and not want to rub her all over himself.”
“It might be unnatural, but so is a bullet in the head,” Joe Toledo warned.
“Speaking of a bullet-in-the-head,” said Mason, glancing around, “where’s the drifter?”
“He’s over there, sleeping like a dead man,” said Toledo. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him. A while ago he was kicking like a dog having a running fit,” he added.
“I had a dog like that once,” said Mason. “Sonsabitch would kick and growl and carry on something awful. You couldn’t make him stop. Wake him, he’d look at you, go back to sleep and start kicking all over again.” He arranged his cards in his hand and shook his head just thinking about it.
“I says let the man sleep,” said Toledo. “The more he sleeps, the less time we got to wonder if he’s going to go nuts and start shooting.”
“You afraid of that scarecrow, New York Joe?” Earl Hardine asked.
“I’m not if you’re not,” Toledo retorted, knowing that everybody had walked wide of the man with the thick bandage around his head, and the Colt that seemed to streak upward from its holster too fast to be seen.
“Good answer,” Mason chuckled, seeing the bested look on Hardine’s face. He adjusted the cards in his hand and concentrated on the game.
“I ain’t afraid,” Hardine offered weakly.
“I know,” Mason said idly. “Cards . . . ?”
Hardine slipped three cards from his hand and dropped them onto a spread blanket. “Two . . . ,” he said.
“Look at this,” Toledo said, turning their attention toward the woman as she stood with a filled cup steaming in hand and walked away from the fire toward the spot where Shaw lay on the ground.
“Fellows, this is nothing but trouble in the brewing if Dexter Lowe finds out,” Mason said in almost a whisper.
“If she does it with this drifter, I say she has to do it with the rest of us, before Lowe returns,” said Earl Hardine.
“Damn, Earl,” said Toledo, “is my bay mare safe around you?”
Hardine gave a sly grin. “If you ride a mare, you take your chances.”
Twenty yards away, at the outer edge of the fire’s glow, Shaw lay loosely wrapped in a ragged blanket. His saddle served as a pillow; the battered stovepipe hat lay upside down on the ground, his thrashings having discarded it from covering his face.
The pain inside his head had dissipated,
but in its wake he felt a strange pressure that made him awaken with a start, as if remaining asleep would cause something vital to burst inside him. When he felt the presence of the young whore drift in between him and the thin glow of firelight, his eyes snapped open. Who—who’s there . . . ?
Shaw’s words had not been spoken aloud, but seeing his reaction caused Tuesday to stop in her tracks. She heard the click of a hammer cocking beneath the blanket. “It’s me, Fast Larry,” she said quickly but in a lowered voice. “I thought you’d want some coffee.”
“Coffee . . . ?” Shaw’s eyes searched all around, across the men at the campfire, then back to the young woman standing over him. He considered her words for a second, then replied, “Tuesday, I’m sleeping.” But his hand relaxed around the butt of the Colt beneath the ragged blanket. His thumb lowered the hammer.
“I know,” she said, “but you didn’t eat much. I saw you didn’t take any coffee. I just thought . . . well, you know.” She held the steaming cup out to him.
Shaw eased out of the blanket and sat up carefully, so as to keep his head from starting to hurt again. Touching a palm to his bandaged head, he looked over at the campfire and saw the men all turn their faces away in unison and concentrate on their cards. “Is Lowe back?” Shaw asked, having a feeling he already knew the answer.
“No, but he should be back any minute,” Tuesday said. She held the cup down to him.
“Obliged,” Shaw murmured, taking the cup, seeing that nothing else would do. “Let me ask you something, Tuesday,” he said. “Do you think this is a good idea, you being over here, knowing how jealous Lowe is, knowing he’s riding in any time?” He set the cup on the ground, reached over, picked up the stovepipe hat and put it on over his bandage.
“Probably not.” Tuesday smiled, letting her lapels open a little wider. “You just looked so lonesome, lying over here all by yourself. I thought I’d come see how you’re feeling.”
“I’m feeling all right, Tuesday,” Shaw said as she stooped down in front of him, allowing him to see an ample portion of her breasts behind the sheep wool lapels. He nodded toward the campfire, seeing a guard come walking into the firelight ahead of Dexter Lowe. “I think you need to get away from here.”
