The barrel of York’s gun thudded against the back of his head, ending that hope. Everett sagged as his knees tried to fold up under him. He pawed at Rosalie in an attempt to hold himself up. She slashed at him with the pistol, viciously raking its barrel across his face. He grunted in pain and went down.
“Now you’ve marked him,” Graham scolded. “How is the accident with the printing press going to explain that gash on his face?”
“He hit it on the corner of the press when he fell,” Rosalie said.
Graham thought about it and nodded. “Yes, that should work. I like it.” He stepped closer to her and put his arms around her.
The last thing Everett saw before he passed out on the floor was Graham pulling Rosalie against him and pressing his mouth to hers in a passionate kiss.
Chapter 33
Everett wasn’t unconscious for long. He regained his senses, but only vaguely at first, as he was being dragged through the night. Strong hands had hold of him from either side. That would be Malcolm Graham and the hardcase called York, he thought as he forced his stunned brain to work again. They were probably taking him through back alleys from the Graham house to the newspaper office, so that no one would see them lugging his semiconscious form.
He let his head loll loosely on his shoulders, deciding it would be better if they continued to think that he was out cold. If they did, they might slip up and give him a chance to make a break for freedom.
That would be his last chance. If luck didn’t smile on him soon, he would die tonight, in horrible pain from the mangling he would receive from the printing press.
The pen is mightier than the sword. That was how the old saying went. And people liked to talk about the power of the press.
But Everett would have been willing to bet that no one had ever used an actual printing press as a murder weapon before.
He heard rapid footsteps ahead of them. That would be Rosalie, leading the way. A door opened, probably the back door of the newspaper office. Everett was dragged inside, his feet bumping over the threshold. Graham and York let go of his arms, allowing him to slump to the floor. Everett lay still and waited to see if they would move away. He didn’t trust his muscles to function fully just yet.
The door closed, and a moment later Everett heard the rasp of a match being struck. He kept his eyes closed, but even so he was aware of things growing brighter around him as a lamp was lit. He heard the faint clatter of the glass chimney being lowered into place.
“All right, I helped you bring him over here,” York said. “How about the rest of that dinero you owe me and the other fellas?”
“I told you, I’m waiting for the rest of the money to arrive from Philadelphia,” Graham said. He sounded irritated. “I’ll get word across the border and let you know when I’ve got it, and we’ll make arrangements then for you to get paid.”
“You’re askin’ us to be mighty trustin’, mister.”
Rosalie said, “Why shouldn’t you trust us? Malcolm and I have a good setup here. We’re not going anywhere. No one suspects us of anything. And in addition to what we’ve already paid you, you and the others have the money you made off that stolen stock. We didn’t even ask for a share of that.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s true,” York admitted. “That was a sweet deal, gettin’ paid to get rid of Tillman so the Winged T’d make a profit again, and all the while me and the boys were the ones rustlin’ the ranch’s cattle.”
“Why get paid once when you can get paid twice, I always say,” Graham said. “So you see, you don’t have anything to complain about.”
“I reckon not. We gonna go ahead and kill this dude now?”
“I don’t see a point in wasting any more time, do you? Pick him up, and we’ll take him in the front room where the press is.”
Everett had hoped they would go in the other room and leave him there, if only for a moment, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t wait any longer. As York grabbed him under the arms and started to lift him, he suddenly straightened his legs and drove himself upward. The top of his head smashed into York’s jaw with blinding force. Unfortunately, Everett was as stunned by the impact as York was. He tore free of the killer’s grip, but staggered wildly as he tried to turn toward the rear door and run.
“Grab him, damn it!” Rosalie called in a low, urgent voice.
Everett struck out blindly, flailing around him with his fists. One of them hit Graham in the chest and knocked him back. Everett’s head cleared slightly. He lunged toward the door, hoping it wasn’t locked.
Before he could reach the knob, York tackled him from behind. Both men went down. Everett’s head struck hard against the floor. Even though he didn’t pass out this time, his muscles refused to work and he couldn’t fight back as York hauled him roughly to his feet.
“Hang onto him this time,” Graham said with a scowl. He rubbed the place on his chest where Everett had punched him.
York wrestled Everett toward the door leading into the front room, where the printing press was located. Rosalie picked up the lamp and went first. She opened the door and stepped into the other room. York was right behind her, forcing Everett along. Graham brought up the rear.
York and Everett bumped into Rosalie as she gasped and stopped short. Graham said, “What the hell’s wrong now?”
A new voice drawled, “I’ve got a story for you, Graham, about how the real killers behind all the trouble around here have hang-ropes waiting for them. You won’t be able to print it, though, since you’ll be one of the varmints dancing on air.”
Everett stared in shock over Rosalie’s shoulder as the light from the lamp in her hand revealed the man who had spoken. Gun in hand, Hell Jackson leaned casually against the railing that divided the room.
Everett looked like he had been knocked around quite a bit, and Jackson was genuinely sorry about that. If he could have worked things out differently, he would have. He had been keeping an eye on the Grahams, waiting for them to slip up since he didn’t have any solid proof against them. What he had learned from the replies to the telegrams he had sent in Fort Stockton a few days earlier was interesting, but not enough to convict anybody of anything.
Then earlier tonight, he had seen York slipping in the back door of the Graham place while Everett was still there, and Jackson had hoped that the youngster would get out before all hell broke loose. That hadn’t been the case. The whole bunch had left the house a short time later, with Graham and York dragging Everett like he was unconscious—or dead. Hoping the latter wouldn’t turn out to be the case, Jackson had trailed them. When he realized they were heading for the newspaper office, he circled around and got ahead of them, forcing the lock on the front door and slipping inside as the others were coming in the back.
He wasn’t sure what they had in mind for Everett, but it couldn’t be anything good. The things he had overhead while eavesdropping on the conversation in the back room confirmed that. They planned to kill the young reporter. Not only that, but Jackson had also learned that York and the other Winged T hands who were really working for Graham were responsible for the rustling as well. He’d already had a hunch that was the case, but it was nice to have it confirmed. The whole thing was just about wrapped up now. All he had to do was march the Grahams and York down to Sheriff Brennan’s office and tell the lawman to lock them up. Everett’s testimony, and the other things Jackson had dug up, would convict them.
Unfortunately, Rosalie Graham didn’t cooperate. Instead, she hissed, “You bastard!” and threw the lamp at him.
Jackson ducked as the lamp sailed over him to crash on top of the desk in front of the railing. The glass shattered, and instantly the splashing coal oil was aflame, garishly lighting up the room.
Figuring that York was the most dangerous of the trio, Jackson weaved to the side, trying to get a shot at the hardcase. Instead, cursing bitterly, York pulled Everett in front of him with one hand and clawed at the pistol on his hip with the other.
The gun came up and flame gouted from the muzzle as York thrust it under Everett’s arm at Jackson.
The bullet screamed past Jackson’s ear, but York only got one shot off before Everett twisted desperately in his grip and brought up an elbow, smashing it in York’s face. That loosened York’s grip enough for Everett to tear free and throw himself to the floor.
That gave Jackson a clear shot. York stumbled, righted himself, and tried to fire again, but before he could pull the trigger, the Colt in Jackson’s hand roared twice. Both slugs smashed into York’s chest and threw him backward. He hit the printing press and bounced off to pitch forward onto his face, the gun slipping from his hand as he fell. He had dark stains on both the front and back of his shirt—ink from the printing press on the back, blood from the pair of wounds on the front.
With a sharp pop, the gun that had appeared in Rosalie’s hand fired toward Jackson. He swung his Colt toward her as the small-caliber slug whined past him. He didn’t like the idea of shooting a woman, but he liked even less the thought of being shot by her.
Still lying on the floor, Everett hooked a foot around Rosalie’s ankle and jerked it as hard as he could. She yelped as her feet went out from under her. As she fell backward, her head thudded against the wall, stunning her.
Everett had acted without thinking, trying to stop Rosalie from shooting at Jackson again so that the gunslinger wouldn’t be forced to kill her. He had been even more successful than he had hoped. Rosalie was out of the fight, at least for the moment.
But that left Malcolm Graham, and the renegade newspaperman had snatched something out of a desk drawer and now lunged at Jackson with it. The weapon was a sawed-off shotgun, Jackson saw as he pivoted back toward Graham. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to bring his Colt to bear before Graham could pull the twin triggers.
He didn’t have to. Everett lunged up from the floor, grabbed the sawed-off’s barrels, and wrenched them upward just as Graham fired. Instead of a double load of buckshot, what seemed like an exploding sun erupted from the barrels, right in Graham’s face. Both Everett and Jackson were half-blinded by the flash, but they heard the beginnings of the scream that lasted only an instant before it was cut off.
Graham went over backward with nothing but a smoldering ruin where his face had been.
The fire from the broken lamp was still burning on top of the desk. Jackson glanced at Rosalie, saw that she was still stunned, and holstered his gun. He looked around, spotted a bucket of sand sitting beside the door where it was kept for emergencies like this, and picked it up to dump it on the flames. They sputtered and went out, except for a few big sparks that fell to the floor. Jackson stomped them out with his boots. That left the newspaper office cloaked in gloom.
Not for long, though, because with a pounding of footsteps, Sheriff Ward Brennan ran along the boardwalk and threw the door open. He had his six-gun in one hand and a bull’s-eye lantern in the other. As the light played over the stunned form of Rosalie Graham, the bullet-riddled corpse of the killer called York, and the ruined remains of Malcolm Graham, the lawman thundered, “What the blue-blazin’ billy hell is goin’ on here?”
Jackson had helped Everett to his feet. Ignoring the sheriff ’s demand for information, Jackson asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I . . . I think so.” Everett swallowed hard. “But I’m still not sure exactly what happened.”
“I’ve got most of it figured out.” Jackson looked at Rosalie, who moaned and shook her head as her senses started to return to her. “Luckily, we’ve got one left alive to fill us in on the rest of it.”
Rosalie didn’t look at Jackson, Everett, or Brennan. Instead, she gazed around wildly and cried, “Mal? Mal, where are you—”
She screamed as her eyes found what was left of Graham. Cringing back against the wall, she shrieked in horror and then crawled swiftly across the floor to his body. She threw herself on top of him and continued screaming. Her back rose and fell in jerking motions as she dragged in air so she could scream some more.
“Good Lord!” Brennan said as he came farther into the room. “Is that her brother? Can’t hardly tell with his face blowed off like that.”
“No,” Jackson said. “That’s not her brother.”
Chapter 34
“Actually, Malcolm Graham was Rosalie’s husband,” Jackson said.
About an hour had passed since the carnage in the newspaper office had taken place. Rosalie was locked up in one of the cells down the hall from Brennan’s office, and the bodies of Graham and York had been hauled off to Cecil Greenwood’s undertaking parlor. There wouldn’t be anything Greenwood could do to make Graham presentable.
The weapon that had blasted away his face now lay on Brennan’s desk. The lawman nudged it and said, “Hell, it’s just a sawed-off shotgun.”
Jackson sat in front of the desk, straddling a chair he had turned around. Everett slumped on the battered old sofa against the front wall. He had a cup of coffee cradled in his hands, but he wasn’t drinking it. He was just staring into the blackness instead, seeing only God knows what.
Jackson nodded toward the shotgun and said, “What made the blasted thing so hellish was what it was loaded with. Rosalie Graham came up with the idea of loading shells with a concentrated mixture of gunpowder and photographic flash powder instead of buckshot. She and her husband wanted something to spook folks, and they figured that would do it. They probably didn’t realize just how effective it would be, though. That flash powder burns so hot it could blast a fella’s face right off.”
“Husband, you say?” Brennan repeated, still stuck on that part of it.
Jackson nodded. “They just pretended to be brother and sister. Probably started years ago, when they were swindling and blackmailing folks. Rosalie would take some fella to her room and get him in a compromising position, then Graham would bust in and pretend to be her outraged brother. They pulled that trick quite a few times before they went on to more complicated swindles and outright thievery. They were suspected in a few murders too, but they always ducked out and got away before anybody could prove anything against them.”
Everett finally spoke up. “How do you know all this?”
“I sent some wires that day I rode up to Fort Stockton.”
“Wires to who?”
Jackson smiled. “I know some folks in the U.S. marshal’s office, the Justice Department, the Texas Rangers, and various other places.”
“I thought you were just a gun-totin’ drifter,” Brennan said.
“That’s a pretty good description,” Jackson admitted. “Doesn’t mean that’s all I ever was.”
Everett lifted the cup and took a long swallow of the strong black brew. He sat up and said, “Why go to all the trouble of killing those other people and making it look like Tillman was a lunatic?”
“Tillman’s relatives back in Philadelphia didn’t want anything to ever connect them to his death. Graham figured if everybody thought Tillman was crazy enough, nobody would question the idea that he murdered his cousin and killed himself.” Jackson shook his head. “And to tell you the truth, I think Graham and Rosalie got some enjoyment out of throwing a scare into folks. They thought they were so much smarter than everybody else around here.”
“That’s why he let you go. He wanted you to tell people about the Hand of God and strengthen the frame around Tillman.”
Jackson nodded. “I figured that much from the start.”
Brennan said, “You knew Tillman wasn’t really loco?”
“I didn’t say that,” Jackson said. “He was a mighty disturbed hombre. Everett can vouch for that, the way Tillman jumped him that day.”
“He really loved Deborah,” Everett said. “To the point of being obsessed with her, I think.”
“Yep. Graham took advantage of that.”
“How’d you know?” Brennan persisted. “How’d you know Tillman wasn’t responsible for those killin’s?”
“I didn’t at first. It seemed
unlikely to me that he could have planned and carried out such a thing. He just didn’t seem smart enough and ruthless enough. But then the bodies of him and his cousin were found, along with that letter York forced him to write, and that looked like the end of it, whether I wanted to believe it or not.”
Jackson stood up and went to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee. When he turned back to the other two men, he went on. “Then Graham interviewed me for the paper and wanted to take a picture of me. When I heard him talking with that camera hood over his head so that his voice was muffled, I realized he sounded a little like the Hand of God had that night when he and his men ambushed me. Then when I saw that flash powder go off, that started me thinking about how those other folks might have been killed.” He shrugged. “It sort of just fell together after that. I was watching the Grahams, hoping to get some proof against them that would stand up in court. Of course, where Malcolm and York are concerned, it won’t come to that now.”
“What about those balls of light?” Everett asked. “You haven’t explained those.”
“That’s something else Rosalie came up with. Check the shed behind the Graham house, Sheriff. You’ll find some big smoked glass globes made so you can put a small lamp inside them. The glass amplifies and diffuses the light from the lamp so that it looks even bigger than the globes really are.”
Everett stared at him. “Amplifies and diffuses . . . ? Who the hell are you?”
“Just a gun-toting drifter,” Jackson said with a smile.
“You’re a real Westerner now. Got your own horse and saddle and everything.”
Everett shifted uncomfortably on the back of the horse. “Yes, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to riding the blasted thing.”
Death Head Crossing Page 21
