The Darkness of God: Book Three of the Shadow Warrior Trilogy

by Chris Bunch

The bedside lamp flickered on, and Wolfe started dressing.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Involving myself in other people’s business.”

  “Why?”

  “To redeem myself in your eyes and esteem.”

  Before she could decide whether to laugh or worry, Wolfe had his boots and coat on, and was at the door. He buckled his gun belt on.

  “Join me if you want. I think this is going to be interesting. The pot may have boiled before I put it on the fire.”

  • • •

  Ten minutes later Kristin was dressed and in the street. So was half the population of Graveyard. They were crowded around a small semicircular hut just off the central street. The door stood open, and, as she approached, two men dragged out a third, whose head was lolling.

  Kristin heard him muttering: “Di’n't do it … di’n't do nothin’ … jus’ wan’ed sleep … had a li’l too much t’ drink … mad at Raff, wan’d t’ sleep it off … woke up an’ he was dead …”

  Somebody shouted, “Lock him up in the assayer’s vault.”

  Someone else bellowed, “Why waste th’ time? He blew off Raff … do th’ same with him! Right here, right now!”

  There were yells of agreement, but the two men bulled through the crowd without yielding.

  Canfield stood near the door to the hut.

  “Come on, boys,” he shouted. “Settle down! Killing Steadman won’t bring del Valle back, now will it? Come on, now. Drinks are on me! Let’s give old Raff a proper sendoff!”

  The crowd clamored approval, streamed toward the Saratoga.

  Kristin saw Wolfe walk up to Canfield and ask him something. Canfield frowned, snapped a retort. Wolfe stood there, waiting. Canfield grimaced, then nodded his head. Wolfe went into the hut.

  Canfield hurried after the crowd, but Kristin followed Wolfe.

  There was a body sprawled on the floor to the right of the entrance. A man with a medical hardcase was bent over the corpse, and there were three kibitzers. He stood. “One shot. Took del Valle just below the sternum. Death would have been almost instantaneous.” He clucked. “Amazing Steadman could shoot that straight, as inebriated as he appears.”

  “A minute of your time, Doctor?”

  The man surveyed Joshua.

  “And who’re you?”

  “Someone who’s curious.”

  “Go on to the bar with the others. I’d as soon not go through the gore more’n half a dozen times. And I need a drink.”

  “As a favor, Doctor.”

  The man looked angry, then, as Wolfe held his eyes, his face softened. “You’re new,” he said. “Anything to do with any kind of law?”

  “Not for a while,” Wolfe said.

  “That’s a pity. We could use some around here. All right. Hell, I probably need to rehearse what I’ll tell those drunk yahoos anyway. The dead man’s Raff del Valle. Exploratory geologist and miner. Highly respected. Which means he found two mines, made a mint, and let everybody help him drink it away. Didn’t bother him — he said he liked looking for it as much as finding it. Maybe more, because he was sober then, and he had a temper when he set to drinking.

  “The guy who shot him’s Lef Steadman. He picked Raff up out of the gutter, moved him into his hooch here, bankrolled him for his last Wanderjahr looking for traces, and was his partner. Fifty-fifty split, I heard, expenses off the top. Del Valle came back three days ago happier’n a pig in shit, which meant he’d found something.

  “Or thought he had. Anyway, he started drinking, and he and Steadman had a series of arguments. They didn’t get loud, so nobody knew what they were about. Probably one of ‘em wanted to change the split, assuming del Valle got lucky for a third time. Anyway, things finally broke down to a shouting match at the Big Strike, and Steadman stomped out, swearing he was going to hammer Raff the next time he saw him.

  “Pretty obvious what happened. Del Valle must’ve not thought Steadman was serious and come back here with a skinful. Came in the door, and saw Steadman laying for him. He had time to get a shot off — which drilled a hole over by that window — then Steadman put him in his meat locker. Simple enough. Now all we’ve got to do is figure what to do about Steadman.”

  “What’re the choices?” Wolfe asked.

  “Either he gets lynched, which is the odds-on favorite, ‘cause Raff was a popular lush, as I said. Or else somebody takes pity and busts Steadman out and he makes tracks for Lucky Cuss or Grand Central, and tries to get offplanet before somebody with a grudge happens to run into him.”

  The man shrugged.

  “I’d go seventy-thirty. Against.”

  Wolfe’s lips quirked. “I’ll take a hundred of that.”

  The man looked surprised. “Why?”

  “Let’s say — I like the long shots.”

  The doctor smiled. “Why not? Give me a chance to even up what I owe Canfield. Jung — Nyere — you heard him. You’re …”

  “Wolfe. Joshua Wolfe. You can find me at the Saratoga.”

  The other two men nodded understanding.

  “Good,” the doctor said. “Now, if you two’ll give me a hand with the body, I’ll lock up here.”

  “If it’s no bother,” Wolfe said, “I’ll take care of that for you, and turn the key over to Canfield.”

  “You playing detective?” The doctor didn’t wait for a response. “Surely. Why not. Give Steadman a chance. A man ought to go down with all his colors flying. Come on, boys. Let’s get the stiff on ice. I’m real thirsty.”

  Kristin waited until the three had left, half dragging the corpse. “So you don’t think it happened that way?”

  “Don’t think. Know.”

  “How? Through the Lumina?”

  “No. Pure common sense. Look around.”

  Kristin calmed herself and tried to breathe the way she remembered Wolfe doing, tried to blank her mind and turn it into a receptor.

  The building was about ten by forty feet. The main room took up most of that. To the rear on the right was a closed door Kristin assumed hid the fresher, and on the left a divider that marked off the cooking area.

  There was one door, and three windows, one larger one on the side where del Valle’s body had lain, two smaller ones on the other side. There wasn’t much furniture — two chests, one open wardrobe crudely made from shipping crates, two beds, two improvised desks. There were two boxes holding books and fiches by each bed, and a larger box with a lid at the foot of each bed.

  Kristin looked at the titles. One held Elements of Geology, Mineral Analysis, Field Guide to Ak-Mechat, other geological titles and, incongruously, Burton’s multivolume A Thousand Nights and One Night. The other bookcase contained books with titles such as Million-Credit Thinking, Turn Yourself into a Money Machine, and Self-Improvement Through Riches.

  “Just from their reading matter,” she said, “he’s guilty as blazes.”

  Wolfe chuckled from where he was quickly rummaging through del Valle’s box of papers. “Did you find anything that looks official? Like maybe a land claim?”

  “No. Do you want me to go through this box? It’ll probably have his papers.”

  Wolfe crossed to it, quickly sifted through the few papers and fiches that defined Steadman’s life. “Nothing here, either,” he said. “And we’re running short of time, I think. I can smell a lynch mob in the building. Look at this.” He held out a pistol. “This is Steadman’s gun. It was lying on the floor. I picked it up in the confusion.”

  “Pretty standard,” Kristin said. “A 12-mill-bell Remington-Colt.”

  “Take a sniff of the barrel.”

  Kristin obeyed. “Nothing.”

  “Like it maybe hasn’t been fired for a while? Can’t tell by the magazine, which is only half-charged. Now look at the setting.”

  “It’s on wide aperture.”

  “Try to reset it.”

  Kristin pushed at the inset lever below the blaster’s bell mouth. She grimaced. “Stuck. Evidently Steadman didn’t
trust his ability at snap-shooting — and didn’t clean his gun very often.”

  “Interesting observation,” Wolfe said. “The way the story goes is del Valle came into the hut. He saw Steadman sitting behind his desk — there. Steadman had his pistol aimed, but he was drunk. Del Valle had time to draw, and shoot. He put a nice neat — notice, he was a marksman — hole over here by this window. Before he could correct his aim, Steadman dropped him. Then Steadman passed out until the crowd got here. Nice neat murder for profit, blown because the idiot had to get drunk before he had courage enough to kill Raff del Valle, and got himself too drunk.”

  “So they say,” Kristin said.

  “Uh-huh. And there’s something else interesting about this window we really don’t have time for. Come on. We’ve got to wake up the land office clerk.”

  • • •

  Fortunately the clerk slept in a small apartment above his office. Wolfe bullied him into full consciousness, asked two questions and got sleepy, grumbled answers, and told the man to go back to sleep.

  “Now, let’s see what’s going on at the Saratoga.”

  • • •

  A slattern was draped over a bench outside the hotel, muttering, “Hangin’s too good … hangin’s too good …”

  “I see the elite have already assessed the situation,” Wolfe said. “Keep your gun ready.”

  They went inside.

  The dining room and bar were full, and the harried barkeeps were simply giving bottles to anyone who asked. Two women who took their hair color and personality from a bottle were behind the beer taps, and the room was a shout of judgment.

  A miner stood on top of the bar, shouting, “Dunno why we’re all jus’ talkin’ … We know who done it, an’ likely why, t’ screw poor Raff outta his new claim … why wait?”

  There was a roar of approval.

  “We ain’t got no courts anyhow,” he finished in a surprisingly reasonable tone.

  Canfield’s bodyguard, Brakbone, leaped onto the bar. “He’s right! Let’s get this thing over with right now!”

  “No!” someone cried out behind Joshua. “He’s wrong!”

  Wolfe — and the crowd — turned, and saw Stoutenburg at the entrance.

  “Oh shit,” somebody said in the silence. “Now we gotta get preached at.”

  There was laughter.

  Stoutenburg ignored the comment, pushed his way through to the bar. “I know a lot of you — most of you — think I’m no more than some sort of nag. But the book I believe in says ‘Judge not, lest you be judged.’ Think about it for a minute, and don’t pay any heed to whether Somebody greater than you said it that you maybe haven’t learned to believe in it yet. Think about what would happen if you made a mistake — had too much to drink or smoke or ‘ject, and you did something terrible. Would you want somebody deciding what to do with your life right then, in the heat of passion? Especially if they’d been drinking, smoking, or whatever? Shouldn’t a man’s life be considered in calmness, sobriety?”

  “Naw,” somebody shouted. “Di’n't somebody say you get a jury of your peers? Ol’ Lef, he got messed up an’ kilt Raff, so we got messed up an’ now we’re gonna kill him. Ain’t that justice?”

  The mob, enjoying itself, roared with laughter.

  Stoutenburg flushed, held his anger back.

  “Come on, Tony,” Canfield said, coming out from behind the bar. “Father. We respect you for being honest, but nobody believes that old-fashioned stuff.”

  “Don’t they?” Stoutenburg shouted.

  Canfield pretended to survey the crowd.

  “Doesn’t look like it from here. Looks to me like everyone’s pretty happy with the decision that’s been reached. Except for maybe Steadman.”

  He waited until the laughter died.

  “What do you want, Father? A trial?” His voice turned mocking. “The preacher wants a trial.”

  “That sounds very good,” Canfield went on. “But just for openers, who’ll defend Steadman? We’ve all got to live with each other come tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t,” Wolfe said.

  Silence grew, except for a drunk giggling in a corner. Wolfe walked to the bar, the sound of his bootheels very loud. “I don’t,” he said once more. “Let’s have a trial. I’ll defend Steadman.”

  “And who the blazes are you?” somebody shouted.

  “Get the hell outta here,” Brakbone snarled. “Goddamned outsiders got no right to be talkin’ anyway.”

  “Who made you an insider?” Wolfe asked. “Canfield imported you two months ago, and all of a sudden you’re an original settler?”

  Brakbone stepped back, suddenly unsure.

  “All right,” Canfield said loudly. “Let’s have a trial. That’ll make everything acceptable, won’t it? I’ll be the prosecutor. Joshua Wolfe here’ll try to fake us out. But we know what the verdict’ll be, don’t we?”

  There were shouts of agreement.

  “Somebody fetch Steadman,” someone yelled. “Man oughta get a fair hearing to his face before we kill him.”

  • • •

  Lef Steadman was trembling like he had a fever, partially fear, partially the wake-up pill that he’d been fed that sobered him but also produced a hangover like the unoiled hinges of hell.

  “Why’re you doin’ this?” he whispered to Wolfe.

  “I’m a good citizen and your new best friend,” Joshua said. “Now keep your damned mouth shut, no matter what, or I’ll rip your windpipe out.”

  Canfield paced back and forth, clearly enjoying the situation. Kristin stood next to Stoutenburg. Wolfe noted with approval she had one hand inside her jacket, on her gun butt.

  “We don’t need to worry about oathing,” Canfield said. “We can tell who’s lying and who’s not. Prosecution goes first. Get Doctor Nonhoff up here.”

  The doctor wasn’t much soberer than the rest of the crowd by then, but he made his way through what he’d found, and what he thought had happened.

  “Your witness,” Canfield said.

  “No questions.”

  “All right,” Canfield said. “I guess the only other testimony we need is from Lef Steadman.”

  Steadman stood up, and somebody threw a bottle at him. It missed and smashed against the back of the bar.

  “Hold it down,” Canfield shouted. “Anything else like that and I’ll close the bar!”

  Steadman told his story. Yes, he was Raff del Valle’s partner. Maybe former, after the argument last night. Yes, he’d put up the credits for him to go out on an exploratory survey looking for a new stellite vein on a fifty-fifty split if del Valle found something. He’d even let him live with him when he came back into Graveyard from the mountains.

  Del Valle had come back boasting that he’d found something big, bigger than either of his other two strikes. Steadman had suggested they register the claim right away, but del Valle had said there was no hurry. He’d filled out the form papers, and they would take them to the land agent in the morning.

  In the meantime, he was thirsty. So they started from bar to bar. Steadman kept arguing with the older man, begging him to get the registration filed, that he might get drunk and blab the location, and somebody would steal their claim.

  “I was drinkin', but not as heavy as Raff, an’ he lost his temper, like he does — did — when he’s sweet as a peach. He finally said he was goin’ for me, an’ I best clear out. I got out of whatever place we was drinkin’ at, an’ thought I’d best go back to th’ hooch, an’ get some sleep. I made it, an’ remember losin’ my guts outside. Thought I’d best sit up, try’n sober up some, so I wouldn’t go an’ puke in my blankets. I must’a passed out like that.”

  He stopped. There was silence.

  “Then shoutin’ sorta brought me to,” he said, “an’ there were all those people around, an’ Raff was dead on the floor.”

  “Very nice,” Canfield said. “I don’t think diminished capability is much of a defense. If we even believe it. I think he
was pretending to be as drunk as he was, setting up an alibi. Your witness, Wolfe.”

  “One question,” Wolfe said. He took the Remington-Colt from his belt. “Is this yours?”

  “I dunno,” Steadman said. “Lemme have a look at it.”

  Wolfe gave it to Steadman, and a gun jumped into Brakbone’s hand. Steadman yelped in panic.

  “Don’t worry,” Joshua said. “It’s defanged. Nice piece, by the way.”

  Brakbone growled, reholstered his pistol.

  “Yeah. It’s mine,” Steadman said. “Had it around for a couple of years, only started carrying it a month or so ago. Sorry I had to look at it, but I ain’t much of a pistoleer.” He handed the weapon back to Joshua.

  “No further questions,” Wolfe said.

  Steadman lifted his head, and there was black fear in his eyes.

  “What kinda defense are you? You gonna let them just kill me?”

  “Go sit down,” Wolfe said. “And remember what I told you.” Deliberately, he let his hand brush his gun butt. Steadman flinched and stumbled back to his chair.

  “I think we’ve got enough,” Wolfe said, and voices in the crowd echoed him: “Yeah. Kill the bastard!”

  “Shoot ’im!”

  “Not quite yet,” Wolfe said calmly. “Let’s consider a couple of things. Start with the sequence of events. According to Doctor Nonhoff, Steadman was sitting at his desk when del Valle came in. He was drunker than a lord, so he would’ve had to have the pistol in his hand, waiting to assassinate his partner. But somehow he didn’t shoot first. Del Valle hauled iron and, at about seven feet, put his bolt three feet away from Steadman, and punched a hole in the wall next to the window. Maybe he was drunker than Steadman by then. But that’s still pretty crappy shooting.

  “At that point Steadman came to enough to shoot del Valle quite accurately in midchest. A nice neat hole, according to Doctor Nonhoff. Anyone want to see Steadman’s pistol? Here,” Wolfe said, handing it to a burly miner. “You’ve been hollering for a lynching loud enough. Take a look at the gun.”

  The miner fumbled it in his hands. “It’s a gun.”

  “Brilliant, sir,” Wolfe said. “Notice it’s set on wide aperture. To make the hole Doctor Nonhoff said it did, it should’ve been set on narrow. If Steadman had shot del Valle the way it’s set now, it would’ve made a big wide messy crater, right? So reset it for me.”