"What're you doin' out here, mister?" he asked. "This place ain't for the likes of you."
Eastland knew the man was trying to frighten him. The effort was meeting with some success, too. But he steeled his nerves and said, "I'm looking for Jim Meadows."
"Never heard of him," Sheepskin Vest said.
That was a bald-faced lie, Eastland thought. He said, "I know he's here. If you would, tell him Carleton Eastland would like to speak to him. We both work for the same employer."
Maybe his tone was a little more haughty than he intended. Whatever the reason, Sheepskin Vest stiffened and stood up straighter. His hand gripped the gun butt and started to raise the weapon from its holster as he said, "Do I look like a damn servant to you?"
"No, I just – "
"Then what're you doin' givin' me orders? I oughta – "
Another voice said from the doorway, "That's enough, Cass." Jim Meadows stepped out of the roadhouse and stopped in front of the door. He hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and regarded Eastland thoughtfully as he went on, "I know you, don't I?"
"My name is Carleton Eastland. I work for Aaron Nash, just like you do."
A sardonic smile curved the left side of the gunman's mouth. "I don't recall saying that I know anybody named Nash."
Eastland shook his head and said, "There's no need to be evasive, Mr. Meadows. I know all about your arrangement with Mr. Nash. I'm his son-in-law and the vice-president of his company."
"Oh, well, then by all means, come on in," Meadows said mockingly. "Sorry we can't offer the sort of hospitality you're used to back in town."
Eastland was getting angry. All three men were grinning now. They were like everyone else. They thought they were better than him. He wanted to take them down a notch, especially Jim Meadows, their leader.
"I didn't come out here for hospitality," he snapped. "I came to tell you that the woman you tried to kill earlier today survived. You managed to burn down her house, but she got out alive and can identify you."
That surprised Meadows. He said, "The Eastland woman's still alive?" He looked even more surprised as something else occurred to him. "Wait just a damned minute. You said your name is Eastland. That bitch is – "
"My former wife," Eastland said. "I bear you no malice for what you did. But now you have to think about your next move. The authorities will have your description soon, if they don't already."
"All right, get down and come on in," Meadows said. He jerked his head at the other two men, indicating that they should go back into the roadhouse.
Eastland climbed down from the buggy and tied the reins at the end of the hitch rail. He said, "I don't see why I have to go inside." Something about the dark maw of the roadhouse's door made him nervous. Anything could lurk in a place like this.
"Because I don't do business standing out in the open," Meadows snapped. "Besides, the wind's cold. There's a nice fire inside."
Eastland nodded and reluctantly followed the gunman into the building. The two men he had seen outside now stood at the bar. Three more men with hard-planed, beard-stubbled faces sat at a crude table playing poker with a deck of greasy cards. A jug that probably had whiskey in it sat on the table; the men must have been passing it around during their game.
The roadhouse's proprietor stood behind the bar. He was short and stocky, mostly bald, with a fringe of white hair around the back of his head and tufts of hair growing out of his ears. He wore a canvas apron that might have been white once but had turned gray with years of wiping greasy, grimy hands on it.
The floor was made of rough, uneven puncheons. Wind whistled through cracks between the wall boards. A pot-bellied stove squatted in one corner, giving off enough heat to keep the chill from being too bad. The air smelled of beer, tobacco, urine, vomit, and unwashed flesh. All in all, it was as squalid a place in which Carleton Eastland had ever set foot.
Which made it all the more astonishing to see the beautiful, elegantly dressed blonde sitting at another table. Eastland recognized her instantly as Gillian Baldwin. The light from the smoky oil lamps that hung from the low ceiling revealed her pale, drawn face. She was terrified, Eastland realized.
"Miss Baldwin!" he exclaimed. He couldn't help himself.
Meadows grinned. He seemed to have regained his composure after receiving the surprising news that Vickie was still alive. He said, "I see you know my other guest."
"You kidnapped Gillian Baldwin?" Burning down the boarding house was audacious enough. Eastland couldn't believe that Meadows had been daring enough to kidnap the daughter of one of the richest men in Hot Springs.
"No such thing," Meadows said. "You came out here with me willingly, didn't you, darling?"
Gillian swallowed and said, "I . . . I didn't know it would be like this. I thought you were a gentleman. I never dreamed you were . . . an outlaw." She looked at Eastland. "You have to help me. You're not the same sort as these men, Mr. Eastland – "
Meadows interrupted her with a laugh. "He's sure as hell not. But he works for Aaron Nash, same as me. He's up to his well-barbered neck in this deal, Gillian." He turned back to Eastland. "Now, what is it Nash wants me to do?"
This changed everything, Eastland thought frantically. Gillian being here was the worst possible thing that could have happened.
But maybe it didn't have to be. He thought as fast as he ever had and realized that he had to go ahead with his plan.
The only real difference was that since Gillian knew about his connection with Meadows, she had to die, too.
"You're going to have to get out of Arkansas, you and all your men," Eastland said. He made an effort to keep his voice calm and steady. "I'd suggest Indian Territory. There's no real law over there. You'll need money – "
"You're damned right about that," Meadows said.
"Mr. Nash understands that. Even though everything didn't go as planned, he's prepared to pay you two thousand dollars. Getaway money, I suppose you could call it."
Meadows sneered. "Two grand split up between six of us won't get us very far."
Eastland was ready for that objection. It didn't really matter how much he promised Meadows, since the money would never be paid; he was just trying to make the offer sound realistic.
"Very well," he said, sounding grudging about it. "Mr. Nash told me I could go as high as five thousand."
"That's more like it," Meadows said. "You've got the money with you?"
"No. Not even Mr. Nash can put his hands on that much cash right away. But he told me to tell you that he'd have it tonight."
"Then I'll slip into town and see him tonight."
Eastland shook his head. "That's too dangerous. You and your men stay right here. I'll bring the money to you. Say, at eight o'clock?"
Meadows narrowed his eyes. He would have looked frightening without the scar; with it he was terrifying. He said, "Nash better not be trying to double-cross me."
"Absolutely not. I give you my word, Mr. Nash isn't attempting any sort of deception."
That was true enough, Eastland thought. Aaron Nash was far beyond trickery, or anything else except moldering in a grave.
"See to it that you show up with that money," Meadows snapped. "If you don't, I'll hunt down Nash and settle with him. And then I'll come for you."
"Don't worry." He had come too far for his nerves to fail him now, Eastland told himself. "I'll be back this evening."
"All right." Meadows looked down at Gillian. "Looks like you'll get to visit Indian Territory. Things over there won't be as fancy as what you're used to, but I reckon you'll get used to 'em." He cupped her chin. "You'll be surprised what you can get used to if you don't have any choice."
Eastland saw Gillian shudder. For a second, a pang of sympathy went through him. A part of him wanted to help her. She was, after all, much more the same class of people as he was.
But more importantly, she was a danger to him. She could ruin everything, so that meant she had to die.
He said, "I have
to get back to Hot Springs now." As he spoke, he caught Meadows' eye and inclined his head slightly toward the door, hoping the gunman would understand that Eastland wanted to talk to him outside.
Meadows caught on. He strolled after Eastland, leaving Gillian sitting at the table with her head down.
Once they were outside, Meadows asked impatiently, "What is it now, Eastland? I've already said that I'll do what Nash wants."
"And you've agreed to accept a hefty payment for doing so."
Meadows shrugged. "In this world, you have to expect to pay for what you want."
"In your case, you'll be paying too high a price if you take Miss Baldwin with you."
Meadows narrowed his eyes again. "What are you talking about?"
"Attacking my former wife and burning down her boarding house is enough to get the law after you. But they'll come after you a lot harder if you kidnap the daughter of a rich man. Not only that, but Marcus Baldwin will hire manhunters to track you down, too. He can afford to send the best men on the frontier after you. If you disappear into Indian Territory, eventually the law will give up on finding you. But Baldwin won't. You'll have his men after you for the rest of your life."
"So what are you suggesting?"
Eastland shrugged. "It'll be several hours before I'm back with that money. Use the time to do whatever you want with Miss Baldwin . . . and then kill her."
"Won't that make Baldwin just as determined to track me down? Hell, seems to me like it'd make him want me dead even more."
"No doubt," Eastland said, scrambling to put together a plausible scenario. "But you'll be much harder to track without a prisoner slowing you down."
"I'll think about it," Meadows said with a frown. "It might cause trouble with the other fellas if I took her along and kept her to myself. Of course, we might all split up once we get in the Nations . . ."
"It's just something to bear in mind."
Meadows grinned and said, "Couldn't be that you want her dead because she knows too much about you and Nash, now could it?"
"There's that to consider, too," Eastland admitted.
"Maybe I'll do you that favor. Out of the kindness of my heart, you know."
There wasn't a single shred of kindness in Jim Meadows' heart, and Eastland knew it. He started to untie the reins of his buggy horse.
"But one thing you can count on," Meadows continued. "One way or another, Gillian Baldwin won't be going back to Hot – "
He didn't finish the sentence because at that moment, Gillian burst out of the roadhouse door with the tall, skinny gun-wolf called Cass lunging after her and yelling, "Hey, come back here, you little bitch!"
28.
This was the first time Logan had been on a horse in months, and he could tell that within a mile or two from his aching muscles. He pushed the animal hard along the road that Carleton Eastland's buggy had taken out of Hot Springs. If Eastland had turned off somewhere, Logan would be out of luck. All he could do was hope that Eastland stayed on the same route.
The way the road twisted and turned through the wooded mountains, it never ran straight for more than a hundred or so yards. Because of that, Logan worried that he wouldn't spot Eastland until he was right behind the man.
Providence was with him. He caught a glimpse of movement on the road ahead and hung back. Eastland never glanced behind him as he guided the buggy around another bend and vanished from sight. Logan had gotten a good enough look to be sure the buggy was the one he was after, though. He heeled the horse into motion again, moving even faster now.
When Eastland reached the ramshackle building with the bluff looming above it and stopped there, Logan was just around the last bend in the trail. He could see enough through the trees that came right up to the edge of the road to know that Eastland had brought the buggy to a halt, so he reined in, too, and swung down from the saddle. Carefully, he moved through the trees until he had a clear view of the place.
He watched as Eastland confronted the two men, then stiffened as Jim Meadows stepped out of the roadhouse. If he'd had a rifle and two good arms, he would have been tempted to put a bullet through Meadows' head then and there, just so the man wouldn't have a chance to hurt any more innocent people.
All he could do was wait, though. Armed with the Colt and the sawed-off scattergun, he could fight a battle at close quarters, but not a long-range one.
Before leaving Hot Springs, he had taken off his coat to give him more freedom of movement, and he had strapped the holster Buck Finnerty had rigged for the scattergun to his right thigh. He had discovered that having the weapon there acted as a brace of sorts on his weak leg, making it somewhat easier for him to move around.
Logan's impatience grew as Eastland, Meadows, and the other two men went into the building. He was glad that his hunch about Eastland leading him to Meadows had paid off. But where was Gillian Baldwin? Inside the roadhouse? That seemed the most likely, since the Baldwin buggy was tied up at the hitch rail, too. Was she Meadows' prisoner, or was she still with him of her own free will?
Those questions were answered a few minutes later when Eastland and Meadows emerged and stood talking briefly beside the buggy that Eastland had brought out. Suddenly Gillian appeared, running from the building with one of the other men in angry pursuit.
Meadows moved with the same speed that made him a deadly gunman. He darted to the side and grabbed Gillian as she tried to escape past him. She was moving so fast that her feet came off the ground as Meadows swung her around. Logan heard her cry out. She struggled to break free of Meadows' grip but had no chance of doing so.
That settled it. She was a prisoner. Which meant she had realized what sort of man Meadows really was and what he had in mind for her.
Every instinct in Logan's body shouted for him to help her, but he held back. If he attacked the men in front of the roadhouse, he would waste the advantage of surprise and get himself killed. That wouldn't help Gillian, and it wouldn't bring Meadows and his companions to justice.
If he was going to make a move, it would have to be from close up to have a chance of succeeding.
And he had a glimmer of an idea how to go about doing that.
Meadows turned Gillian over to the other gunman and started talking to Eastland again. While that was going on, Logan heard horses moving along the road. The mount he had brought out from town was tied in plain sight at the edge of the trees. He hadn't thought to conceal the animal because he was in a hurry to find out what was going on at the roadhouse.
Now more riders were approaching, and if they were some of Meadows' allies, he might be in trouble. Even if they weren't, he didn't want the men at the roadhouse to hear the hoofbeats. He turned and hurried back through the trees until he could see the trail.
Logan was relieved – although greatly surprised – when he recognized the three men on horseback. Rusty Turner was the only one who looked reasonably comfortable in the saddle. Doc Reese and Dewey Dumont clearly didn't ride much.
They all hauled back on their reins as Logan ran into the road and waved his good arm for them to stop. Rusty opened his mouth to say something, but Logan signaled for quiet. He motioned for the men to dismount.
"What are you doing here?" he asked Rusty, keeping his voice pitched low so it wouldn't travel to the roadhouse. "I told you to stay in Hot Springs."
"Well, I never was real good at takin' orders, as any man I've ever worked for will tell you," Rusty said. "As for these two galoots – " He grinned and jerked a thumb at Doc and Dewey. "Once I mentioned to 'em that you might need a little help, nothin' would do but for them to come along with me."
"I don't need any help," Logan snapped. "I don't need any – "
"Friends?" Doc broke in. "Is that what you were about to say? Because the way I see it, Logan, everybody needs a few friends now and then, even hard-nosed gunmen."
Rusty and Dewey had rifles across their saddles, and Logan saw the butt of a pistol stuck behind the belt around Doc's ample middle.
"You don't understand. Meadows and his men are all professionals. You go up against them, you'll just get yourselves killed. I won't have that on my conscience."
"You won't have to worry about your conscience if you're dead," Rusty said. "We came to back your play, Logan, but we'll be smart about it. We'll handle it any way you tell us."
Maybe they could give him a hand without risking their lives too much. If they stayed in the trees, Rusty and Dewey might be able to pick off a man or two, if Logan could lure the killers outside. The plan he was working on might accomplish that.
"Dewey, can you shoot?"
"I grew up poor," the saloonkeeper said with a grin. "I could knock a squirrel for my ma's stew pot out of a tree at a hundred yards by the time I was six years old."
"All right. Those squirrels couldn't shoot back, though, don't forget that. Rusty, I know you've been in some fights."
"Enough," Rusty said with an emphatic nod. "I can take care of myself, Logan."
"Doc, you'll have to sit this one out with that handgun," Logan said. "Unless things go wrong, in which case, be ready."
"I will be," Doc promised. "You'd better tell us the plan, though."
Logan nodded and said, "Here's what we're going to do."
* * *
By the time Carleton Eastland drove around the bend in the road a few minutes later, all four men and horses were out of sight. The horses were tied deeper in the trees, and Logan and his unexpected allies waited behind some of the pines. Rusty, Doc, and Dewey stayed where they were as Eastland drew even with them.
Logan stepped out into the open and leveled the Colt at the man. Eastland yanked back on the reins and stopped short as he stared down the barrel of the gun.
"Not a word," Logan warned. "If you yell, I won't have any reason not to blow your head off, mister."
Dancing With Dead Men Page 18
