by Judd Cole
“If you wish to see more of me,” she said, her voice throaty now, “I would not object.”
“‘More’ in which sense, Miss Durant?”
“Whichever sense you want it to mean,” she retorted frankly. “Just so you come back again.”
“I intend to,” he promised her. “The kiss settled that.”
Out in the common room, Burl had heated up a big pot of coffee and got himself half sobered up. Yancy, too, had come inside for a cup.
“Mr. Hickok,” Burl said sheepishly, “I’m sorry for going puny on you. I was okay during the shooting part. But then with the fire and all—well, I wasn’t careful, and I knocked back too damn much who-shot-John before Yancy cut me off. What do you want us to do?”
Charlene came out behind them and went into the kitchen.
“She’s gonna set out some grub shortly,” Bill told them. “Everybody eats something to keep their strength up. No more liquor. Yancy, is your forge and bellows still intact?”
The blacksmith nodded.
“Good,” Bill told him. “Tomorrow, at first light, I want you to true the back left tire on the coach. It got bent a little in the rockslide.”
Yancy nodded.
“Soon as we finish up here,” Bill added, “you two push that coach right out into the center of the yard. I want it wide open, so anybody who wants to get at it needs to show himself in moonlight. Burl, you’ll be in charge of setting up a guard. It’ll be you, Joshua, Yancy. I recommend four-hour stints.”
“But where’re you gonna be?” Yancy asked. His eyes cut toward the blanket of Charlene’s bedroom, but Hickok chose to ignore the crude hint.
“Not here,” he replied. “I’ve had my belly full of all this swiping at the branches of our problem. So I’m going right for the roots.”
“Gil Brennan?” Burl said, wiping dry lips on the back of his hand, which still trembled slightly.
Hickok nodded. “Leland marked his ranch on my map. It’s only forty miles northeast from here, right?”
Burl nodded. “But it’s well-fortified, Bill. You’d be riding into a mare’s nest.”
“I’m being well-paid to do it. You two just remember: Get that wagon positioned out in the open. And don’t let down your guard. They could hit again at any moment. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow.”
“God go with you, Wild Bill,” Yancy called behind him. “Gil Brennan’s spread is like those places Mexican generals hide out at. And he’s got a small army on his payroll. They capture you, Bill, it’ll be slow, hard dying.”
“Yancy,” Bill replied from a deadpan, “quit sugarcoating it and tell me what you really think.”
Chapter Thirteen
Gil Brennan stretched his legs, luxuriating in the feel of satin sheets smooth as a young girl’s skin. This was his favorite part of the day, waking up with a willing woman beside him, eager to sate his lust without requiring love talk to justify it.
He could feel Gina’s weight on the bed beside him, and it brought a smile to his face even before his eyes coaxed themselves open. But instead of the sweet honeysuckle smell of her perfume, Gil smelled .. .
His eyes snapped open suddenly as he realized someone was smoking a cigar.
“Gina, what—Christ!”
He had pushed up on one elbow, twisted around to his concubine, and then nearly died of fright right there in bed when he met the cold, gunmetal gaze of Wild Bill Hickok.
That first strong, heart-jolting shock of recognition was followed by a second when Brennan realized exactly where Hickok had tucked the muzzle of his Colt .44.
“Jesus, Wild Bill, please don’t shoot.”
Bill inclined his head in the direction of the pretty but sore-used blonde who sat, poker rigid, in a wing chair at one side of the huge master bedroom. She clutched a skimpy silk wrapper that flattered her womanly figure.
“Won’t be requiring her services after you’re gelded, will you, Brennan?”
Hickok sat, quite relaxed, with his back propped against the bed’s carved-mahogany headboard. Early-morning sunlight turned the velvet draperies a glowing red.
“Cute little love nest,” Hickok said scornfully. “I can smell the opium stink, too. No wonder you’ve hired jay hawking trash to steal federal gold—the drug has you off your head.”
All this was too much for Brennan, who still hadn’t quite comprehended that Hickok had breached his security. He remained as still as Gina. “But how ... ?”
He trailed off, but Hickok knew what he wondered. How did anyone penetrate to my inner sanctum?
“Let’s just say that your payroll will be a little lighter this month,” Bill replied. “And by the way—most of those ‘guards’ of yours, Brennan, ain’t worth a plugged peso.”
“Few men are, Wild Bill. Both of us know that.”
“Maybe,” Hickok agreed. “But one difference is I don’t count on inferior men. You do. That’s why you’re on the verge of a mutiny that will sink you.”
“Who ... who told you so?”
Hickok laughed. “Fellow name of History, I believe it was. But even if your own swine don’t eat you, you’ve made a stupid mistake in heisting federal gold and killing soldiers. Don’t you know there’s prosecutors already out west, taking depositions and putting fellows like you in prison—or worse? Matter of a few months, at most, and you’ll be wearing Uncle Sam’s ball and chain.”
Bill wagged the gun slightly, and Brennan recoiled. “Assuming,” Bill added, “that I’ve become too civilized lately for Spanish revenge.”
Despite his fear, Brennan was slowly gaining some confidence. After all, he was still alive. Hickok could have killed him by now, but he must want something. A deal ... even now Brennan’s scheming mind sought a way to horse-trade.
“You are too civilized to simply kill me, Bill. You’re not a cold-blooded murderer.”
“Sounds like we’re good friends, huh? I mean, that you know me so well. Where was it we met? I forget now.”
“Great minds think alike, Bill, you know that. Now, hanging Race’s body up like you did, with the sign and all—that was just common vigilante tricks, no imagination at all. But I have to hand it to you, Bill—the ‘dead men driving’ trick yesterday? That was pure Wilkie Collins.”
“Gil,” the woman cut in, her tone disgusted, “you’re just making it worse with all your foolish talk—”
“Shut your damn mouth,” he snapped as if she were a cur who had irritated him.
“So you liked that little trick?” Bill said pleasantly.
“Don’t get me wrong. An intelligent man would know right off it was a ruse. But your genius was in knowing most of those men were just ignorant enough to be scared off. It was a calculated risk, and you pulled it off. My hat’s off to you.”
“So you’re thinking I value your praise, is that it? One superior man to another?”
“Why—no, not exactly, I don’t suppose. Mainly I was just making the point that we both know men well. Read them well. It sets us—I mean, certain men apart from the majority. That’s all I meant.”
Hickok blew a few lazy smoke rings. “Then you tell me something, reader of men. What makes you so bedrock certain I won’t kill you? I killed those crooked soldiers, so why not the man who actually hired them?”
“Because you want something from me. A deal. Somehow or other I’m useful to you.”
Bill nodded. “All right, you’re not stupid. That’s partway right. I do want something.”
More hope worked into Brennan’s face. “A cut of the swag, right?”
Bill shook his head. “No. I want you to call off your dogs. Let this coach get through.”
Brennan looked startled, then suspicious.
“This coach? But what about future gold shipments?”
“That will be somebody else’s watch.”
Brennan laughed, forcing it a little. “No offense, but that doesn’t sound like Wild Bill Hickok.”
Bill looked at Gina. “There he goes again, my
good buddy.”
“So you’re telling me all I have to do is call back my men for this one shipment?”
Bill nodded. Brennan still couldn’t figure the angle. On the face of it, he didn’t like the delay in placing a bid for the Exposition Bank in San Francisco, which was now being offered for sale. It would be preferable if Hickok would just take a share of the gold.
But failing that, this odd offer at least had the merit of leaving Brennan’s operation intact. Something occurred to him, and he suddenly smiled.
“Ahh, I think I understand, Bill. There is, after all, the question of your public reputation, what with you being so much in the press. A . .. private treaty between us leaves that reputation healthy as, once again, the living legend comes through.”
“There you go, seeing right through me. Do we have a deal? This coach gets through?”
“Just so I understand—that’s it? Just cancel this job?”
Hickok nodded. “That’s it. You agree to do that, I let you go now. But I want you to understand: If you cross me, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you to rag tatters.”
Wild Bill watched Brennan turn it over and over rapidly, looking at all the angles. Wild Bill knew he would crater. Brennan’s type could show genius at scheming, but were cowards in their heart of hearts. Bill was also confident that Brennan was not the judge of men, nor the handler of them, that he thought he was. That’s why Bill was taking this second calculated risk.
“It’s a deal,” Brennan agreed. “But I still think you’d be smarter to take a cut.”
“I’m satisfied this way,” Hickok assured him. He stood up, and Brennan saw the rope coiled in his left hand.
“Get back in bed, Gina,” Wild Bill ordered the blonde. “You two are going to be tied up together while I vacate the premises. I’ll loop you front to front—won’t that be pleasant?”
When he had them tied up, and gagged with strips of sheet, Bill placed the muzzle of his six-shooter against Brennan’s left temple.
“You call off your dogs today, is that clear? Or I swear on the Hickok family bones I’ll ride back and put you down like a sick animal. Do you believe me?”
Clearly Brennan still couldn’t understand how Hickok could be so peacock vain. They were strange terms, and a damned nuisance. But while a temporary setback, calling off this one job wasn’t the end of either Gil’s freedom or his operation.
He nodded his head, and a moment later Hickok was gone.
~*~
Toward suppertime that night Wild Bill Hickok finally returned to Beecher’s Station, saddle-ragged and sleepy, leading the sorrel and riding a ginger mare he’d stolen from Brennan.
Josh gave him the hail from up on the roof. “All quiet here, Bill. You find Brennan?”
Bill nodded, swinging down and turning his horses over to Yancy.
“I talked to him,” Hickok affirmed, pausing to light a cheroot that had gone out.
“Just talked?” Yancy probed, sounding disappointed.
“If I played it right,” Bill assured him, “Brennan is either already dead or will be soon. How’s Jimmy making?”
“Says he’s feeling sparky,” Josh reported. “Called you a yellow-bellied sapsucker and said he prayed God you’d die hard at Brennan’s.”
Bill laughed and shook his head. “He’s back to normal, God help us.”
“There’s hot corn bread and soup ready inside,” Josh added. “Man alive, that Charlene ain’t just pretty as four aces, Bill. She can cook. And nurse? Why, she’s got thank-you letters from Clara Barton for her work during the war! She’s some pumpkins, all right.”
Bill was heading into the burned-out shell at the front of the station, his Winchester over one shoulder. “Invite me to the wedding, kid.”
“I didn’t mean anything like that,” Josh flung back down.
Yancy followed Wild Bill inside. “I got the wheel trued, Bill, and I put some temporary bracings on the worst-damaged parts of the coach. I also gave the harness rig a close inspection. It’s in good shape.”
“’Preciate it.” Bill spotted Charlene working over a big cook stove in the kitchen. She wore a pretty yellow dress with her hair again drawn into its neat coil. She spotted him, smiled that restive, mysterious smile of hers, and looked away again.
Bill headed on toward Jimmy’s room. “Yancy, where’s Burl?”
“We’re keeping two men on guard now. He’s out by the corral.”
Wild Bill nodded. “Good thinking. Tonight we’re gonna keep that up—two men on guard, two men sleeping. We’ll be pulling out at sunup. Take Joshua’s place, will you, and send him inside to Jimmy’s room.”
“Christ, heal my eyes,” Jimmy complained the moment Wild Bill stepped into his room. “I had you dead by now.”
“You look good, old roadster. Ready to fight?”
“Got my color back,” Jimmy quipped, and they both laughed. Joshua entered, Jimmy’s rifle under his arm.
“So is Brennan dead?” Jimmy asked.
Bill shook his head. “Like I just told the kid, he was alive when I left him. But I don’t think he will be for long.”
Hickok explained his arrangement with Gil Brennan. Jimmy started smiling even before Bill had finished. Joshua, however, as Brennan himself had, seemed puzzled.
“But how’s that settle anything?” he demanded. “Even if he does call his men off this time?”
Jimmy, propped up by pillows, answered for Hickok. “Oh, he’ll sure-God try to call his men off. But Sandy Urbanski and Rick Collins won’t pull back now. It was Leland reminded us of something—both of them once rode with Quantrill and his butchering mob.”
Bill nodded. “Brennan is a fool, thinks he can ride herd on them. But I predict Urbanski will kill him and take over this job himself.”
“What then?” Josh asked.
“That has to play out, kid. But the point is that the brains of the operation will be dead. If we three can handle the brawn, Overland’s problem will be solved. And even if I’m wrong, and Brennan ain’t killed today—I meant what I told him about the law catching up to him now that prosecutors are setting up shop out here.”
Jimmy tested his leg. “It’ll take my weight. We pulling out tomorrow?”
Bill nodded. “You’ve already cost us a day, you sorry sack of dung. But tonight could get lively, too, depending what happens and how they decide to play it. We might have a full-bore attack right here, and we’ll have to be ready for it. Right now, though, I’m wrapping my teeth around some grub.”
Before Bill and Josh could leave, however, Jimmy said, “J. B.?”
Hickok was instantly alerted. Jimmy seldom called him by his real initials except for serious subjects.
“Yeah?”
“While you was gone and I was under? I—ahh, had the queerest dream, if that’s what you’d call it. You was playing poker in Deadwood. Place called the Number 10 Saloon. I ain’t never been to Deadwood. Is there a watering hole by that name?”
Wild Bill nodded, his face completely blank. “There is. So many saloons in Deadwood, they just decided to number them.”
“Maybe I heard that before,” Jimmy said, mostly to himself, “and maybe I just forgot it.”
“Maybe.” Wild Bill could feel Joshua staring at him, but he ignored the kid. “So that’s it? I was playing poker in the Number 10? Was I winning?”
“I ... yeah, seems there was yaller boys piled up front of you. I do remember that you was holding aces and eights.”
Bill, still steady and calm, nonetheless paled slightly. And Joshua felt his blood seem to change course in his veins. Aces and eights ... the hand Calamity Jane swore Bill would be holding when he was murdered—in Deadwood.
“It’s the damndest thing, too,” Jimmy added, “but the ace of spaces was red. Just like ...”
Jimmy trailed off at the look on Joshua’s face. “Damn foolish dreams,” he added. “Don’t mean nothing.”
Chapter Fourteen
“You boys just wait r
ight out here in the yard,” Sandy Urbanski told Collins and the rest. “I’ll go inside and see what he wants. Keep your eyes open. Brennan had two of his ranch hands killed last night, both throat-slashed Apache fashion. Had to be Hickok. He might still be around.”
Sandy swung down from the saddle and tossed his reins to Dobber Ulrick to hold for him. His boot heels thumped loudly on the raw planks of the front porch. Brennan’s Chinese house boy opened the front door and led Urbanski back through a luxuriously appointed living room to an even more splendid library.
“Sandy,” Brennan greeted him, rising from a leather easy chair where he had been sitting, drinking rye whiskey and staring into the snapping flames of a fieldstone fireplace.
“So this is how the upper crust lives,” Sandy said, gazing around at the leather-bound books and heavy teak furniture. He also aimed a contemptuous glance at Brennan’s velvet smoking jacket.
“Take a load off, Sandy,” Brennan invited, motioning toward a chair near the fire. “Whiskey?”
“I could cut the phlegm.”
Brennan poured a few fingers of rye into a pony glass and handed it to his hireling. “Good Cuban cigars in that humidor beside you,” he added.
Urbanski helped himself to several, putting one in his mouth and a few more in his shirt pocket. “This ain’t the reception I was expecting, boss,” he admitted. “Figured you called me in here to read me the riot act.”
“What, you mean because you haven’t finished the job yet?”
Urbanski nodded, watching his boss through curls of strong, fragrant smoke.
“Don’t know how’s I blame you for that,” Brennan assured him. “Hickok’s been one step ahead of both of us all the way. My plan to plant him at Martin’s Creek failed. Your ambush failed. My plan to blow the slope, the fake heist diversion—he’s had a fox play for every move we try.”
“You’re sure mighty philosophical about it all of a sudden. I thought you was hot to heist this gold.”
Brennan knocked back another jolt of liquor. He seemed edgy, expectant, and Urbanski started watching him close.
“Look,” he pressed his boss, “is this heist still on, r’not?
