By the Neck

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Nosey kept his mouth shut and the man said, “Back door.”

  They walked through to the storage room with the bunks set up on either side of the far back door. The stranger said nothing but grunted, “Hmm.”

  Nosey didn’t think the man knew much about the layout of the town, because out behind the bar the trees had been cut down, save for a few scraggly, hopeful pines. That meant that other than outhouses and shanties for storage, and a few poorly built corrals, the place was wide open. Anybody who happened to be behind their own tent or cabin or shack, the various structures that made up the main street buildings, would see him being pushed out and away by a big, surly, dark stranger.

  Nosey poked his head out the door and looked quickly left, then right—and saw nobody. He tamped down the urge to shout, remembering the man’s threat, and walked down the wooden ramp that served as entry to and exit from the back door.

  “Walk straight back and up the hill.”

  Nosey did as he said, and scanned below as they crested the rise overlooking the usually busy main street. Nobody.

  “Seems like you won’t be all that missed,” The man chuckled. “Keep walking. Back behind those pines over there we’ll come to two horses.”

  Again, Nosey was tempted to speak, but the man’s threat clanged in his head like a brass bell. And then he got an idea. “Why are you doing this? Rollie doesn’t even like me.”

  Again the man chuckled. “I doubt that. He trusts you enough to run his bar while he’s away. If I’m wrong, I’ll shoot you and find someone else. If I’m right, Stoneface will turn up sooner than later. If there’s one thing I have some of, it’s time. And don’t think I didn’t notice you spoke before I said you could. Don’t make that mistake again.”

  Nosey coughed and clipped it short, worried that a cough might be mistaken for a word. No bullet ripped through him. He walked closer to the trees, aware like no other time in his life of the sounds about him. There was a breeze, high up, moving the tall, needled branches of the ponderosas. By his feet, scattering as they walked, bugs chirped—were they crickets? He’d spent nine months out here in the wilderness of the world but knew precious little about it. He really should pay more attention to such things.

  Like the way the air felt cool against his stubbled cheeks. He’d meant to shave this morning, he really had. He hoped the man wasn’t going to kill him, not the way he looked. Not with everything he had planned to do out West.

  If he lived through this, he was going to get the hell out of Boar Gulch and track down those men he’d only dreamed of tracking down. Earp, Cody, that Black Bart character, all of them. He would write those books, make the money he needed to clear his name, maybe make a small fortune in the process . . . and then what?

  Settle on the Barbary Coast in Frisco, that’s what. Think of it, Nosey, my boy, he told himself, writing up a storm all day, tall tales about tall men doing mighty deeds! Little if any of it true, but who would know or care? That’s what readers of the dime novels wanted. And then he’d spend his evenings gambling among the velvet-lined splendors of that fair city’s finest gaming halls. He smiled.

  Something rammed hard into Nosey’s back.

  “Ow! Hey!”

  “Get moving.”

  He remembered he was back in Boar Gulch with a madman, close to the brink of death itself.

  “We only stop when I tell you to stop. Understand me? Now, over behind those trees to my horses.”

  True to the man’s word stood two horses, one a packhorse wearing a pannier laden with gear. Nosey saw the black handle of a fry pan, the top of a gray enamel coffeepot, two long items wrapped in canvas that could well be long guns, and other bulging bags and bits of gear.

  “You’ll be riding on Tommy, the mule. Plenty of room if you arrange your legs right. Don’t try to do anything I wouldn’t want you to, because I’ll be riding behind you, and my gun will core your guts clean out. Tommy won’t flinch. He’s stalwart.”

  “That’s not a word I have heard much out this way.” Nosey had intended to say more but realized he’d spoken and shut up tight. His shoulders hunched and he edged around the mule, hoping the man might not shoot him yet.

  “Aw, you can talk now. But not a lot. I didn’t want you to go blathering while we were in earshot of the town.”

  “Fine. How did you come to know a word such as stalwart?”

  “You cut right to it, don’t you?” The man wagged the gun. “Lead him to that stump and use it to climb aboard.” He waited until Nosey did as he’d instructed, then said, “As to your question, I’m not as simple as you might think. I have had a solid education, and I held a good job, as well. No, I see a question forming on your face. Never you mind what my job was. But my point is, don’t judge a man by what you see. You will often miss the mark.”

  Nosey nodded. “That’s fair. When you see me, for instance, what do you suppose I am?”

  The man sighed and mounted his own horse. “I don’t know, and I don’t much care right now. We’ll be riding that way.” He pointed. “Southwest.”

  “For how long? The nights grow cold hereabouts.”

  “Not where we’re going. And don’t you worry about it none.”

  “I am going to worry about it because my life is at stake. The least you can do is engage me in conversation. There are many things people derive enjoyment from in life. Some like to gamble, some like to drink, some like to dally with women, some like to ride horses fast and hard. I enjoy conversation. Of all sorts and with all sorts. I meet interesting people that way.”

  Nosey heard nothing from the man, but noticed the mule’s hoofbeats were the only ones he heard. He turned to see his captor had slumped in the saddle, pistol aimed at Nosey, but his eyes looked to be closed, or nearly so, and his lined cheeks lighter in color. Then he scrunched his features as if deciding a difficult purchase.

  Presently, the man sighed and heeled the horse into a walk, drawing closer. “Why do you like to talk so much? I am regretting this course of action. Bear right down there at the bottom of the hill.”

  “I can no more answer your question than I can tell you why I am the height I am or why my feet reach the ground. Or why I am being kidnapped by a mysterious madman.”

  That set his captor to chuckling. “You remind me of my little cousin, Vincent.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was annoying as all get-out. I vow you top him in that, though. We’ll ride on this course, better part of a mile.”

  “What’s there? And I have been called annoying before, you know. I take it as a compliment.” Nosey straightened his shoulders and raised his head high.

  “Wasn’t intended as such.”

  They rode the rest of the way in anything but silence. Nosey asked questions and his captor sighed and told him to shut up, which did no good.

  Finally, the man said, “See that clearing up to your left? That’s where we’ll camp.”

  “Camp? Why? We’re not all that far from town.”

  “Because I said so. Now climb down and build a fire up there where the rock wall angles. You’ll see the spot. Others have made camp there. And do me a favor, don’t talk while you’re doing it.”

  “Why a fire?”

  “Good lord, man, shut up and do as you are told.” The man groaned. “I fancy a cup of coffee is why.” But his words came out high, as if forced between his teeth.

  Nosey nodded and gathered sticks, dry needles, and larger jags of dried branches that were close by. He assembled them in a rough jumble beneath the scorch marks on the rock where previous travelers had made their fires.

  “You’ll find matches in that saddlebag. Make them count. They come dear.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look well. Can I fix you a spot to sit?”

  “No. I’ll lean here a moment. I—” He broke off and Nosey looked over at him. It appeared as though the man had fallen asleep or passed out while leaning on the rock face. It seemed as if the color
of the man’s cheeks above his beard changed from ruddy to gray as he watched. His lips blued and his breathing came hard, his chest working as if by weak strokes on a bellows.

  Nosey walked closer, an arm out. “Are you . . .”

  The man’s eyes flicked open and he focused on Nosey. He thumbed the hammer back once more. “Get to that fire, boy.”

  Nosey nodded and set to the task. He’d filled the coffeepot and was about to place it on rocks beside his modest blaze when a voice from below shouted, “Tate McCallum!”

  Nosey spun to see Rollie standing below with Cap a few yards behind. Rollie had his rifle aimed up at the mysterious man.

  “Stoneface Finnegan, as I live and breathe,” said Nosey’s captor, pushing off the rock face, and swinging a rifle to bear on Rollie while keeping his shiny pistol aimed at Nosey. “I did not expect to see you so soon.”

  “Here I am. Let my man go.”

  “I think not. I have things to say first.”

  “Let my man go and then talk all you want to.”

  Tate McCallum sighed and closed his eyes. “You are as tiresome as ever. All right, then. I was wearying of his constant chatter anyway.” He raised the pistol and wagged it. “Go on, son. I won’t shoot you. Though any more annoying questions and I feared I may have had to.”

  Nosey descended the rock face, sliding the last five feet until he landed in a squat a few feet from Rollie. Rollie did not look at him. “Why are you here?” he shouted up at McCallum.

  “Why?” McCallum chuckled. “With all your questions, you are beginning to sound like your man there.” His face grayed once more and he closed his eyes a moment and leaned against the rock face. He seemed to catch his breath. “Okay then, I’ll scratch that itch for you. Because you are the only man in my whole grown life who has ever bested me at anything. And it doesn’t sit right with me. I will not go to my Maker without having gained that upper hand. It might mean little to you, but it means everything to me.”

  “Enough to die for it?” said Rollie.

  “Yep.” McCallum sighed and leaned back once more. “Going to anyway.”

  “What’s that mean?” Rollie kept the Winchester raised and aimed at the man.

  “Means I have a cancerous growth somewhere in me. That’s what the doc in Putney, Nevada, tells me, anyway. ‘Big as a baby’s head,’ he said. Why, you should have seen him say that. Eyes wide and bright like a child at the candy counter. I wanted to reach right down his throat and pull up a hunk of him about the size of a baby’s head just for good measure.”

  “Why didn’t you? The old Tate McCallum would have.”

  McCallum smiled, nodded. “Yeah, I reckon.” He lost the smile and stiffened. “Don’t sugar-talk me, Finnegan. I came here to kill you. Don’t deprive me.”

  Rollie never flinched. He kept his gaze sighted along the barrel of his rifle. “I could walk away, Tate. I doubt you’d shoot a man in the back.”

  Once more the man sagged and then dropped his rifle. It slid, clattering to the rock by his feet.

  “Tate?”

  “Yeah.” The man’s face was gray, and he seemed to collapse further in on himself.

  “Do for yourself . . . and you’ll have beaten me to it.”

  At that, the man’s eyes opened, his bushy brows rising. “You think?”

  “Yep.” Rollie lowered his rifle and turned his back on the man. “So long, Tate McCallum. Good luck . . . wherever you end up.” He walked down the trail, scooped up Cap’s reins. “Come if you’re coming,” he said as he passed Nosey.

  For once, Nosey didn’t say anything.

  The two men and one horse were a quarter-mile away when they heard a quick, lone pistol shot that broke apart on the breeze.

  After a few moments, they heard only breeze.

  Nosey said, “I’ll send Bone and his boy to fetch him and the horses.”

  Rollie nodded and kept walking.

  * * *

  Later in the bar, Nosey faced Rollie. “I think I deserve to know what that was all about, don’t you?”

  Rollie looked at him. “No.” He walked past him.

  “Well, say what you will about Tate McCallum, he was an engaging, if reluctant, conversationalist. That’s more than I can say for you, Rollie.”

  Wolfbait nodded and Nosey walked over. “You said the man’s name was Tate McCallum?”

  “That’s what Rollie called him, yeah.”

  “I think I know who he was.” Wolfbait looked down at his empty glass, then back at Nosey.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, all right. But it better be good or I’m charging you.”

  Once the fresh beer was set before the old man, he took a sip, said “Aah,” and set it down.

  “Well?” said Nosey, leaning on the bar and staring at him.

  “Tate McCallum was what was called an enforcer for a railroad tycoon. I forget his name, but Tate’s I remember because I ran across him once.”

  “You did?”

  “Sure did. It was his job to stop railroad laborers from unionizing. By any means necessary.”

  “So how did you know him?”

  “I was working from the inside, trying to get the union up for the workers. McCallum was a bigger man then. And meaner. He swung a mighty club, a table leg, I think it was. Famous for it. Bloodied it up in good shape, too. Heads, arms, legs, men, women. Didn’t matter to him. I don’t recall hearing he ever killed anybody, not that I’d know, of course, but—”

  “He only killed one person, as far as I am aware.” Rollie appeared beside them, arms folded, but he looked above them at the far wall. “A young man named Vincent something or other. Hit him in the head and dropped him. Tate claimed self-defense, of course, but nobody who was there agreed with that. He ended up in prison. Took the fall for his boss, the owner of the Anderson and Whitney-Pike Railroad. He was the one I really wanted. Almost lost my job over it.”

  “Why?” said Nosey.

  Rollie sighed. “Because we were hired by that railroad man as special operatives during a strike, guarding his strikebreakers. But that boss had his own men, men who got unruly. McCallum was one of several who carried it too far.”

  Wolfbait sipped his beer. “Following his employer’s orders.”

  “Yep,” said Rollie. “Same as me.”

  Wolfbait slid off his stool and ambled to the door. “Good night, gentlemen. See you tomorrow.”

  “I always wondered how Wolfbait got that horrible limp,” said Nosey.

  “Now you know.” Rollie scooped up the empty glass and walked behind the bar.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Something’s off.” Rollie lifted his head and stared into the dark.

  “Like a smell? Bad meat?” said Pops.

  “No.” Rollie’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  “What do you think?” said Pops in the same quiet tone. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to snore for a few hours, but if Rollie’s sniffer picked up on an oddness, there was something to it.

  Then Pops heard it, too. A faint gurgling sound. “Hmm,” he said, not moving. But Rollie was moving, sliding from his bunk with a few creaks and pops that didn’t come from the bed’s wooden frame.

  Pops couldn’t help wincing. Rollie wasn’t an old man, but he’d been through enough injury that his body sounded like dry wood crackling in a fire when he first got up of a morning.

  The gurgling sound seemed to have drifted from one side of the building to the other. Pops thought he could smell something, and he didn’t like what it was. He, too, slid from his bed, hand already reaching for Miss Mess Maker and a bandolier of shells. He tugged on his boots and hat and walked on his knees to the back door.

  Rollie was doing the same toward the front, both men decked out in their longhandles, guns, hats, and boots. All a man really needs, anyway, thought Rollie fleetingly. “You smell it, too?” he whispered.

  “Yep. Coal oil. Gonna burn us out.”

  “Yeah, but who?”

&nb
sp; “You tell me.” Rollie knew Pops didn’t expect an answer. “See you outside.”

  “Yep,” said Pops.

  “And don’t shoot me,” said Rollie.

  “Nope.”

  Each man made for their doors and opened them. Pops peeked out into the night left then right, but saw nothing moving. The pungent stink of greasy lamp oil filled his nose and watered his eyes. Whoever did it had soaked a whole lot of it all over the place. Hoping to burn them alive, he bet, and all it would take was a quick flared match. Time to move, he thought.

  Pushing to his feet, he bolted down the ramp, and bending low, darted to the left, eyeing the side of the saloon as he ran. He tried to recall what was back there invisible in the night, so he didn’t bark a knee on something, trip himself up, touch off a trigger, and give himself away.

  Convinced he hadn’t been seen, but likely had been heard, Pops kept low and hoped whatever passed for scant moonlight that night wouldn’t light up his faded longhandles.

  He thought he could see a dark shape along the side of the bar. He listened for a moment and swore he heard the glugging sounds once more. Time to move again. Maybe brace the culprit before he struck a match. The only tricky bit would be not shooting Rollie in the process.

  He catfooted along the length of the bar, about ten feet away from the side of the building. Even at that distance, he smelled the oil. It wasn’t good. Life was the most important thing, sure, Pops knew. But saving his entire wad of cash as well as the only things he owned, the bar included, was pretty damn important, too.

  “Hold it there!” Rollie’s voice bit through the chill night air, followed by the hard steel-ratcheting sound of him cocking the lever of his Winchester.

  That emboldened Pops and he ran harder, his boots grinding gravel. Maybe they could get the rascal in a crossfire position.

  The next thing he heard was a solid thump, as if someone had been punched. Another and another, each followed by groans and grunts. Was it Rollie doing the doling of blows or the receiving?

  Then he saw Rollie, kneeling on something and raising his rifle butt up high, ramming it down hard.

  “Rollie!” Pops shouted. “He alone?”