by Ron Schwab
Webb snuffed out his cigar in an ashtray and leaned back in his chair, his head drooping in resignation. “I’m not admitting to anything, but I’ll listen to your story.”
“The remains of Grant Richards were found in the rubble of what would have been a bedroom in the Harper house. Dr. Weintraub can testify that he was shot in the back of the head. The broken leg Richards once had provides reasonable identification of the body. I think you killed him with his own Smith & Wesson .44. You must have found it hanging in the parlor when you entered the house. Cynthia was there when you killed him, and she tried to get away. I don’t know why you didn’t shoot her. Maybe you caught her as she was escaping through the bedroom door, and it was just more convenient to strangle her. I think Jake showed up unexpectedly after you killed Cynthia. That’s why they were both in the front room. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”
“I was playing poker at Langford’s that night, Ramsey, and a half dozen men can attest to that.”
We can establish that the killings took place sometime between seven thirty and nine o’clock, and we’ll be able to pin it down closer. I doubt if your game started that early, and in any case, Charley Langford should be able to tell us about when you got to his place. I’d guess you went straight from the Harpers’ to your alibi.”
Webb’s face had turned to stone. Ethan looked up at Clete again.
“Cynthia was carrying a child. She was secretly married to Grant Richards; we don’t know when the two got married, but we’ll find out soon enough.”
Clete slumped down to the floor and buried his face in his hands and began to whimper. “Pa, why? Why?”
“I can answer that,” Ethan said. “Somehow, your father learned that Grant Richards and his father-in-law had been rustling Circle W cattle for the past year. You know better than anyone, Clete, how your father felt about Grant Richards. Betrayal. Most men are lucky if they have one, maybe two persons they can place absolute trust in during their lifetimes. It’s hard for a man to trust, especially one like your father. When you do, and you find it was misplaced, it does something to you.” He turned back to Webb. “You should know, Mr. Webb, that we located bank accounts belonging to Richards and Harper. From there, we should be able to trace the source of the money. That establishes motive. A lawyer would call the evidence circumstantial, but if there’s enough of it, it can hang a man. There will be, now that we know what we’re looking for. I’m sorry for you, Mr. Webb. After seeing what you’ve accomplished and all the good you’ve done, it’s sad that it has come to this. But I’m sorrier yet, for all the people you left in your trail of blood. Harper and Richards had something coming for what they did, but not death. Cynthia and her unborn child. Ben Dobbs. Skye dePaul. Two innocent Indian boys. Clete still has to answer for his part in that.”
Webb spoke, his voice strangely firm and detached. “Grant came to me that day, said he was quitting, that there wasn’t any future in the ranch because when I died, Clete would boot him off the place before I was six feet under. I asked him where he was going, what he was going to do. That’s when he told me he’d married Cynthia Harper six months back. He said Jake was going to sell his spread, and they had their eyes on a place in Colorado. Damn, it was a kick in the balls. He left me sick when he walked out. Then I got to thinking about it . . . the rustling stopped when the hired guns showed up. Grant Richards was the first to know when I made the decision to get help. I remember he was against it at first; we had our biggest losses in the days just before the gunmen arrived. And where would Grant Richards and Harper get the money to invest in a Colorado ranch? Between them they didn’t have as much as a desert grasshopper. I had been blind to it because I was always blind where Grant was concerned. I saw that all at once. I wasn't about to let him get away with it . . . not Grant. I didn’t give a shit about Jake Harper. I would have been willing to let the law take care of him. And Cynthia . . . it was just her hard luck to be there when I went to the Harper place to find Grant. They were in the bedroom, the two of them. I could have used my own gun, but I saw his gun belt hanging by the door. It would be ironic, I thought, if I killed him with the same gun I gave him. So I did. He was bare-ass naked and asleep when I put the bullet in the back of his head. I regretted that I didn’t see his eyes, that he never knew that I paid him off in full. The rest of it was pretty much as you said, except for a few details. Cynthia had been getting dressed and tried to get away. I fired a wild shot and missed, but I caught her and couldn’t let her go. I had never struck a woman in my life, much less killed one. It was a degrading thing to do.”
“I’m going to have to take you in, Gid,” Will Bridges said, his voice raspy. “I didn’t know that when we came here. I thought Clete, maybe, but I never saw it was you. I guess I had my blind spot, too.”
“You’ve got your job to do, Will. I don’t hold it against you. It’s all over; I won’t be any trouble.” He rose from his chair. “Will you trust me to pack a few things?”
Bridges looked uncertainly at Ethan who shrugged. “Yeah, sure, I guess. You’re not going to shoot your way out of this one.”
Gideon smiled. “You never know, old partner, you never know.” He walked over to Clete who was huddled against the wall, sobbing like a small child. He stood over his son for a moment and opened his mouth as if to say something. He then shook his head as if he thought better of it. He trudged toward the open doorway of a room Ethan assumed was a bedroom. Fifteen minutes had aged Webb twenty years, he thought. Gideon Webb was a man who was on his way to dying.
No sooner had the thought passed through Ethan’s mind, than the gunshot roared in the next room.
34
SKYE WALKED INTO his office unannounced, and taken aback, Ethan scrambled out of his chair to greet her. She acknowledged him with a slight nod and took a chair on the opposite side of his desk.
She was dressed in the same Quaker garb she had been wearing that first day she marched into his office. She looked much the same—proud, defiant, her face a bit stern. She was lovely in spite of the gauntness of her face and the noticeable hollowness about her eyes. Time would remedy that. The pinned-back sleeve that covered her left arm would always be that way.
“You look a bit foolish standing there like that, Ethan,” she said. “I suggest you be seated.”
He dropped into his chair. “I wasn’t expecting you. Henry said he wouldn’t be releasing you for a few more days.”
“I released myself.” She reached into the bosom of her dress and withdrew an envelope which she handed to him. “There is a draft in the envelope for another three hundred dollars,” she said, “to be applied to the fees I owe you. If you can advise me of the balance, I shall make arrangements for payment.”
He pushed the envelope back to her side of the desk. “I don’t want more fees. I wouldn’t feel right about it. I didn’t even perform any real legal services.”
She ignored his gesture. “You performed the services I employed you to perform. You are well paid with the additional three hundred dollars, but I want nothing of your charity.”
“Damn it, it’s not charity.”
“Ethan, please do not be unpleasant.”
“Who’s being unpleasant? It’s just that this had become more than a case to me. That is, you and me . . . I thought—”
“I am leaving later this morning, Ethan. Now that Clete Webb has been arrested and the few leaders of the lynch mob who are not already dead are in custody, I am returning to my people.”
“What?”
“I am going to the village of my uncle.”
“That’s ridiculous. That’s not where your life is. You belong here. Besides, you’re in no condition to ride into those mountains alone. At least let me go with you. I’ve taken Joe Hollings on at the ranch, and he’ll look after things there.”
“I am well enough for the journey, and Bear Killer will be with me. It was my wish to thank you personally before I left, for all you have done for my people . . . and fo
r me.”
She was saying good-bye. What possessed this crazy woman? Didn’t she know how he felt? Had he deluded himself about her feelings for him? Talons of despair clutched his heart. For some days now he had been unable to envision a life that did not include Skye dePaul.
He looked into the dark, limpid pools that were her eyes and saw the sadness there. There did not have to be words between him and Skye for them to speak to each other. She was telling him now that she cared, felt what he felt. Then why say good-bye?
“Skye,” he said, “stay with me.”
“Please, Ethan, do not make it difficult,” she said, as she rose from her chair. “I must go now.”
He got up and moved quickly around his desk, blocking her escape. “You can’t leave until I ask you something.” Again their eyes locked.
“Do not ask it now, Ethan, for I cannot give you the answer you wish.”
“But what about the prophecy? The coyote?”
“I am a civilized Indian, Ethan. I do not believe in such things.”
To his relief, though, she qualified her answer.
“If the vision carried any truth, perhaps the prophecy has already been fulfilled, and you have made more of it than there was. If there is more to unfold, it will happen in its own way, in its own time.” She suddenly stepped toward him and brushed her lips softly against his cheek before pushing past him and hurrying out the door.
He fought off the urge to follow. “Not now,” he muttered to himself, “not now.” He walked dejectedly back to the desk and stood beside it, staring at the sealed envelope for some moments before he picked it up and opened it. He took out the draft, gave it a cursory glance, and tossed it on his desk and sunk into his chair, turning his attention to the will he had been working on before his interruption. Then he picked up the draft and looked at it again. His eyes were not playing tricks on him. It was definitely not signed. An oversight? Should he go after her? She would no doubt be stopping off at the Pennock School to change before heading into the mountains. No, he reminded himself, not now.
In a few weeks, before July faded into August, the mountains would offer a cool respite from the baking oven of Lockwood. It might be just the right time to ride up to Lame Buffalo’s village to get Skye’s signature on the draft.
Afterword
Thank you for purchasing this ebook. If you enjoyed reading it, please consider leaving a review at your favorite online retailer or Goodreads. For more information about Ron Schwab and his books, you may visit the author’s website at www.RonSchwabBooks.com.
