And so was the threat posed by Rance Brannigan to Bob Hatfield’s present and future—based on his past. Even though everyone present that day heard Brannigan’s accusations, thanks to the loyalty of Buford Morrison and Bob’s three deputies no one else ever saw the wanted poster offered as proof of his claims. As a result, there was no choice but to take the word of the four lawmen that the poster bore no resemblance to Bob and therefore had no validity. In the months and years that followed, the accusations by Brannigan were rarely, if ever, even mentioned around Rattlesnake Wells. In a private ceremony held in the jail office before the U.S. Marshal left town (and also never spoken of again), Morrison passed out cigars and lighted them with the poster, rolled tight and set aflame.
Thanks additionally to Brannigan’s greed and innate distrust in anyone and everyone—as evidenced by his insistence on first finishing and getting paid for the Wardell job while never sending advance word down to Texas that he’d discovered a still-alive Bob Hammond/Devil’s River Kid—Marshal Hatfield’s secret became once again secure as soon as Brannigan, Drake, and Wilbur bit the dust.
Bob reflected deeply on these things during the ride back to Rattlesnake Wells. He naturally felt relieved but, at the same time, there was still the matter of a murder suspect waiting in his jail and the lynch mob mentality of the many townsmen he had every reason to expect would also still be there, wanting to get their hands on the prisoner. That not only wasn’t something to look forward to but needing to deal with it stood directly in the way of something he was looking forward to—spending time with Consuela and Bucky.
The lengthening shadows of early evening were reaching inward from the buildings on the west side of Front Street as Bob, his deputies, and Marshal Morrison came plodding back into town. An uncharacteristically muted Owen Dutton was also with them, riding double with Vern after they’d swung back by the site of the first skirmish to pick him up as promised.
Drawing abreast of the newspaper office, Dutton wordlessly peeled off from the group. Citizens on the boardwalks lining the street and faces in the shop windows gawked as the riders proceeded on toward the jail.
Nearing the sturdy building, Bob was surprised to see there was no crowd gathered out front. As he and the others swung down from their saddles and tied up at the hitch rail, the front door opened and Bullock and McTeague stepped out to greet them.
“It’s good to see you not only back, but all of you back in one piece,” said Bullock.
“Too bad the same can’t be said for everybody who got caught up in the trouble out there,” Bob responded wearily. “The doc is still with them, taking care of the ones he can do any good. But at least it’s over. And if you think it’s good to see us back, let me tell you how good it feels to be back.”
“Amen to that,” said Fred, joined by agreeable muttering from the others.
“But what happened here?” Bob asked, looking this way and that in an exaggerated manner. “We left you with all sorts of chattering citizens to keep you company while we were away, only now it appears they all abandoned you.”
“That they did,” said McTeague. “The thanks for that goes to your friend Marshal Morrison there. He showed up, did considerable barking and cussing at ’em, all the while flashing his federal credentials, and danged if those fellas who’d been milling around all morning didn’t all of a sudden remember other places they needed to be and things they had to do. Ain’t seen a whisker of any of ’em since.”
“The girl had a little something to do with it, too, after she took the wind out of Norton’s sails right in front of everybody,” added Bullock. “But, yeah, it was the appearance by Marshal Morrison that mostly broke ’em up.”
“What girl?” Bob wanted to know.
“This girl right here—me,” said a voice from behind McTeague.
A moment later the mine owner was edged aside, and filling part of the doorway beside him was Brenda Emory. Before Bob could say anything, she spoke again. “Don’t get angry with either Mr. Bullock or Mr. McTeague for allowing me to be here, Marshal. They tried their best to be gruff and stern in their refusals to let me stay, but I can be a pest when I don’t get my way and they are, after all, two gentlemen and just a couple of puppies when it comes right down to it.”
Bob arched a brow and said dryly, “Yeah, I’ve often heard them described just that way.”
“Besides,” Brenda went on, her eyes shiny with eager excitement, “I convinced them you not only wouldn’t mind me being here when you got back, but, once you heard what I had to say, you’d actually be very pleased . . . After all, I’m ready to reveal to you who really killed Myron Poppe. And it wasn’t Johnny Larkin!”
* * *
It was full dark by the time they arrived at the Emory house. Inside, suppertime was over and, as was the custom for the family, all present had repaired to the parlor for wine and conversation. Jackson Emory was seated in his comfortable easy chair while Victoria and Saul Norton shared the chesterfield.
“Miss Brenda has returned, sir . . . with guests.” That was the announcement Graedon barely had time to get out before Brenda marched into the room leading those who accompanied her. The latter included Marshal Hatfield, Marshal Morrison, Deputy Fred . . . and John Larkin, brought along at the insistence of Brenda, though not without the restraint of handcuffs.
The instant their eyes fell on Larkin, both Victoria and Norton shot to their feet. “What is the meaning of this outrage!?” Victoria exclaimed.
Smiling wickedly, Brenda said, “Calm down, sis. You’ll have plenty to be outraged over before the evening is done. But this is just the start.”
“Marshal Hatfield,” said Emory, glaring at Bob, “I’ve come to expect certain escapades such as this from my daughter. But from you, I would have expected more professionalism, not to mention courtesy. There’s been talk of late about you and the performance of your duties. Talk that I chose to disregard. But right at the moment, I find myself questioning my judgment on that.”
“I’ll admit our barging in like this is a bit unusual and inconvenient, sir,” said Bob. “But by the time we’re done, I think you’ll better understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Our purpose here,” spoke up Morrison, “is to arrest a killer and a thief.”
“You already have such a person in your custody,” declared Norton, an alarmed expression gripping his face. “He’s right there—John Larkin!”
“You’re awful sure about that, ain’t you?” said Bob.
“He’s proven himself time and again to be someone of low character—and he’s an ex-convict to boot! What more do you need?” demanded Norton.
“I’d like to give you what you need,” Larkin said.
“Did you hear that? He threatened me! Are you going to let him get away with that?”
“By the time we’re finished here, I don’t figure on anybody getting away with anything,” Bob replied.
He held out his hand and Fred gave him the large, lumpy cloth sack he’d carried in with him. After pushing aside some wineglasses, Bob placed the sack on a low, polished table positioned in front of the chesterfield where Norton and Victoria had been sitting. Reaching in, he withdrew an object and held it up for everyone to see. It was a lock-blade knife, blade exposed and locked in the open position. It was, in fact, the evidence knife that had been resting on the desk in his office until only a short time ago. The tag reading “Murder Weapon—Myron Poppe” had been removed.
“Does anyone recognize this?” Bob asked, extending the weapon so everybody could have a closer look.
Brenda moved over to stand by her sister. “Doesn’t it look familiar to you, Victoria?”
Victoria made a distasteful face. “Why should an ugly old knife look familiar to me?”
“Maybe,” said Brenda, “because you gave one just like it as a birthday gift to Saul about three years ago. Remember? It came with a fine leather case with a belt loop that you had Saul’s initials engraved on.�
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“So what?” Norton interjected. “Sure the knife looks like the one Victoria gave me and sure it looks familiar—because there are dozens of knives just like that being carried by men all over town and up in the mining camps. What’s so special about that?”
“What’s so special about this particular one,” said Bob, “is that it’s the murder weapon that killed poor little Myron Poppe.”
“You might wonder why the killer would leave a nice knife like that behind, wouldn’t you?” said Fred. “Why not do the deed and then take the knife for use another day and to keep from leaving behind any evidence? Well, according to our undertaker when I asked him those very questions, it seems that, in this particular instance, the blade got shoved so deep into Myron Poppe’s spinal column that it lodged in the vertebrae and was difficult to pull back out. So the killer, being in a hurry to get away after he’d done the stabbing, didn’t want to take the time to twist and yank the blade free out of all that blood and gristle.”
“For God’s sake!” Victoria wailed. “Must you go into such gory detail?”
“By the way,” drawled Bob, “where is that birthday knife of yours, Norton?”
Norton bristled. “In my apartment, along with various other personal items.”
Brenda shook her head. “No, it’s not. I went and looked . . . You see, when I was at the jail earlier to visit Johnny, I spotted that knife on the marshal’s desk with an evidence tag on it. I recognized it right away. It’s not really that common, Saul, not with those features or that finish on the handle. Victoria paid top dollar and went to a lot of trouble to pick out that knife for you. And when I searched your apartment, looking for it, all I found was the empty case.”
“You had no business being in my apartment. That’s a crime—burglary or breaking and entering or something!”
Victoria looked aghast. “Surely you’re not suggesting that Saul was the one who used that knife to stab poor Mr. Poppe.”
“Can you explain what happened to your knife, Norton?” asked Bob.
“And while you’re at it,” said Morrison, “maybe you can explain why you would pay good money to a man and hire him to beat the living hell out of you like you did a few nights back.”
“What kind of nonsense is that? Who in their right mind would do such a thing?” demanded Emory.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out from Norton.”
“It’s a preposterous allegation, one I know nothing about,” huffed Norton. “Are you going to take the word of a dirty nigger over me?”
“Who said anything about the man who beat you up being black?” asked Fred. “How could you know that specific detail?”
“And while you’re explaining that, along with the rest,” said Bob, continuing the bombardment, “maybe you can explain this, which was also found hidden in your apartment . . .” So saying, he pulled a moderate-sized carpetbag from out of the burlap sack. Yanking it open and turning it over, he allowed some of its contents to spill out onto the table. There were fat rolls of paper money tied with string and two or three small cloth sacks stamped with the logo for Emory Mining.
“Good God!” exclaimed Emory. “That looks like . . .”
“It is,” Larkin told him. “Those smaller sacks are nuggets and dust from your mine. Stolen from your mine, Mr. Emory. The very thing Norton framed me for all those years back so he could get rid of me because I was starting to be suspicious of him. The rolls of money—tens of thousands of dollars by a quick count—represent what he’s managed to siphon off and convert to cash over the years while he’s been your only foreman.”
“Enough!” shouted Norton. This came with the appearance of a large-bore, two-shot derringer that he drew from inside his jacket. Before anyone could react, he reached out, grabbed Brenda by her long ponytail, and jerked her viciously to him. Jamming the muzzle of the derringer against the side of her head, he snarled, “Nobody make a move on me or I’ll blow this sneaky, troublemaking bitch’s brains out!”
“Saul, you don’t really mean . . .” Victoria whimpered.
“Shut up! I meant every word I said! And that goes for you, too, Graedon, you and your military and police background. Get in here and stand by the old man so I can keep an eye on you as well.”
“You’ll never get away with it, man,” Bob tried to tell him. “I’ve got two more deputies outside. Even if you get past them, I’ll hunt you down. You harm that girl, I’ll hunt you and kill you.”
“As long as I got this girl you won’t do shit—except what I tell you to do!”
“But why, Saul?” said Emory, his voice choked with emotion. “Why the need for the stealing and all the rest? You were on your way to having a piece of it, at least half, regardless. You were going to marry Victoria; everybody knows I’m not going to be around much longer . . . it was all lined up for you.”
“Maybe. But it wasn’t always that way, was it?” sneered Norton. “In the beginning all of that was in the cards for Larkin. So okay, after I got rid of him it started to turn around. But you been dying in pieces for years, old man, yet you never seem to get there. Still, I might have been able to wait you out. I was trying, I really was . . . And then that damned Larkin came back in the picture again. Him and his stinkin’ early parole. I should have just killed the bastard and been done with it. But no, I tried to be clever and set him up to get hauled away like before . . . and look where it got me.”
“What you’re trying to do is just digging yourself in deeper,” Bob told him. “Give it up, man. Now, before anybody else gets hurt or killed . . . You don’t have a chance.”
“I think otherwise. Long as I got this gun and this bitch for a hostage, I say I got a good chance.”
“At least trade her out for another hostage. Let the girl go, take me,” Bob said.
“No good, hero. I’m stickin’ with the cards I’ve dealt myself and playing them all the way. What you’re gonna do is holler out and have a couple horses saddled and ready for us real quick-like. Including grub, guns, and ammo . . . Oh, yeah. And also my little bag of goodies from there on the table.
“As soon as all that’s ready, me and Missy Brenda are gonna ride away from this shithole of a town. Once we’re a couple days in the clear and providing you behave yourself and don’t follow close after us, I’ll let her go. We will have parted ways with fond memories and sad hearts and that will be the end of that.”
“You harm one hair of my daughter’s head, I swear I’ll live for however long it takes to see you hanged,” said Emory in a harsh whisper.
“Sure you will, old man,” chuckled Norton. Then, sobering, he added, “But by the way, I’ll guarantee one person who won’t be around for that momentous occasion . . . and that’s you, you bastard Larkin!”
With no further warning, Norton lifted the derringer from Brenda’s temple just long enough to aim it at Larkin and trigger a round to the center of his chest. Larkin threw up his hands reflexively but there was no stopping the bullet. It slammed into him and knocked him flat. Victoria screamed as the room shook with the sound of the gun blast. And then the smoking muzzle was jammed once more against the side of Brenda’s head.
“Damn! Did that ever feel good!” Norton exclaimed. “But no matter how much fun I’m having here, I still want somebody to holler out for those horses . . . and don’t forget I still got one bullet left for Missy Brenda. As you just saw, that’s plenty to get the job done. Yeah, you’re all thinking how you’d be able to blast me to bits afterward, but who’s kidding who? You know damn well you’re not ready to pay the price of her life just to get me.”
It was Fred who went to the window and hollered out for Vern and Peter to get the horses like Norton was demanding. Following that were several tense minutes that dragged by like hours.
At one point Victoria sobbed, “I can’t believe I ever thought I loved you.”
“Yeah, well it cuts both ways, sweetheart,” Norton responded cruelly.
Finally, Peter called in
to say the horses were ready.
“Okay,” said Norton. “Gather up my money and gold from the table, Marshal. Put it in the bag and close it tight. Then hand the bag to the girl. We’re getting near to the end now, so don’t nobody do anything stupid that’ll cause things to go very bad for Missy Brenda.”
Once the bag was in Brenda’s hand, Norton said, “Now we’re in the home stretch. Me and Missy Brenda are gonna make our way, real close and slow, out the front door. All of you stay back. Keep doing that, keep being smart and staying clear, and in a couple days from now I’ll turn her loose somewhere where she can be found. By then I will be long gone and you can all spend the rest of your days entertaining each other by talking nasty about me.”
Norton and Brenda began edging toward the front door. Their way meant having to step over the feet of John Larkin’s body. Brenda went first, hesitating slightly and emitting a ragged sob as she did so. Norton gave her hair a jerk and told her to knock it off. His eyes were darting back and forth between the front door and where Bob and the others were grouped around Jackson Emory’s chair. As he raised his foot and began his step-over, he was paying no attention to what was beneath him.
That’s when Larkin lunged into motion. First his left leg kicked upward, high and hard, slamming into Norton’s crotch. At the same time he twisted his upper body from the way he’d fallen onto his right side and partly facedown, jackknifing upward as he swung his chained-together hands. In his right fist he was gripping the evidence knife—the same one that killed Myron Poppe—which had been knocked from the table when he fell and he’d been able to seize unnoticed as he lay supposedly dead. He sank the full length of the blade just below Norton’s belt buckle and yanked savagely downward.
Norton screamed as his body spasmed in excruciating pain, first from the crotch blow and then from the knife ripping his abdomen. He lurched to one side and started to double over, involuntarily pulling the derringer away from Brenda’s temple. When it roared again, the bullet it spat this time smashed harmlessly into a wall of the parlor. In the same instant, Brenda pulled free and threw herself to one side.
Right between the Eyes Page 31
