Black as Death

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Personal reasons, lady.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ she said, fear of his quiet anger forcing her voice into a whisper.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He faced front again and after a few moments of listening to her cry, he offered: ‘I’ll give you a chance, if you want?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, Barnaby..Si, por favor.’

  ‘You’re not tied to that saddle. You can get off the horse and run.’

  She was abruptly suspicious. ‘You will allow this?’

  ‘I’m only just learning to handle guns, Maria. You want to be free and I need the practice.’

  ‘Bastardo!’ she hissed.

  ‘Sure, Maria. And I guess I always will be. Toward women who screw me. The wrong way.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IT was still dark when they rode off the trail and on to Main Street, Standing. Just one lamp was alight in the whole town: this dimly, behind the window in the facade of the law office.

  Sheriff Walt Glazer was awakened by the clop of approaching hooves and he was up from the chair behind his desk and at the open door of the office when Barnaby Gold halted the string of horses outside.

  The lawman, warm from a glowing stove and his sheepskin coat, looked to be very well rested in contrast to the weariness of the two cold-pinched riders.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Glazer.’

  The older man took the pipe from his mouth to growl: ‘For me it surely is, son. For both of you, it ain’t.’

  ‘You going to be serious about the horse theft charge?’

  He ran a jaundiced eye over the four mounts Gold had confiscated at the way station. ‘They look to be in pretty good shape, son. No sweat on that score. You want to get down off that horse and step inside to the cell, Maria?’

  ‘I do not want to hang, Sheriff.’

  ‘That won’t happen, girl. Not with a man like Clay Ward the victim. You still got the money that was stole?’

  ‘He has it!’ She made the pronoun sound like an obscenity.

  Gold untied from his saddle the bag the whore had cut from her own. And tossed it to Glazer. ‘It’s all there, down to the last ninety cents.’

  The sheriff caught the bag and nodded. Spared a short-lived smile for Maria. Who was encouraged by this to get painfully down from the horse. ‘We can work out somethin’, girl. Maybe get you off with a couple of years in the territorial prison.’

  ‘I think I could perhaps sleep for the whole of those two years, Senor Glazer.’

  He gestured for her to go into the law office. Then, to Gold: ‘You can get down from there, son. But don’t do anythin’ else.’

  The black-clad young man did dismount, just as the first grey light of the false dawn made inroads against the darkness of night

  In back of the law office, an iron door was opened and closed. As the key was turned in the lock, the whore sank on to a cot with a sigh of relief. A drawer was opened, the saddlebag thudded inside and the drawer was slid closed again.

  The dimly lit lamp was doused. Then a match was struck and the smell of burning tobacco emanated from the open doorway. Glazer appeared on the threshold again.

  ‘I thought you’d given up tobacco, Sheriff?’

  ‘I did. But what with all the hassle I’ve been havin’... Hell, son, time’s goin’ by. I plan to give you two choices, both for your own good.’

  Gold said nothing. Simply eyed the elderly sheriff quizzically.

  ‘You brought her in. Dan Murchison and me maintained that if you found her, that’s what you’d do. Sam Grogan and Slim Wilder, they figured otherwise. Take off with her and have a high time on the money that was stole. Then for a while after we got back here and I heard from a Fairfax feller about you blowin’ a man to pieces with that shotgun ... well, I was inclined to share the view of Sam and Slim.’

  Night and the stars were gone from the sky now. Just the moon showed pale white in the dawn. Barnaby Gold had taken out a cheroot and lit it. Now stood with his left hand in the pocket of the frock coat. Right one holding the bridle of his gelding. Cheroot angled from a side of his mouth.

  ‘You’re going to be more serious about the murder of Floyd Channon than me taking the horses, Mr. Glazer?’

  ‘Your choice, son. It was Jack Cater, the barber over to Fairfax, who told me about it. All about it. Now I can arrest you for that killin’ and keep you safe in a cell until the trial. And since you killed him for killin’ Emily Jane, I figure you’ll be deemed innocent. So you’ll be turned loose. After which, you’ll be on your own.’

  ‘The way I like to be, Mr. Glazer.’

  ‘Don’t we all know it, son. And that’s the other choice I’m offerin’ you. To take off the way you intended before this business of Clay Ward and the whore came up.’

  ‘And you’ll forget about the other three killings Steve Brodie mentioned?’

  A shake of the head. ‘I ain’t overlookin’ them son. All I heard is talk. That old buzzard at the way station spoke of them. And Jack Cater told me there’s evidence on the south trail that three men went missin’. Only other thing I know on that score is that three hard types passed through Standin’, headin’ south, the night before you come here to sell Clay Ward the hearse. I got flyers on them in the office. Wanted for cattle rustlin’ up Cheyenne way. Just fifty dollars apiece. They caused no trouble here and Cheyenne is too far. I ain’t got no evidence they got murdered.’ He took the pipe from his mouth to add: ‘I think it best you take off, son.’

  ‘Appreciate it, Mr. Glazer. But I’d like to take the time to wash up, shave, eat and rest. And my horse has been ridden a lot of hours.’

  The sheriff was knocking glowing ash from his pipe bowl, grimacing as if the taste of the tobacco was bad after so long off the habit. The leading arc of the sun inched above the ridges to the south-east.

  ‘Shit, son. You always have been too full of cockiness for your own good. And I guess you remind me of the way I used to be at about your age. But this time is likely to be the last time.

  ‘I was real puzzled about the way you was leavin’ such an easy trail to follow while me and Dan and Sam and Slim was after you. And it wasn’t until after I talked with Jack Cater I found out why. When he told me about the Channon family not bein’ the kind to let you get away with killin’ one of them.’

  He gazed hard into Gold’s face and drew no response. Anger rose within him.

  ‘Damnit, why beat about the bush. There’s a man named Arkin bedded down in a room at the Silver Lode. Hails from San Antonio. One of a whole bunch hired by the Channons to search for the one you buried over to Fairfax.

  ‘Arkin’s like you in one way. He don’t say a lot. But he told Slim Wilder enough. Seems the dead man’s Pa has an idea his boy’s passed on. Him bein’ gone away so long. So Arkin and the others just ain’t ordinary men. They’re pro gunslingers, son. Hired to take care of things if it turns out Floyd Channon is dead and didn’t die from natural causes.’

  Barnaby Gold clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Said: ‘Fairfax folks aren’t like Arkin and Mr. Glazer?’

  ‘Right boy. Same as Slim Wilder who was feelin’ pretty damn mean toward you after what you done to us at the way station. Seems the Channons have a lot of money and Arkin and his kind have got some of it to cover expenses. He bought what he knows at Fairfax. Could probably have got Slim to talk for free.’

  ‘Appreciate it, Mr. Glazer.’

  ‘Then show it, son. This ain’t a gunfighter’s town. Clay Ward is the first man ever known to die in Standin’ from somethin’ other than lack of breath. But it’s not just that I want to keep trouble away from here. Like I said at the start, it’s for your own good. That twin gunned rig you bought off Sam might make you feel ten feet tall. But up against a pro like Arkin, you might just as well be ten feet wide.’

  ‘Sure, Mr. Glazer.’

  He made to turn toward his horse.

  The batwings of the Silver Lode were pushed open and began to flap.

  A Texan
drawled: ‘Hey, undertaker!’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE law office was on the east side of Main Street, casting its morning shadow over the two men and five horses standing in front of it.

  The saloon was diagonally across the street, its façade in sunshine.

  ‘The dischargin’ of firearms inside city limits is forbidden by a local ordinance, you men!’ Walt Glazer called thickly, sounding pompous and afraid.

  ‘It’ll just be me who’ll be breaking it, lawman,’ Arkin answered evenly as Barnaby Gold turned slowly around to face him.

  He was in his mid-thirties. Perhaps three inches taller than six feet. Thin as a beanpole with a face to match. Rat like in the manner of Dwyer’s features. Dressed in black, like Barnaby Gold. But more stylishly. Boots, pants, shirt, vest, kerchief and Stetson. All the clothing as clean as his freshly shaved face. The bullets in the loops of his gunbelt gleamed brighter in the sunlight than the windows of the saloon at his back. In the holster tied down to his right thigh was a .44 Smith and Wesson hinged-frame Russian revolver with a polished wooden grip. The metal of the gun was recently oiled.

  He walked with long but slow strides toward the law office. Loose-limbed. He was in the process of rolling a cigarette, the tobacco already in the paper. He used both hands. Never took his gimlet, light colored eyes off Gold.

  ‘Anyways, he don’t seem to be a man. Just a kid. Shot-gunned Floyd Channon, which I can see happening. Have my doubts about him drilling those other three. Green kid like him.’

  ‘Luck of the draw, Mr. Arkin.’

  The Texan halted, fifteen feet away from Gold. Pushed the tip of his tongue between thin lips, ready to run it along the gummed edge of the cigarette paper. But first he showed small, yellow teeth in a sardonic grin.

  ‘Reckon it took all the luck due to you, undertaker. Which leaves you fresh out.’

  Beyond the opening and flapping closed of the batwings, there had been no loud sounds to signal the confrontation. But the rising of the sun had performed one of its daily functions in rousing many of the townspeople. And those who lived on Main Street in the vicinity of the law office and the saloon had been drawn to windows by the even voiced exchange. Some of whom announced their presence with gasps when Arkin said after gumming the cigarette together: ‘Going to light this smoke. Soon as I drop the match, I’m going to draw.’

  ‘I’ve warned you, stranger!’ Glazer snarled.

  Arkin had the cigarette in his mouth. Now he took a match with his right hand from a shirt pocket. Held it in front of his face, ready to strike on the thumbnail.

  ‘If you’ve got an iron under that coat, lawman, best you don’t try to get it or you’ll be as dead as the undertaker before he hits the street.’ He struck the match. ‘Ready, undertaker?’

  Barnaby Gold draped the right side of his coat back behind the holster with the .45 in it. ‘If you’re through talking, Mr. Arkin.’

  ‘I am. Anything you got to say? Before this match burns my fingers?’

  ‘Bye bye.’

  He had thumbed back the hammer of the concealed Peacemaker in unison with the striking of the match. Then swiveled it on its stud while the gimlet eyes were concerned with the movement of the younger man’s right hand.

  Now he squeezed the unguarded trigger.

  ‘Shit!’ Walt Glazer rasped.

  Arkin threw away the match with a grimace of pain as the flame touched his fingertips. Snarled: ‘Jesus, you sneaky—’

  His right hand was streaking in a blur of speed toward the butt of the holstered Russian. But the bullet in his belly slowed his reflexes as the blood from its entry wound seeped through the hole in his shirt and ran over his belt buckle. Then the pain hit him and the expression of angry surprise was displaced by one of agony. Which became his death mask when a second bullet blasted another hole in the frock coat. To rise on a slightly steeper trajectory than the first. Drilled into Arkin’s chest, left of center.

  The dead man was rigid when he started to topple backwards. Then went limp so that he was twisted up, not measuring his full length in the street under the billowing dust of the impact.

  Barnaby Gold’s black gelding remained immobile while the other horses made sounds and movements of unease. This as the man responsible for the two shots turned to his mount, taking his left hand from his pocket to steady the bedroll while he pulled the three-piece shovel from its centre.

  He could see Walt Glazer staring at him incredulously — and sense unseen eyes watching him in a similar way as he began to screw the pieces together.

  ‘He was wrong, Mr. Glazer. Had some luck left. Slim Wilder forgot to tell him about the kind of gunbelt Mr. Murchison sold me.’

  ‘What you doin’ now?’ the sheriff asked in a voice that was still husky.

  ‘Bury him.’ Barnaby Gold displayed his personable smile that lit the green eyes and showed the even teeth. Acted to negate some of the weariness in his heavily-bristled face. ‘You’ll recall Standing doesn’t have an undertaker anymore.’

  Glazer struggled to keep his voice at its normal tone. ‘If I was you, son, I wouldn’t waste the time. Soon as it’s known what happened here this mornin’, open season’s goin’ to be declared on you. And all them pro gunslingers that are goin’ to be doin’ the huntin’ will know the kinda irons you’re packin’. On both sides.’

  Barnaby Gold, the shovel canted to one shoulder; moved over to Arkin, stooped and caught hold of the dead man’s shirt collar. Then began to drag him away, in the direction of Silver Mine Road and Clay Ward’s funeral parlor.

  ‘You’re crazy, son!’ Glazer called after him. ‘Your luck’s run out. So you better start runnin’ and keep on with it!’

  ‘Appreciate the advice, sir. But I figure I’d be out of breath long before I reached Europe.’

  The Undertaker #2 ‘Destined to Die’

  By

  George G. Gilman

  Coming Soon!