The Violent Peace

by George G. Gilman

  “What you gonna do with me, mister?” she asked in a trembling voice as he plucked the reins from her hands.

  “You turned me into a murderer, you know that?” he said, staring hard along the trail, which began to cant upwards towards a low ridge.

  “You told me often enough,” the girl complained. “I didn't know you were going to kill Binns.”

  Steele nodded. “That's why you're still in one piece,” he replied. “And you being on such intimate terms with the undertaker is double insurance.”

  Jennie's expression brightened with a hopeful smile. “You're just gonna let me go?”

  Steele shrugged, hauling hard on the reins as the hearse crested the ridge and he saw the farmstead nestling in the shallow valley below. “Can't hurt a woman for lying,” he said. “Just comes natural to them. So I'm just going to forget you, I hope.” He looked at her, and saw the relief in her face. “All right, you can leave now.”

  Her eyes flared angrily. “You could have let me off sooner,” she accused. “It's a long walk back to Foothills.”

  Steele's mouth took a wry twist. “You can use the time to, reflect on the penalties of being a natural born woman.”

  Jennie's movements were fast and angry as she climbed down from the hearse she had inveigled from the nervous mortician. “I hope you get yours, mister!” she rasped at Steele.

  He touched his hat brim. “I always get what I want, lady,” he said, clucking to the horses.

  They moved forward, hauling the hearse over the ridge and down the trail towards the farmstead. Jeannie watched its progress for awhile, then gave a toss of her head and whirled to face the long trek back to Foothills.

  Again, there was just the one lighted window in the dilapidated house. But as Steele rolled the hearse to a gentle halt in the yard, the door was flung open and Mona was silhouetted against the lamp light, the shotgun aimed from her shoulder. Steele sat, unmoving, on the seat, and saw the lines of hate etched into the woman's face.

  “I picked up a rumor of the way it was between you and your brother-in-law, ma'am,” he said gently, implying no criticism. “Least I could do was return him to his loved one.”

  Mona squeezed both triggers at once, sending a double load of buckshot towards the hearse. The recoil flung her back into the house and she broke into sobs as she dropped the gun and slammed the door.

  Steele ducked and snapped his head around as the glass side of the hearse was shattered into a million fragments. Shards of glass, buckshot and wood splinters tore into the dead flesh of the cadaver's face, erasing it completely. A single unmarked eye looked back at Steele from an unmoving sea of cold blood.

  Up on the ridge trail, Jennie muttered: “I hope you got yours,” and started to run in the direction of Foothills.

  Steele leapt down from the shattered hearse, then his movements became casual as he strolled towards the closed door of the house. He tried the handle, but the lock had been turned. He raised the Colt Hartford and pumped two shells into the lock. Then he kicked the door wide and stepped across the threshold.

  He was in a meagerly furnished living room, singularly lacking in the luxuries of life. There was a roughly made table surrounded by four odd chairs, sacking nailed up at the windows and a lop-sided dresser with chipped and cracked crockery on its shelves. On the crude mantel above the ash-littered fireplace there were two matching vases and a pile of three books. Three pictures decorated the walls - one a woodcut of Jefferson Davis clipped from a magazine, a second done in pen and ink and showing Mona and Edward Binns at their wedding, and a third a photograph of Harry Binns outside his store. Two doors led off to other rooms in the house and behind one of these, Mona was giving vent to her grief in the form of body wrenching sobs. Steele back-heeled the front door closed and leaned against it, looking towards the source of the only noise in the house.

  “I need some information, Mrs. Binns,” he called.

  The woman's sobbing became more intense, interlaced with wails. Steele glanced around the room, then his blank eyes settled on one of the vases. He reached the mantel in three long strides and picked up the vase. It was either new, or had been lovingly cared for. It's finely-cut facets reflected the light from the kerosene lamp.

  “The vases look like crystal, ma'am,” he said. “You want to keep them?”

  The woman did not interrupt her sobs for Harry Binns.

  Steele sighed. “Guess you don't.” He hurled the vase across the room. It hit the opposite wall and shattered. The sound silenced the woman. Steele listened for a few moments, then rested the rifle barrel on the mantel. “One of a pair's no use keeping,” he said, and jerked the rifle.

  The second vase toppled over the edge and was smashed to smithereens in the hearth. Mona began to wail again.

  “Now for the books,” Steele called, picking them up and glancing at the titles. “Hard to come by out here. Well-thumbed. You must enjoy reading them.”

  “Do whatever you like, you…” Mona could think of no epithet strong enough to describe her feelings towards the man who killed her lover.

  Steele shrugged and crouched down in the hearth. He opened the books so that the pages flicked loosely in a chimney draught. Then he struck a match and set light to them. He watched them blaze, the firelight reflected in his eyes as in blank mirrors. After a few moments, he turned around on his haunches, decided on the picture of the former president of the Confederate States and crossed to rip it from the wall. He fed it to the fire and the flames consumed it eagerly.

  “That was Davis just went up in smoke,” he explained. “I guess it belonged to your husband. Your wedding picture goes next.” He took the picture down and looked hard at it, familiarizing himself with the lines of Ed Binns' unintelligent features. He decided Ed looked most unlike his brother, even when Harry was alive.

  “All you have to do is come out here and talk to me,” he called, holding the picture above the flames, watching the stiff paper curl in the heat, listening for a reaction from the far side of the door.

  There was only silence now, for the woman had cried herself dry of tears. The picture fell from Steele's gloved hand and was turned brown, then black. It disappeared and Steele crossed the room once more, to take down the sepia-toned photograph of Harry Binns. He looked at it sadly, then turned to look at the door.

  “It was a mistake getting rid of Harry, Mrs. Binns,” he called. “But it was easy. His likeness will be a whole lot easier to finish,”

  Feet thudded to the floor and bedsprings creaked. A moment later, the door was jerked open and Mona was there, her face ravaged by tears as she glared at Steele.

  “Leave me something of him,” she pleaded hoarsely.

  “Where did they go?” he asked, sliding the photograph backwards and forwards between a finger and thumb.

  Mona sagged against the door jamb, emotionally and physically drained. “Up in the mountains. Fuller's Folly.”

  Steele eyed her with curiosity as she advanced into the room, holding out her dirt-grimed hands for the photograph.

  “What's that, and where?”

  She sighed. “A fort. Like a foreign castle. Forty miles up the trail. Built by some loco Englishman called Colonel Fuller.”

  “Easy to find?”

  A vestige of the old hatred for Steele gleamed in her eyes. “I hope so, for you. They'll kill you for sure.”

  Steele put the photograph in her splayed hands and she looked at it a moment before pressing it against her breasts, as if it was the man himself she held. “Maybe,” he replied. “Or I'll kill them. I won't ask you to wish me luck. Just tell me where there's a saddle.”

  Mona seemed not to hear him, then blinked and nodded. “In the barn, over to the side of the yard.”

  “I’m grateful,” Steele said, moving to the door. He opened it and halted to look back over his shoulder at her. “I'm sorry I killed Harry,” he said. “Least I can do is help you bury him. He's outside in the hearse.”

  Mona tried to raise
saliva into her mouth, but could not create enough to spit at him. She treated him to a glare of naked hatred. “I don't want anything from you, mister.”

  “Guess I can understand that, Mrs. Binns,” he replied softly, and stepped out into the warm night.

  He found an old but serviceable saddle in the barn and dragged it outside. Mona was at the end of the building, thrusting a spade into the ground. Steele recalled what hard work it had been to dig a grave for his father. He unhitched the strongest looking horse from the hearse and saddled him. The woman continued to dig the grave without respite.

  “Why did you marry the wrong brother, Mrs. Binns?” he asked when he was mounted.

  She flicked matted hair out of her eyes and stopped digging for a moment. “Everyone makes mistakes, mister. I know you made at least one.”

  “Yeah,” Steele agreed. “And plenty more, I guess.”

  Mona's tone became spiteful. “But never one as big as your Ma and Pa.”

  In the instant she spoke the last word, Steele came close to raising the presentation rifle and killing the woman. But then reason prevailed and he made allowances for her state of mind. “It's conceivable,” he said, wheeled the horse and heeled it into a fast gallop out of the yard.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JENNIE had covered almost half the distance back to Foothill when she heard two riders galloping towards her. It was a warm night and even though she had taken off the heavy hooded cloak, she was sweating freely. But she would not admit to herself that the greater cause of her discomfort was fear rather than exertion – and she continually rebuked her imagination for conjuring up wraithlike movements among the timber and rock outcrops flanking the trail.

  It was not quite so frightening when the trail cut across a flat, featureless area on which her own shadow was the only splash of black against black. But immediately she heard the distant clatter of hooves the fear returned - and was increased by the knowledge that she had nowhere to hide. All she could do was stop and peer ahead into the night, hoping she knew the riders: or that they were strangers who meant her no harm.

  For a long time after they crested a rise and rode hard towards her they were merely dark silhouettes. She chewed hard on her lip and the cloak became crumpled and damp with sweat as she kneaded the material with her hands. Then moonlight struck a star and the pent-up breath sighed from her lungs.

  “Lawmen, for Christ sake!” she gasped as Lovell and Bishop brought their mounts to a dust-raising halt in front of her. “I thought for a while you were just more trouble.”

  Lovell eyed her pretty face and slim body appraisingly. “You in trouble then, Lady?” he asked coolly.

  Jennie was apprehensive of his cruel eyes, but forced a grin to her features as she rubbed her flat stomach. “Not that kind, mister, He had other things on his mind.”

  “Like what?” Lovell asked sourly.

  The girl shot a glance at Bishop, much preferring his youthful good looks and the expression of mild curiosity which cloaked them. But the deputy offered no greeting. Jennie shrugged and returned her attention to the man in the frock coat.

  “Lousy bastard made me drive him out to the Binns' place on a hearse for Christ sake.”

  Bishop shot a glance at Lovell, and saw the Washington detective slide hurriedly from his saddle. Jennie took a step backwards, but Lovell's long arms reached out and his hands clawed over her shoulders, fingernails digging hard into her flesh through the material of her dress.

  “Who?”

  Jennie winced. “Who what?”

  “Who did you drive out to the farm?” Lovell demanded.

  “You're hurting me, mister,” Jennie complained.

  Lovell shook the girl violently, rocking her head back and forth. “Answer the question or you'll get hurt a lot worse.”

  Tears squeezed out, of Jennie's eyes. Up close, Lovell's face seemed to hold all the evil in the world. She swallowed hard and tried to speak, but Lovell shook her again, rattling her teeth together.

  “Let her go, Lovell,” Bishop instructed softly.

  Lovell froze for a split-second and from the stare he fixed upon Jennie's face, she was certain he was going to kill her. But suddenly he hurled her away from him. She stumbled backwards and fell hard to the ground. Lovell whirled, jerking the revolver from its holster. His murderous eyes locked upon Bishop's surprised eyes.

  “You giving me orders, deputy?” the city detective demanded shrilly.

  Bishop swallowed his shock, knowing that if he had made the mistake of pointing a gun at the man, Lovell would have shot him. “I'm telling you to treat people decent,” he replied softly.

  “Decent people get treated decently,” Lovell snarled. “Any woman comes out here with a man ain't decent.”

  Jennie clambered painfully to her feet. “What you calling me, mister?” she shrieked. “I didn't come out here because—”

  Lovell showed his speed again, side-stepping and pivoting. The revolver swung and smashed viciously across Jennie's face. She fell again, a scream exploding from her throat as blood erupted from a long gash on her cheek. Bishop's right hand streaked for his gun, but he was not fast enough. He halted the movement, abruptly as Lovell's revolver raked around to cover him again.

  “Anyone stands in my way, he gets to lie down,” the Washington detective hissed. “And not get up.”

  For a sliver of time, it seemed as if the young deputy intended to complete the act of drawing. Lovell's eyes were blazing with fury and his knuckle was white around the trigger. Then the tension drained out of Bishop. He swung a leg over his saddle and dropped to the ground Lovell's expression became scornful as he watched the deputy move towards the injured girl, then stoop and help her up into a sitting position.

  Jennie sobbed and the fear was bright behind her tears as she looked across at Lovell. “What he do that for?”

  “He just likes hurting things,” Bishop replied softly, grimacing as he saw the jagged flesh of the wound. “What was the name of the man you took out to the Binns place, miss?”

  “He said it was Steele,” she replied, and looked again at Lovell as the detective made a sound of anger deep in his throat. “I think he killed Mrs. Binns, Or she killed him – I should be so lucky to have my wishes come true.”

  Lovell slid the gun back into his stomach holster and swung up into the saddle, Bishop allowed Jennie's trembling form to rest back on the ground again. Then he stood up and mounted. “Apologies, miss,” he said. “We'd escort you back to town, but we got things to do.”

  Lovell wheeled his horse first, and galloped away. Bishop touched his hat and took off in pursuit. Jennie struggled to her feet and used the sleeve of her dress to wipe the blood from her cheek.

  “There's just no gentlemen left in the lousy world,” she muttered angrily, then turned and continued the long trek back to town.

  Light still spilled from the open doorway of the rundown house in the valley, not extending to the open grave at the end of the bullet-splintered barn. But there was enough moonlight to show up the rectangular pit and mound of fresh earth beside it. Mona emerged from the house, the shotgun cradled in the crook of her arm, and moved wearily towards the new grave. Her gait was slow, but when, she heard distant hoofbeats, she lengthened her stride. She halted at the lip of the pit and discovered fresh tears to squeeze from her red-rimmed eyes as she stared down at the casket containing the body of her lover.

  She continued to stand in the same manner for a long, time, until Lovell and Bishop galloped their lathered mounts into the yard. Then she made a sudden movement and the shotgun discharged both its barrels. The lawmen struggled to calm their rearing animals.

  Mona's body crumpled over the edge of the grave and thudded on to the lid of the casket. There was a massive crater where her breast had once been. Blood bubbled up to fill it, then overflowed the sides. The shotgun stock splashed into the pool of thick, scarlet liquid.

  The two lawmen brought their horses under control and walked the n
ervous animals over to the edge of the grave. They looked down at the ghastly sight, Lovell dispassionately, Bishop with horror.

  “They reckoned she was pretty cozy with her brother-in-law,” Lovell said.

  “A man like you wouldn't understand a love like that,” Bishop rasped, turning away from the gruesome mutilation of the dead woman.

  “I understand something about this,” Lovell muttered.

  “What's that?”

  “It's one more death Adam Steele has to answer for,” Lovell snarled, his eyes raking the surface of the yard. “Hey … there's some horse tracks over there.”

  He led the way to the corner of the house.

  "You're not wrong,” Bishop said wryly. “Looks like there was a stampede through here,” Lovell mused, his cruel eyes rising from the churned-up ground to peer across the pastureland spreading westwards from the rear of the house.

  “Horse soldiers, Lovell,” Bishop explained. “It's not only Adam and us playing tag out here.”

  Lovell stared at the deputy suspiciously. 'What do you know that I don't?” he demanded.

  “What I found out by using my tongue instead of my gun,” Bishop replied, and this time it was he who was first to heel his horse forward, chasing out over the upgrade of the valley side.

  Lovell's features formed into a sneer as he set off in pursuit.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ED Binns yawned, then grimaced as he swept his dull eyes over the sleeping forms of his three partners. He stood up and stretched his arms above his head, seeking to ease the ache in his muscles. Then be glanced over the campsite and the surrounding terrain, the whole bathed in blue-tinted moonlight. Carstairs, Logan and Monahan slept, fully dressed, on the grassy bank of a fast-flowing stream. Binns' sentry position was in the shadows of an ancient silver birch tree with gnarled branches spreading out in every direction. The horses were ground hobbled on the far side of the camp, ready saddled in case a fast getaway was forced upon the wanted men.

  To the north, on the other side of the stream, the country fell away in a series of broken steps almost denuded of vegetation until it leveled out into a vast expanse of forest. In all other directions, the terrain was gently undulating, carpeted with lush grass and featured here and there stands of timber or clumps of thick brush.