by Jake Logan
Nobody had, yet, and he supposed that made her even more fearless when she was pulling one of these scams. But still . . .
He gave a lick to his quirley and stuck it between his lips. Lil struck a match and held it to the tip. He inhaled, then exhaled a plume of smoke. Lil shook out the match, placed it in the little glass ashtray on the bed stand, then moved the ashtray to his belly. She sat up, letting the sheet fall away from her naked body.
Suddenly, he didn’t want his smoke.
But he didn’t stub it out, because a half second later, she was out of the bed and pulling on her nightgown and negligee. “Got to have a bath,” she said, eyes on the gauzy belt she was tying. “My wedding day, you know.”
I know, Slocum thought glumly—and a little angrily, too. And you have to scrub the scent of me off of you for another man.
He didn’t say a word, though. He just took another drag off his cigarette.
Lil looked up and cocked a brow. “You mad about something? I would have thought, after last night . . .”
“No,” Slocum said, sitting up. He remembered the ashtray just in time. “Nothin’. And you were great last night, honey. The best.”
She smiled. “I know. Somehow, you just bring out the class act in me.”
Slocum had no reply for that.
Her brow creased prettily. “You okay, Slocum?”
“I’ve got to tell you something, honey,” he replied. He didn’t want to, but he’d put it off long enough. “David Chandler . . . isn’t his real name.”
She stared at him a moment longer, as if she were struggling to withhold a comment, and at last succumbed. She said, “And Lil Kirkland isn’t mine. What’s the difference? Well, I’m off. It’s been grand, darlin’. You’ve been grand.”
She blew him a kiss, then turned and peeked out into the hall before letting herself out of the room.
Slocum muttered, “You bitch,” before he stubbed out his smoke and flopped back onto the pillows.
It didn’t help. They still smelled hauntingly of Lil’s perfume. And he still hadn’t told her the truth about her fiancé.
“Aw, hell,” he grumbled, and tried to go back to sleep.
Charlie Townsend woke before the dawn and was already dressed, fed, and outside, saddling his horse.
Tom Lauden, one of the newer men, wandered into the barn and began throwing brushes into an empty bucket. He asked, “What you wantin’ me and Fred to do today? We figured that if you was to come with us, we could mayhap get part of the old run-in shed fixed. Dang thing’s cavin’ in on the horses that are brave enough to get near it.”
Charlie kept his eyes on the cinch he was tightening. “Got something else to do. You and Fred go on ahead.”
Tom shrugged and walked back outside, the bucket swinging noisily in his hand. “You’re the boss.”
Not really, Charlie thought. Not yet.
But he had, at least, convinced himself sometime during the night that he could get the Circle C back all on his own. Sure, it was true he had no money, but that old prick at the bank, Baskin, could probably be talked into giving him a loan, especially once Chandler was dead. It wasn’t like he was a stranger, was it?
And besides, who else would want the place? Baskin would have to be loco to think he could find another buyer.
Charlie figured he could just go back to business as usual. He’d fire about half the men, cut back the salaries of those who stayed, sell off most of the cattle and hogs . . .
He could go back to his old ways, and he could scrape by.
He truly thought that he could kill Chandler with no one the wiser. It hadn’t been all that hard to convince himself that everything would work out just fine.
Just fine.
He led his horse out into the yard and mounted up. He touched the butt of his rifle, just to make sure it was there, just to make sure it was real and that he wasn’t dreaming all this.
And then he rode out, a thin smile, bordering on crazed, spreading his narrow lips.
“I’ve changed my mind, darling,” David Chandler said to Lil. It was ten thirty in the morning, and she had just answered her door, wrapped in a damp bathrobe and holding one turbaned towel to her head and a second to her throat.
She cocked her head. “About what, David?”
He took her by her shoulders and planted a kiss on her sweet lips. “I can’t wait until this evening. I want to get married now. Right away. I’ve already got the preacher.”
Lily gasped in true surprise. “What? Before breakfast? Now? But I’m not dressed! I’m not ready! I’m not—”
“Nonsense!” He looked at his watch, grinning like a fool the whole time. He’d been grinning ever since he thought this up. He couldn’t help himself. “I’ll give you ten minutes to get ready, my love, and to bring your pretty self downstairs.”
“But—” she began, but he cut her off with another kiss.
“Ten minutes, darling, or I’ll bring the whole troupe up here!”
He left her standing in shock and went whistling down the corridor.
Bill Messenger was on the downstairs porch, whittling mindlessly at a piece of pine and trying to figure out what was going on inside. He’d lost his chance last night, and he’d be damned if he’d miss it again today.
Course, he had to wait for the stupid bitch to wake up. She hardly ever got up before noon, if he remembered rightly.
He’d thought about going to the upper porch, going to her room again, but it was broad daylight. Too many eyes watching, too many ears listening.
And then again, she might not be there.
Why the hell would she go off to Chandler’s room before they were married? Lord knows she had never come to him till it was all done, tied up neat and legal. This irritated him for some reason. It made him oddly jealous, and he didn’t like the feeling.
But then he heard David Chandler’s voice from inside the hotel. He turned his head and saw Chandler talking to some big cowhand, inside the lobby.
Maybe Lil would be home after all.
Casually, he dropped his chunk of pine—which had failed to form into anything, but only gotten smaller—and kicked it back under his chair. He folded his knife and settled it home in his pocket, leisurely stretched his arms, and stood up.
He’d go right through the lobby, that was it. He’d go through the lobby and up the stairs, knock at her door, and when she answered, he’d shoot her in the face.
No, check that. He’d go to his room first and get himself a pillow, and wrap it around his hand and his gun. He’d heard that was good for muffling the sound of gunshots. Got feathers all over the place, but he supposed that was the price you paid.
He grinned.
See? Prison had turned out to be a fine training ground.
For some things, anyhow.
Lil didn’t notice the sound of Bill Messenger’s boots going past her room, to his. She was too busy, hurrying into her dress.
Of all the crazy ideas! She never thought she would have to get married with wet hair, of all things! She would have been more angry at David, save for the thought of how very rich he was going to make her.
Earlier, she had looked up from her dress, which she was hooking at the time, when she heard Slocum’s boot steps headed the other way, past her room. She would have known his step anywhere.
For a just a fraction of a moment, she considered bursting out into the hall to stop him. But, to tell him what? He didn’t approve of this wedding, anyhow.
For a moment, she paused with her hand on the latch, then decided to let it pass. Feverishly, she finished hooking her dress.
Just three minutes to go.
How she hated to rush like this! She’d already scraped her damp hair into some semblance of fashion, helped tremendously by a very large, plumed hat. Quickly, she dotted her lips and cheeks with rouge, then pulled down the hat’s short veil.
One minute. If she knew David, she’d best get downstairs, or he’d be rapping at her door any s
econd. That wouldn’t do, on this of all days!
Briefly, she wondered if Slocum would be present for the ceremony. Secretly, she hoped he would, even if he only listened from the other room.
It made her feel just grand, being wanted by so many—and actually had by so few.
She took a quick inventory. Something old—her mother’s hankie—something new—the engagement ring David had slipped on her finger the night before—something borrowed—well, she’d figure that out later—and something blue. She fingered the turquoise bracelet she wore.
All set.
She squared her shoulders, straightened the bodice of her light pink gown—no white for this bride—took a deep breath, and let herself out into the hall.
Everything was falling into place. Just a little sooner than expected, that was all, but she could cope with it.
She smiled. She always had coped and made do, hadn’t she?
In fact, she’d “made do” so well that, at last count, her savings accounts at the First National Bank of Boston, the Citizen’s Bank of Rhode Island, and four others carried a combined balance in excess of $654,000.
She didn’t need to do this for the money anymore. She hadn’t had the need for some time. She just enjoyed the sport.
Humming softly, she started toward the landing.
13
Charlie Townsend, obsessed with his goal, rode into town the back way and tethered his horse in the alley behind the hotel.
He wasn’t quite certain just how he was going to pull this off, but he knew he would. It seemed as certain to him as the rising and setting of the sun. It was the natural order of things, for him to kill either Chandler or, at least, this . . . woman.
He supposed the first thing to figure out was their whereabouts.
He knew where Chandler stayed when he came to town, anyway—the hotel, in room twenty-five, which was actually a suite. He’d try there first.
He entered the service door to the hotel and slipped to the landing of the back stairs without anyone the wiser. It seemed that God was smiling on him, as if this was meant to be. He continued up the steps to the landing and crept to Chandler’s door.
He touched his gun a little nervously, then with more confidence. Wasn’t he doing God’s work? He blinked rapidly. Yes, that was it. God’s work! The Lord was making him a path, a clear path to his goal!
This thought gave him a great deal of comfort that he hadn’t thought he needed. The Lord had never been on his side before, had He? But it felt awfully good to have Him watching over him now.
Chandler was already dead and didn’t even know it. Charlie was going to smite him, that was it. Just like in the Bible. Because Chandler had tripped to a female lie, to the temptations of Lilith and the fruit of Eve, he had to die.
Charlie, not quite sure what to do to acknowledge this unexpected divine intervention, finally crossed himself, like the Mexican hands did. Then, his right hand on his gun’s butt, he put his left on the door’s latch.
Around the bend in the hall, Bill Messenger stood in Lil’s empty room, glowering.
Damn it!
Messy bed, tepid water in the tub, hairpins scattered . . . She’d left in a hurry, but she hadn’t bothered to take her belongings with her. Could she know he was in Poleaxe and looking for her? He didn’t see how. He’d sat far in the back of the saloon last night, in a dark corner. She couldn’t have spotted him.
And besides, she gave no sign.
So what had spooked her out of her room in such a rush?
He started toward the landing. This time he’d use the front stairs. At this point, he didn’t much care who saw him.
By the time Bill Messenger had rounded the landing and started down the stairs, a puzzled but determined Charlie Townsend was exiting David Chandler’s empty rooms. He stood in the hall for a moment, trying to decide between a rock and a hard place, and finally chose the hard place.
He turned and crept back down the service stairs, let himself out the back door and into the alley.
Then, moving slowly, trying to act casual although there was no one there to see him, he sauntered around the building.
When he stopped with a start at a dining room window, he knew he’d chosen the right way. He pulled back immediately and flattened himself against the building. Tiny, barely noticed beads of sweat were already forming on his forehead.
Chandler was in there, surrounded by other men standing in a group in the center of the room, big as life.
As certain as death.
Charlie Townsend’s fingertips tapped nervously on the butt of his gun. He could do it now. His horse was only twenty feet or so away, around the back of the building. And it seemed to him oddly preordained. God was on his side, after all, he reminded himself . . .
Quietly, resolutely, he drew his gun.
Bill Messenger stood in the lobby, his hands balling into fists as he watched Lil—her back, anyway—join some well-dressed yahoo in the dining room. A preacher was in the crowd. She was up to her old tricks, for sure.
A tall, rugged man leaned in the doorway to the dining room. He was rolling himself a quirley, and he didn’t look very happy about something. Messenger wondered if he hated weddings or if he’d got himself a bad batch of tobacco.
It didn’t take long for the question to be answered. The man looked into the dining room at Lil’s back and scowled. It was weddings then, and most probably Lily’s in particular. Maybe he’d been past grist for her marriage mill.
No, not that. If she’d married the tall man, he’d have killed her by now. Or gone for the law. Something.
But all he was doing was watching the wedding party arrange themselves for the ceremony. He didn’t look too happy about it, but that was all he was doing.
The happy couple was in place in the room’s center, it having been cleared of tables for the occasion. The few guests, nearly all men, had taken their seats, and the preacher began to speak in low tones.
He had a clear line of fire to the side of Lil’s head. Slowly, he eased his gun free of its holster.
“Do you take this woman, in sickness and health, in . . .”
The preacher’s words turned into a meaningless background drone when Slocum saw the man at the window. And not just the man. The gun he was slowly bringing up. The gun that was aiming for Chandler’s—or Lil’s—head.
He drew without a thought, so fast that it startled even him, and was rewarded with the sound of a window shattering. No man, no gun.
But something about that shot had sounded odd. Part of the sound had come from behind him. Was that possible? He wheeled, but there was no one there, only the door swinging shut. And then hands seized him, and only then did he realize that Chandler was down, his head haloed by a pool of blood.
“Hey!” Slocum shouted as he shook off—or tried to—the hands that gripped him. He knocked one man across the room and shoved another into a table, but there were too many of them. Hands tore his gun away, held his arms, and then somebody slugged him.
“You idiots!” he shouted, working his jaw from side to side. That had hurt! “There was somebody at the—”
Somebody slugged him again, and this time it took its toll. He slid into unconsciousness.
“David! David darling!” Lil cried, and she meant it. She didn’t know if the ceremony had gone on long enough for it to count. And David surely wouldn’t go through it again. He was as dead as a stump.
Damn it, anyway!
“Help me!” she wailed. “Help him, somebody!”
A portly man put his hands on her shoulders and gently drew her away. “There, there, missus,” he whispered. “I’m afraid nothin’ can be done for Mr. Chandler.”
Careful to keep putting up her show, Lil turned and clung to him, sobbing. Had he said missus? She turned on a fresh well of waterworks. “David, oh, my David!”
Over his shoulder, she saw the broken window. When had that happened? She never paused in her wailing, though.
“
Who would do this?” she cried. “Who would shoot my darling?”
“They got him, ma’am,” said another voice, close behind her.
“It was that Slocum character,” said the desk clerk, who had been excused from his duty to attend the wedding. “They hauled him out. Guess you didn’t notice.”
“S-slocum?” she sniffed. There was something rotten in Denmark, but she’d be damned if she knew what it was.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the first voice. He sounded proud of himself. “Caught him with his gun in his hand. Sheriff Kiefer will call it . . . whatyacall. An open-and-closed case.”
“He had a gun in his hand?” she sniffled, not quite believing what she heard.
“Can’t you smell the gunsmoke?” the man asked, then tempered it with, “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to be cross with you. I’m right sorry about your husband.”
Lil still didn’t look at him. She buried her face deeper in the fat man’s lapel and wailed, “But the preacher didn’t finish the ceremony!”
The Reverend Stuart’s voice floated to her with the message she’d been hoping for. “It doesn’t matter, Mrs. Chandler,” he said gently. “You and Mr. Chandler signed the papers before the ceremony, remember?”
“We—we did?” she managed to get out.
“There, there,” the reverend continued. “You’re bound to be upset and mixed up at a time like this. May I help you to your room?”
She nodded into the fat man’s lapel. “Yes. Yes, please. I want to be alone in my grief.”
The preacher took her under his arm and guided her toward the stairs, offering his handkerchief along the way. “I can assure you, Mrs. Chandler, the wheels of justice turn swiftly here in Poleaxe. This Slocum will be punished for what he has done.” They started up the stairs.
“Are you certain it was this Slocum?” she asked weakly through the tears. “I should hate to see an innocent man punished for something he didn’t—”
