Strong Suspicions (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 2)

by GP Hutchinson

  “Yes sir. William Thornhill, but everybody calls me Billy.”

  “Real shame losing Mackey. You knew him well, did you, Billy?”

  “Known him a few years. I drove a stagecoach for a while. He rode shotgun, time to time.”

  “Well, I don’t mean any disrespect by talking business so soon after Mackey’s demise, but what with the way things have been going lately, I can’t see trying to run the Wild Hog without a lookout man. You ever sat lookout in a place like mine?”

  “No, sir. But I’m up to it if you’ve got a mind to put me to work.”

  Taft looked Billy in his pale blue eyes and judged him to be in his late twenties. Fit enough. “Doesn’t appear to be the safest twenty-five-dollar-a-month job in town. Just being straightforward with you.”

  “I’ll take it and thank you for it.”

  Taft extended a hand, and the two shook. “You own a shotgun? If not, I can supply one.”

  The two men were at the saloon’s front steps now. Billy mounted them quickly and held the batwing door for his new boss. “I got my own—twelve gauge.”

  “Good.” Taft entered the barroom.

  No sooner had he taken off his hat than Miss Lindsey intercepted him and placed her hand in the middle of his chest. “We’ve got company,” she murmured. Her eyes flicked to the left, then back to Taft.

  When Taft glanced that way, his jaw tightened. There at a table with three serious-looking men sat his stolen dove, Geneve. Her gaze was riveted on him, her face pale. His first thought was, She’s afraid. His second thought, That English son of a bitch that came in here and took her away is dead. And I’ll bet these are the ones that blew out his lamp. They looked like men who could handle themselves. Men who knew how to persuade folks at gunpoint. He hoped they were here to offer him a deal. But he feared it was something else entirely.

  Before he could say a word or take a step, Miss Lindsey continued, her voice hardly above a whisper, “Mexicans over here at the table behind me are waiting for you, too. I was just about to have Willie throw them out when one of them mentioned Emmett Strong.”

  Taft glanced from Geneve—and the three hoodoos calmly sitting there with her—to the two Mexicans behind the madam. They were already getting to their feet.

  “Is this Mr. Taft?” the thicker of the two said. “Con permiso, but maybe I can have a word with you in private?”

  Taft held up a hand. “Just a minute.” He turned back to Geneve and the men at her table.

  “But Señor, it’s about—”

  “Excuse me,” Taft said to the Mexican. “I’ll hear you out, but there’s something I need to attend to first.”

  The Mexican stood there, brow furrowed and hands spread. He looked at his thinner, better-dressed amigo, then back to Taft.

  Taft got the attention of Willie behind the bar then motioned toward the Mexicans. “Serve these two gentlemen another round of whatever they’d like. I’ll be right back.”

  He muttered to his new lookout man, “Stick with me, Billy.”

  As he approached Geneve’s table, Taft tried to discern the pecking order among her three escorts. The former calico girl’s eyes told him she particularly feared the fellow sitting to her right, the one wearing the burgundy vest and black Stetson.

  “Good to see you again, Geneve,” Taft said. He recalled the look on the dove’s face when he’d had to get a little rough with her for being too picky about her clients. She looked more afraid of these fellows than she’d ever been of him.

  “Mr. Taft,” she said weakly, managing a subtle nod.

  “Someplace we can talk, Mr. Taft? Without an audience?” the one in the burgundy vest asked coolly.

  These were gunmen—plain to see. Good chance he, the bartender, and his new lookout man together couldn’t do much about it if these strangers wanted to get their way by shooting. Talking would be OK. He’d face this situation as he’d faced many others in his life—like a game of chance. You didn’t need to have a winning hand in order to take the pot, not if you knew how to convince the rest of the players that you had better cards than those you actually held. He drew a slow breath and in turn looked each man in the eyes, the one wearing the burgundy vest last. “I’m sorry. Have we met?” Taft asked.

  “We can make introductions behind closed doors,” the one in the burgundy vest said.

  Taft snatched a glance at his new lookout man then said, “Why don’t you bring Miss Geneve back to my office? Right this way.”

  At the entrance to Taft’s office, the short stranger and the one with the heavy mustache and goatee took up spots on either side of the door. Taft entered, followed by the obvious boss and Geneve. The shorter fellow stiff-armed Billy Thornhill, stopping the new lookout man in his tracks. After guiding Geneve by the arm to an upholstered chair, the one in the burgundy vest returned to close the door.

  Pompous buscadero, Taft thought. Coming into the Wild Hog, dictating terms as though the place were his.

  He slid open his desk drawer, a move the cat-eyed gunman cautiously observed.

  “Cigar, Mister…” Taft asked.

  “Cage,” the fellow answered. “Ned Cage.”

  The name rang a bell, but Taft couldn’t quite place it.

  Cage plucked a cigar from the desk drawer and gestured for Taft to have a seat.

  Taft lit his own smoke and remained standing—on the principle of the matter.

  “Sit.” Cage nodded toward Taft’s chair, piercing gray eyes adding an exclamation point.

  Begrudgingly, Taft sat, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke as he did so.

  Cage ambled to a spot directly behind Geneve and leaned a shoulder against the wall. He crossed his boots at the ankle. “Miss Geneve here tells me that Emmett Strong and his Mexican friend have returned to El Paso—that they have some business to settle with you.”

  He knows no more about me than what Geneve’s told him, Taft thought. Strong seems to be his principle concern. Things would work out all right as long as he didn’t stand between this two-gun man and those renegade rangers.

  “Yes, Emmett Strong and his pardners came in here a couple weeks back, took this dove away from me at gunpoint”—he tossed his chin toward Geneve—“then came back the next morning and bushwhacked me. Robbed me clean.” Taft paused a beat. “What’s Emmett Strong to you, Mr. Cage?”

  Cage ignored his question. “You seen Strong lately?”

  Taft studied his uninvited guest. Expensive clothes. Twin Colt Peacemakers, one worn cross draw. Even propped against the wall, looked as if he could get the drop on a man in the blink of an eye.

  “Saw him today,” Taft said. “He’s in the calaboose up the street.”

  A vague grin appeared on Cage’s long, narrow face. “And the Mexican?”

  “On the loose. Gunned down my shotgun man this very afternoon.”

  Cage drew his head back. “That a fact? Hmm. And the Chinese girl?”

  Taft frowned. What was this gunslick playing at? “What Chinese girl? I don’t know anything about any Chinese girl.”

  The two stared one another down through several heavy ticks of the clock.

  “What’re you doing with Geneve here, if I may be so bold as to ask?” Taft said.

  “Oh, she’s showin’ me around a bit.” Cage eyed the girl.

  Taft observed Geneve’s red eyes and blood-drained cheeks. “Where’s her—” He stopped himself, deciding not to feed Cage anything the man didn’t ask for.

  “Her English friend?”

  Tapping cigar ash onto a saucer on his desk, Taft said, “Yes, her English friend.”

  Geneve’s eyes welled up.

  Yep, this is the fellow who stiffed him. Not a man to trifle with.

  “He’s taking a long rest. Back in San Antone.”

  “So what’s this all about, Mr. Cage? What is it
you want?” Taft felt he was doing pretty well, keeping his wits.

  “Who’re the Mexicans out front?”

  Taft spread his hands. “No idea. Never seen ’em before.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Absolutely,” Taft said, eyeing Geneve. Whether the girl ever came back to work for him or not, he didn’t like her in the hands of this sidewinder. He decided to take a gamble. “Look, I’ve been extremely cooperative, haven’t I?”

  Cage gave a faint smirk and nodded. “A model host.”

  “Then maybe you’d consider giving me back my calico here.” Taft motioned toward Geneve. “Could that be in the works?”

  “Could be—if you turn out to be helpful enough in the matter of my business with Emmett Strong.”

  “Like I said, he’s in the town jail—a little bit out of my reach, just now.”

  Cage shook his head. “Not if you were to wander on down there and tell the marshal you’re droppin’ the charges. Maybe invite Mr. Strong and his friends back down here to the Wild Hog for a drink or two to make up for the misunderstanding.”

  “But I—”

  “Thought you said you wanted your calico back.” Cage reached out and caressed Geneve’s shoulder.

  She winced then—eyes pleading—gave Taft an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  Cage shoved off the wall. “Tell you what: my boys and I are gonna take a room upstairs with Miss Geneve for just a little while—maybe an hour. Give you time to find out what them chili eaters out there want. Then you can run on down to the jailhouse and drop those charges against Emmett Strong.”

  “What if Strong’s not in a drinking mood?”

  “Then you can get on back, fast as your feet’ll carry you, and let me know where he’s headin’. How’s that sound for starters toward you gettin’ Miss Geneve here back in your stable?”

  Taft tried to think fast. Getting Geneve back wouldn’t offset the financial setback of the robbery—not for a long while. And if this stranger were to gun down Strong and his amigos—without a doubt what Cage aimed to do—he might never know what happened to his earnings. At the same time, he realized that bluffing a man like Mr. Ned Cage was a high-stakes call.

  “All right, then,” Taft said. An odd chill ran through him. This was not a hand he wanted to play. “You go on and take Miss Geneve upstairs. I’ll have Miss Lindsey show you to a nice room, get you some refreshments.”

  “And you’ll have a word with the Mexicans.”

  “Yes, and report back to you before heading down to the marshal’s office.”

  Cage turned to Geneve and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You see? This might work out all right for you after all, Geneve—nothin’ gained, but then again, nothin’ lost.”

  Taft cleared his throat, rose, and headed for the door.

  “Oh, Mr. Taft…” Cage said.

  Hand on the doorknob, Taft turned back.

  “It goes without saying”—Cage pointed—“not a word about me or my associates to anyone—anyone at all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  From inside his jail cell, Emmett said to the deputy, “When I came through here a couple of months ago, you were new on the job, weren’t you, Warren?”

  The deputy was leaning against the frame of the heavy door that separated the jail from the marshal’s office. He nodded. “I’d been deputy maybe six weeks or so.”

  “And not really knowing me, what kind of hombre did you take me for?”

  He shrugged. “Honest lawman, I guess. Just doin’ your job.”

  “Well, has that opinion changed?”

  Thumbing a splinter of wood on the doorframe, the deputy said, “I don’t see you as the type to rob Franklin Taft and run. Don’t think Marshal Perry does either.”

  The marshal had been on the verge of letting Emmett go. Then Taft showed up again, this time with the news that somebody killed his shotgun man. That’s all it had taken—Taft accusing Juanito, and suddenly the marshal had turned on a dime and sent Emmett back into the lock-up. “Why do you suppose Marshal Perry’s got me locked up then? Is he afraid of Taft?”

  The deputy peered across the hallway toward the small, barred window situated high in the wall of the cell opposite Emmett’s. “I don’t mean any offense, but the way you went in and made Taft give up Miss Geneve…Lots of folks’re thinking you probably did rob him.”

  “C’mon, Deputy, when something out of the ordinary happens, folks always get to talking. A lawman can’t make his decisions based on idle gossip.”

  “I know.”

  “So what do you think the odds are that Perry’ll go on and let me out of here when he gets back?”

  “I reckon it depends on what he finds out about Clive Mackey gettin’ shot.”

  “Well, I obviously didn’t do the deed.” Emmett got up from the narrow bunk and leaned against the cubicle’s bars. “When Mackey was shot, I was on the way here with Taft’s pistolo pressed so hard against my backbone I thought there was a lump in the front of my shirt.”

  Deputy Livingston knit his brows. “So if you didn’t have anything at all to do with it, how do you know that’s when it happened?”

  “I heard the gunshot while Taft and I were on the way here. You didn’t hear it?” What Emmett didn’t say was that the shot had scared the tar out of him. Even now, he couldn’t shake off the nagging notion that Li might somehow have been involved.

  The deputy finally succeeded in plucking the splinter from the doorframe and began using it as a toothpick. “Do you know for sure where your Mexican friend was while Taft was walkin’ you over here?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how do you know he ain’t the one that shot Mackey, like Taft said?”

  Emmett had to acknowledge that possibility—to himself, anyway. “He wouldn’t have done it, unless it was in self-defense.” Or to protect Li.

  Just then, Emmett heard footsteps out in the office. Livingston turned, and Marshal Perry appeared at his side. He brushed past the deputy into the hallway between the cells, wiped a palm down his face, and heaved a sigh.

  “Well?” Emmett said.

  “Sure enough, somebody cashed in Clive Mackey’s chips for him,” Perry said. “A single shot to the head.” He pointed to his own forehead to show the spot. “His gun was still tied down in its holster.” His gaze was now locked on Emmett’s.

  “What?” Emmett said.

  “Where is your Mexican amigo?”

  “First of all”—Emmett looked from the marshal to his deputy and back again—“Juanito is not a Mexican. He’s a Texian—third-generation citizen of the Lone Star state. Secondly, he’s not out there gunning for anybody. He’s a Texas Ranger, same as me. And we’re both here looking to clear our names from Taft’s false accusations. And finally, at the moment, I have no idea where he is.” He was determined to keep Li’s presence a secret—as long as possible, anyway.

  Emmett glared at the local lawmen. “There weren’t any witnesses over there? Nobody saw who shot Mackey?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” After drumming his fingers on the iron bars for several seconds, the marshal said, “Tell me again why you went parading into Taft’s place this afternoon.”

  Now Emmett sighed. “We got news our friend Granville Sikes was shot to death back in San Antonio. I wanted to find out whether Taft sent somebody to do that, or whether we’ve got more than one party gunning for us.”

  “You boys sound like a popular bunch. Who else’d be gunnin’ for you?”

  Emmett paced in his cell. “My brother’s murderer went and hid out with some powerful kin up in Nevada—folks up to no good. We sorta disrupted their business a bit. They didn’t exactly take a shining to it.”

  “They’d chase you from Nevada all the way here for what you did? Must’ve been somethin’.”
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  “While we were up there, they did threaten payback. I wouldn’t put it past ’em.”

  The marshal folded his arms. “So what’d you find out from Taft? I assume he denied sending anybody gunnin’ for you three.”

  “Yep. He denied it.”

  “You think he’s lyin’?”

  “I’m still mulling that one over.”

  The marshal turned to his deputy, who merely shrugged.

  After several silent seconds, Emmett said, “We were all set to meet at the Cantina Las Flores tonight, correct? You gents, me, Juanito, and Jack VanDorn?”

  “That was the plan. Not sure it’ll still work, though, now that you’ve made your little foray up to the Wild Hog and let Taft know you’re here.”

  “Why does that have to stop us?”

  The marshal looked as though he was pondering. When his gaze once again met Emmett’s, he said, “Well, if your friend Juanito was to come on in, we could have the rendezvous right here, couldn’t we?”

  “Why should he do that?”

  “Look, Strong. Taft. The town council. They’ve got expectations of me.”

  Emmett nodded. “I understand that.”

  The marshal spread his hands. “Yet what you’re really asking me to do is not only to quit looking for your pardner Juanito but also to give you the opportunity to slip away and resume your own investigation on the sly.”

  “Yep. That’s about the size of it, Marshal.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “What evidence do you have that warrants you holding me here in jail, Marshal—besides the testimony of Clive Mackey and his cowhand amigos?”

  “The late Clive Mackey,” the marshal said. “Don’t you see how much it would help if your friend Juanito would come forward and answer a few questions, particularly about where he was when Mackey bit the dirt?”

  “I’m sure Juanito would be happy to answer your questions over at the Cantina Las Flores tonight. But what makes you think he was anywhere near Clive Mackey this afternoon, other than Franklin Taft’s premature accusation?”