Emmett faced the sheriff. “What happens if we don’t go see the town council right away like they want?”
“They may ask me to arrest you.” There was a twinkle in his eyes. “Don’t mean much, though, seein’ as how they don’t currently have a marshal or a deputy marshal…As county sheriff, I don’t answer to the town council.”
“Well, if you were with us—out on a little look-see expedition—they might find it difficult to even ask you, right?”
The sheriff cracked a grin. “You wanna go take a look around the old Livingston place? I’ll go with you.”
“We need that stolen cashbox, Sheriff,” Emmett said. “We shot the town deputy. Witnesses saw it happen.” He rested his hand on Li’s shoulder. “But we know what my wife saw: Livingston shooting at his own boss and at Taft, and Livingston disappearing in the middle of that big shindig at the Wild Hog—”
Crawford held up a hand. “You don’t have to convince me, Strong. Jack VanDorn believes you. Marshal Perry did, too. And so does Doc Simons. That’s plenty enough for me.”
Emmett studied the sheriff’s expression and saw a man without guile. “Then I’m much obliged. And if it suits you OK, I’d like to go ahead and get a move on.”
“Can you give me and Diego thirty minutes to wet our whistles? Been in the saddle a good piece of the day. And it’s been hot as Lucifer’s underwear out there.”
Emmett offered the sheriff a firm handshake. Riding tonight, staying out of reach of the town council, then having a look around early tomorrow—that’d be all right.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
At a reserved table in the back corner of the Hyperion Saloon up in Reno, Nevada, Lucian McIntosh gave an exasperated sigh and tossed his hand of cards face down onto the polished tabletop. Seemed this was the way his luck was running these days—not so much as a pair of deuces, no two cards in sequence, a useless sampling from three of the four suits.
“I’m out,” he grumbled.
Ty Wilson chuckled as he raked the spread of assorted coins and bills toward his silk-vested belly.
McIntosh was just about to launch into an ear-bending tirade when the lean silhouette of Rand Hodges appeared in the front doorway. “Take your winnin’s and get outta my sight, you bunch of leeches,” he told his three poker companions before motioning Hodges over.
The three gamblers vacated the table, Wilson still smirking. Hodges ambled across the room and took their place.
McIntosh gestured for his hired hand to pour himself a whiskey. “Anything?”
“Nothin’ today, sir,” Hodges said somberly.
“Damn!” Was it nine or ten days now since he’d last heard from Lum? Last word had been good news—in part. Lum had telegraphed that “the angus had been sold” but that they’d have to double back to El Paso to find the longhorns they were looking for. This prearranged lingo had told McIntosh that Ned Cage had dealt with the Englishman, but that Strong, his Chinese trollop, and the Mexican were still alive.
“Shouldn’t be takin’ so long,” he said.
Hodges took a swallow of whiskey. “I’ll check with the telegraph office again tomorrow, first thing.”
“Got a bad feelin’ about this, Hodges.” McIntosh rubbed his jaw.
“Just a little while longer sir. You’ll see.”
McIntosh shook his head. He didn’t know how it was, but unlike anyone he’d ever met, this Emmett Strong seemed to be able to land every punch. Meanwhile, every time he swung at Strong, all he got was a handful of air. And the Texan’s punches had hurt—his brother and his segundo dead, Ettie gone missing. Not to mention the calico Strong had stolen from him. And the other good men Strong’s bunch had killed.
But besting “Three-Finger” Ned Cage? Strong? Could he be that damn good? No. Not that talented. Just born under some lucky star.
He eyed the playing cards still lying strewn about the table. Luck, that’s all it was. But Lucian McIntosh hadn’t built his wealth and power by dumb, blind luck. And he wouldn’t lose it that way either.
If Cage had in fact failed, why, he himself would deal with Strong—with the same calculated ruthlessness he’d employed in building his own personal empire, an empire that stretched from San Francisco well into Nevada. So heaven help Emmett Strong. He’d better hope Ned Cage killed him.
McIntosh pulled a cigar from his coat pocket. “We’ll give Cage a few more days.” He struck a match. “But one way or the other—and you can bank on this, Hodges—I will have the satisfaction of sending Emmett Strong to hell.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Juanito and Geneve were outside of the old, dilapidated adobe farmhouse before sunup. When Emmett and Li stepped out into the pale-blue light, there they were, talking in hushed tones, each with a stick in hand, poking through a pile of horse droppings.
“That Juanito,” Emmett said with a crooked smile. “Always the romantic. See the kind of fun you can look forward to with this old scalawag?”
Geneve grinned. “Shush, Emmett. It’s actually interesting. He’s showing me how he knows these droppings are more’n a week old.”
Pointing the stick at Emmett, Juanito said, “Li, do you want me to check your husband? Tell you how old he really is?”
Li laughed and hugged Emmett’s arm. “You don’t have to be so mean, Juanito.”
Juanito raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t hear him? He started it.”
Hands on her hips, Geneve turned to Li. “Do you think they’ll ever grow up?”
Li shrugged, eyed Emmett, and smiled.
Before long Sheriff Crawford and Deputy Portillo joined them all in the search for the stolen strongbox. The deputy and Juanito both read sign pretty well, and what they observed led the party down into the brush that grew along the riverbank.
The sun was up now, only an hour above the eastern horizon, but it already had Emmett mopping his brow.
He stepped into a small clearing surrounded by massive, old prickly pear cactuses. Li trailed him by not more than a pace, gravel crunching softly beneath her boots. They’d just cleared the prickly pear when the unmistakable angry whir of a diamondback’s rattle stopped Emmett’s heart cold. Li gasped.
With nimbleness that surprised even him, Emmett spun, pulled his wife to himself, drew his Colt, and fired.
There it was, fat as a blacksmith’s forearm. Elegant pattern of scales in subdued browns. Deadly a minute ago. Dead now. Missing its venomous head but writhing nonetheless.
Li shuddered in Emmett’s arm.
His own heart commenced pounding.
From where they’d each been searching, the rest of the party stared at Emmett, waiting on word from him.
“Rattler,” Emmett called out, but his eyes were already fixed on a spot just past the fat, headless diamondback. “Eureka,” he whispered to Li.
Still clinging to him, she whispered back, “What?”
He led her by the hand past the snake to a spot where, beneath the edge of a flat, spiny spread of cactus pads, someone had clearly turned and tamped down the earth—and recently, at that.
He squatted, opened his folding knife, and began to probe the suspicious sandy soil. Hand on his shoulder, Li bent to see what he’d found.
His one word said it all: “Metal.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
The skeletal El Paso town councilman Dan Haywood adjusted his pince-nez spectacles. “Sheriff Crawford, I thought we told you to bring this bunch to us yesterday. We understood they were right here in El Paso. So if you would kindly explain the delay?”
Emmett, Li, Juanito, and Geneve sat side by side in the four chairs that lined one side of the Merchant’s Bank boardroom table. The stuffy room barely had space for the table and its eight wooden chairs. Dan Haywood, Silas Greer, and two other town councilmen sat facing Emmett and his party. The sheriff stood at the head of the table, while County Deputy Portillo
leaned, arms crossed, against the inside of the closed door.
“Well, Sheriff?” the mutton chopped Greer said.
“First of all,” Crawford said, “I don’t answer to this council. And secondly, there was something I thought I should look into before coming to pay you gentlemen a visit.”
Haywood wrinkled his nose. “And what was that?”
“Mr. Strong?” The sheriff gestured.
Emmett lifted the metal strongbox from his lap, laid it atop the table, and slid it across to Dan Haywood. “Miss Lindsey over at the Wild Hog confirmed it: this is Franklin Taft’s strongbox. It was buried out at the old Livingston homestead—your former deputy Warren Livingston’s place, may he rest in peace.”
Haywood looked side to side at his colleagues before flipping the latch and opening the box. He fingered the bundled bills inside it. “Why, it looks as if—”
“As if all the money stolen from Taft is still there?” Emmett said. “It is.”
Haywood stared blankly. “Well, how do we know you didn’t—”
Emmett slammed his palm on the table and glared at the councilman. “We didn’t. Plain and simple.”
Bob Hunt, a well-groomed council member with a salt-and-pepper mustache, leaned out over the table to make eye contact with Haywood. “I kept tellin’ you, Dan”—he motioned to those on Emmett’s side of the table—“reliable sources kept sayin’ there’s no way on earth these rangers robbed Franklin Taft.”
The fourth councilman, the only one wearing range clothes—clean ones—instead of a suit, rubbed his forehead and said, “Dan, I believe you and Silas owe these folks an apology. And I aim to sit here until I hear the both of you give ’em one. You’ve put these men and their ladies through six kinds of hades.”
Dan Haywood and Silas Greer eyed one another, but neither would meet anyone else’s gaze.
“Our apologies,” Greer muttered through his mutton chops.
Haywood’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
“We’re waitin’, Dan,” Bob Hunt said.
“Didn’t have to go shooting up half the gol-darn town in the process,” Haywood said.
Sheriff Crawford, knuckles on the tabletop, leaned in and said, “Yes, they good and well did. This burg’s growin’ like Methuselah’s beard, and lawless types are findin’ their way here by the dozens.” He waited till Haywood looked at him before going on. “And here’s something else I’ll add for free: it’s time El Paso got a town marshal who’s not afraid to do what’s got to be done.”
Emmett angled his head and stared at the sheriff. No. He’s not going to—
“I talked at length with Jack VanDorn,” the sheriff said, still holding Haywood in his glower. “Now, Jack’s a veteran Texas Ranger, and he said El Paso would be good and blessed to have a marshal like Emmett Strong and a deputy like Juanito Galvez here.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’,” Councilman Hunt said.
Emmett’s mind began to spin. Why hadn’t Sheriff Crawford run this by him before pitching it out there before the town council?
“Sheriff’s right. We do need a marshal. And a deputy.” The councilman wearing range clothes tipped his head toward Emmett, then toward Juanito. “And we need experienced lawmen, men that come highly recommended.”
Haywood waved his bony hand. “Not these leather slappers. Too much controversy surrounding this bunch.”
Emmett leaned back in his chair. Li looked at him questioningly.
“Who said Juanito and I are interested?” He laced his fingers over his belt buckle. “We’ve already got jobs.”
Haywood scoffed.
Then Silas Greer backhanded Haywood’s arm. “Shut up, Dan. The sheriff, Bob Hunt, and Milt Morgan are right.” He fixed his gaze on Emmett. “Give this some serious consideration, won’t you, Mr. Strong? Talk it over with your party. You won’t regret it.”
“We’ll make it worth your while,” the salt-and-pepper-mustached councilman said, nodding. “Just let us know soon. This town’s too big not to have a marshal.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Emmett and Li rose from the dinner table in the restaurant that adjoined the Hotel Rio Grande.
“Well, good night, Deputy,” he said to Juanito. He winked at Geneve. “Goodnight, Mrs. Galvez.”
Geneve, her blue eyes shining above a dress that perfectly complimented their color, smiled.
“Don’t keep me waiting all morning down at the jailhouse,” Juanito said to Emmett. “Get your coffee, then get on down there to relieve me.” He turned to Geneve. “I’ve got family, too, you know.”
Li tugged at Emmett’s arm. “I’ll kick him out of bed early enough, Juanito. Don’t you worry.”
“And hermano,” Juanito said, “why do you keep encouraging the angelita that way?” He waved a hand in Li’s direction. “Having her walk about heeled—a fast-draw rig at that.”
Emmett admired his bride. All woman, from her silky, brown-black hair to her tiny booted feet. Yet he took pride and comfort in knowing that she could handle herself—and others—when it came down to it.
Yep, her elegant gun rig was a touch of vanity. Riding high enough over her trim, trousered hips not to get in the way, yet right where it needed to be if ever again she found herself in a pinch.
He grinned at Juanito. “I believe she’s earned it.”
She waved good night, and she and Emmett stepped out onto the boardwalk.
Under the stars, Emmett paused and looked into Li’s glimmering eyes.
“Are you happy with the decision?” she asked.
“What would we have to look forward to back in San Antonio? Folks like Nan Morrison and her uppity father? No, thank you.”
She shrugged. “I could learn to ignore them.”
“Still, it’d be hard on Juanito and Geneve, going back to where Sikes was gunned down and all.”
“I suppose you’re right, but San Antonio was your home.”
He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. Her skin was smooth, warm, inviting. “And what about your home?” he said.
“My home is where you are.”
He nodded. “Same holds true for me.”
Li slipped her hand into the crook of Emmett’s arm, and the couple stepped down into the street. Emmett attempted to guide Li to the left, but a portly man in a dark frock coat—clearly preoccupied with reading his pocket watch—nearly plowed right into the both of them.
The heavyset man blustered, “Why don’t you look where you’re going?” Recognition then registered on his face.
“Why don’t you apologize to the lady,” Emmett insisted. “Judge Wilcox?”
Shaking his polished cane in their faces, the judge muttered, “I’ll deal with you two later, so help me God.” He scowled and then spun and marched into the hotel lobby.
Emmett squeezed his wife’s hand. “Forget him, Li. He’s a crotchety old fool.”
Together they watched him for a minute, just inside the open door, greeting some acquaintance of his with a tirade about the lawless new marshal and his something-something woman. The judge punctuated the rant with emphatic gesticulations back toward the two of them.
Li took Emmett’s arm again and, with a coy smile, beckoned him to resume walking with her. “Hot air and gusts of wind,” she said. “Two things we’ve got to get used to if we’re going to make a life in El Paso, my love.”
“Your resilience, my dear,” he said, “never ceases to amaze me.”
To the Reader
Thank you for taking time to read Strong Suspicions. If you enjoyed the book, please consider telling your friends about it or posting a short review on Amazon.com or goodreads.com. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and is much appreciated.
If you think you’d like to be a part of my “street team” and receive free advance copies of my fut
ure books in return for honest reviews, please contact me at [email protected].
Much obliged.
GP Hutchinson
gphutchinson.com
www.facebook.com/author.gphutchinson
twitter.com/GP_Hutchinson
Also by GP Hutchinson
Strong Convictions: An Emmett Strong Western (Emmett Strong Western #1)
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller
Acknowledgments
The more I think about it, the more amazed I am that God has allowed us humans to share in His work of creation. I find the creative aspect of our humanity to be convincing evidence that we have been made in the image of our Creator. What a unique privilege and honor! For this and other blessings beyond number, I give thanks to the Lord our God.
Once again, I truly cannot thank my dear wife, Carolyn, enough. I couldn’t do what I do without her cheerful and loving support.
Karla Van Horne’s encyclopedic knowledge of Old West guns and gear has been a tremendous boon to me as I’ve written Strong Suspicions. Thank you, Karla, for your timely suggestions and opinions.
I’d like to thank my beta readers, Ralph Smith and my brothers, Joe and John. Your observations and perspectives have been invaluable. Thank you very much for your candor and for the investment of your time.
Thank you, as always, to my team at CreateSpace for your conscientious and professional work. The finished product testifies to your knowledge, skill, and dedication.
And finally, to you, the reader, a heartfelt thank-you for picking up Strong Suspicions. I sincerely hope you’ve found the story as much fun to read as it was for me to write it.
GP Hutchinson
January 2016
About the Author
High school teacher GP Hutchinson devotes as much of his time as possible to the craft of writing. His passion for Westerns started when he was sixteen years old, when he wrote a research paper titled “The Cowboy in American Literature.” His influences include artists Frederic Remington and Charles M. Russell, as well as Western author Elmore Leonard. Hutchinson, a father of three and grandfather of eight, lives in upstate South Carolina with his wife and one of his daughters. He is a graduate of Louisiana State University and Dallas Theological Seminary who has also lived and studied in Costa Rica and Spain.
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