“What in hell’s going on here?” Lassiter said, worn and fed up after the long ride, wondering when he was going to get the hell back where he belonged, back robbing banks and cattle companies and spending his money on whiskey and whores, like any sensible man.
The Irishman’s long-jawed face was pulled tight with tension. The grin was automatic, a contraction of the muscles around the thin mouth. The smile was nervous and the face was tight, and Lassiter got the feeling that McCain wasn’t as cinch-tight as his appearance.
“Come inside, Lassiter,” McCain said, gesturing at the open door.
Lassiter looked at Baptiste, big as a bear, stupid as a bear, dangerous as a bear. Then back to the Irishman, long and skinny, mad-eyed and more dangerous because he had the brains.
Lassiter raised his hand, fingers together, palm facing out. The Indian behind the gun was an Apache and he knew the sign. He and Lassiter had ridden together, fought together, and until something happened to change his mind it counted for something.
McCain closed the door and turned to Lassiter. “Papineau’s dead,” he said quickly. “Murdered. Assassinated. Call it what you want.”
Well now, Lassiter thought, the way things happen. It had been a tough robbery and a long ride. The tension in his belly unkinked and he reached into his pocket for the sack of Bull and papers.
The Irishman was nervous or playing at it. Short in the temper, too, or playing at it. Lassiter got the feeling that McCain was just as relaxed as he was, behind the surface edginess.
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” McCain asked. “I said Papineau’s been murdered.”
“Any idea who did it?”
Lassiter’s big hands loosened the drawstring on the sack of tobacco. The brown flakes fell lightly into the half rolled paper, filling it slowly.
“You’re not surprised?” McCain asked, angry at the way Lassiter was taking it.
Lassiter said he was never surprised.
“That son of a bitch Roberge—Emile Roberge—did it. Stabbed Felix to death. Murdered him with a goddamned knife.”
The Irishman’s voice choked up with emotion. While he was struggling to unchoke it, Lassiter finished rolling the cigarette. Well now, he thought again, the way things happen.
“The son of a bitching bastard,” McCain said. He paused. There were real tears in his pale-blue eyes. The Irishman put his fist into his mouth and chawed on the knuckles. He made an animal sound, like a squaw losing her first born.
Lassiter wasn’t testing the Irishman. There were no matches in his shirt pocket, in the coat pockets either. The cigarette was rolled and licked and ready to burn.
“You got a match?” he asked politely.
When the Irishman made his face red and cursed him for a stupid, heartless son of a bitch, Lassiter told him to go easy with that kind of talk. He wasn’t sure, but he was pretty sure. It was something you learned after years of dealing with men like Pierce McCain. They came in all sizes and nationalities, with all grades of brain power, with different greeds and ambitions, and some were fast with a gun and others let other men, or hired other men to do their killing for them, and in the end they were all the same. And you knew what they were.
McCain cursed Lassiter again and he let it pass. Getting no rise out of Lassiter, the Irishman tried again. The performance wasn’t anywhere as good as Edwin Booth’s would have been in a similar situation in a stage play, but it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t bad at all, Lassiter decided. It was even good for an amateur—this was one of the few times he felt any admiration for an amateur anything—but now it was beginning to wear thin.
He decided to let the Irishman finish the scene. He said he was dead from the ride, that he was sorry about Monsieur Papineau, that he hoped the killer had been caught and promptly hanged. He said he didn’t know Monsieur Papineau, hadn’t known him, that is. A hired gun was what he was, a man accustomed to sudden death, and now he wondered what was going to happen.
“I still need a match,” he said.
McCain didn’t smoke, but he spoke to the half-breed bodyguard in French, and the half-breed dug into his dirty shirt and came up with a match. McCain said something else in French. The half-breed struck the match on the sleeve of his leather coat and lit Lassiter’s cigarette.
Puffing, Lassiter said, “How did it happen?”
The ham actor in the Irishman warmed up again. He wasn’t sure Lassiter believed him—he hoped Lassiter believed him—and he kept going.
“I might’ve mentioned it to you, Lassiter, but I never trusted Roberge, the son of a bitch. There was something about the man that didn’t smell right. If you know what I mean.”
Lassiter was enjoying the cigarette, and he nodded through the smoke.
McCain said, “That’s why I set Baptiste to watching him.” The Irishman made a fist of one hand and beat it against the palm of the other. “Anyway”—and the word anyway came too quick for Lassiter’s liking— “last night Baptiste followed him to Papineau’s quarters. Baptiste knew Roberge was close to Papineau, so he didn’t think anything unusual in that. Baptiste watched him go in, then heard a noise like a groan and then a louder noise, and then he opened the door and went in. Roberge was standing over Papineau with a knife and Baptiste went wild. He shot Roberge, put all six in him, and beat him half to death.”
Lassiter said, “Half to death?” And he was thinking that a knife, not a gun, was the half-breed’s kind of weapon.
McCain swallowed. “Maybe it was just as well he didn’t kill the son of a bitch. You saw those men out there. They’re ready to run wild, and I can’t blame them. Papineau was the life of this rebellion. Mackenzie is old, tired—just a name from the past.”
Lassiter was thinking about the mostly Indian Mackenzie. McCain didn’t mention that Mackenzie wasn’t much more than a figurehead—now—but that’s what he was. Well now, he thought for the third time, the ways things happen.
Lassiter was direct. “Could he talk? Why did he do it?”
The Irishman shook his head. “We don’t rightly know, but it looks like for the money. That or he made some kind of deal with the British. I searched his quarters after it happened, and I found ten thousand dollars in big bills. Many a good man was murdered for a lot less. My guess is the son of bitch sold out to the British or, failing that, planned to take over the rebellion for himself. But, by the everlasting Christ, dying as he is, he’s going to hang.”
Lassiter didn’t believe a word of it. He was counting on the Indian behind the Maxim gun and he was thinking about the fifty thousand in the sack lying beside the gun and, all things considered, he didn’t give a dry turd for the dead Papineau or the still living and soon-to-be-hanged Emile Roberge. He was concerned about himself. He corrected the idea that he was concerned about himself. He wasn’t concerned about himself, not ever, but he was alive and had managed to stay alive through as bad as this, and worse maybe, and he liked being alive, not because it was so good always but because staying alive got to be a habit.
He would think about McCain later. Now he said, “Hang him—that’s your business. Don’t expect me to help you.” McCain grew righteous, stern-faced, and Lassiter had never seen a worse—a better—liar.
“I’ll hang him myself—Felix was my friend,” the Irishman said. “No better friend ever lived than poor Felix.”
Lassiter wanted to sound sympathetic but all he could manage was, “Yeah.” He added, “When’s the hanging take place?”
“Right now,” McCain answered. “I was waiting for you to get back. Roberge has been tried and convicted. The men out there loved Felix Papineau, and they want to see his killer hang. But they’re still edgy. I’m counting on you and your men to restore discipline, if that’s necessary. Felix is dead, but the fight must go on.”
Behind all the talk, McCain was waiting for Lassiter’s final reaction. To find out if he bought the story. To see if Lassiter was prepared to back him. Lassiter knew the Irishman and the half-breed killed Papineau. Rob
erge was Papineau’s second in command on the political side of the rebellion. With Papineau dead and Roberge hanged there was nothing to stop McCain from taking over everything. The Irishman was popular with the men, but he still needed to keep Mackenzie alive. Mackenzie would carry on the spirit of the rebellion. McCain would be the real leader.
“I need you more than ever, Lassiter,” McCain said.
Lassiter was ready to believe that. McCain needed him all right, needed the Indian and the other men, needed that Maxim gun. When he didn’t need them any longer, Lassiter knew, the Irishman would plan another surprise. At least he’d try.
Lassiter made his decision. He made several decisions. What he said to McCain was, “You’re the Colonel. What do you want to do?”
Suddenly the Irishman wasn’t nervous or sad any more. There was relief in his voice. “Good man, Lassiter,” he said. “I knew I could count on you. I have big plans for you. Damned if I don’t.” McCain slapped Lassiter affectionately on the arm. Lassiter moved away from him.
McCain was brisk again, but Lassiter sensed that the Irishman was fighting back the wild impulse to laugh. The son of a bitch thought he had the situation tied up tight like a turkey ready for roasting. “I will take charge of the execution,” McCain said. “Felix was my friend. You and your men will maintain discipline. Later, when this ugly business has been transacted, we will bury Felix with full military honors.”
“Yes, Colonel,” Lassiter snapped back. He was thinking that in all his life he’d never seen, or listened to, a sneakier double-dealing rat than McCain. And not just any ordinary rat, but a rat with a worm in his brain.
They went outside, the half-breed trailing behind. The men crowded forward when they saw McCain. An old trapper with a fur cap and a Springfield musket started yelling in French. McCain held up his hand and the noise died away. He ordered his squad leaders to get the men in formation. It took some shouting, some first shaking to make them do it. The muttering started again.
McCain, red in the face, roared at them to be silent. He said it in English and French. Then—a nice touch—he apologized. He said he knew how much they loved Felix Papineau. How they had left their farms and families to risk their lives for the rebellion. He said he wouldn’t blame them if they gave up the fight and went home. McCain paused, then started again before they had time to really think about it.
“We can go away from here and forget Felix Papineau. We can try to forget him. We can forget that he gave his life for all of us. Yes, we can do that. Or”—another pause—“we can continue the fight in his name. And, God willing, we can win in his name.”
Lassiter stood behind McCain, counting the wrinkles on his stringy neck. Black clouds drifted across the sun, and the wind blew up bitter and cold. It was a good time for a drink.
McCain stood with clenched fists, shaking with emotion. “Which is it going to be? Have you forgotten that Ballard Mackenzie is still with us? Are we to betray him, too?”
That seemed to do it. The old man in the fur hat repeated Mackenzie’s name. Other men joined in.
Sweating in the cold wind, McCain turned to Lassiter. “Bring out Mackenzie,” he said. “You’ll find him sitting by the coffin in the mess hall. You may have to force him a little.”
Lassiter found the old man. Mackenzie was staring at the open coffin standing on two trestles, glassy-eyed, silent. The other furniture in the room had been cleared out. The dead man looked neat and peaceful. The reddish hair was parted in the middle and slicked down, and the part of the white shirt Lassiter could see had no holes in it. Mackenzie came out easily enough after Lassiter got his attention.
A cheer went up when they saw the old man. Holding Mackenzie’s arm, Lassiter led him across the parade ground to where McCain was standing. Mackenzie didn’t altogether know what was going on. Lassiter turned him loose, and McCain grabbed the other arm. Numb with the shock of Papineau’s death, Mackenzie didn’t resist. McCain jerked the old man’s arm upward.
“Mackenzie!” he roared out the challenge. “Will you follow Mackenzie?”
The men roared, shaking their rifles. The Irishman’s mouth was tight, and his eyes were mad when he turned Mackenzie back to Lassiter. “Take him back,” he said, knowing he didn’t need Lassiter as much as he had needed him ten minutes before. Lassiter knew it, too.
After he left the old man by the coffin Lassiter went to his quarters. While he was opening a full bottle he heard them hanging Roberge from the main gate of the fort. It was very quiet, then a shout went up, and he knew Roberge was swinging on the end of a rope. He guessed they had to hold up Roberge to hang him. Maybe he was already dead when they hanged him. Lassiter didn’t care which way it was. The smart thing would be to clear out of there, head for the coast and try to catch a boat south to Seattle or San Francisco. The militia would be thick as flies along the border by now. That way was no good.
Lying on a dirty mattress on a rusty army cot, he decided to give it a little more time. They couldn’t hang him twice. At the moment he was more interested in McCain than the militia. There could be big money in this—hell, there was big money lying out there in that sack. The Irishman was crazy for power, the worst kind of craziness, but the mad bastard might just carry it off. Because the Irishman was crazy he couldn’t be trusted, and that was all right, too. The rule that worked best was to trust nobody, no matter what they did to earn trust.
Somebody knocked on the door. Lassiter said to come in. McCain came in looking pleased with himself. He had just hanged a man, and he was smiling like a trail herder in a Kansas whorehouse. The quarter pint of whiskey in Lassiter’s belly made him dislike the Irishman even more.
“What are you doing, man? We’re going to bury Felix in a minute.” McCain said.
“You bury him. He’s your friend.”
“Now, Major, that’s no way to be. As the next ranking officer it wouldn’t look right. The men wouldn’t like it.”
McCain had a point, not that Lassiter gave a damn what the men thought. But he might as well play it straight, for the time being. He corked the bottle and got up off the cot.
“Good man,” McCain commended him. “Besides there’s someone I want you to meet. Does the name Grainger P. Dowling mean anything to you? He’s a countryman of yours.”
Lassiter remembered the fussy old gent with the umbrella who came to his cell the morning after the beating. The words Lassiter used to describe Mr. Dowling were not complimentary.
McCain’s chest heaved with the old jailbird’s noiseless laugh. “You’d make a lousy diplomat, Lassiter. Dowling is a most influential man. With many connections. But we’ll go into that later.”
Lassiter straightened his hat and that was as respectful as he was ready to get, funeral or no funeral. Outside the men were in formation, doing their best to look like soldiers. The Indian was still behind the gun and he didn’t get up until Lassiter nodded. Playing the game, Lassiter told the Indian to have the First Irregulars fall in.
“Ready, Major,” the Indian called out.
Lassiter relayed the message to McCain who, in turn, barked out an order to one of the squad leaders.
Four men carried the coffin down the steps from the mess hall. They were followed by an honor guard of six infantrymen and an old white-bearded man with a bugle. Mackenzie, confused and stumbling, came next, supported by the half-breed Baptiste. Next in line behind the dead rebel’s coffin was the fusspot-Yankee Lassiter knew as Grainger P. Dowling. Giving command of the men to Lassiter, McCain took his place behind the coffin, stern-faced, sorrowful, a real man of the people.
The son of a bitch. Lassiter had to fight hard to keep from grinning.
There was a small grown-over cemetery behind the fort. They didn’t bury Papineau there, not among his enemies. They buried him on a hill under a tree. Lassiter guessed McCain had picked the grave site himself. Nothing but the best for poor dead Felix.
The honor guard fired off their rifles, not all together but close enough, a
nd the old man blew the bugle. The mourners came back and Lassiter told Colmar to dismiss the men. Then he followed McCain and Grainger P. Dowling into the commandant’s office. The half-breed Baptiste took Mackenzie back to his quarters and stood guard outside the door.
The Yankee remembered some of the things Lassiter said to him back in the jail. He didn’t offer to shake hands when McCain introduced them. But he was very eager to please McCain. “Thanks, no,” he said when McCain asked him if he wanted a drink.
The Irishman got two glasses and filled them. Lassiter tossed his back. McCain took his time.
“It’s all right, Mr. Dowling,” McCain assured the Yankee. “We can talk in front of Major Lassiter. Major Lassiter is my most valuable man.”
Dowling looked at Lassiter, measuring him. “Very well,” he said. He fussed like an old maid, but Lassiter decided that was just his manner. The Yankee had to have some nerve to be mixed up in a thing like this.
“Very well,” Dowling said again. “If you have the money I think we can do business. Later the money won t be necessary—I have assurances of that—but for now it must be cash on demand.” The Yankee tittered nervously. “Money talks as they say.”
“Like nothing else,” McCain agreed. “Now what about the guns. And how much?”
The Yankee pretended to do some quick calculations in his head. He came up with the figure he’d known about all along. “For two thousand Springfield rifles plus a million rounds of ammunition. All top quality merchandise—shall we say one hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
McCain took time to think about it. “That seems kind of high, Mr. Dowling,” he said. “Am I wrong or does that break down to fifty dollars a rifle and five cents a bullet?”
“Correct,” Dowling said. “If it appears high, you must remember the risk.” He added, “My risk.”
McCain looked at Lassiter. “What do you think?”
The single-shot Springfield was a good dependable rifle. The militia was armed with bolt-action repeaters and supported here and there by the new Maxim guns. Lassiter thought the deal between McCain and Dowling had already been set.
Lassiter 4 Page 8
