Death of a Bad Man

by Ralph Compton

  ‘‘Changed your mind already?’’ she asked. ‘‘Can’t say as I’m surprised.’’

  ‘‘I have another question for you,’’ Sol said as he did his best to match the flirting tone in the voluptuous woman’s voice. ‘‘There’s someone else I’d like to find and I hear he may be in these parts.’’

  ‘‘Most of the warm-blooded men in these hills come to see me sooner or later. Which one are you asking about?’’

  ‘‘His name’s Nester Quarles. Have you ever heard of him?’’

  And, like a mouse that had been scooped up by a falcon from a canyon floor, the barkeep’s smile disappeared.

  She glanced to and fro, while shifting as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to walk or run away from him. Letting out a short breath, she held her ground and asked, ‘‘Why do you want to know about him?’’

  Although Sol could detect the change that had come over the woman, he wasn’t exactly sure what to do about it. ‘‘I was just hoping to find him. That’s all.’’

  ‘‘That’s all? And who the hell are you?’’

  ‘‘I . . . my name is . . .’’ Sol felt his own words catch in his throat as that crudely drawn likeness of his own face drifted through his mind. He hadn’t seen one of those notices for a while, but that didn’t mean they weren’t about. He surely wasn’t going to bet his life on the assumption that nobody in Leadville had seen one.

  ‘‘I don’t care to know your name,’’ she said before Sol got a chance to make one up. ‘‘And I don’t care to hear your business with . . . with that man. Nobody even knows if he lives around here. Whatever you heard is probably just some damned rumor.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds.’’

  ‘‘There ain’t no bounds to overstep,’’ the barkeep was quick to reply. ‘‘And there’s nobody named Quarles around here. If you’re the law, you can finish your drink and look somewhere else. If you’re . . . some other sort looking to make a name for yourself, you can take your hide out of this place right now.’’

  If Sol had anything in common with the barkeep, it was the discomfort they both obviously felt at drawing anyone else into their discussion. He dropped his voice and leaned forward so he was only an inch or so from climbing over the top of the bar.

  ‘‘You don’t understand,’’ he said. ‘‘All I want—’’

  Sol was cut short when he felt the twin barrels of a shotgun press up under his chin. The barkeep must have already retrieved the weapon because he sure hadn’t seen her move to grab it.

  ‘‘I do understand,’’ she told him in a cool, level tone. ‘‘And I don’t give a damn what you want. I’ve had plenty of men come in here, spouting off and waving their guns around because they thought they could get a shot at Nester Quarles. I’ve heard he may be around, that he was killed and just about everything in between. But if you keep pushing me or if you try to stir up any trouble in here, the only thing you’ll hear is this shotgun right before it blasts your head off. Do I make myself clear?’’

  Sol tried to nod, but the shotgun prevented him from moving more than a fraction of an inch either up or down. That seemed to be enough for the bartender, though.

  ‘‘Good,’’ she said. ‘‘Now leave this place. Don’t look back and don’t even think about taking me up on any of the offers I made before. If I see you again, you’d best be walking the other way.’’

  Leaning back a bit, Sol tested the waters to see if she would react. Since the barkeep leaned back as well, Sol nodded and straightened his jacket. He glanced to either side and caught a few of the men along the bar trying to keep a straight face. Sol let out the breath he’d been holding and lowered his hands.

  ‘‘I wouldn’t do that,’’ the man beside him whispered.

  As Sol heard that, he saw the bartender raise the shotgun a bit more. Only then did Sol realize that his hand had drifted a bit close to his holster. He raised it and backed away from the bar. Knowing that he was still in the woman’s sights, Sol turned and walked through the front door as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. Once he was outside, he could hear the rumble of laughter coming from behind him.

  ‘‘Sorry about that, folks,’’ the bartender bellowed from her post. ‘‘Just trying to keep you all entertained until the real show begins.’’

  There was more laughter, but Sol didn’t stay around to see how long it would last. He’d already spotted the opera house and decided it was best to go there when he saw someone rushing out of the Monarch. Recognizing the man as one of the fellows who’d been close enough to hear his exchange with the bartender, Sol set his eyes into a warning glare. ‘‘Whatever you got to say, I don’t want to hear it, mister,’’ Sol said. ‘‘Just because I let that woman talk to me like that don’t mean I’ll be so generous with you.’’

  The man was Sol’s height and had long, stringy hair hanging from beneath a pearl gray hat, and his jaw jutted forward slightly. Lowering his head, the man watched Sol as if he were doing so over a pair of spectacles. ‘‘I been in town long enough to know there ain’t no shame in letting a woman like Stephie get the drop on you.’’

  ‘‘Fine. Thanks.’’

  ‘‘Not so fast,’’ the man said as he saw Sol turn to walk away. ‘‘My name’s Kincaid.’’

  ‘‘So what?’’

  ‘‘So I’m a friend of Nester Quarles.’’

  Even though he was looking for Nester himself, Sol wasn’t quick to trust another man who claimed to be a known killer’s friend. He didn’t try to hide that fact as he took another look at the man. Kincaid didn’t wear a gun. He wore two of them, holstered in a finely tooled rig that was studded with spare bullets. Despite both guns hanging within his reach, Kincaid had yet to make a move toward them.

  ‘‘How do you know Nester?’’ Sol asked.

  ‘‘I owe the man some money.’’ Narrowing his eyes a bit, Kincaid explained, ‘‘Me and Nester played some poker, but never got to settle up. Truth is, I didn’t have the money before and Nester ain’t exactly the sort who I like to be indebted to. Plus, I got some news he might want to hear.’’ Leaning in a bit as some drunks staggered by, he added, ‘‘News about the law catching his scent if you know what I mean. Since we both seem to be looking for the same fellow, I figured we could pool our resources. Where you headed?’’

  Sol had learned not to trust strangers, but he couldn’t exactly take the chance of Nester being caught or killed right now. Besides that, he figured a familiar face might put someone like Quarles or his other friends at ease better than someone showing up from a gathering several years ago. ‘‘I was heading for that opera house,’’ Sol said as he pointed to the building a few doors down from the Monarch.

  Kincaid looked over there and winced. ‘‘Place looks like it might be closed. If your idea doesn’t pan out, I’ve got a few we could try.’’

  ‘‘And what do you need me for?’’

  ‘‘If Nester was easy to find, I don’t think he’d be breathin’.’’

  Sol had to admit there was nothing wrong with that logic. It also felt comforting to have a backup plan in case the splintered leads he was following happened to fall apart. If he intended on taking up a new trade, Sol figured he would have to get used to taking help whenever he could get it.

  Chapter 14

  The Tabor Opera House was closed. Seeing as how it was still a bit early in the day for a show, Sol wasn’t completely surprised. He was a bit more discouraged when he saw the sign posted on the door declaring when the next show was scheduled.

  ‘‘Next week?’’ Sol groaned. ‘‘Why have an opera house if you’re not going to have performances?’’

  ‘‘Admirer of the stage, are ya?’’ Kincaid asked.

  ‘‘Not really. I was just hoping to get in here today.’’

  ‘‘Well, there’s one way to get in that sometimes works pretty good.’’ Once he saw that Sol’s eyes were on him, Kincaid reached out, grabbed the door handle and pul
led. The door groaned a bit, but swung open without much fuss.

  Sol took a step inside a lobby that was only illuminated by a single lantern and whatever light made it through the windows and doorway. Advertisements from what had to have been the last several shows were tacked to the walls, and before Sol could get a better look at any of those brightly colored displays, he saw a door swing open that couldn’t have come much higher than his waist. Once his eyes had gotten used to the dimmer light within the place, Sol could see that the door was actually at the bottom of half a flight of stairs leading down to another room below the main floor.

  The man who walked through that lower door came up the stairs and strode across the floor. His suit looked expensive, but was rumpled as if he’d been wearing it for about half a day too long. ‘‘The theater is closed,’’ he announced.

  ‘‘I hear there’s a bar in here,’’ Sol replied.

  ‘‘It’s closed, as well.’’

  Kincaid stepped around Sol and moved toward the stairs. Leaning to get a look around the well-dressed fellow, he said, ‘‘It don’t look closed to me.’’

  The man in the rumpled clothes let out a frustrated sigh. ‘‘We do have a bar, but the business hours don’t start for a bit. There are some people here, but they have proper business to conduct.’’

  ‘‘I’m looking for Daniel Hayes,’’ Sol announced. ‘‘If he’s here, could you send word that an old friend is here to see him?’’

  ‘‘What old friend?’’

  ‘‘Just go tell him.’’

  Exhaling as if it were a chore in itself, the well-dressed man started to shake his head before another set of footsteps clomped up the stairs leading to the bar in the cellar. When the older gentleman climbed the stairs, it looked more like he was emerging from the floorboards.

  ‘‘Did I hear my name up here?’’ the old gentleman asked.

  The well-dressed fellow took half a glance over his shoulder. ‘‘These men say they know you, Dan. If that’s not the case, I can have them removed.’’

  Reaching up from his spot on those stairs, the old man placed his hands upon the floor and gazed out at Sol and Kincaid. Either it was just as dark in the bar or his eyes were a lot sharper than Sol’s, because he barely needed to squint as he examined the two men. Gray stubble sprouted from slightly sunken cheeks and a narrow jaw. Although he wasn’t as bulky as any of the younger men around him, Dan Hayes looked anything but frail.

  ‘‘That one there looks familiar,’’ Hayes said as he walked up the rest of the stairs. His eyes were fixed upon Sol and then shifted over to Kincaid. ‘‘As for that one . . .’’

  ‘‘You know damn well who I am,’’ Kincaid said as he drew his pistol.

  The well-dressed fellow nearly leaped out of his skin. ‘‘What’s the meaning of this? There’ll be no un-holstered weapons inside the—’’ But he was cut short as a gunshot exploded within the confines of the lobby.

  Sol had barely seen the gun in Kincaid’s hand when that shot went off. Reflexively throwing himself against the closest wall, Sol reached for his own pistol and faced the rest of the room in preparation for a fight. Daniel Hayes was also holding a gun. In fact, the gun in the older man’s hand was smoking.

  Kincaid dropped to one knee and fired off a round. Hayes ducked and seemed to be swallowed up by the floor as he disappeared from view. That didn’t stop Kincaid from firing, however, as he climbed to his feet and rushed toward the top of the stairs leading into the cellar.

  ‘‘Hey!’’ Sol said as he reached out to try and grab Kincaid. Only Sol’s fingertips managed to get any piece of Kincaid’s shirt, but that only lasted for a second before he was shaken loose. ‘‘What are you doing?’’

  Kincaid didn’t answer. He didn’t even acknowledge Sol’s question before firing another shot at the stairs.

  The room fell silent. All that remained of the gunshots were the ringing in Sol’s ears and the smoke hanging in the air. Seeing that Kincaid wasn’t about to be deterred on his way to the bar under the opera house, Sol held on to his gun and peeled himself away from the wall.

  ‘‘That’s enough!’’ Sol growled.

  If Kincaid heard him, he gave no indication. Instead, he inched his way toward the stairs and took a few quick looks at the recessed entry into the bar. When no shots were fired up at him, Kincaid turned toward Sol. ‘‘You stay right where you are, or you’ll get some of this for yourself,’’ he snarled as he swung his aim toward Sol.

  Even though no guns were being aimed at him, the well-dressed man curled up in a corner and wrapped his arms around his head. He whimpered to himself, which put a ghostly murmur into the smoky air.

  Sol flinched at the sight of Kincaid’s gun turning toward him, but didn’t back down. Lowering his pistol, he reluctantly allowed the other man to make his way over to the stairs.

  ‘‘I’ll deal with you in a second,’’ Kincaid said. ‘‘Since we both found him, we can split the bounty.’’

  Cursing under his breath, Sol strode toward Kincaid with every intention of stopping him. ‘‘I won’t let you kill him,’’ he growled. ‘‘Do you hear me?’’

  Kincaid was at the top of the steps now. Responding to the sound of Sol’s voice as well as the thump of his approaching footsteps, he pivoted on his heels to look at Sol while also taking aim at him. Kincaid’s lips parted to let a couple of words fly and he brought his gun up to sight along the barrel. This time, there was no mistaking the murderous intention in his eyes.

  Sol’s instinct was to aim and fire before Kincaid could take his shot. He managed to get his finger on his trigger, but wasn’t able to pull it before another shot blasted through the otherwise quiet opera house.

  Kincaid dropped his hand to slightly higher than waist level and a startled expression worked its way onto his face. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. His finger clenched around his trigger, causing his pistol to bark from his hand and send its round into the wall several feet off target. After letting out one more gasp, Kincaid fell sideways down the stairs.

  Hesitantly, the well-dressed man who’d been hiding in a nearby corner allowed himself to raise his head and open his eyes. ‘‘What happened?’’ he squeaked. ‘‘Is it over?’’

  Unsure how to answer that question, Sol held his gun in front of him and inched his way toward the top of the stairs. Just as he was about to risk a look down to the cellar, he heard thumping coming from below the floor. There was a short wall topped by a railing to keep folks from toppling into the cellar, so Sol used that for cover before sticking his neck out.

  The well-dressed man had regained enough breath to start shuffling toward a set of double doors that must have led into the theater itself.

  ‘‘Stop,’’ Sol hissed. Although he hadn’t meant to snap at the man like he was scolding a dog, Sol also didn’t want to announce where he was.

  Not only did the well-dressed man obey the stern command, but he also sat and stayed like a good puppy.

  Sol listened for another few seconds until he heard grunting and wheezing coming from the bottom of the stairs. Because those didn’t sound like they were coming from a younger man, Sol risked a peek over the short wall.

  Kincaid lay at the bottom of the stairs with his legs splayed up toward the main floor and his shoulders pointed toward a narrow door marked SPIRITS & SONG. When he saw Kincaid shift his weight, Sol snapped his gun up and sighted along the top of its barrel.

  ‘‘Anyone . . . ugh . . . up there?’’ a gasping voice asked.

  That voice wasn’t Kincaid’s.

  Still looking over his pistol, Sol asked, ‘‘Is that you, Mr. Hayes?’’

  Kincaid shifted again, but obviously wasn’t moving on his own steam. He flopped to one side to reveal the older man lying beneath him. By the looks of it, Hayes might have landed even worse than Kincaid. The older man was wedged sideways under Kincaid with one arm folded beneath him and the other arm tangled up with Kincaid’s body. That upper hand was still wrapped around
the grip of a pistol.

  ‘‘Yeah,’’ Hayes grunted. ‘‘And I’m in a bit of a . . .’’

  The door behind Hayes swung inward, allowing the older man to drop onto his back. A slender woman with short black hair yelped in surprise and jumped backward as if a mouse had scrambled over her feet. When she saw the older man on the floor in front of her, she bent down and slipped her hands under Hayes’ arms.

  ‘‘Oh my goodness,’’ the woman said. ‘‘Are you shot?’’

  ‘‘Nope,’’ Hayes replied, ‘‘but I can’t say the same for that one.’’

  Sol got to his feet and lowered his pistol. He was about to walk down the stairs, but stopped when he saw the well-dressed man still huddled obediently in his spot. ‘‘It’s all right,’’ Sol told the man. ‘‘You can get up now.’’

  Although the well-dressed man opened his eyes and looked up, he wasn’t quick to jump to his feet. Sol didn’t stay around to help him, since it seemed his assistance was needed elsewhere.

  Hayes squirmed and fought to pull his legs out from under Kincaid as the slender woman struggled to drag him into the next room. Neither one of them seemed to be having much success.

  ‘‘Just give me a moment, will you?’’ Hayes groused.

  The woman gritted her teeth and kept pulling. ‘‘If you want me to drop you, I’ll be more than happy to oblige.’’

  Once Sol made it to the bottom of the stairs, he grabbed Kincaid by the collar, lifted him up and set him down again. Sol let Kincaid flop into a corner at the bottom of the stairwell. He knew the man was dead. Living folks were never that heavy.

  ‘‘Much obliged, son,’’ Hayes said as he was lifted to his feet by the short-haired woman. ‘‘I’d shake your hand, but it seems this little lady don’t want to let go of me.’’

  The dark-haired woman rolled her eyes and took her hands off of him. ‘‘I swear I don’t know why I bothered trying to help. Do you even know who that man is?’’

  All three of them looked down at Kincaid. Before Sol could answer the question, Hayes said, ‘‘Probably just some fella who wanted to rob the place.’’