Gaffney, Patricia

by Outlaw in Paradise

  "Wh-what?" The blood in her veins turned to slush. "You're not going to fight him. You can't be thinking of fighting him!"

  "It'll be all right. Don't—"

  "But you promised."

  "I what?"

  "You swore—you gave me your word. 'On my honor,' you said. Damn you, Jesse, you lied to me!"

  "No, I didn't," he denied, honestly puzzled. "I said I wouldn't leave, and I won't. That's what I swore."

  She was so agitated she couldn't talk, couldn't even cuss. Levi was behind the bar, Glen across the room, both of them watching and listening to everything, but she was beyond caring. Seizing Jesse by the shoulders, she shook him as hard as she could— but he was too big, he wouldn't budge.

  Six minutes to ten.

  "Cady girl, you have to relax," he said maddeningly. "You said you trusted me. This is all going to—"

  She shoved at him and bolted for the bar, jostling Levi aside. There was the cigar box on the bottom shelf; there was her .22 inside it. She grabbed the gun and raced back, cutting Jesse off just before he got to the door.

  "You're not going anywhere." She thought she heard Levi chuckle, but she never took her eyes off Jesse. He looked at her in surprise, but not fear. But at least she had his complete attention. "Move back," she ordered, waving her gun. "Go into my office. Move, or I'll shoot."

  He smiled. It wasn't an amused smile, it wasn't tolerant, it wasn't patronizing. It was sad. And painfully sweet. She faced it down and didn't lower the gun, even though a crushing sense of futility was making her eyes sting. Jesse moved toward her slowly, slowly; he didn't stop until his chest touched the end of the short gun barrel. His hand closed over hers. Very gently, he disarmed her.

  She crumpled, and he folded her up in a hard, strong embrace.

  She wanted to cry and cry. When he tried to ease her back, she held on. "Darling," he called her, pressing his lips to her hair. "Hear me, now. I'm going to be all right. Gault's not going to shoot me. Do you understand?" He looked into her eyes. There was a message in his, something he wanted her to know. But her eyes were blind and she was too distraught, too far gone in love and the fear of loss to read it. He squeezed her arms. "Cady, I'll be fine. Got it?"

  She nodded. But she didn't have it.

  He kissed her, smiling crookedly, trying to make her smile back. She couldn't. One last kiss, and then he turned from her, moving through the double doors and out into the sunlight.

  She listened to the stamp of his boot heels and the jingle of his spurs. When he stepped from the sidewalk to the street, everything went quiet. Until the clock struck ten.

  Fourteen

  Gault was right on time.

  Jesse stood still and watched him come, swaggering down the middle of the street in no hurry. A lot of brave bystanders lined the sidewalk, but they made sure to hug the storefronts, well back from the street. In the window of the French restaurant, half a dozen rapt faces steamed up the glass—Shrimp and Nestor, the Schmidt brothers, Jacques himself, his homely daughter. Paradise hadn't seen excitement like this since the second gold strike.

  Gault ambled to a halt forty feet away. The bright sun, behind Jesse, shone in his eyes, probably blinding him. Good; that's the advantage Jesse would claim when this was over. In spite of everything he knew, a little chill skittered down his backbone. No doubt about it, Gault was one scary character. No wonder men cowered and lost their nerve facing up to that evil eye, that ruthless, eternally smiling mouth. Everything Jesse knew about intimidation, he'd learned from Gault.

  Footsteps broke the tense quiet. The sheriff, Jesse assumed. But no—out of the shadows of the board- walk strolled three men: Wylie, Clyde, and Warren Turley.

  Good. Perfect.

  They stopped midway between Jesse and Gault; but like everybody else, they kept their distance, staying back from the street. Wylie called out, "Don't let us disturb you—you gents go right on about your business." Turley laughed appreciatively.

  Gault never even glanced their way. When he spoke, he had to raise his voice above a whisper so Jesse could hear him. "You can still get out of this alive."

  "What's the matter, mister? Chickening out?"

  Gault's expression never changed. "Hand over what belongs to me, and you can ride out of here with no holes in your hide."

  "Say, that's mighty generous. Considering you're a liar and a fake. I'll pass."

  "If that's the way you want it. Ready to die?"

  "Hold it!"

  This time it was the sheriff, striding purposefully toward them from the direction of his office. Behind him, Jesse heard a woman cry, "Tommy!" and recognized Glendoline's frightened voice. Ignoring her, Tom walked past Gault, and stopped midway between him and Jesse. "Gunfighting is against the law in this town. I'll ask you two to back off. Otherwise, I'm afraid I'll have to arrest you."

  Jesse kept staring straight ahead, didn't look around, but he could feel amazement in the air. Was this their sheriff? everybody was thinking. Their Lily Leaver? "Now, Tom," he cautioned, "you don't want to get in the middle of this. Step aside, and you won't get hurt."

  He shook his head once. "I'm wearing a gun, and I'm prepared to use it. You, sir," he said firmly, addressing Gault. "Hand over your weapon."

  Everybody stared in disbelief. One second Gault was standing still, legs spread, arms at his sides. The next, he was aiming his silver pistol at the sheriff's throat.

  Glen screamed.

  "I never killed a lawman before," Gault rasped. "It ain't my preference. But I'll do it if you don't drop your gunbelt, Sheriff, and get out of my way."

  Tommy didn't move. He only stood up straighter and responded, "You leave me no choice. I'm placing you under arrest." But he still hadn't drawn his gun.

  Gault cocked his. "So long, Sheriff."

  "No, Tommy, don't!" Jesse looked back to see Levi, Cady, and Willagail holding on to Glendoline, trying to keep her from bolting into the street.

  The sheriff looked uncertain. "Stay back, Glen," he commanded. An edgy minute passed. "All right," he said finally, grimly, unbuckling his gunbelt and tossing it aside. "But you won't get away with it. The law will come after you and—"

  "Cork that," snapped Gault. "Now, nice and easy, get out of my line of fire."

  Again Tommy hesitated, clenching his fists in a manly, indecisive way, but in the end he did what Gault said.

  Gault's smile turned, if possible, even uglier. "Ready?"

  Jesse whispered, "Set, go." He heard a sound, like the collective breath of every soul in Paradise being sucked in. He and Gault twitched their coats out of the way of their shooting irons at the same moment. Flexed their fingers over their gun butts in exactly the same slow, itchy-fingered way. Jesse waited.

  And waited. Even knowing what he knew, he could feel sweat start to prickle under his mustache. Must be the heat. Couldn't be fear. Hurry the hell up. Draw, damn it. Draw.

  Gault drew.

  Jesse went for one of his guns, but Gault fired twice before he could even get his finger on the trigger. He dodged right, ducked left, as if bullets were zinging past his ears. Squaring off, he took dead aim in the instant's pause and squeezed off the fatal shot.

  Pow! Gault jerked back on his heels. He tottered a couple of stuttering steps, clutching his chest, staring in dull amazement at his red, dripping fingers. He fired again, wild in the air, and fell to his knees. "You got me," he whispered wonderingly, and pitched facedown in the dirt.

  The sheriff got to him first. Buckling his gunbelt back on, he commanded the thickening, avid crowd to "Back off! Give him some room, he's not dead yet. Doc! Somebody go get Doc."

  Jesse was holstering his smoking Colt when a noise made him turn around. A split second later Cady launched herself into his arms. He staggered backward, laughing, lifting her off her feet. She held on until he set her down, and then she gaped at him, patting his chest, his shoulders, his sides. "Looking for bullet holes?" he teased.

  "Jesse, oh, Jesse. How—how did you—" />
  "Didn't I tell you to trust me?"

  "My God."

  "What?"

  She went white as a sheet. "You are Gault."

  "Huh? No, I'm—"

  "I don't care, I don't care." She flung herself at him again, squeezing him so hard his back cracked. "Oh, Jess, thank God, thank God you're not dead! I'm never letting you go, never, never, never."

  He patted her weakly.

  "Hey, Jess," Will Shorter called out from the crowd. "I think you better come over and hear this."

  Yeah, he thought. And Cady better, too. He took her hand and led her over to hear the gunfighter's dying words.

  "Got something to say," he choked out, trying to sit up on one elbow.

  "Easy," the sheriff advised, "the doc's on his way."

  "Let him talk." Jesse hunkered down next to Tommy. "Sorry it had to be this way," he said with gruff regret.

  "No... no hard feelings." Gault grimaced in sudden pain, clutching his bloody chest harder. "I'm done for. Gotta tell you..."

  "What?"

  "Him..." Blood dripping from his index finger, he pointed weakly up at Wylie.

  "What about him?" the sheriff said interestedly.

  Everybody leaned forward, even Wylie, to catch the low, slurring words. "Came to my room last night. Gave me money. Thou... thousand dollars."

  "I did not," Wylie said wonderingly. "I did no such thing."

  "Said after I killed him"—he pointed at Jesse—"to kill... her." The bloody finger swiveled to Cady. She gasped.

  "That's a lie," Wylie sputtered, dumbfounded. "That's a goddamn lie."

  "Said he's been trying to run her out of her place, but she won't go."

  "Well, that's true," somebody noted, and somebody else said, "Sure is."

  "Said... said..." Gault coughed pitifully.

  "Easy, mister."

  "Said what he's really after... is her mine. Been stealing—smuggling gold out for months."

  Wylie went beet-red. He tried to back up, but the crowd behind him wouldn't give way. "The man's raving," he claimed, reaching for his handkerchief. "He's delirious."

  "Bragged about setting fire to the old livery," Gault wheezed. "Got his men to do it. Turley, one of 'em was. The other..."

  "Clyde?" Shrimp Malone suggested helpfully.

  "Clyde. Same two that put rattlers in somebody's outhouse, almost... killed some kid." Outraged muttering had begun on all sides, but Gault wasn't finished. "And he... paid off a banker, Chaney or..."

  "Cherney," about ten people supplied in unison.

  "Paid him to keep his mouth shut, so nobody'd find out about the—skimming they were doing. He bragged about all the fake... uhh."

  "Fake what?" Jesse nudged.

  "Fake... accounts he's got... stashed away. Said he's bleeding the town... dry." His elbow gave out. He collapsed on his back with a groan.

  "Make way for the doc," somebody called, and Doc Mobius elbowed through the fascinated townsfolk to Gault's side.

  "I tell you this man's raving! He's making it up. Everything he said is a lie." Wylie mopped his pink, perspiring face, looking around for Turley and Clyde. Jesse spotted them at the edge of the crowd, milling uneasily, trying to back away.

  "A dying man doesn't lie," Sam Blankenship said slowly.

  On cue, Gault's eyelids fluttered; he drew in a long, rattling breath. His left foot twitched once, and then he went still.

  Doc put his hand on the dead man's throat; pressed his ear to his chest. "Gone," he pronounced in grave tones. Out of respect, he placed Gault's natty black Stetson over his slack-jawed face.

  A few solemn seconds ticked past while everybody stared down at the corpse. Then the sheriff drew his revolver. Shiny as a dime, it looked brand-new and never used. And funny in Tom's grip, much too deadly, like a machete in a child's hand.

  "Merle Wylie, I'm placing you under arrest."

  "For what?"

  "Suspicion of arson, theft, embezzlement, and attempted murder. And conspiracy to murder. That's all I can think of now, but I might add some more later."

  "That's ridiculous." Wylie looked around at his neighbors and tried to laugh. "You all know me. I'm a respectable man, a businessman. This—outlaw, this gunman"—he kicked Gault in the hip—"I'm telling you he lied. It's obvious."

  "Why would he do that?" wondered Stony.

  "Yeah," said Sam. "With his last gasping breath."

  "How the hell do I know?" Wylie scanned the edges of the crowd, but Clyde and Turley had vanished. "This is a frame-up. A frame-up," he sputtered, "and you won't get away with it."

  "Who won't get away with it?"

  He didn't answer; he couldn't—he didn't know who his enemies were. Panic showed in the whites of his eyes when he searched the crowd again for his two thugs.

  "Put your hands up, Merle."

  "Are you out of your mind? You can't arrest me, Leaver. I'll have your badge for this!"

  "No trouble, now. Here we go, nice and peaceful."

  With a lot more speed than Jesse would've given him credit for, Wylie ducked and scooped up the six-shooter Gault had thrown in the dirt. "Drop it, Leaver. The rest of you, back off." Shocked bystanders obediently cleared a circle. "You." He pointed the gun at Jesse's heart. "Pull those guns out easy and drop them."

  Well, well. What an unexpected development. Jesse and the sheriff exchanged glances.

  "Looks like you got the drop on me, Merle," Jesse said ruefully. With a show of deep reluctance, he tossed his guns away.

  "Now you. Drop it, Leaver. I mean it."

  "Do it, Tommy," Glendoline begged from the sidelines.

  But instead of dropping it, the sheriff cocked his weapon and aimed it straight back at Wylie. "I don't think so." The sun glinted on his silver gun, his silver badge. "I don't believe you'll shoot me. That's what you pay other people to do. But now it's just you, Merle. And me."

  "I'll shoot you! I'll shoot you!"

  "No, you won't." He took a slow step toward him, then another. Wylie stepped back.

  "Tommy," Glen cried again. "Oh, Tommy, don't!" Catching Levi by surprise, she shook off his hand and made a run at Wylie, waving her skinny white arms and shouting, "No, no, don't you dare!"

  What the hell? Before Jesse could react, Wylie dodged and grabbed her, hauling her in front of him. She screamed when he put the barrel of Gault's gun against her cheek. "Drop it," he ordered again, voice quaking with fear and excitement. "Drop it, or by God I'll kill her."

  Cady muttered a frightened curse and tried to move, but Jesse caught her before she went two steps. "Don't," he commanded softly. "Leave it." She struggled for a second, then let him hold her. He could feel her violent trembling. With all his heart, he wished he could comfort her without giving the game away.

  "Drop it!" Wylie's eyes glittered like a madman's.

  Tommy swore and dropped his gun, but he kept on walking. "You're not shooting anybody. Give it up, Merle."

  "Don't come near me." He backed up jerkily, dragging Glen with him. Gray-faced and round-eyed, she was too terrified to do anything but stumble after him. "I'll kill her," Wylie swore. "You think I won't? Then I'll kill you."

  Empty-handed, the sheriff kept coming. "Give up the weapon. You're finished."

  Jesse had a bad moment when Wylie cocked the gun and jammed it harder into Glen's cheek. Tom was right—he was a coward; he paid other people to do his dirty work—but if panic made Merle pull the trigger, the jig would definitely be up.

  But he didn't. Tommy didn't stop, he just kept coming and coming—a fine sight nobody in Paradise had expected to see in this life—until he and Glen were chest to chest and Wylie ran out of backing-up room. He looked like a statue, frozen, numb; he couldn't even talk. In the end, the sheriff plucked the gun from his stiff fingers, and Jesse sagged with relief when Tommy stashed it deep in the pocket of his neatly pressed pants. With luck, Gault's gun would never be seen again. At least not until somebody put real bullets in it.

  Cady gave a s
oft cry and threw herself into his arms. Glen would've thrown herself into Tom's, but the sheriff still had a job to do.

  "You remain under arrest," he advised the prisoner, reaching behind his back for his handcuffs.

  "And now I'll have to add resisting. Glen, did he hurt you?"

  "Huh?" She rubbed her reddening cheekbone dazedly. "He sure did."

  "Assault, too, then."

  "Why, you—"

  "And kidnapping."

  "You little prick, I'll—"

  "Keep it up, Merle. Come on. One more word, and I'll throw in terroristic threats."

  Merle shut up.

  ****

  "Am I drunk?" Cady asked Levi while she waited for him to refill six glasses of beer.

  "Not 'less you been nippin' behin' my back."

  "I feel drunk. Maybe it's the fumes." He grinned, and she threw her head back and laughed. Drunk or not, everything was so funny. And everybody in Paradise was her best friend. If not for Levi, she'd be giving the booze away. "Drinks on the house," she'd instructed when half the town piled in to Rogue's Tavern to celebrate. "You crazy," he'd told her, "you'll lose yo' shirt." He was right; what was she thinking? "Okay, half price," she compromised, and even though he'd disapproved of that, too, she'd held firm. Because this was a day to give thanks and not be chintzy. "Except women," she threw in. "Women can drink free." Levi laughed at that—the Rogue never got female customers.

  She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over the bar. Such happiness—her flushed face shone with it, and she looked downright pretty in her best dress, the dusty rose silk with pale green embroidery on the low-cut bodice. She'd had a shock, though, changing into the dress. Rooting around in her drawer for new stockings, she'd discovered her nest egg was missing. Two thousand dollars—a catastrophe. And yet—what a measure of the state she was in that, except for Levi, she kept forgetting to tell anybody! Not even the sheriff! She could only think it was Turley and Clyde, on their way out of town, but that didn't make sense. How would they know exactly where to look?

  Another possibility had tapped at the back of her mind, but only once. Since then she'd banished it, and rightly so; how absurd, and how unworthy of her. It didn't bear thinking about. Literally.