Magnusson had to admit that the man’s presence was … unique, to say the least. He imagined the man even gave off the odor of death, however subtle. The blue eyes were downright startling. Magnusson mused he couldn’t have handpicked a man this obviously appropriate for the job.
“Please sit down.”
When the gunman had seated himself in the stuffed chair angled before the fire, crossing his long legs, Magnusson gestured toward the tray Minnie had left on his desk. “Coffee and cognac?”
“Just the cognac,” the man said, looking around the room, at the western oils and watercolors hung in gilt frames, at the game trophies, and at the bear rug before his chair. “It was a chilly ride.”
He seemed to be quite taken with the room’s furnishings. Magnusson thought the man was probably more comfortable in bawdy houses and gambling dens.
When the rancher had given the man his cognac and had retaken his seat behind his desk, he said, “Well, let’s get down to business, shall we, Mr. del Toro?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Del Toro drawled.
Magnusson retrieved his cigar from an ashtray before him and inspected its ash. “It’s really very simple, and I’m not going to beat around the bush. There are about fifteen ranches north of us, on the other side of the Little Missouri, giving us trouble. Stealing our beef, taking our summer graze. We want them out.”
A thin smile broadened below the gunman’s mustache. “I thought you tried driving them out five years ago.”
Troutman growled, “Heard about that, did you?”
“I heard they called the army in from Fort Lincoln to settle things down,” the gunman continued.
“That’s right,” Magnusson said with a nod. “At that time the army, not knowing the full story, sided with the small cattlemen.”
“What makes you think things are gonna be any different now, señor?”
“An old friend of King’s was just elected governor,” Troutman said with a grin.
Magnusson looked at Del Toro, his eyes hard. “I’ve been wanting those goddamn human coyotes off the Bench for a long time. None of us can increase year after year if we’re sharing the Bench. There’s simply not enough grass to go around, and the acreage I need to keep turning a profit and satisfying my eastern investors has forced me to get nasty. It’s a simple matter of economics … and survival of the fittest.”
He paused, stared thoughtfully through the variegated smoke cloud hanging in the study. Gray winter light penetrated the window behind him, outlining him against it and angling down on the leather top of his desk like quicksilver.
“I tried once before to clean off the Bench,” Magnusson continued. “I failed because I didn’t have the right men behind me. Now with Charlie Sparks in the governor’s office … well, let’s just leave it at that, shall we, Mr. del Toro?” He smiled, self-satisfied.
From the shadows on the far side of the fireplace, Del Toro looked at each man in turn. He removed his hat, primly smoothing his shiny black hair, and planted the hat on his knee. Returning his hand to his lap, he looked at Magnusson and said, “So how many do you want to disappear?”
“Disappear?” the banker said, frowning.
Donnelly snickered.
Magnusson said, “That gunman’s talk for die, Bernard. Go to the henhouse. Buy the farm. Comprende?”
Troutman looked at him, scowling. “It ain’t every day you hire a gunman, King.”
“No. And let’s hope we won’t need to ever again.”
Turning to Del Toro, Magnusson continued, “You see, we want this to be taken care of much more quietly than what happened five years ago. Five years ago, we let our tempers get away from us, and we lost control of our men.” He shot an accusatory look at Donnelly, who dropped his eyes. “Things got very messy, to say the least. Out of control. This time, we want to be sure of every step we take. We want the right people excised with the precision of a well-schooled surgeon.”
“And we don’t want anything to point back to us,” Troutman added.
Magnusson slid his chair out from his desk, opened a drawer, and produced a legal-size sheet of paper. “To that end, my two colleagues and I have drawn up a list.”
Del Toro smiled, loving it. “A list of those to disappear, uh?” He got up to retrieve the paper. “A death list.”
“Exactly.”
Donnelly said, “Once you’re done with it, burn it.”
“I know my trade, señor,” Del Toro said absently, standing before Magnusson and regarding the list. He took it to his chair and sat down. “Ten names.”
“Yes,” Magnusson said.
“How much?”
Magnusson decided to start low. “Eight thousand. Four thousand now. Four when you’re through. We’ll wire it to you after you’re gone from here in a hurry.”
Del Toro shook his head. “Uh-uh. Fourteen thousand. Nine now, five when I’m done.”
Troutman chuffed. Donnelly smiled at Magnusson.
Magnusson sighed and puffed his cigar, studying the calendar clock on the fireplace mantle. He regarded his partners, then the gunman. “We’ll go no higher than twelve. Two increments of six thousand.”
“Let’s see it,” Del Toro said.
Magnusson opened another drawer. He counted out a pile of bills, slipped them into an envelope, and slid the envelope across his desk.
The gunman turned his head to the banker. “Would you mind bringing it to me, senor?”
Troutman gave Magnusson a flabbergasted look, mouth and eyes drawn wide.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Donnelly said, standing and grabbing the envelope from the desk.
He took it to the gunman. Del Toro casually accepted it in one hand while offering his empty glass to Donnelly. The tall, rangy foreman refilled the glass, then returned it to the gunman. By this time, Del Toro had counted the money. He’d stuffed the envelope and the list in his coat.
“Gracias, señor,” he said, accepting the glass from Donnelly. He sipped, then asked Magnusson, “Is there only one lawman in the county?”
“Yes, and he’s harmless. Believe me.”
Troutman and Donnelly both gave a laugh.
“Sí, I saw him at the train station,” Del Toro said. “A soft old bear who hibernates all year long, eh?”
“You got that right,” Troutman said. “Sleeps and drinks. When we tried clearing off the Bench five years ago, he hid out at the Sundowner in Canaan. When he finally decided he needed to take action, he called the army in.”
“But that won’t happen this time,” Magnusson said importantly.
“Very well,” Del Toro said, nodding. He polished off his cognac. He stood and donned his hat, adjusting it carefully.
Magnusson walked around his desk and shook the gunman’s hand. The other men did likewise. There was a knock at the door as the gunman turned toward it.
“Yes?” Magnusson called.
The door opened and a pretty dark-haired girl, flushed from the cold, poked her head inside, gazing around Del Toro at Magnusson. “Hello, Father. I just wanted to let you know I’m home.”
“Suzanne!” Magnusson said, his face fairly glowing, the hard features dissolving under the shine of parental adoration. “Get Minnie to heat you some chocolate. I’ll be right out.”
The girl smiled and gingerly withdrew from the door, latching it quietly.
Del Toro turned to Magnusson. “Your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Muy bonita, señor.”
“Yes,” Magnusson said, his smile turning cold. “And completely off-limits.”
“Of course, senor,” the gunman said with a lascivious smile. He tipped his hat at the men and left the room.
Magnusson stared at the closed door, feeling an icy finger probe his spine and wondering if he hadn’t just made a pact with the devil.
WHEN HE’D SEEN Bernard Troutman off on his sleigh, King Magnusson heard boots crunching snow across the yard. He lifted his eyes to see his son, Randall, walkin
g toward him from the barn.
Randall Magnusson was two inches shorter than his father, with a bearded, moony face and weak brown eyes. Long hair hung down the back of his buckskin coat. He wore a floppy flat-brimmed hat with a snakeskin band, secured with a cord beneath his chin.
“Hello, son.”
“Pa.”
“How’s that heifer?”
Halting beside his father and turning to look at the sleigh dwindling in the distance, Randall said, “Eating a few oats now, anyway. Who’s the greaser?”
“Name’s Del Toro. He’s gonna help us clean off the Bench, once and for all. Let’s keep it under wraps, shall we?”
“Gunslick?”
Magnusson nodded.
Randall turned to his father. “You never told me you was hirin’ no gunslick.”
“Didn’t want the word to get around.”
“I can keep my mouth shut!”
King turned to him. His eyes were overtly patronizing. “We both know that isn’t true, son. Especially after you’ve had a few drinks with the boys.”
“Sure I can!”
“Randall,” King admonished, arching an eyebrow. Having punctuated the conversation, he turned toward the house.
Puffing up his chest, Randall said, “You didn’t need to go hirin’ no gunman, Pa. Hell, me and Shelby Green can do what he can do, and we’re a hell of a lot cheaper!”
King regarded his son skeptically. “Now, son, I appreciate that fine bit of detective work you and Shelby did out on the range. Finding Jack Thom with those beeves was a real help to me. It confirms what I’ve suspected all along about the smaller ranchers trying to ruin me. But I think it best if we leave the dirty work to those who’ve been schooled in that arena. Don’t you?”
He smiled and put a broad, thick hand on Randall’s shoulder, squeezing. “You may be a lot of things, son, but you’re no gunman. That’s a credit to your character, not an allusion to your poor marksmanship. You just keep working those mustangs, and one day you’ll be as good a broncobuster as Rag.”
King smiled, parting his thin, chapped lips.
Randall smoldered. Rag this, Rag that.
“Come on inside,” King said, giving his son’s shoulder another squeeze. “Your sister’s back from Frisco.”
King turned away.
Randall said to his back: “Yeah, well, tell that guman not to worry about the Rinskis.”
“What?”
Giving an evil grin, the younger Magnusson stared into his father’s eyes for a full three seconds. He wanted to tell him about what he and Shelby had done to old man Fairchild and that fancy-pants schoolteacher from Pittsburgh, but he resisted the impulse. When it came down to it, not even the old man had the stomach for what needed to be done to clear the Bench for the Double X.
“Me and Shelby caught Jack Thom butchering one of our steers Saturday. He held us off with a rifle, so we let him go. The next night we rode over to his cabin and let him have it.”
He gave a self-congratulatory smile and sucked his cheek. “You can be sure the Rinskis won’t be collarin’ any more Double X beef.”
Magnusson looked dully at his son. He lifted his chin and breathed sharply through his nose. “Let me get this straight. You and Green killed Jack Thom?”
“That’s right.”
“Did anyone see you?”
Beside himself with pride, Randall said, “We wore masks.”
“Anyone else around?”
The young man’s smile dulled. “Um, well … yeah. I mean … no.”
“Well, which is it? Yes or no?”
“No. I mean … well, Rinski’s daughter was there.”
King looked surprised. “Daughter?”
“Yeah, well … she and Thom seemed to be … you know—carryin’ on … with their clothes off and such.” Randall laughed uneasily.
Magnusson drilled his gaze deeper into his son’s face. “You shot Jack Thom while he was diddling Rinski’s daughter?”
Randall wasn’t sure if his father found the information humorous or horrifying. He looked for evidence of either as he said, “Yes, sir.”
“So the girl saw you?”
“But … we were wearin’ masks.”
“Well, at least you had sense enough to do that.” King looked around, digesting the information. “You didn’t harm the girl, did you?”
Randall swallowed. “N-no, sir.” He swallowed again and smiled.
King nodded. “Well, I reckon if you caught Thom red-handed, he deserved what you gave him.” He sighed. “But from now on, you leave that work to the gunman. This Del Toro knows how to get things done quickly, cleanly, and quietly. Best of all, no one knows him, and no one knows who he’s working for.”
“Pshaw, I could—”
“You listen to me now, Randall,” King said, waving a crooked finger in his son’s face. His tone was again patronizing. “Just because you were lucky enough to catch Jack Thom in a … uh … compromising situation, and got the drop on him, that doesn’t mean you’re going to have that kind of luck again. You don’t think I’d risk my only son getting killed over a few rustled beeves now, do you? So you leave well enough alone. You just hang tough with those broncs, and leave the gun work up to Del Toro.”
He gave Randall a wink. “Maybe one of these days I’ll be able to tell my poker buddies that my son can ride as well as Rag Donnelly.”
He turned and went into the house.
Randall glowered at the door. “Rag Donnelly this, Rag Donnelly that,” he muttered, curling his upper lip. “You’ll see who’s who and what’s what around here, you old duffer.”
CHAPTER 7
EARLIER THAT SAME day, Mark Talbot’s train steamed into Canaan screeching and hissing. Talbot disembarked with his war bag, wincing at the cold, which stung his face like a resolute slap.
He stood looking around to get his bearings while the only other passengers disembarking, two drummers in store-bought suits and muttonchop whiskers, hurried around the freight depot, no doubt in search of a warm spot to light.
But for the shiny new train tracks curving along the river buttes south of town, everything appeared pretty much as it had before Talbot had left. Sod and log shanties and clapboard shacks sat willy-nilly around the central business district of false-fronted stores and the livery barn with its fragrant sprawl of paddocks and corrals. The red train station and water tank abutted the settlement on one end, the lumberyard on the other.
Everything had the same feeble look of impermanence, and Talbot wondered how long it would take Canaan to decide to thrive or return to the sod.
His shoulders screwed up against the cold, he started toward the false fronts of the main street. The frigid air funneling up his thin cotton breeches told him he wasn’t dressed for this kind of weather. Before shopping for new duds, he decided to shore himself with a stiff drink.
A gruff voice said, “I’m guessin’ you’re gonna freeze up solid within the hour, and I’m gonna have to find a place to hide your body from the rats until the ground thaws.”
Talbot turned. A dozen feet to his left, before the frosty station-house doors, stood a round bear of a man with gray sideburns and a tin star.
“It is a mite chilly,” Talbot agreed with a grin.
“You might want to think twice about lettin’ that train go.”
There was an ominous note in the big man’s voice. Talbot knew that, with his shaggy beard and hair and mismatched seaman’s clothes, he’d been pegged as riffraff, and that he’d just been invited to leave.
Talbot smiled pleasantly. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to rob a bank or hold up the stage. I’m from here, born and bred, and I’m comin’ home.”
The sheriff tipped his head and squinted as he considered the newcomer. After a moment he said thoughtfully, “I thought you looked familiar. You’re … you’re …”
“Mark Talbot.”
“Sure, Owen Talbot’s youngest boy. Didn’t recognize you under all that hair.” The
sheriff moved forward and held out his hand. Talbot could smell the liquor on his breath.
“Jed Gibbon,” he said as Talbot shook his hand. “I ranched out in the sandhills before my water and credit dried up. I knew your pa, a good man. Used to play poker with him winters. Damn shame how the smallpox took him and your ma. You couldn’t have been more than twelve.”
“Fourteen. My brother was sixteen, but he grew up fast after the folks died—having to fill in for them and all.” Squinting, Talbot studied the sheriff. “Oh, sure,” he said. “I remember you. You treated me and Dave to hard candy and soda pop when you and Dad were chin-deep in cards. I don’t know why I didn’t recognize you.”
“Yes you do,” Gibbon said with a self-deprecating laugh. “What brings you home?”
Talbot shrugged and smiled wanly. “Just homesick, I guess. Decided to come back and see if my brother, Dave, had room for me on the ranch.”
Gibbon’s eyes dulled and his face fell. “You … you didn’t hear, then?”
“Hear what?”
“No one sent you a telegram?”
Frowning, feeling his gut roll, hearing a high-pitched inner scream, Talbot said, “I doubt it would have got to me if they had.” He studied the sheriff keenly. “What’s this about, Sheriff?”
“Aw, shit,” Gibbon grumbled, looking off. He rubbed his chin with a gloved hand, looking away. At length he nodded his head toward the street. “Come on. Let’s go back to the jailhouse. It’s warm there and we can talk.”
Talbot followed the big man up the street, feeling his heart drumming in his chest, trying not to anticipate the bad news he knew he was about to hear.
Inside the jail, Gibbon shed his big coat, hung it on a nail by the door, and added a stout log to the potbellied stove. A fire was already burning and the room was warm. A blue enamel coffeepot gurgled on the stovetop shelf.
“Coffee?” Gibbon offered, gesturing to it.
Frowning, Talbot absently shook his head. Gibbon found a tin cup and emptied its dregs into a wastebasket. He filled the cup three-quarters full of hot coffee and topped it off from a flat bottle he produced from a desk drawer. Indicating the chair before his desk, he said, “Have a seat,” then collapsed with a sigh into his own swivel rocker, which squeaked with his weight.
Dakota Kill Page 6
