The Revenger

by Peter Brandvold

  She sat on the bench. Sartain looked around to make sure they were alone out here, and then he sat beside her. Somewhere in the dark bluffs around them a couple of coyotes were yammering away, tuning up for the night.

  “All right, Celeste. What is it you wanted to visit with me about? I’m assuming it’s your brother.”

  Chapter 10

  “Oh, yes. I wanted to talk to you about Waylon, all right.” Celeste gave a wry snort. “I suppose it’s awful crass, the way I’ve commemorated the day he was killed.”

  She looked at Sartain. “But Waylon and I were never very close. Just as Warren and I were never very close, though for different reasons. I came late to Bittersweet, as I told you, Mike. For as long as I knew him, Waylon was a tough nut. He was tough all his life, I understand—oddly heartless, mean, and cruel. And he never respected authority. Our father kicked him out of the house when he was fifteen, and he galloped down the wrong path, as they say.”

  “Became an outlaw?”

  “That’s right.”

  “His daughter seems to have loved him. She was pretty broken up.”

  “She worshipped him, Carleen did. Her mother died when she was quite young, and she fell in love with the romance of her father’s lawless early life. Waylon put an end to his outlawry and came back to raise Carleen when Kathy, his wife, died. Kathy was living out on her father’s little shotgun ranch, and Waylon took the place over, Kathy’s father having preceded her in death. I don’t think Carleen ever really got to know her father. That’s why she loved the wicked man so.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t so wicked in his later years.”

  Celeste gave another snort. “Does a zebra change its stripes? He was wicked, all right. I’ve heard the stories about him. Even as Warren’s deputy sheriff, he was wicked. Often played judge, jury, and executioner right out on the range. At least, the outlaws came to respect him.”

  “And Warren . . . ?”

  “Warren was our father’s pride and joy. He was a young George Chaney. He managed our family’s ranch before we sold it. The selling of the ranch and the mineral rights to an eastern syndicate made my father quite rich indeed. When we moved into town, Warren ran uncontested for sheriff and won, of course. When Waylon returned and couldn’t scratch out much of a living on that little ranch out their near Cobalt Canyon—though he did mine a little gold—Warren hired him as deputy.”

  “So you had a good brother and a bad brother.”

  “I guess you could look at it that way, though Warren is far from ‘good.’ He drinks too much, and he frequents fallen women, though I am no longer one to judge him on that score!”

  She laughed. She had a beautiful, rich, throaty laugh. She sagged back on the bench, crossing her long legs beneath her skirt and then leaning forward to entwine her hands around her knee.

  “My god—I still can’t believe what I just did with you and Frankie.” She pondered her misdeed in silence, smiling back at the town.

  She shook her head as though to wave away the distraction. “Anyway, yes, Waylon was not a good man. I like to think he was a better man than before he’d left Bittersweet, because he seemed to have done a good job with Carleen, though I’ve never come to know her very well. I think Waylon turned her against Warren and me.

  “You see, Warren gave Waylon a job mostly because he wanted his twin brother on his side. He didn’t want him to turn outlaw again, because Waylon had made a formidable outlaw indeed. Besides, Warren needed a tough deputy, this being a tough country hosting all manner of outlawry. We still have Kiowas and Arapahos running wild off the reservations from time to time and murdering ranch families. And then there’s the banditos who ride up from Mexico.”

  “You mentioned that you and Warren didn’t get along, either. In what way, if I may ask?”

  “That was mostly my fault, I think. I was jealous of Warren for the freedom of his sex. Being a boy, he could do most everything he wanted, while I was pretty much restricted to the house. Also, he was so obviously our father’s favorite. But he played himself up to be the favorite, because he knew exactly how he would benefit by being George Chaney’s favorite son. As soon as Waylon left, Warren convinced Father to write Waylon out of the will and to make him, Warren, executor of his estate.

  “Father started to lose his mind just before Waylon returned, and that played to Warren’s benefit. Father no longer had the capacity to consider changing his will to include Waylon as a beneficiary, and Mother was dead by then, from cancer, so she wasn’t around to convince him to change it. And, while Father loved me and relied on me, especially after he started losing his memory, he never respected me enough to listen to me about anything regarding business or legal matters.”

  “So Warren had his brother written out of the will and didn’t want him written back in even after Waylon returned and led a somewhat straight-and-narrow life—despite some loose interpretations of the law.”

  “Oh, god—those two boys were always at odds with each other. No, Warren would never have wanted Waylon to get a dime. Warren had given Waylon a job—and he loved being his brother’s boss, believe me!—but he would have died before he’d have allowed Waylon to be written back into our father’s will!”

  “Then why shoot Waylon? Why go to the trouble?”

  Celeste sighed, shook her head. “I don’t think Warren would do that. I know they hated each other, and I think Warren worried that Waylon was getting too big for his britches, acquiring too much power. But I just don’t think Waylon would shoot his twin brother.” She shuttled a beseeching look at the Revenger. “But I’d like to know for sure. Would you look into it for me?”

  “How did you know who I was?”

  “I recognized you the minute I saw you. I’m pretty much homebound, taking care of Father and all, despite that we hired a private nurse for him a few weeks ago to take some of the strain off me. He’s virtually bed-bound these days and recognizes no one, including me. In other words, I have plenty of time to read.” She gave a sheepish shrug. “Mostly dime novels and illustrated magazines, I’m afraid.”

  “I see.” Sartain removed his hat and twirled it on his finger. “Then I reckon you know that I ride mainly for revenge, Celeste. I’m not a private detective. I kill for a living. Kill for those who can’t kill for themselves.”

  “All right.” Celeste nodded. “I will pay you one thousand dollars—if I can get into Father’s safe, that is—to exact justice for my brother’s killing. True, Waylon and I never got along. But they say blood is thicker than water, and I think that’s true. I would like to see the coward who killed my brother—shot him in the back—dead!”

  “What if it’s . . . ?”

  “Warren?” Celeste stared at Sartain, pensive. Then she said resolutely, “Then my brother deserves to die for killing his twin.”

  Sartain whistled and looked at the young beauty in a whole different light. “That’s a tall order of revenge for such a sheltered woman, Miss Chaney.”

  “I may be sheltered, Mr. Sartain, but I’m still a Chaney. That means I have a good bit of ruthlessness in me, as well. Ruthlessness as well as . . . craven desires.” She looked off, apparently thinking it through, the breeze playing with her hair.

  Finally, she looked at Sartain once more. “No—whoever shot Waylon Chaney deserves to die. If that’s Warren Chaney, so be it.”

  “Were they identical twins, Celeste?”

  “Yes. About as identical as twins can get. In fact, for years the only way my mother could tell them apart was Waylon had a bright red birthmark—a stork’s kiss, she called it—on the very back of his neck.” She smiled pensively as she touched the back of her own neck. Finally, she rose. “I’d best be getting home. I . . . I don’t know quite how to thank you for . . . earlier.”

  “Thank me?” Sartain chuckled, took Celeste in his arms, and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Thank you.”

  “I wish I could invite you up to the house. My father wouldn’t know, but his nurse would,
and it would be all over town by sunrise. Warren might be there, as well. He usually has supper with Father and me, and sometimes he sits with Father for a while afterwards, but mostly he goes over the ledger books in Father’s study.”

  “No need to apologize. I’ll look into Waylon’s murder and get back to you.”

  Celeste threw her arms around the Cajun and kissed him. Then she gave him a bright, parting smile, the starlight and lamplight from Bittersweet dancing in her eyes. She swung around and continued on up the trail toward the large house sitting like a jewel against the night sky.

  Sartain relit his cigar, rested his Henry on his shoulder, and headed down the trail in the direction from which he and Celeste had come. He’d look for a hotel and get a good night’s sleep. He needed it after today. Tomorrow he’d get started investigating Waylon Chaney’s murder, not only for Celeste but also to satisfy his own natural curiosity.

  He walked into the ragged, dark outskirts of Bittersweet, puffing the stogie and thinking through the Chaney situation. He was hugging the street’s left side, habitually letting the shadows of the buildings conceal him. He’d just stepped down off the boardwalk fronting a barbershop when a light flashed ahead and to his right.

  He’d recognize the flash of a gun anywhere, anytime.

  The rifle cracked wickedly a half second later, on the heels of the flash.

  Sartain stopped, tucked the stogie into the corner of his mouth, pumped a live round into the Henry’s action, and fired at the spot he’d seen the flash. A man yelped. At the same time, another gun flared and barked straight ahead of Sartain. The man ahead and left yelped again, and there was the creaking thud of a body falling on a shake-shingled roof.

  The gun ahead of Sartain blazed again, barking loudly. The bullet curled the air inches from Sartain’s right ear before it smashed into an awning support post over the Revenger’s right shoulder. He cursed, ejected the spent cartridge, seated a fresh one in the chamber, and fired at the gun flash straight ahead of him. He fired two more times, the empty cartridge casings arching over his shoulder and pinging onto the boardwalk fronting the barbershop.

  Beneath the Henry’s roars, Sartain heard a man curse. Boots thudded and spurs chinked. A shadow flicked in the darkness near where the gun had flashed. The shooter had bolted down a break between buildings.

  Sartain pumped another round into the Henry’s action and took off running. He didn’t like running in the dark where men lurked who were out to kill him. The thing about stalking a man in the darkness—you had to take your time so you didn’t walk into a bullet.

  He jogged a block, squinting into the darkness ahead of him. He was vaguely aware of men shouting in the distance around him—likely saloon patrons who’d heard the gunfire. When he kicked what must have been the ambusher’s cartridge casing against an awning support post, he turned into the next dark alley mouth and quickly dropped to one knee, half expecting another gun flash, another bullet hurtling toward him.

  The shot didn’t come. Sartain jogged down the alley, gritting his teeth when he kicked an empty airtight tin or got a spur caught on a tumbleweed. He ran out of the alley and found himself in a relative clearing backing up to the rear of the main street buildings. There were a couple of what looked like stables and stock pens back here, and one lone, dark, log cabin hunched low to the ground—likely an old prospector’s shack.

  The shack’s tin roof reflected the starlight.

  Gravel crunched somewhere around the shack. A boot clipped a rock, and a spur chimed softly. The sounds had come from the shack’s far side.

  Sartain jerked forward. His own spurs rang. Quickly, he kicked out of his boots, picked up both boots in his left hand, and then ran toward the shack in his stocking feet, wincing at the pebbles and thorns nibbling at him.

  He stopped at the far front corner, edged a look around to the other side. A man-shaped shadow was just then turning the corner to walk behind the shack. Sartain set both boots down carefully, so the spurs wouldn’t ring, and ran silently to the rear of the shack and around to the other side.

  He could see the ambusher moving away from him, toward the front of the shack. The man moved slowly. He’d heard Sartain’s spur ring before the Revenger had removed his boots, and he was keying on that sound.

  Sartain strode quickly forward. He slowed when his quarry stopped at the shack’s front corner and aimed a rifle straight out ahead of him, sliding the barrel this way and that, looking for the man he’d tried to dry-gulch. His back was squarely facing Sartain, who came up behind the man and rammed his Henry’s forestock soundly against the back of the man’s right knee.

  The man screamed, triggered his rifle into the ground before him, and dropped to both knees. He twisted around, trying to bring his carbine around as well. Sartain stepped forward and rammed the Henry’s brass butt plate against the man’s left cheek. There was a solid smacking sound.

  “Oh!” the ambusher said, falling back on his butt and dropping his rifle. He wobbled on his hips, dazed, raising one heavy hand to his face. “Oh—Christ!”

  A five-pointed star winked on his paisley vest.

  “Not even close, Sheriff,” Sartain said through a growl. “But you’re about to see the pearly gates, you son of a gutless bitch.”

  Chapter 11

  Warren Chaney froze as he stared up at the big man towering over him. The sheriff had lost his hat, but his face was shadowed. Starlight gleamed in his dark hair, off his eyeballs, and off the brighter threads in his fancy vest.

  “You,” Chaney said. “Christ—I should’ve known it was you. The Revenger! I realized who you were after we parted ways this afternoon.” He spread his arms, palms out in supplication. “Well, you gonna finish me?”

  “Finish you?” Sartain chuckled, letting the Henry go slack in his hand but keeping it generally trained on the sheriff. “I didn’t start this thing, you devil. You’re the one who took a shot at me back there.”

  Chaney didn’t say anything for a second. “Didn’t you take a shot at me?”

  “I was shooting at the fella on the other side of the street. He shot at you. Then you shot at me.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I figured you’d know.”

  “I figured you were in with him. But that was before I knew it was you, Sartain, gunnin’ for me. Everyone knows you work alone.”

  “I wasn’t gunnin’ for you, Chaney.”

  “That what you say!” The sheriff was fingering the cut Sartain’s brass butt plate had gouged beneath his left eye. “Christ, I think you damn near busted my face!”

  Running footsteps sounded. Sartain saw a thick man running down the same gap between buildings that he and Chaney had taken. The big man stopped suddenly and extended a long gun from his right side. “Hold it right there!”

  Raising his Henry slightly toward Chaney’s chest, Sartain said quietly, “Call off your bulldog, Sheriff.”

  Chaney glanced over his left shoulder. “Hold up, Amos. It’s me. And Sartain,” he added, looking up angrily at the big man before him.

  “Sartain, huh?”

  “Nice to see you again, Amos.”

  “Screw you!”

  “Ouch.”

  Chaney slowly heaved himself to his feet, digging a handkerchief out of a back trousers pocket and holding it to his bloody cheek. “Someone bushwhacked me,” he told his deputy, who was slowly walking up, holding his Greener at port arms. “I thought the Revenger here was in on it. Maybe cashin’ in on that bounty my charming niece put on my head.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t?” the big deputy asked. He was fifteen feet away, but Sartain could smell the sour sweat stench of the man.

  “I don’t. But under the circumstances”—Chaney glanced at Sartain’s rifle—“I reckon I’ll have to take his word for it. For now,” he added, threateningly. He glanced at McCluskey. “Did you see the other shooter?”

  “Yeah, he’s lyin’ in the street in front of the millinery. Bone Mitchell from the T
riple L-Connected.”

  “Ah. Should have known he’d try to take Carleen up on her offer. The little bitch. Mitchell was always more outlaw than cow puncher.” Chaney looked at Sartain. “You mind if I walk back to my office? I need a shot of whiskey to quiet the dog yappin’ in my cheek. I might have an extra one, if you’d care to join me.”

  Sartain shrugged and lowered the Henry’s barrel, depressing the hammer to the half-cock position.

  “I’m going to pick up my carbine,” Chaney said.

  “Go ahead. Just don’t cock it or aim it at me. Amos, you can lower them two rabbit ears on that Greener, too.”

  “Go to hell, Sartain!” the big, belligerent deputy fairly shouted. “You got a two-thousand-dollar bounty ridin’ on your head!”

  “If you’d like to try and claim it, do it now, or lower those hammers and shut up about it, or I’ll gut shoot you and leave you here, howlin’.”

  Amos glowered at Sartain.

  Chaney picked up his carbine. Dusting it off against his pants, he turned to his deputy. “Go on an’ haul Mitchell off the street. Take him over to the undertaker’s and then continue on with your rounds. If you see anyone else in town who you think might try to collect on Carleen’s five hundred dollars, let me know. Don’t try to take ’em down alone. You’re my last deputy, and I hate the hirin’ process.”

  “You got it, Boss.” Amos lowered the Greener’s hammers and sauntered off through the dark alley.

  Sartain followed Chaney along the alley and over to the courthouse. The sheriff dabbed sullenly at his cheek. He carried his carbine low in one hand. He looked the picture of dejection. A whipped, angry dog. Sartain wasn’t going to let his guard down. Such dogs were often the most dangerous.

  Sartain followed the man into the courthouse and then through the first door on the right side of the hall. In the sheriff’s office, Sartain watched as Chaney sat down heavily in the swivel chair flanking a flat-topped, cluttered desk sporting a low-burning Rochester lamp with a red chimney. The door to the cell block stood in the wall behind the desk. It had a small, barred window in it.