Gut-Shot (18 page)

“War, Mr. Stannic, that's the name of the game,” Lucian Tweddle said, reclining in an easy chair, a brandy snifter in one chubby hand, a cigar in the other.

“And you want me to start it?” Hank Stannic said.

“In a word: Yes.” Tweddle shrugged. “The death toll doesn't need to be too high, a few here, a few there, that's all.”

“You can count on me, Mr. Tweddle,” Steve McCord said, his young face eager.

“I know I can. But right now my business is with Mr. Stannic.”

“Masked?” Stannic said.

“No. Brendan O'Rourke or one of his hands must see and later identify young Mr. McCord here.”

“What about the old man himself? Does he get a bullet?”

“Not yet. He must live to retaliate.”

Stannic nodded in a tall man's direction. “What about him?”

“Mr. Hunt won't join the raid. I want him here with me. The same thing goes for Deputy Reid.”

“You object to that, Hank?” Beau Hunt said.

Stannic shook his head, a quick, spare movement. “No objections, Beau. Ain't your style to ride with ruffians, is it?”

Hunt smiled. “I don't mind.” His eyes flicked to Holloway and Trent. “If they take a bath once in a while.”

Holloway glared and fingered the head of his ax. Slick Trent grinned.

“Nancy, fill the gentlemen's glasses and pass around the cigars,” Tweddle said. “We must take care of our guests.”

The woman's yellow silk gown rustled as she passed him, and Trent's hot eyes followed her every movement.

“Poor Miss Pocket recently had a most unsettling experience,” Tweddle said. “A man was shot and killed on her very doorstep. I've taken her into my home and under my wing until she's quite recovered from the shock.”

“Handy, ain't it?” Trent said, his permanent grin in place.

Tweddle ignored that and said, “Mr. Stannic, all I'm asking you to do is ride in, shoot up the place, then ride out.”

He smiled and squeezed his cigar. “Now if in the confusion dear Mrs. O'Rourke was mortally wounded by a stray shot, that would be a most fortunate happenstance.”

“That's easy,” Steve McCord said. “Hell, I'll put a bullet into the fat old cow.”

“Very commendable of you, Mr. McCord,” Tweddle said. He looked across the parlor at Stannic. “Will you take on the job, Mr. Stannic?”

“Maybe. If the money is right.”

“You'll be on a retainer initially,” Tweddle said. “Five thousand now, a further five thousand when the task is completed. In addition, six hundred dollars a kill, if such kill is in the line of... ah . . . duty.”

Stannic mulled that, then said, “How many on the raid?”

“You and your two colleagues and our young Mr. McCord,” Tweddle said. The brandy had given him dyspepsia and he let a series of little burps escape his pursed lips.

“Thin numbers,” Stannic said.

“O'Rourke's men are a bunch of stove-up old punchers who've probably never fired a revolver in anger in their lives,” Tweddle said. “You'll have no trouble.”

“Sounds easy,” Stannic said. “I don't like riding into situations that sound easy. Look what happened to the James boys at Northfield. They thought that raid would be easy but it sure as hell didn't turn out that way.”

“The Circle-O isn't Northfield, Mr. Stannic.”

“You won't be there.”

“No, I won't. But I've been there many times in the past.”

Steve McCord grinned. “Hell, that's hard to believe.”

Tweddle lifted an eyebrow. “Are you calling me a liar, young man?”

McCord quickly plowed around that stump. “Not at all, Mr. Tweddle,” he said, blinking. “I mean, I—”

Stannic considered any conversation with Steve McCord a waste of time and effort.

“I'll take on the job, Mr. Tweddle,” he said, cutting across anything further McCord had to say.

“Excellent, excellent, Mr. Stannic,” Tweddle said. “Now the success of this venture is assured.”

“When?” Stannic said.

“Stay in Open Sky tonight and enjoy the whiskey and whores,” Tweddle said. “Nancy will point you in the right direction for both.”

“I'm married and I don't drink,” Stannic said. “But I feel like bucking the tiger.”

“There you go, Mr. Stannic,” Tweddle said. “Each to his own I always say. Then relax this evening. The raid will take place tomorrow night at an hour of your choosing.”

Stannic got to his feet. “I guess our talking is done for now.”

“Indeed it is,” Tweddle said, smiling.

He looked like a smug Humpty Dumpty before the fall. “Come to the bank tomorrow morning and I'll pay you the first part of the retainer,” he said.

Tweddle made no attempt to leave his chair.

“Now, gentlemen, I'll bid you good night,” he said. “I grow weary from the business of the day.” He waved a hand. “You stay, Mr. Hunt. I need a quick word.”

After Stannic and the others filed out, Tweddle said, “Mr. McCord, have you heard of Captain William T. Anderson?”

Steve McCord stopped and grinned. “Bloody Bill? Sure I have. He killed plenty.”

“I had the honor to ride at his side,” Tweddle said.

McCord stood silent, uncertain of what to say.

Beau Hunt helped him through that particular doorway. “Stay close to Stannic tonight,” he said. “You may learn something.”

 

 

After the youth left, Tweddle said, “Mr. Hunt, I have no intention of paying Stannic all that money. You may have to get rid of him.”

“That's what you pay me for,” Hunt said.

“You don't seem shocked.”

“Stannic is in a hard business. He knows the risks.”

“Jamie McPhee and that Flintlock person are still thorns in my side,” Tweddle said. “I want them out of the way.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Hunt said.

“The Pinkerton who was on McPhee's side and the lawyer who hired him are both dead, the latter thanks to pretty Nancy here. Isn't that so, my dear?”

“He gave me no choice,” Nancy Pocket said.

“No, none at all,” Tweddle said. “You did us all a service.”

“Lucian, was Frank Constable right?” Nancy said.

“About what?”

“Did you murder Polly Mallory because she was pregnant with your child?”

“No, dear girl, I didn't. I murdered Polly Mallory because she was pregnant with someone else's child.”

Beau Hunt and Nancy exchanged a glance that Tweddle intercepted. “What will you do, turn me over to the law?” he said.

“I killed a man to save you from the rope, Lucian,” Nancy said. “I won't turn you in and play traitor.”

“And I won't forget it. And you, Mr. Hunt, what about you?” Tweddle said. “Under all that fine linen are you a Judas at heart?”

“I'm loyal to the man who pays my wages,” Hunt said. “I don't examine my conscience any closer than that.”

“A gentleman's answer and the one I expected,” Tweddle said. He looked around him and then smiled broadly. “My, my, aren't we a fine trio of rogues?” he said.

Jamie McPhee stumbled backward and Sam Flintlock eased him to the floor, then gun in hand charged into the street.

Under a dazzling sun that cast no shadows, events piled one atop the other very quickly.

A rifleman in a plug stood behind an abandoned fruit and vegetable stand that stood tipped over on one wheel opposite the saloon. The man threw a Winchester to his shoulder and fired at Flintlock.

He hurried the shot and Flintlock heard the round split the air close to his right ear.

Flintlock fired and his bullet hit the wood frame of the stand with a venomous smack. It was close enough that Plug Hat broke and ran.

Flintlock went after him. The man ran for about twenty yards, then stopped and turned. He shouldered the rifle and fired, levered another round into the chamber and fired again.

The first bullet tugged at the sleeve of Flintlock's shirt and the second zinged through his hat and came mighty close to braining him.

“Damn you!” he yelled. “Stand your ground and fight like a white man.”

The man in the plug hat, a little fellow with yellow hair and heavy eyebrows, ignored that and cranked the Winchester again.

Flintlock took his time. Now was the moment for a grandstand play. He two-handed the Colt to eye level, sighted carefully and fired.

He and the rifleman shot at the same time.

This time Flintlock took a hit, a sledgehammer blow to his right thigh. But his bullet scored. The man in the plug hat shrieked and fell, blood all over his shattered mouth.

Stunned by the impact of the bullet that hit him, Flintlock watched the downed man writhe for a while, the heels of his boots gouging dirt, then lie still.

Flintlock removed his hat, stared at the sky for a moment then wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his gun hand. He felt blood trickle down onto his boot.

“You killed him! You killed my brother Tom!”

The man called Ben stood outside the saloon door, his raised right arm glistening crimson blood from his knuckles to his elbow.

Suddenly Flintlock felt very tired and sick to his stomach. He ignored Ben and stepped to the body. It had been an aimed shot but a lucky one.

The .45 had crashed into the man's open mouth, splintering teeth, and had passed through his head and exploded out the back of his skull, scattering blood, bone and brains.

It was a fearsome, horrific wound.

“No man should die like that,” Flintlock said, aloud, but only to himself.

Ben still stood in front of the saloon, burning hatred in the eyes he pinned on Flintlock. But Flintlock brushed past him and stepped into the saloon.

Slaton kneeled beside the groaning McPhee. “Shoulder,” the man said. “The ball is still in there.” He looked up at Flintlock. “Another dead man?”

“Yeah. I should've remembered there were three horses in the corral.”

“Get your friend away from here.”

“Can you take out the bullet?”

“No.”

“How about the blacksmith?”

“He can't either.”

“I'll take him to Open Sky, find a doctor.”

“There's a cathouse closer.”

“He needs a doctor, not a whore.”

“Madame Josette runs the house and she's good with wounds. God knows, she's seen plenty.”

“Where is this place?”

“A mile north of Buzzard Gap. You can't miss it.”

Flintlock nodded. “I'm beholden to you.”

“I just want you the hell out of here. And him.”

Flintlock raised McPhee to his feet, then said, “Can you ride?”

The young man shook his head. “No I can't.”

“Hurting?” Flintlock said.

“Yes I am.”

“Good, that means you ain't dead and you can still ride.”

Flintlock helped McPhee outside. Behind them they left two thin trails of blood.

The sky was an endless blue and overhead a single buzzard rode the air currents. A gusting wind lifted skeins of dust around Flintlock's feet.

Then a shot and a noise like an angry hornet close to Flintlock's ear.

Ben, his face twisted in fury, stood over his brother. The dead man's smoking Winchester was propped up on his bloody right arm and he worked the lever awkwardly with his left.

“My name's Ben Ross!” he yelled. “And I'm gonna kill you for what you done to my brothers.”

McPhee's horse had pulled away from the hitching rail and stood at a distance, its head lowered, tail to the wind-blown sand.

“Let's go,” Flintlock said.

Ben Ross fired and dust kicked up under between McPhee's feet. “Sam, he'll kill us,” he yelled.

“No, he won't. There's already been enough killing.”

“Tell
him
that,” McPhee said.

Now Ross staggered forward, shortening the distance. His face was stony, determined.

“I'll get you to your hoss,” Flintlock said.

Ross walked toward them, firing as he came.

“Sam!” McPhee yelled.

As though he hadn't heard, Flintlock continued toward the horse.

The blacksmith yelled something, but the rising wind took the words away. A dog trotted into sight and started to bark.

Flintlock took a second hit. The thick bicep of his arm opened up and seeped blood as a bullet grazed him.

McPhee, the entire front of his shirt red, yelped in frustration. “Damn you, Sam!”

Then he did the unexpected.

 

 

The move took Sam Flintlock by surprise. McPhee wrenched away from his supporting arm, did a half turn and his hand reached out and snaked the Colt from Flintlock's waistband.

Flintlock yelled and stretched to grab the young man. But his entire weight landed clumsily on his wounded leg and it gave way, tumbling him into the street.

“Damn you, McPhee!” he cried out.

But the young man paid no heed. He walked toward Ross, the Colt at waist level.

“Leave us alone!” McPhee yelled. “You go back inside now.”

Ross frantically tried to work the Winchester lever, panic glinting in his eyes. McPhee was now only five paces away and the hammer of his revolver was thumbed back.

The two young men eyed each other. Both looked as though they'd been splashed by buckets of scarlet paint. The Swedish blacksmith stood in front of his forge and yelled something that nobody heeded.

Four paces . . . three . . . spitting distance.

Both McPhee and Ben fired at the same time.

The Winchester's forestock slipped on Ben Ross's blood-slick forearm as he pulled the trigger. A clean miss.

McPhee shoved the muzzle of the Colt into the other man's belly. He fired. A gut-shot.

Ross screamed, knowing he'd just got his death wound, and staggered back a step.

McPhee fired again. A hit. Fired again. A hit.

He triggered the Colt but the hammer clicked, clicked, clicked on the empty chamber and then spent cartridges.

“He's done,” Flintlock said.

He wrenched the Colt from McPhee's hand. “For God's sake, how many times do you have to kill a man?”

Jamie McPhee stared at Flintlock, his eyes unbelieving. “I killed him, Sam,” he said.

“Yeah. I know.”

“What do I do now?”

“You live with it.”

McPhee stared at the dead man. “I was crazy mad,” he said. “For a moment or two I went insane.”

“We all go crazy at one time or another in our lives. That's what helps us keep our sanity.”

“Look at him, Sam. He was young once, just like me, and now . . . and now he's just nothing.”

“That's what death does to a man.”

“Sam, I swear, as long as I live I'll never pick up a gun again.”

“Guns don't go crazy and kill folks. Only people do that. Let's get you to your hoss.”

“Look at us, we're all shot to pieces, Sam,” McPhee said.

“Seems like,” Flintlock said.