Gut-Shot (23 page)

Brendan O'Rourke lived by the reckoning, the precept of an eye for an eye, but he was not a vindictive man. He insisted that they take Slim Stockton's body back to the McCord ranch.

“I'll bury Beau Hunt on my own property, unless you know of any kin, Flintlock,” he said.

Sam Flintlock shook his head. “No, I never heard of any kinfolk. It's almost like the Beau sprung out of the earth full-grown. And for all I know, maybe he did.”

“Then let's get it done,” O'Rourke said. “I should be getting back to my wife.”

“Lead the way,” Flintlock said. He felt hollowed out, strangely grieving for a man he barely knew. Or maybe he grieved over how he died. He didn't know which.

 

 

When O'Rourke led the living and the dead into the McCord ranch the place seemed deserted, the corral empty, its gate open. But within moments a puncher stepped from behind the house, a Winchester slanted across his chest. The man, young and stocky, had a holstered Colt at his waist.

He said nothing, waiting for O'Rourke to speak, but his eyes were careful and missed nothing.

“I brought Slim Stockton home,” the old rancher said.

The hand nodded. “Yup, I can see that. It's ol' Slim as ever was.”

“Where do you want him?”

The cowboy thought for a moment. Then he said, “We'll put him in the bunkhouse for now. That's where he lived and that's where he should rest.”

O'Rourke turned in the saddle. “Boys, do as the man says.”

The puncher watched as the dead man was untied from the saddle and lowered gently to the ground. “This way, boys,” he said. “Carry him easy now.”

He led the way to the bunkhouse and when he and the Circle-O hands returned, he said to O'Rourke, “He's in his bunk. Looks like ol' Slim is asleep, but he ain't.”

“This was no doing of mine,” O'Rourke said. “We found your man and Beau Hunt dead on the trail.”

“I know,” the puncher said. “Name's Stump Wilson, Mr. O'Rourke, and I was there when they were killed.”

Sam Flintlock tensed. “Explain yourself, mister,” he said. “Today I got a short fuse so get the words out in a hurry.”

“Hell, look around you,” Wilson said. “Everybody's out looking for young Steve. Well, me and Slim found him.”

“What happened?” O'Rourke said.

“We told Steve we were taking him back here to the ranch.”

“And?” O'Rourke said.

“And? The only
and
is that Steve McCord drew down on us, first him and then Hunt. Hunt shot Slim and Steve shot Hunt. End of story.”

Wilson shook his head. “No, that's not the end of the story. Steve told me to spread the word that he's the man who killed Beau Hunt. He says he wants to be known as a gunfighter.”

“I don't where he come up with that handle, but I've got another name for him—a damned murderer,” Flintlock said.

Wilson nodded. “He didn't give Hunt an even break, that's for sure.”

Flintlock caught a glimpse of old Barnabas. The wicked old rogue sat on the V of the ranch house roof, wearing a strange hat with a red, white and blue cockade that had settled over his eyebrows and pushed out the tops of his ears. Barnabas glowered at Flintlock and stuck out his tongue.

“Mount up, boys,” O'Rourke said. “We'll head back to the Circle-O. I don't want to leave my wife with that crazy Chinaman for too long.”

“He's a crazy Englishman, actually,” Flintlock said. But he was talking to the ass of O'Rourke's horse.

 

 

After the others had gone and Stump Wilson had disappeared behind the ranch house again, Flintlock rode closer to Barnabas.

“What have you got on your head?” he said.

“It's called a bicorn, you ignoramus,” Barnabas said. “Napoleon loaned it to me.”

“It's too big for you.”

“I know that. Boney is just a little feller but he'd got a head like a nail keg. All them brains, I guess.” Barnabas shook his head, but the hat stayed in place. “He's always playin' with them tin soldiers of his. Of course, they melt pretty soon, but he somehow always finds more.”

“Why are you here, Barnabas?”

“Your ma is in Louisiana.”

“I know. You already told me that.”

“There's a rich Coonass down that way who plans to get rid of folks living along the bayous, especially the swamp witches that the folks look up to and respect. Your ma is one o' them, boy.”

“When I'm all through here, I'll head that way.”

“And you'll be too late by then,” Barnabas said.

The old mountain man removed Napoleon's hat, scowled at it, then placed it back on his head. He looked like a bearded toadstool. “You split-ass down there, boy, and quit being an idiot,” he said.

Wilson reappeared and stared hard at Flintlock. “Who are you taking to?” he said.

“Myself,” Flintlock said. “I do that by times.”

There was no one on the roof.

“Hell, it smells like hell around here,” Wilson said, making a face. “Stinks like the sulfur poultice my ma used to put on my chest when I was a younker.”

“Yeah, that's what I was just talking to myself about,” Flintlock said.

His face stricken, Lucian Tweddle couldn't believe what he was hearing. It was just too much to grasp all at once. Then, after a struggle, “You killed Beau Hunt?” he said.

Steve McCord grinned. “I sure did. He drew down on me and I plugged him square.”

“Oh my God,” Tweddle groaned. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed into his be-ringed, chubby fingers. “All my plans . . . destroyed. This is so unfair, so unmerited. I deserve better than this.”

“Hell, don't worry about it, Mr. Tweddle.” The young man grinned. “You've still got me, and I'm all you need. I'm what folks will call a gunfighter.”

Tweddle stared at McCord through his open fingers, saliva on his thick lips. “You fool. Your pa, Frisco Maddox, Flintlock, even Tom Lithgow, any one of them can eat you alive.”

McCord's grin slipped. “Yeah? Well, tell that to Beau Hunt.”

“You shot him in the back, didn't you?”

“No.”

“You're a damned liar.”

Tweddle saw the truth in McCord's face. “Beau was worth a hundred of you,” he said. “No, a thousand of you.” He shook his head. “You damned little pipsqueak you may have done for me.”

“Hell, when the word spreads that I killed Hunt, I'll be the big man around town,” McCord said. He had an angry red pimple on his chin. “I'll be the cock of the walk and the likes of Flintlock and Lithgow will be too scared to brace me.” He leaned forward in his chair. “With me at your side with my gun, you'll be able to do anything you want in Open Sky, Mr. Tweddle. Don't you see that?”

“There's no range war, damn you,” Tweddle said. “Without a war I can do nothing.”

He glanced out his office window into the bank to make sure no one was within earshot. All the clerks were bent over, their steel pens scratching across massive ledgers. “Does anyone suspect you work for me?” he said.

The skin of McCord's face tightened to his skull. “I don't work for you,” he said. “We're partners, remember?”

“A slip of the tongue. But answer my question.”

“Nobody knows we're partners.”

“Good. Then let's keep it that way.”

Tweddle sat in silence for a while. His huge bulk looked uncomfortable in his chair. Finally he said, “Guns. Maybe I can salvage everything with hired guns, wipe out both McCord and O'Rourke and grab the land.”

“You'll need an army,” Steve said, smirking. “How many? Two score, three? Where are you going to find that many guns around these parts?”

Tweddle blinked, as though he realized the hopelessness of his task. There weren't that many hired guns in the Oklahoma Territory.

Steve McCord grinned. “What happens to a snake when you cut its head off? The rest of it dies, huh?”

“What's your drift?”

“If I kill my father and O'Rourke, the fight is over. Their hands will pack up and leave.”

“How do you hope to accomplish that?” Tweddle said.

“Easy. I send a note to dear papa and tell him I want to turn myself in and to meet me in a certain place but to come alone. O'Rourke gets the same note, but at a different place and time.” Steve sat back in his chair, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. “I kill them both on the same day, drag their bodies together and make it look like they met on the trail and shot one another.”

Tweddle felt a surge of hope. “What about Flintlock? He's a meddlesome troublemaker.”

“I'm a gunfighter and faster than he'll ever be. I can take care of Flintlock and that whelp Jamie McPhee.”

Tweddle sat in thought for a moment, then banged his fist on the desk.

“It just might work,” he said. “With their bosses gone, why would the punchers fight?”

“They won't, not after I take over the McCord ranch—”

“And I foreclose on the Circle-O,” Tweddle said, his eyes alight.

“See, the death of Beau Hunt changes nothing,” Steve said. “Not when I can step into his shoes so easily.”

“I've underestimated you, Steve. And since we're partners, you may call me Lucian.”

McCord grinned. “Lucian, we're gonna be real cozy, you and me.”

“And rich on railroad money,” Tweddle said.

Steve frowned as a disturbing thought struck him.

“What's the matter?” Tweddle said.

“My pa is arrogant enough to believe the note and he'll probably have it in mind to kill me, but what about O'Rourke? He's a cagey old coot.”

“There won't be a note,” Tweddle said, smiling.

“I don't get it.”

“Nancy Pocket will be our messenger. She's an actress, that one.”

“No note?”

“That's what I said.”

“Explain it to me.”

Tweddle affected a woman's voice. “
Oh, Mr. McCord, I am with child and I will be undone if you do not reconcile with your son. He wants to turn himself in so we can wed. But he's so frightened that you must meet him alone . . .
Do you savvy?”

“Damn, that's good, Lucian. Real good. Will Nancy do it?”

Tweddle's grin was nasty. “I'll beat her to a bloody pulp if she doesn't.”

“Lucian, I don't want to do that,” Nancy Pocket said.

“Why not, my dear?” Lucian Tweddle said. His voice was soft, silky, like the purr of a hearthside cat.

“They won't believe me. Brendan O'Rourke certainly won't.”

“You can act, Nancy. A whore acts all the time.”

“Lucian, it won't work.”

“It will work. Pad your belly out with a pillow or something, look like you're far gone with child. Men get all tongue-tied around pregnant women. They'll listen.”

“Trace McCord has bedded me before. He won't believe that his spineless, poetry-writing son could knock me up.”

“Then, like father, like son. He'll believe you if you act well enough.”

“And O'Rourke?”

“Did he ever bed you?”

“No. But he's a grim old sourpuss, drinks prune juice and reads his Bible.”

“From what I can tell about him, he's an old-school gentleman. Just get his sympathy, Nancy. Plenty of salty tears.”

The woman poured herself a drink and the crystal decanter clinked as she settled it back in the rack. “No, I won't do it, Lucian,” she said.

“Oh, but you will, my dear.”

“And if I don't?”

“Then I will beat you severely and drag you by the hair to Marshal Lithgow and tell him you tried to murder me like you did Frank Constable.”

Tweddle steepled his fingers in front of his smiling face. “Who will Lithgow believe? A respectable banker who helps pay his wages or a two-dollar-a-bang whore whose been had by every man and boy in town?”

The girl looked stricken. “Lucian, I killed the lawyer for you. It was all for you.”

“You murdered Constable to save your own skin. So make up your mind. Do you act the part of an undone female or hang? Answer me you damned slut.”

Nancy spat words like venom. “Lucian, sometimes I hate your guts.”

“I'm happy with that so long as you fear me. Now, for the last time, will you do as I say?”

The woman nodded, tears bright in her eyes. “I'll be gone all day and into the night,” she said.

“Do you expect me to care?”

Nancy made no answer.

“Good, then it's settled. Now go find a pillow and ride out to the McCord and O'Rourke spreads,” Tweddle said. “I'll tell you what to say.”