A Wolf in the Fold Page 16

  I tried on his hat, which had a nice, wide brim, but it was too small. Throwing it aside, I lifted the body and draped it over his saddle. I used his own rope to tie him on, and gave the horse a swat on the rump. Off it went, bearing its grisly burden.

  I put the garrote back in my saddle and palmed my boot knife. I climbed on Brisco and circled the herd, holding the knife next to my leg.

  The other cowboy, Barker, was singing “Rock of Ages,” of all things. He was more alert and jerked his pistol the moment he saw me.

  “Who’s that?”

  I resorted to the same trick. “Jack.”

  He lowered the revolver but not all the way. “Where in hell have you been? Mrs. Tanner was fit to have kittens.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I did not look at him but at the ground. Since there was no moon, the ruse should have worked. But suddenly he pointed his revolver at me again and I heard the click of the hammer.

  “Hold it! You’re not Jack!”

  I smiled, and did not stop. “No, I’m the parson. Couldn’t you tell? Peace be unto you, brother. Didn’t I see you at Lloyd Tanner’s funeral?”

  Confusion rooted him for the few moments it took me to bring Brisco alongside his horse.

  “Reverend Storm? I don’t understand. Why did you just call yourself Jack and why are you wearing his hat and vest?”

  “So I could do this,” I said. Lunging, I thrust the knife into his belly, burying the blade to the hilt, while at the same instant I seized hold of his wrist and pushed the muzzle of his revolver into his belly. I didn’t expect him to squeeze the trigger. It must have been a reflex. The revolver went off, the shot muffled some but not enough.

  Barker stiffened. He stared at me in puzzlement, then slumped from the saddle, dead as dead could be. The knife slid free and warm blood splashed my hand.

  Some of the cows had stood up but none ran off. They were fat and lazy, these LT cattle.

  I gazed in the direction of the ranch buildings. They were miles away yet. I deemed it doubtful the sound would carry that far, but taking things for granted in my profession was an invite to an early grave.

  I dismounted, wiped the knife clean on his pants, and slid it back into my boot. I tried on his hat. It fit, but it, too, had a short brim. I kept the one I had.

  Sixty more dollars went into my saddlebags. I tied Barker onto his horse, swung the horse toward the ranch, and gave it a slap.

  Two more accounted for, and a lot more to go.

  Chapter 20

  Most jobs I get in and get out fast. I have to, because once I start to earn my pay, tin stars butt in and do their best to stop me.

  This job was different. I was not being paid. What I had in mind, I was doing on my own. It was strictly personal, and as such, I was free to take liberties I would not ordinarily take.

  Killing the cowboys was not enough. I wanted Gertrude to know I was on the loose. I wanted her to know I was coming for her. She was formidable, but she was human and it was bound to affect her nerves.

  With that in mind, I rode past the bunkhouse, past the cookhouse, and on past the stable. Several horses in the corral perked up, but none whinnied. I did not stop until I came to the main house.

  All the lights were out, as well they would be at that hour. Sliding down, I tied the packhorse and the claybank to the rail. When Gerty saw them she would know I knew about the silver vein. She would send riders to the canyon. They would return with the news that her precious silver vein was buried under tons of rock and dirt. It should make her mad as hell.

  I admit I was breaking every rule I live by. I had lasted as long as I had in my business because I never took needless risks. I always did my work in secret except for the ears I took as proof I had done the work. This time I would not bother with ears. I had no need to prove anything to anyone.

  This was for me, and me alone.

  I had saved my parson collar, and as a crowning touch, you might say, I took it from my saddlebags and wrapped it around the saddle horn of the horse I had just tied to the rail. The collar was in bad shape from my ordeal in the cabin, but there was no mistaking what it was—or who had worn it.

  Stepping back, I smiled. That should do nicely. I regretted I would not be on hand to see Gertrude’s reaction.

  I forked leather. Not a lot of night was left and I had to find someplace to hole up before daylight. It did not take a lot of savvy to figure out that when Gertrude realized I was alive, she would have her cowboys scour the countryside.

  I reined Brisco toward the Fair Sister. Unlike its sibling, the mountain was largely bare of vegetation. But it had foothills, and beyond, a similar maze of canyons, ravines, and gullies. Plenty of spots for a man to hide.

  Dawn was breaking when I came to the far side of the mountain. A narrow canyon looked promising. The ground was solid rock, so my horses left few tracks. The walls were high and would shield me from the sun. The only drawback was that it was a box canyon. If I was discovered, the only way out was to shoot my way out. But I wouldn’t mind that. I wouldn’t mind that at all.

  I hobbled Brisco and the mare, spread out my bedroll, and was asleep within minutes of my head touching my saddle. I slept wonderfully. I dreamed that I dropped Gertrude Tanner into a huge cauldron of bubbling water and watched as she was boiled alive. It was rare for me to dream so vividly. When I woke up, I lay there a while, remembering and relishing.

  Twilight had fallen when I emerged from the canyon with the mare in tow. She was used to me by now and did not balk or otherwise give me trouble.

  I roved north in search of another herd and found one within tobacco spitting distance. I reckoned on finding a cowboy or two, as well, but the cows were unattended.

  I made for the ranch. I expected it to be a beehive. From a quarter of a mile out I watched and watched and saw no one. I moved closer and watched some more. Again, except for a few lit windows, nary a sign of life anywhere.

  I took a gamble. As brazen as brass, I rode in. No one challenged me. There were no shouts or shots. I waltzed into the stable as if I owned the spread. Most of the stalls were empty. Evidently the hands were all off somewhere.

  The tack room had what I needed: a saddle, saddle blanket, and bridle for the mare. I had just tugged on the cinch one last time and was turning to lead the two horses back out when hooves clattered. I hurriedly led Brisco and his sweetheart into adjoining stalls, then hid in another and drew my Remington.

  The hoofbeats slowed. Spurs jingled, and into the stable strode a cowboy leading a lathered dun. He and his mount were caked with dust. They had come a far piece, and I had a hunch where from.

  I did not show myself until he had stripped the dun and placed it in a stall. As he turned toward the double doors I came up behind him and jammed the Remington’s barrel into his spine.

  The cowboy froze. It was Chester, the rangy cowboy from the restaurant. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked without turning his head.

  “Get rid of your iron.”

  He did.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Most everyone is off with Mrs. Tanner. They rode out about ten this morning.”

  I believed him. I sidled around so he could see me. “Let me guess. She went to the Dark Sister to check on her silver.”

  “I’ll be damned,” the cowboy said. “You. Here of all places. Mister, you’ve got more sand than most ten hombres.”

  “When do you expect her back?”

  He gave himself away by hesitating. “Anytime now.”

  I kicked him in the left knee and he crumpled in agony. He was smart enough not to cry out. “When did you say?”

  “Sometime tomorrow,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “She’s staying the night in the canyon. Has the whole outfit digging like gophers to get to the vein.”

  “Why aren’t you with them?”

  “She sent me back to tell her son what you did.”

  “Phil is here?”

  He stopped puffing and glared
at me. “Tell me why, mister. Why did you kill Brennan and those others? And Barker and Steve? What did they ever do to you?”

  “Were you at the Butcher cabin, Chester?”

  “No.”

  I pistol-whipped him across the temples, not once but twice, and he slumped over, unconscious. Twirling the Remington into my holster, I took the rope from the saddle he had thrown over the stall. I fashioned a noose and threw it over a beam, then slipped the noose around his neck. Leading Brisco into the aisle, I looped the other end of the rope around the saddle horn, and waited.

  Chester was not out long. Groaning, he blinked and slowly sat up, feeling groggily about his throat. “What the—?” he croaked.

  “Don’t try to take it off,” I warned.

  Fear restored his senses. He swallowed and looked at me. “This ain’t right. Turn me over to the law and have me put on trial.”

  “It’s no less right than slaughtering the Butchers,” I remarked. “As for a trial, I’m your judge, jury, and executioner. The least you can do is take your medicine like a man.” I smacked Brisco. For a few moments Brisco strained into the rope. Suddenly the cowboy was yanked off the ground and clean into the air.

  Kicking wildly, Chester pried at the noose, then at the knot. But only for a few seconds. His left hand dropped to a belt knife I had overlooked. Unsheathing it, he slashed at the rope but missed.

  I was growing careless. I ran to a nearby mound of straw and seized the long handle sticking up out of it.

  Chester cut the rope. He was not that high, but he sprawled to his hands and knees. He had not noticed me. Rising on his knees, he frantically tugged at the noose. He never loosened it. I saw to that by spearing him in the chest with the pitchfork. He arched his back, grabbed the handle, and tried to wrench the tines out.

  “That’s for Daisy,” I said.

  Chester locked eyes with me, eyes wide with shock. I saw the spark of life fade, just as you see the light of a lamp fade as you turn it down. He only convulsed once, and that was that.

  I left him there. I brought the mare from the stall, and as I passed the body, I noticed his hat. Black, with a wide brim and a low crown creased on the sides. I preferred a round crown, but I tried it on anyway. It was tight, but it fit. “Thanks,” I said, and kicked its former owner in the teeth.

  I walked the horses up to the main house rather than ride. No one was peering out. I went up the steps to the porch as quietly as a church mouse, and peeked in. The parlor was well lit, but I saw no one.

  With my back to the door, I reached behind me and knocked. I had to do it three times before footfalls sounded in the hall.

  “Who is it?”

  I was in luck. It wasn’t one of the servants. Slumping to disguise my height, I answered, “It’s Chester, Mr. Tanner. I have a message for you from your mother.”

  Phil opened the door, grumbling, “It’s about damn time. I can’t stand sitting here twiddling my thumbs. What is the news?”

  I drew the Remington as I faced him. “It’s not good, I’m afraid. But you and your bitch of a mother have only yourselves to blame for double-crossing me.”

  “Stark!”

  “One and the same. Are you going to stand there catching moths in your mouth or invite me in?”

  Slowly backing up, Phil raised both hands. “I’m unarmed. You wouldn’t shoot a defenseless man, would you?”

  The stupid questions I get asked. I followed and closed the front door behind me. “Where are the servants?”

  “Gone. They usually leave an hour before sunset.”

  “So it’s just you and me?” I can’t say how happy that made me. It must have shown.

  “Now hold on. I don’t like that look. It wasn’t me who double-crossed you, it was Mom. Hell, man, I didn’t know she had hired you.”

  Could it be? I wondered. I wagged the Remington. “Into the parlor.” He obeyed, moving to the settee to sit. I leaned against the jamb. “Do you honestly expect me to believe your mother kept it a secret?”

  “You’ve seen how she is. She’s the one who runs things, not me. She even bossed Pa around.”

  He was good. This would take a little doing. “Why did she want the Butchers out of the way?”

  “The silver, why else?”

  “All she had to do was file a claim and it was hers. The Butchers didn’t own the Dark Sister.” All they had a legal right to was their homestead. Which made their slaughter that much more meaningless.

  “There was a hitch,” Phil said. “My mother didn’t discover the vein. Someone else did.”

  “Who? One of your hands? Did some of your cows stray up into the canyon and a puncher spotted the silver?”

  “No, it was Everett Butcher.”

  A hole in the quilt had been filled. I confess I was somewhat taken aback. “Did he file?”

  “He was going to. He came into Whiskey Flats, into the saloon, smiling and treating everyone to drinks. He had a good deal to drink himself. Then he headed east and ran into my mother on her way into town.” Phil paused. “Mother and him never did get along. He always thought we looked down our noses at his family, but that’s not entirely true.”

  “Save your lies for someone who will be taken in by them.”

  “All right. Maybe Mother despised them. But I never had anything against the Butchers and neither did my father until the rustling started.”

  “Which your mother conveniently blamed on the Butchers,” I observed. “But tell me more about your ma and Everett.”

  “Everett was drunk. He told her about the silver. Gloated how his family would soon have as much money as ours, and how they would build a fancy house and wear fancy clothes and show everyone the Tanners no longer ruled the roost.”

  “Your mother must have liked that.”

  “She was furious. She struck him with her whip. It made Everett mad, and he grabbed it. She ordered him to let go, but he laughed at her. So she did the only thing, in her estimation, she could. She pulled the derringer she keeps in a special pocket in her dress, and shot him.”

  I had no trouble imagining Gertrude Tanner doing it. Nor would anyone who knew her. “What did she do then?”

  “Somehow she got him into the buggy and brought the body back to the ranch,” Phil related. “She had Brennan and Wilson take Everett and bury him. Then she sat down with my father and me to decide what to do about the silver.”

  “Go on,” I said when he stopped.

  “Mother wanted it for herself, but she was afraid Everett might have told Hannah and the rest of his family about the vein. If he went missing, and Mother filed a claim, the Butchers would put two and two together.”

  “And figure out your mother had a part in his disappearance.”

  Phil nodded. “Exactly. So she came up with the idea of getting all the Butchers out of the way by accusing them of being rustlers.”

  “Only they never stole a single head.”

  Again he nodded. “But it gave Mother the perfect excuse to wipe them out. Then she could file safely. She never counted on Calista sending for the Texas Rangers.”

  There it was. The whole mess in a walnut shell. “How are you in the kitchen?” I asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m hungry enough to eat a buffalo. Lead the way.”

  Uncertainty lining his features, Phil Tanner rose and practically tiptoed past me into the hall. As I fell into step, he glanced over his shoulder. “Be honest. What do you intend to do with me?”

  “It depends on how well you cook.”

  Chapter 21

  Phil Tanner kindled the stove at my request. I was being polite as could be, and it puzzled him. But there was no need to rush. Thanks to his mother’s greed, we had the place to ourselves.

  While he got the stove going, I made a circuit of the kitchen. I took a butcher knife off a counter and placed it in a drawer. I also peered into the pantry. Then I sat in a chair with my back to a wall and my boots propped on the table. My spurs scra
ped the wood, but I didn’t care. I had the Remington in my lap.

  “There,” Phil said, rising. He was nervous. He kept glancing at me as if he expected me to riddle him with lead. “What would you have me do now?”

  “Bacon and eggs strike my fancy.” I had seen both in the pantry. “Reckon you can handle that?”

  “I don’t do much of my own cooking, but yes, I think I can manage.” He stepped to the pantry door.

  “No tricks,” I warned.

  “No tricks,” Phil repeated. He was not in there long. When he came out, he had the bacon and a bowl of eggs. He walked stiffly to the counter and set them down. “How do you want your eggs?”

  “I’ve always been partial to scrambled.”

  “How many?”

  “Eight should do me. With six strips of bacon. Toast. And coffee.”

  He resented having to do it, but he set about preparing my meal with studied care. I sensed he was afraid to make a mistake. I did not tell him that killing, or the prospect of killing, sometimes made me hungry.

  “I’ve heard of you, you know,” he said as he laid the bacon strips in a pan. “You’re downright famous.”

  I allowed as how there was some gossip about me in saloons and such, but I wouldn’t go that far. “Wild Bill was famous. Billy the Kid was famous. Jesse James was famous. Compared to them I’m nobody.”

  “They say you’ve killed upwards of fifty people. Is that true?”

  “Folks exaggerate.” I set the Remington on the table with a loud thunk and he jumped and glanced around. “I’d like some soup, too. How about if you put on a big pot of water to boil.”

  “Soup with bacon and eggs?”

  “I like to eat soup with every meal,” I said, ladling it on.

  The pot he selected was not nearly large enough.

  “Bigger than that,” I said. “The biggest damn pot in this whole damn kitchen.”

  After some clanging and clinking, he brought over the largest pot I had ever seen. “Will this do?”

  “Nicely,” I said.

  When people are nervous, they talk a lot. He was no exception. “Don’t take this wrong, but I’m surprised the law hasn’t caught up with you yet.”