A Wolf in the Fold Page 17

  “I’ll share a secret,” I responded. “The law in one state can’t do much if you make it across the border into another state before they can catch you.”

  “But how about when you return to states where warrants have been issued for your arrest?”

  “You sneak in and sneak out.” I made a show of stretching. “So long as you’re not wanted where you live, you’re safe enough.”

  “But what if the other states find out where that is?” Phil brought up. “Can’t they have you arrested and brought back?”

  “Sometimes. It helps if you have a judge or two in your pocket.” I considered it a necessary expense.

  Phil had avoided the subject he really wanted to bring up for as long as he could. Now he coughed and said, “It was my mother who shot you, not me.”

  “I was there, remember?”

  “All I’m saying is that she hired you and she shot you, so if you should be mad at anyone, it should be her.”

  Disgust welled up in me, but I tempered it with, “You love your mother that much, do you?”

  “Tolerate her, is more like it.” Phil began cracking eggs. “You’ve seen how she is. Could you love a woman like that?”

  “She gave birth to you.”

  “So? From as far back as I can remember, she’s treated me as if I can’t pull up my britches without her help. She treated my father the same way. Now he’s dead, thanks to her.” Phil was building a head of steam. “She’s never satisfied, that woman. We have a prosperous ranch, or it would be if she didn’t spend money faster than we make it. Until the silver came along, we were lucky to break even most years.”

  “You don’t live in a sod house,” I reminded him.

  “Sure, we live high on the hog, mainly because of her. She always has to have the best. The best clothes. The best furniture. The best buggy. None of that comes cheap. I haven’t even mentioned her jewelry.”

  I had noticed that Gertrude was partial to necklaces and bracelets, some studded with diamonds.

  “You make it sound as if I should love her just because she’s my mother. But a parent has to earn love, just like everyone else, and my mother hasn’t earned mine. To be perfectly frank, Mr. Stark, I loathe her. I loathe her with every fiber of my being.”

  Inwardly, I smiled. He had a flair, I’ll grant him that. I was curious how far he would take it.

  “She is to blame for you sitting there holding that revolver on me,” Phil said while fluffing the yolks and whites. “If anyone deserves to die, it’s her, not me.”

  “You think so, do you?”

  Phil turned, his face alight with hope. “I know so. Which is why I want to make you an offer.”

  “How do you mean?” As if I could not guess.

  “How would you like ten thousand dollars?”

  “My fee is a thousand.”

  “But surely you wouldn’t mind making ten times that amount? No one in their right mind would. All you have to do to earn it is kill my mother.”

  There. He had gotten it out. I pretended to ponder.

  “No one need ever know. It would just be between you and me.” Phil’s enthusiasm was a wonder to behold. “I’ll pay you half in advance and half when she is six feet under.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? What do you have to lose? You’re planning to kill her anyway, aren’t you? For what she did to the Butchers? Then why not get paid for doing it? It makes sense to me.”

  “You have that much money handy?”

  Phil thought he had me. He showed more teeth than a politician giving a speech. “No, but I can get it in, say, a week to ten days. What do you say?”

  “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money,” I admitted. “But with your mother dead, you’ll have the ranch and the silver all to yourself.”

  That gave him pause. “So?”

  “So you stand to be able to pay me a great deal more than ten thousand.” I let him consider that a few moments. “Killing her would be the greatest favor anyone ever did for you. It should be worth a lot.”

  “How much?” Phil bleakly asked.

  I pulled an amount out of thin air. “Fifty thousand would suit me. I could retire on that much.” Which was true.

  Phil appeared to have swallowed a cactus. He blinked and sputtered, “Fifty thousand it is, then. Under the same terms. Half in advance and the rest when my mother is in her coffin.”

  “Be sure you don’t burn my meal,” I said.

  “What?” Phil turned back to the stove, and swore. He darted to a cupboard for a plate and filled it to overflowing with the eggs and sizzling strips of bacon. He brought them over, then scurried to fill a cup to the brim with hot coffee.

  “Don’t forget my toast.”

  “What about the soup?” Phil asked, nodding at the large pot. The water wasn’t boiling yet.

  “Let it heat up more,” I said. I slid the Remington into my holster and motioned for him to sit across from me. He was being so reasonable, I couldn’t see him trying to jump me.

  As carefully as if he were sitting on broken glass, Phil eased down in the chair. “I must say, you are not at all how I expected.”

  “Is that so?” I said with my mouth crammed with eggs.

  “My mother made it sound as if you were a coldhearted cutthroat who could never be trusted. But she was willing to spend money anyway to hire you. She would do anything to get her hands on that silver.”

  He had blundered and did not realize it. I swallowed and remarked, “So she talked it over with you before she hired me?”

  Phil sat back. “Why, yes, I suppose she did, at that. Although she did not give me a say in whether we did. It was her decision and hers alone. Just as it was her decision and hers alone to shoot you in the back, giving you no chance to defend yourself. Despicable. Truly despicable.”

  “That she shot me in the back or that she didn’t kill me?”

  His laugh was more akin to a bark. “I’m glad she failed. Her mistake is my gain. If she had shot you in the head, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

  I forked a piece of bacon into my mouth. It was thick with fat and dripping with juice, exactly how I liked it.

  “May I ask you a question?” Phil ventured.

  Absorbed in the bacon, I grunted.

  “How will you do it? Kill her, I mean? Will it be quick and painless or will she suffer? Were it me, I would stake her out like the Comanches do and skin her alive.”

  “Your own mother?” I said. And to think, he had the gall to call me coldhearted! Talk about a kettle calling a pot black.

  “What difference does that make? You’ve killed women, haven’t you? Mother said you had. That’s why she sought you out in particular. She said that only someone as ruthless as you were reputed to be could kill someone as nice as Hannah Butcher, or as sweet as her daughters, Sissy and Daisy.”

  Suddenly I lost my appetite. I considered jamming the fork into one of his eyes but stuck with my original notion.

  “I could never murder anyone but my mother,” Phil blathered on. “I hate her that much.”

  “I try to keep my personal feelings out of my work,” I said. Although, since the attack on the cabin, that wasn’t true.

  “How much longer will you keep at it? Your work, I mean?”

  “None of your business,” I growled. I was tired of playacting, tired of toying with him like a cat toyed with a mouse.

  Alarm furrowed Phil’s features. “Why are you mad? Is it something I said? If so, I apologize.”

  “I don’t know what gave you that idea.” I stood and walked to the stove. The water in the pot was beginning to bubble. Another minute or two and it would be hot enough.

  “Good. We should be friends, the two of us. We are partners, after all, in the sense that we are plotting a crime together.”

  I touched the pot handles. They were wood, not metal, and posed no problem.

  Phil did not know when to shut up. “I wish I could see her face when you
do it. Would you let me? I would be willing to pay extra for the privilege. A hundred dollars, just to see her face. No! Make it a thousand!” He laughed viciously. “Won’t she be surprised? I daresay it will be the shock of her life.”

  “Death usually is,” I said. The water was boiling nicely.

  “What an exciting life you must live. Vastly more exciting than being a nursemaid to a bunch of cows.”

  “It has been kind of exciting around here of late,” I mentioned as I lifted the pot a few inches.

  “Hasn’t it, though? It will almost be a shame to have everything back to normal. Maybe then those Texas Rangers will stop snooping around. They worry me. Do they worry you?”

  I walked toward the table holding the pot in front of me. Some sloshed over the rim and nearly splashed my hand.

  “What are you doing? I thought you wanted soup.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.” I set the pot on the floor near his chair. Placing my hands on my hips, I bent down to give the impression I was peering into the water.

  “What in the world are you doing?” Phil leaned toward the pot. “What do you see in there?”

  “Boiled Tanner,” I said. In a twinkling I had the Remington out and struck him over the head. He crumpled, but I caught him before he fell flat. He was dazed but not out. Sliding a leg under his chest to hold him steady, I shoved the Remington into my holster to free both hands. Then I moved behind him, let him slump to his knees, gripped both his wrists, and bent his arms as far back as they would go.

  The pain revived him. “That hurts!” he shrieked. “What are you doing? We had an arrangement.”

  I started to force his face toward the pot.

  “Wait! No! You can’t!” Phil struggled, but I had a knee between his shoulder blades, and the leverage. “What about the money? Kill me and you won’t get it!”

  “You offered me a thousand to watch your mother die,” I said. “I’m giving up a lot of money to see you do the same.”

  Phil bucked and twisted but could not break my grip. “Why?” he wailed. “In God’s name, tell me why!”

  I told the truth for once. “This is for Daisy.”

  His screams filled the kitchen. They filled the house. They went on for a long, long time.

  Chapter 22

  At three in the morning Whiskey Flats was a cemetery. Only a few windows glowed and they were in houses at the outskirts. The saloon, the stores, the livery, the restaurant had all long since closed.

  I came in from the north, riding the mare and leading Brisco. I had switched back and forth to keep them fresh.

  The hunted had become the hunter. I was searching for the Texas Rangers. They were a thorn that needed clipping. Worse, they were bound to try harder to find me once news of Phil Tanner’s fate reached town.

  I reached the main street through a narrow gap between the general store and the butcher’s. The hitch rails were empty. Across the street was the restaurant. I could not go in the front. I crossed to an alley that brought me to the rear. Dismounting, I removed my spurs and crept to the back door. Calista did not keep it locked. I gingerly tried the latch, and pushed. The top hinge squeaked but not loud enough to wake anybody.

  Her room was on the second floor, at the front. I slunk up the stairs and down the hall. A few of the boards creaked, but again, not loud enough that it would startle her boarders into wakefulness.

  Her door was bound to be bolted. I crouched and scratched at it with my fingernails. She had a cat named Butch who spent as many nights out romancing the town’s female cats as he did snuggled in Calista’s bed. I was hoping he was off with a feline lady friend.

  Calista took forever to wake up. I heard rustling, and a yawn, and the scrape of her feet. “Butch?” she said softly.

  The instant the bolt rasped, I straightened and put my shoulder to the door. I caught her off guard. She stumbled back and had to grab hold of the bedpost to stay on her feet.

  “What in—” Calista blurted, and put a hand to her cheek in amazement. “You! Alive!”

  “Pleased to see you again, too,” I said, quietly closing the door, then throwing the bolt. I leaned back, my thumbs hooked in my gun belt. “Did you miss me?”

  Calista was wearing a chemise as a nightshirt. A thin white chemise that was molded to the shape of her body and left nothing to be guessed at. I must have been staring because she wheeled and clutched a robe that had been thrown over a chair and hastily donned it. When she turned she had composed herself. “To say I’m surprised would not be entirely honest.”

  “Oh?”

  “A lot of LT cowboys have died in the past few days. The Texas Rangers are of the opinion you are to blame.”

  “Parsons don’t generally go around bucking folks out in gore.”

  “But you’re not a preacher, are you? You never were. The Rangers think you might be a notorious assassin by the name of Lucius Stark.”

  “When did they come to that conclusion?” I was interested to know.

  “Yesterday. They’ve had their suspicions. Something to do with a scar. They’re mad as can be about the trick you played on them.”

  “What trick would that be?”

  “You know very well. You pretended to be an LT puncher by the name of Jack Walker. Les was sure he should know you from somewhere, but he didn’t catch on until later.” Calista paused. “It’s true, isn’t it? You really hire yourself out to kill people?”

  “I didn’t come here to talk about me.”

  “Oh, God.” Calista sat on the edge of the bed and bowed her head. “And to think I was fond of you.”

  “Was?” I said.

  “You can’t expect us to continue being friends.” She made it sound like the most insane thing in all creation.

  “I don’t see why not,” I responded. “I’m still the same man I was when I dressed as a parson.”

  “But you’re not a parson, which is the whole point.” In her exasperation, Calista balled her fists. “How could I have been so dumb?” She gestured sharply. “I want you to leave and never return.”

  I didn’t move. “I’d be obliged if you would hear me out first.”

  “Nothing you say could possibly be of interest to me.”

  “Not even the fact that Gertrude Tanner hired me to exterminate the Butchers? Or that she was the one who murdered Everett?”

  That pricked her. She was intrigued despite herself. “How do I know you’re not making that up?”

  “Someone had to hire me or I wouldn’t be here. Someone who could afford my thousand-dollar fee.”

  “My word. You rate yourself highly, don’t you?”

  Her sarcasm stung. “I rate my skills highly. But I don’t walk around with a mirror strapped to my chin, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Skills?” Calista repeated, and laughed me to scorn.

  “Not everyone can core an apple at two hundred yards with a rifle, or twenty-five yards with a revolver. Not everyone can stick a knife in a bull’s-eye nine times out of ten. Not everyone has the patience to lie as still as a log a whole night or day, waiting for a perfect shot.” I confess I was stretching things. With a rifle I was good out to a hundred yards, with a revolver, maybe ten. I much preferred to use the scattergun or the garrote or the knife. “And not everyone can squeeze the trigger when a person is in their sights.”

  “My, my,” Calista sniffed. “You recite all those accomplishments as if they are traits to be proud of.”

  “Do you want to hear about Gertrude or not?”

  “If you insist. But your skills, as you call them, do not inspire much confidence that you will tell the truth.”

  I was about to say I would never lie to her, but that would make me the world’s biggest hypocrite.

  “I’m waiting.”

  I gave her all of it, or nearly all, from the moment I arrived in Whiskey Flats until right then. I left out the part about my feelings for Daisy. I left out that it was me who shot Sissy. I also glossed over the gore.
And I sure as hell left out how I had boiled Phil Tanner alive.

  Calista did not say anything for a spell. When she finally did it was not to accuse me of lying, but rather, “You think you know someone, but you never do. Gerty has always been headstrong. Arrogant, even. But I never suspected she could stoop so low.”

  “Now you know.”

  Calista gave me a peculiar look. “Why did you come here tonight? Why put yourself in danger to see me?”

  “Everyone in town is asleep. I’m not in that much danger.”

  “More than you realize. Those two Texas Rangers are in the room at the far end of the hall.”

  My skin crawled at the blunder I had made. Word was, Rangers slept with one eye open. Sure, it was an exaggeration, but no one ever took them by surprise. It was always the other way around. I put my ear to the door but did not hear anything.

  “So why did you?” Calista was focused on me as if the answer meant a great deal to her.

  “To ask for your help.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “You’re the only real friend I have here,” I said. The only one left, anyway. “I was hoping I could rely on you.”

  Calista smiled a strange little smile. “I thank you for the compliment, but I do not, as a general rule, make it a habit to associate with hired killers.”

  “That was uncalled for.” I was beginning to regret my decision.

  “Fair enough.” Calista leaned back. “Simply because you have me curious, what exactly is it you want me to do?”

  “Help me take care of those two Texas Rangers.” I realized I had worded it wrong when her eyes widened and she went as rigid as a board and came up off the bed as if I had pricked her backside with a needle.

  “How dare you! What manner of man are you that you can possibly think I would help you kill someone?”

  “Slow down,” I said.

  She stormed over to me and poked me in the chest. “Don’t tell me what to do, Mr. Lucius Stark! I am not like you. I can never do what you do. For you to imagine I can is an insult!”

  Her voice was rising. I had to say something quick or she would wake everyone. “I’m not asking you to help me kill them. I’m asking you to help me not kill them.”