Crossings (41 page)

“Three.”

“Horace?”

“One.”

“Ike?”

“Four.”

“Four,” the dealer laughed over the jingle of spurs as feet were crossed at the ankles. Carrigan's gaze had lowered to the floor where the man had moved his legs. Now, lifting his eyes level with the tabletop, he was disappointed he still couldn't see a face. “You might as well fold right now, Ike.”

Ike shook his head and began arranging his cards.
Carrigan took a pacifying drink of coffee before inhaling on his smoke. He couldn't explain it, but his fingers were tingling. Itching with a kind of antsiness he hadn't felt since he was down in Mexico looking through the sight of his rifle waiting for the enemy to advance. He'd felt it then, and not many times since, this indication of impending danger. Back then, he'd also felt a fear of being sucked up, much as one does before a tornado strikes. Only this time, the premonition wasn't a signal that he could be swallowed whole or had to ward off would-be attackers. The instinct was to attack. That man talking. Carrigan felt it. Running deep inside. He knew him. Had been waiting on him for some time.

Carrigan put his hand on his gun, slowly removed the weapon, and, without causing undue interest toward himself, checked the chambers. He knew there'd be six bullets. Always was. But he had to make sure before reholstering the Colt .44.

Hooking his finger around the handle of his cup, he drank his coffee. And waited. To make certain that the man with the drawl was indeed the one.

“Full house, tens high,” the dealer announced while slapping his cards on the table. Carrigan still couldn't see his face, but if he slid over toward the left, he could make out a shoulder encased in a black shirt with embroidery.

“Out.”

“Me, too.”

“You win again.”

“Your game,” was the stilted remark of the fourth. “I'd rather play faro for a while.”

“Now, why would I want to buck the tiger when I'm on a hot streak with poker?” As the dealer rose, spurs made a noise like the bartender's tips being plunked in ajar. “Got to take a whiz, boys. Back in a minute.”

Carrigan tensed tighter than bed ropes. But he didn't move a muscle as the man slipped out the back door to use the privy in the alley.

Seaton Hanrahan had taken to sporting a new look. Slick and sophisticated was the attempt, but the end result was not. He'd parted his hair in the middle and festooned his bangs into two distinct spit curls that were like commas facing each other over his sandy brows. His clothing was flashy, the boots new, but the cocky voice was there, and the high-crowned hat. That same black hat banded with snakeskin he'd been looking for in Genoa with no luck.

Draining the coffee from his cup, Carrigan stood and walked quietly to the table.

“Gentlemen.” He put a finger to his hat and tipped the brim. “Have you got room for one more?”

Several shrugged. “Why not?”

Carrigan slid a hardwood chair away from the table behind him, brought it directly across from Hanrahan's vacant one, and took a seat. “What are you playing?”

“Poker,” Newt advised. He was spindly as a fencing post, with a toothpick rolling at the corner of his mouth.

“A good game.”

The one named Horace, who had a buckshot hole in his stovepipe hat, remarked, “For Hanrahan, not us, this evening.”

“He'll come back, won't he, so I have a chance against him?” Carrigan asked, lighting another smoke. He would have gone after Hanrahan if he'd thought Seaton would quit while he was ahead. But men like him never learned to walk away when the pot was theirs.

“He'll come back,” Vern, with his heavily oiled hair and thick fingers marked up by scrapes and bruises, supplied. “He's here every night. The whole livelong night.”

“Bum a smoke, mister?” Newt mooched.

Carrigan obliged and was just twisting off the ends when Seaton returned, still buttoning the fly of his trousers, those little iron clogs and chains of his spurs
jingling with every step. When he looked up and saw Carrigan at the table, he stopped dead in his tracks. Then a slow smile crept over his mouth.

He snorted, “Well I'll be a sumbitch, if it isn't Carrigan.”

Carrigan's unmoving gaze held Seaton's. “Small world.”

“It is indeed.”

Seaton's hand fell to the back of his chair just before he yanked the legs out. The metal end-grip of his pistol caught in the light of Newt's flared match. Carrigan's eyes took in the handsomely carved .32, his gut burning much like that flame that lit Newt's cigarette. Seaton had his gun. The gun that had been missing from his cabin after he'd been shot.

If there had been any doubt in Carrigan's mind as to who had pulled the trigger on him, it was blown up in the smoke clouding the barroom. Hanrahan had knocked him down in cold blood and left him to freeze up like a water pump in the dead of winter.

“You two know each other?” Ike frowned. “Ain't going to be any funny business, is there?”

“Hell no,” Carrigan assured, crushing his cigarette in the bowl of butts off to Horace's side. Glasses of drinks, full and empty, left water rings on the ash-strewn table covering. He hadn't had a drink since that night at his cabin after the fire when he'd had that horrible dream, and he didn't plan on starting up again. But if he were of a mind to take a drink in hand, now would be that time. But Carrigan wanted to stay stone-cold sober.

As Seaton slouched into his chair, Carrigan wanted to know, “What happened to that .36 you used to arm yourself with?”

“Got stolen.” His brown eyes were full of unintimidated swagger. “Had to get me this new one here. You like it?”

“Used to have one myself. Exactly like that. Mine got stolen, too.”

“Damn shame. Thieves ought to be hanged. Every last one.”

Carrigan's voice was as dry as a bourbon cork. “Or be shot.”

Seaton gave off a single guffaw before taking up the cards and dealing out six hands. “I've always liked a good shooting myself. Ain't been one in Carson tonight that I know of.” He began sorting his five cards. “Yet.”

“Night's still young,” Carrigan said offhandedly.

The men played cards for close to two hours, the hard liquor continuing to come to the table on the barkeep's circular tray. Carrigan stuck to black coffee, taking heckles from Seaton about him being too sissified to splash back rotgut like a real man. He was being baited, and he knew it. But Carrigan wasn't going to snap over some two-bit insult.

“Ante up,” Seaton harped as he dug into his pockets for more money. He flipped several pieces of silver into the pot with the blunt nail of his thumb. Carrigan wouldn't have paid the half dime any attention if there hadn't been etchings on it just below the flag. When he leaned forward slightly to study the coin closer, Seaton slapped his palm over the Lady Liberty just as Carrigan had made out the inscription.

“That's my lucky coin. Not going to give that up. It's my Jesus-God coin.” He slipped the half dime back into the slash of his pocket and pulled out a wad of small bills.

“Jesus-God? You don't strike me as a devout man, Hanrahan.”

“Never said I was. It's the initials on the coin's face. J for Jesus and G for God. That sure as hell is a sign from above. Haven't had me any bad luck since I got it.”

Carrigan kept his features deceptively calm, but his heart was pumping with the squeeze of a fist. There was a suggestion of something deeper, more sinister, surrounding Hanrahan than a bullet through
Carrigan's chest. It was pointing to another murder. A murder that was senseless and criminal, and had torn a family in two. Hanrahan could have been August Gray's killer. Carrigan was almost certain of it. That coin had the letters J.G. Helena had told him about the half dime. Told him that August had scratched her mother's initials on the face as a commemorative to their first sale. Hanrahan had the coin. Sure, he could have come by it secondhand. But secondhand wouldn't be a prize or lucky to a man who hadn't gone through a cash box in search of trinkets. Coming by the coin accidentally would be ordinary, and wouldn't encourage a second look before passing it on again.

“Where'd you get your Jesus-God coin?” Carrigan questioned.

“Picked it up somewhere in Genoa.” His mouth turned up on one side into a warped smile. “In Gray's store, as a matter of fact.”

That Seaton wouldn't lie only made Carrigan more set on killing him. It was coming down to that. A killing. There was no other way.

“We going to play cards, or are you two going to jaw all night?” Horace whined.

Carrigan didn't want to play poker. He hadn't since he sat down. “I'm finished playing games.”

Seaton took a cigar from his breast pocket. He stuck the cheroot between his lips and flamed the end. Puffing, he tapped the deck of cards. “Think I'm finished, too.”

“You're finished,” Carrigan countered, but Seaton didn't flinch. “I want to know where you got that .32.”

“I think you know the answer to that.” He indolently leaned against the back of his chair and blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “When I'm done with this seegar, I'm going to have to kill you, Carrigan. This time there's nobody around to patch you up. Your girlie is in Genoa all by her lonesome. Imagine
she's going to need some consoling when she hears what happened to you.”

Carrigan didn't lower his hand to grip his gun. As long as Seaton's were both in view, he wasn't going to make any moves.

Newt, Horace, Ike, and Vern started scooting their chairs back by long inches until they were up on their feet and heading toward the protection offered behind the bar. They stood there with their mouths agape. The bartender reached under the counter and took out a burly rifle.

“Ain't going to be no trouble in my place.” He put his hand across the stock.

“No trouble, a'tall, Remie.” Hanrahan swallowed a gulp of whiskey. “I'm just sitting here.”

“And blowing a lot of smoke,” Remie shot back.

Carrigan began counting seconds in his head. Two and a half to draw, one to fire, one for impact. That hand-bored .32 had a stiff trigger when the workings weren't oiled properly, and leaned a hairsbreadth toward the left when fired. All told, when the user knew what he was doing, from holster to impact took six seconds. That was, if the gun wasn't performing properly. If Hanrahan had taken care of it, the time was cut to five. He'd have the man up by a half second. Not too damn much when the end result was a slam in the chest with a shell of lead.

“Since you seem set on killing me,” Carrigan said to Seaton's affirmative nod, “you might as well tell me why you killed August Gray.”

Hanrahan didn't even blink or try and cover his tracks. “Never meant to, but he was threatening me. Said he'd get that Sharps off the wall above the door and hunt me down. Knew who I was even though I wore a scarf.” Hanrahan took short puffs on the cigar. “Supposed to be a robbery to scare them. Make that girlie run to the boss for help. He tried to take my gun away, so I shot him. But things don't always work out, do they? Like tonight. You was probably thinking to
sit a spell, have some muddy water, play a little cards, never thinking that tomorrow you'd be laid out on the undertaker's table.”

“What makes you so sure it'll be me and not you?”

“I'm good.” He tapped the ash onto the floor. “I got you once before. No problem.”

“So you did.” Carrigan was wasting away the time, getting Hanrahan to talk. “Who's the boss?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” he chuckled. “I'm not stupid. Never going to get that out of me.”

Carrigan's eyes narrowed. “I suppose I would, but whoever you're working for isn't too bright. He's gone and hired you.” Seaton's confidence cracked. “You're nothing but a screwup, Hanrahan. You didn't pull the robbery off right—you said so yourself. Didn't succeed in getting rid of Gray's horses, either. Did you?”

“I sure as hell did succeed. They all got out, didn't they?”

“Yeah, but I got them back.”

“You should have been hanged.”

“Kimball wanted it that way. Said he saw me.” Carrigan kept a close watch on Seaton to make sure he didn't do any sudden moves. “Now, how in the hell do you suppose he could have mistaken you for me? I'm a lot bigger than you.”

“Not stronger. I could whip your ass if we were to fight.”

Carrigan shrugged, unimpressed. “Kimball tell you to go kiss Helena Gray? Make her want to run to him if you pretended like you were going to rape her?”

“I never had to rape no woman in all my life. The judge isn't so smart as he thinks.” Hanrahan lifted his glass to his lips. “Thinks he knows how to handle women. I could have told him she wouldn't go to him. He's too old for her, but he said he had to have that one.”

“You were working for Bayard Kimball.”

“I was . . . ah, shit.” Lowering his glass, Seaton took a taste of his cheroot again. “What the hell
difference does it make if you know it was Kimball or not? You're a dead man come the next few minutes anyway.”

“Ike! Horace!” Remie shouted, his rifle raised to his beefy shoulder. “You go get the vigilante committee. Tell them to get their butts over here. Now! We got big trouble.” Then to Seaton. “I'm telling you, Hanrahan, I don't want no shootings in my place. That wallpaper come from Salt Lake, and I ain't putting up a new piece if you put a hole in it.”

“Don't you worry about your wallpaper, Remie. The bullet'll be stopped by his heart.”

Carrigan didn't find Hanrahan's boastful picture amusing. It was all going to be over, but not for him. Dueling wasn't one of his sports, but that's what this was going to end up being. There'd be no paces to walk. Face-to-face, each of them would draw his gun and fire. It was a cold-blooded way to be on the offense, but Carrigan saw no other choice. He'd never killed a man while looking into his eyes. Watching the life being blown out of a body. It wasn't going to be something he'd relish, but alternate options weren't on his menu. When he thought of Helena, what she'd been through because of Bayard, Carrigan knew he had to do this. To kill Seaton and get back to Genoa to tell Helena how she'd been deceived by that bastard judge. How they'd both been deceived by him.