Each Time We Love (7 page)

Quite familiar with all the dens of iniquity that comprised
Natchez-under-the-Hill, Micajah quickly made his way to his favorite
haunt. It proved to be a shabby little dram shop named The White Cock,
on the notorious Silver Street, and mostly frequented by corrupt men
like himself. Sidling into a darkened corner, he seated himself at a
small, rickety table and glanced cautiously around the smoked-filled,
dimly lit room. Seeing nothing to alarm him, he settled back to enjoy
the first shot of throat-burning whiskey from the bottle that he had
ordered from the hard-faced slattern who worked as the barmaid.

The White Cock was only half full, and when the doors flew
open a few minutes later, Micajah had a clear view of the two men who
entered. The shorter one in the ragged blue coat and stained leggings
he recognized as a sometime partner-in-crime of his, Jem Elliot, but
the other was obviously a stranger. His clothing alone—elegant,
form-fitting russet jacket, starched cravat and pristine nankeen
breeches— proclaimed him a man of wealth and style, and Micajah's
interest was instantly whetted. Now what the hell is Jem up to with a
gent like that? Micajah wondered as he covertly studied the two men. Is
Jem thinking to cheat him in a card game? Rob him after he gets him
drunk? Or something more interesting?

Elliot, his narrowed hazel eyes missing nothing, gave the room
the same careful scrutiny that Micajah had earlier and saw him in the
corner. He nodded and with the "gent" in tow quickly made his way to
Micajah's table. A toothy grin breaking across his forgettable
features, Jem exclaimed affably, "Micajah! What the hell are you doing
here? Heard you'd gone to try your luck once more with that red-haired
vixen, Savanna." His grin became sly. "Since you're back so soon,
figure she must have thrown you out— again!"

Micajah grunted some reply and motioned Jem and his companion
to join him. Despite the expression of distaste on the face of the
gentleman, both men seated themselves at the table.

Silence reigned until glasses arrived for the two newcomers
and Micajah poured both of them a generous shot from his bottle. The
stranger, his aquiline nose fairly quivering with displeasure, stared
at the dirty glass filled with the amber liquor and snapped under his
breath, "I thought we came here to be private! I told you this was a
delicate
matter."

Elliot flashed a wink at Micajah as he sipped his whiskey.
"Calm down, mister! There ain't no secrets between Micajah and me and
there ain't nothing
delicate
about murder! As a
matter of fact, Micajah here might be just the fellow you're looking
for—has a lot more experience taking care of fellows like your Adam St.
Clair than I have."

Obviously not liking this turn of events, the stranger glared
at the unperturbed Elliot, his supercilious features tightened. Elliot
smiled serenely back, his shaggy brown hair and stubble-covered jaws
making him look even more disreputable than usual. "Ever heard of
Murdering
Micajah?" Elliot asked softly.

The gentleman's green eyes widened and he glanced over at
Micajah, a question in his gaze.

Not without a little pride, Micajah smiled faintly and dipped
his head.

The stranger reached for his glass and in one swift gulp
swallowed the contents. A shudder went through his slim frame as the
fiery whiskey seared its way down his throat. Carefully setting the
glass down, he looked at Micajah and said bluntly, "There is a man I
wish you to, er, remove from my path. He is a wealthy man,
well-thought-of in Natchez and not without powerful connections."

"Adam St. Clair?" Micajah asked, already calculating how much
he could squeeze out of the man for the deed. Afterward, he might even
be able to make the pigeon pay a tidy sum to keep the secret between
them.

The man nodded, his fair hair gleaming faintly in the
flickering light. He glanced around nervously, and seeing that no one
was nearby, he leaned forward and said intently, "I will be willing to
pay you four thousand dollars in gold. Two thousand now and the
remainder when the job is done."

Micajah took a long, slow sip of his whiskey, never revealing
that he was impressed by the sum. "Why do you want him killed?" he
inquired thoughtfully. "Murder's a drastic solution. What'd he do to
you?"

The man's lips thinned. "I don't think that it is any of your
business."

A cold expression in his pale blue eyes, Micajah said flatly,
"Then find someone else to do your killing for you."

The stranger sighed. "There is a woman involved. He has her,
but I don't want him to keep her. It is that simple."

Satisfied with the answer, Micajah poured himself and the
others another whiskey. Raising his glass, he muttered, "Here's to the
demise of Adam St. Clair!"

All three men drank to Micajah's deadly toast. Putting his
glass down on the rough pine table, Yates asked bluntly, "How soon do I
get the money?"

"Don't you want to know anything about him? Where he lives?"
the stranger asked uneasily, suddenly wondering if his money wasn't
simply going to disappear the instant it reached Micajah's grubby hands.

Micajah smiled coldly. "You can tell me all about him once you
tell me how soon I get that two thousand."

"I can arrange for you to have it tomorrow morning," the man
admitted, uncertainty clear in his eyes.

"Good! Meet me at Spanish Lick tomorrow morning at eleven with
the money… and before another week has gone by, your Mr. St. Clair will
be singing with the angels!" Micajah grinned darkly. "Or dancing with
the devil!"

After the stranger departed, Micajah and Elliot sat there
discussing their new employer. Elliot admitted he had never seen him
before, nor did he know his name, but he had the impression that the
man was a stranger to these parts. They speculated on that for a bit
longer, but decided it didn't matter—as long as he paid them the money,
they didn't care who he was! With hardly a pause, they switched the
conversation to the more enjoyable subject of how they would split the
money.

"Fifty-fifty, as usual?" Elliot asked eagerly.

Micajah flashed him an astounded look. "When I have to do all
the work?" he demanded scathingly. "All you did was steer the pigeon to
me!"

Elliot grinned. "Can't blame a man for trying!
Seventy-five/twenty-five?"

"That's better," Micajah said, nodding his unkempt head. "Now
tell me what's been happening while I've been gone."

The two men talked for some time, finishing off the bottle of
whiskey. Eventually they parted, and with a slightly unsteady step,
Micajah began to make his way toward the boardinghouse that he used
whenever he was in the area.

Natchez-under-the-Hill was a dangerous, deadly place, even for
rogues like Micajah and as he half stumbled, half walked down one of
the twisting, narrow alleys, he gradually became aware that someone was
furtively dogging his footsteps. At once he fumbled for his knife and
cursed violently under his breath when he remembered that he had
dropped it at O'Rourke's Tavern. His pistol was in his saddlebag back
at the livery stable, and a film of sweat broke out on his brow as he
realized that he was unarmed and being carefully stalked by someone in
the darkness…

The threat of danger cleared his head instantly and an ugly
light entered his eyes as he clenched his big fists. So someone thought
to take on Murdering Micajah, did he? Well, it wouldn't be the first
time Yates had killed a man with his bare hands.

Craftily deciding to use the element of surprise against the
man who followed him, Micajah spun on his heels and with fists flying
lunged at the slight figure behind him. His massive fists viciously
pummeled the stalker, hitting the smaller man relentlessly in the
stomach and the face.

Caught totally by surprise, the stalker gave a frightened,
pain-filled squawk as those first powerful jabs caught him. Bent nearly
double from the force of the blows that Micajah was raining upon him,
he stumbled backward into the wall of one of the buildings which formed
the narrow alley. Half beseechingly, half protectively, he held his
hands out, but Micajah swept them aside, and grasping the man by the
throat, lifted him upright, then slammed him savagely against the wall.

Fingers digging into the scrawny throat of his one-time
stalker, Micajah breathed malevolently, "Thought to rob me, did you?"

"No! No!" the helpless figure gasped, clawing ineffectually at
the fingers that threatened to close off his breathing. "Jesus Christ,
don't kill me!" he gabbled fearfully. "It's me, Micajah! It's Jeremy
Childers!"

"JEREMY
CHILDERS
!" MlCAJAH EXCLAIMED IN
STUNNED disbelief. "I thought your bones were bleaching on some
godforsaken plain in Texas!" Loosening his stranglehold on the other
man's throat, he muttered disgustedly, "What the hell do you want?"

This wasn't precisely how Jeremy had envisioned his meeting
with Micajah, but, exceedingly thankful that he wasn't dead, he coughed
painfully a few times and rubbed his bruised neck. "Need to talk to
you," he said hoarsely. "Private-like."

Considering how he earned his money, Jeremy's request didn't
rouse any great interest within Micajah—there were always men needing
to talk to him "private-like," men like the stranger tonight. And since
his immediate need for money was going to be met by that same stranger,
Jeremy's words didn't exactly fill him with excitement.

Shrugging his burly shoulders, Micajah turned away and
continued toward the boardinghouse. "Where the devil have you been
these past years?" he finally asked when Jeremy followed him, half
running to keep up with his longer stride. "Thought you and Orval were
going to make your fortune trading horses with the Comanches."

Jeremy grimaced in the darkness. "We were… only Orval got
scalped by the Comanches and I ran into a Spanish patrol and spent my
time since then in a prison down in Mexico."

Micajah glanced back at him. "Talk about bad luck," he
commented unsympathetically. "Told you it was a fool notion at the
time."

They reached the boardinghouse, a small, ramshackle wooden
building which was situated near the river and the livery stable where
Micajah's horse was stabled, but a little distance from the main
cluster of equally shabby buildings that comprised the lower town.
Micajah liked the location since it would allow him a quick exit, and
he had a nice little understanding with both the widow who ran the
boardinghouse and the owner of the stable; they treated him well and he
was willing to pay them equally well for their services or…

The widow Blackstone kept a fairly decent room at the back of
the house, away from the other boarders, ready for him at all times.
Silently Micajah and Jeremy entered the darkened building and made
their way to Micajah's room. The candle that Micajah quickly lit once
they were inside revealed the meager furnishings—a pine chair and
bureau and a bed with a threadbare quilt on it which did little to
disguise the lumpy mattress. A washstand with a tiny cracked mirror
above it and a few hooks on the wall completed the contents of the room.