Showdown (13 page)

Prine knew he'd have to wait for Carlyle to leave before he could talk to Daly. He'd made up his mind for sure now. This was the best way. Straightforward and honest. Maybe Daly would be in a forgiving mood once he knew that Cassie was safe. Prine assumed she hadn't gone back home yet. If she had, they'd have known about it by now.

Carlyle stood up, stretched, yawned. "It's funny that you like sleep the older you get, when that's all you're gonna do after you die."

"Maybe this is like a warm-up," Daly said. "Learnin' how to sleep for longer periods of time."

Prine managed to make a joke. "It sure is a lot of fun hanging around with you two. What're you going to talk about next? Somebody getting his innards cut out?"

"The lad thinks we're morbid, Sheriff," Carlyle said.

"Hell, he already knew that. The tales we tell around here . . ."

"Yeah," Carlyle said, "and at least half of them are true." He tapped a piece of paper. "Note here says Riley's hardware was broken into last night. Guess I better get over there and listen to Riley tear me a new one about how law 'n' order's goin' to hell in this town."

"Just remind Riley that when those twins of his get going, they're responsible for most of the arrests on Saturday night," Daly said. "Damned animals."

Carlyle went over, scooped his hat from its peg, cinched it on, and said, "You'll probably hear Riley shoutin' from two blocks away."

The time was here.

Prine's bowels felt cold and sick. His stomach burned. This wasn't going to be easy. He started to speak, but then the door opened and the woman from the courthouse, Emma Hampton, peeked in and placed a copy of today's court docket on Daly's desk. He'd missed a few appearances over the years. The judges decided it was best to give him a copy of the daily docket. That way it wouldn't ever happen again. And, to date, it hadn't.

After she was gone, Prine stood up and walked over to Carlyle's desk. If he parked himself on its corner, he had a good straight view of Daly.

Daly was writing furiously. He despised paperwork. The scratching of his pen tip had a violent sound to it. Prine knew better than to interrupt him. Daly didn't look up once.

Finally, he set his pen down and said, "This had better be good. Man has a hell of a time concentrating when somebody's hanging off the corner of his eye the way you were."

"It's good, all right," Prine said. "Too good, actually."

For the first time—probably more because of his tone of voice than his words—Daly looked interested. "Somethin's been gnawin' on you these past few days. Probably a good thing to talk it out, lad."

Prine had been all ready to go. To state his case simply. Not to offer any excuses. Not to play for any sympathy. Simple and straightforward.

But when he opened his mouth to speak, he spoke only silence.

"You all right, Tom?"

That was all he had time to say, because just then the door popped open and Wyn Grover, who owned the livery, said, "Stu Byner's just pullin' into town in his wagon, Sheriff. You better come take a look at what he's bringin'."

Grover, a slender man given to drama—he was legendary for tearing into the town council for not much reason at all—wasn't the sort to explain himself. He liked keeping a mystery about things.

If Daly and Prine wanted to see what Stu Byner was bringing to town, then they'd just have to damned well step outside and take a peek.

Prine heard wagon brakes creak outside in the street. Stu Byner jumped down off his seat right away and went around to the back of the wagon.

By this time, Prine and Daly were hurrying out the door and over to the wagon. Byner waited until the lawmen were beside him. He said, "It ain't pretty, Sheriff."

He pulled back a ratty red blanket he'd thrown over the body. There were a number of different ways they could have killed her. They'd chosen just about the worst. They'd cut her throat.

A lurid dark red snake of deep slashes and crusted scabbing stretched over three quarters of her neck. Her hands were mournful expressions of her last few moments—bloody gashes where the knife had cut them as she held them up for protection. He hadn't realized before, not until he'd seen it in the clear morning sunlight, just how elegant the bones of her face were. Or had been. Her blood-smeared and bruised cheeks were garish with death now.

She wore the white blouse and butternuts she'd worn last night. Her body was still dusty and dirty.

She was bled white, as if a thousand leeches had been set upon her.

All Prine could think of was that he could have saved her life. He could have saved her life.

F
or an hour that morning, Daly, Carlyle, and Prine lived in an another dimension. The dimension of anxious waiting. They stayed inside the sheriff's office, not wanting to go out and answer questions the crowd was sure to ask. They drank coffee and smoked and didn't say much to each other. They dreaded what lay ahead.

A horseman had been dispatched to Neville's place. He carried a note from the sheriff informing him of the death of his sister and informing Neville that the three lawmen were waiting for him at the sheriff's office.

"Wonder how he'll be," Carlyle said.

"You can't ever tell with him," Daly said. "Time somebody burned down his barn, he got so angry I thought he was going to have a heart attack. Wouldn't take any help from me or anybody else. Not even his own men. Went after the man himself. And caught him, too. Brought him back thrown over a horse. Went to the county attorney personally and made sure the man got the maximum penalty the county attorney could put on him."

"But then there was the other time when somebody robbed his old man on the stage road," Carlyle said. "You imagine that, Tom? Havin' the brass to rob old man Neville himself? He was all alone in his buggy and headed home, and this punk came out of nowhere and robbed him. Took everything but his britches. And young Neville stayed so calm, I thought somethin' was wrong with him."

"You're forgettin' the other end of that story," Daly said.

"Oh? What other end?"

"The punk goes to prison, and he's in there maybe two weeks when he gets into it with this other convict. Guy beats him to death with his fists. But guess what? They find a knife on the punk, and the convict says that the punk attacked him and he was only actin' in self-defense. I talked to the warden a couple years later, and he said he knew damned good and well that the knife had been planted on the punk after he was dead but that he couldn't do anything about it. All the cons, they stuck up for the killer. The warden said that he learned later that every man in that particular cell block had gotten twenty dollars to go along with the story about the punk havin' the knife. And guess who put up the money? The warden couldn't prove that, either, but he said it was Richard Neville for sure."

Then Daly and Carlyle fell to speculating about how many men would be with Neville when he came to town. They seemed to agree that he would bring most of his ranch hands. They knew the terrain. They were good shots. And Neville was sure to keep them keen with the promise of a large reward for the two, dead or alive.

Prine took it all in. Listening, assessing. Had Cassie told Tolan and Rooney that Tom had been there and wanted to take her back? If she had, then they would surely tell Neville this when they were captured. And then the questions would be asked about why Tom hadn't brought her back. He'd have to tell Daly and Neville the truth—that she was part of it. And he would have to make a convincing case for himself—that he'd been out looking for her when he happened to see a lantern flash in the abandoned farmhouse. And that she wouldn't come back to town with him. But how would he explain that he hadn't gone straight to Daly when he'd come back to town? There was only one way. To protect Cassie, he had to let the faked kidnapping play out.

Would Neville believe him? Would Neville hold him responsible for her death? Would Neville have him taken care of the way he'd had the punk in prison taken care of?

Daly and Carlyle went on talking about the various reactions Richard Neville had had to bad moments in his life. One thing became clear. You didn't defeat Richard Neville. Never. He had the intelligence and the money and the time to find you and crush you. He also had the will to do it.

Prine cursed his damned dumb dream. . . .

Why hadn't he stuck with Lucy? Why did he always have to be so big and important in his own mind? Why did he have to prove and prove and prove again that he really was this important man?

Fear. Fear and confusion. And all because he'd had this damned dumb dream of marrying a rich girl and launching himself on a lifetime of gentried pleasure.

Fear and confusion. He felt young and foolish; and yet he also felt old and mean and smart enough to know that he would take great satisfaction in killing Tolan and Rooney when he finally caught up with them.

A
lone horse and rider came into town just before noon. The rider didn't seem to be in any particular hurry.

The first man to see the rider jumped up on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff's office and started pounding. "He's here! He's here, Sheriff!"

By this time, most of the crowd had dispersed, gone back to their lives. But there were always a few stragglers who found the lives of others—particularly if they involved tragedy—far more interesting than their own.

None of the lawmen went out to greet Neville. Daly figured he'd resent them pouncing on him. Let him take his own time walking in.

They could hear him tying his horse to the hitching post outside, hear him on the sidewalk, hear him pushing open the front door, the hinges of which had developed a faint squeak in the past few days.

The dark suit. The white shirt. The black hat. Standard attire for Richard Neville. But the two Colts strapped gunny-wise across his hips weren't standard at all. Nor was the harsh, cold look of the face. The eyes that had always reflected his slight air of superiority now reflected nothing the three men had ever seen before. Whatever it was, it fitted with the guns he wore.

He offered no greeting. He said, "Where's my sister's body, Sheriff?"

"Over at the mortuary."

"I figured. Somebody from the ranch will be in this afternoon to make arrangements. He'll also tell the monsignor what we want."

"We're all sorry about this, Richard."

"That's fine. I know you're sincere. And I appreciate it. But it doesn't help what I feel inside."

"We've got a pretty good idea who they are."

"I've got a better idea than that, Sheriff. The ranch hand who was with Cassie when they kidnapped her spotted them in town yesterday. Recognized one of them and then started asking about them. Tolan and Rooney are their names."

"That's who we're looking for, too, Richard. Tolan and Rooney. I was waiting for you to get here so you could lead part of the posse if you wanted to."

Neville set his black-gloved hands on the handles of his Colts. "No posse, Sheriff. This is something for just a couple of men. Knowing their kind, they're holed up somewhere drinking. Whoring. They didn't get the money they wanted, and now they're wanted for murder. So they're going to be scared, too. All that plays just right for us."

"You sure you don't want a posse, Richard?"

Neville looked at Prine. "I just want your deputy to ride with me. He's a good shot, and he knew Cassie slightly. That gives him a little bit of a stake in this. That all right with you, Prine?"

Prine, in his state of mind—fear and confusion—wondered if Neville knew about his role in the kidnapping. Not reporting it, then Cassie dying—what if he knew? What if this was a trap of some kind? But he quickly answered, "Sure. I'll leave whenever you want to."

"Let's go right now."

"Get yourself some extra rifle rounds," Daly said. He obviously didn't approve of Neville's plans, but he wasn't about to try and stop the man. His sister had been killed. He had first dibs on how they went after her killers. Plus—and there was always this plus with the Neville family—he was the most powerful man in this area of the state.

Prine got himself ready. He dug out his Bowie knife and scabbard, his field glasses, and his saddle roll. He took thirty extra Winchester rounds.

"In case we don't run up against them," Neville said as Prine was gathering up his extra gear, "you tell the newspaper to print up a hundred fliers saying there's a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for anybody who brings them in dead or alive. But I think you know the way I'd prefer them to come back to town."

"I sure do, Richard," Daly, ever the Neville enthusiast, said. "I sure do."

Prine went out and got his horse ready and his canteen filled, then spoke to a couple of deadbeats who still hadn't sucked enough excitement from the fruit of this wonderful moment when a beautiful rich girl went and got herself killed.

Neville came out then. The deadbeats asked him something Prine didn't hear. Neville didn't try and placate them at all. He just scowled at them and brought his horse around with such force that the deadbeats were forced to jump out of the way.