The Lawless (15 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-EIGHT

Moses Rice was concerned. “Mist is getting thicker, Miz Kerrigan. I can't see no farther than my hoss's ears.”

“Are we still headed east, Mose?” Kate said, a shadowy figure in the murk.

“I got no way of telling. Even the hosses don't know which way is which.” Moses looked around him. “It sure is quiet though.”

“I've never seen a fog this thick. We'll find a place to shelter until it drifts away. It's going to be dark soon, so the sooner we stop the better.”

“Miz Kerrigan, this is flat country. There ain't a place to shelter, no,” Moses said. “All we can do is git off'n these hosses and sit right where we're at. I'd sure hate to fall into a ravine or some such.”

Although Mose couldn't see her, Kate nodded. “Dismount, Mose. We'll wait it out.”

She and Moses sat together, holding the reins of their horses. Visibility was down to a few yards. With no wind, the mist just hung there, unmoving, surrounding them like mother-of-pearl walls.

The deathly quiet made Moses whisper, “I could sure use a cup of coffee.”

“Didn't they offer you one at the St. James place?”

“No, ma'am. That big feller said he wouldn't give coffee to a nigger man. It's what he said, all right. Left me there with no coffee. Made me feel bad.”

Kate felt a surge of sympathy. “Mose, when we get home you can have all the coffee you want.”

“And them sugar cookies that Miz Salas bakes, huh?”

“All you can eat.”

“Then dang, Miz Kerrigan, I sure wish this fog would lift in a hurry.”

The mist was so thick Moses couldn't see Kate's smile.

Ten minutes later, like a firefly in the mist, Kate saw a lantern bobbing toward them.

“I see it, Miz Kerrigan,” Moses said, his eyes round as coins. “I got my revolver ready.”

Kate stood and slid her Henry from the boot. Fingers of fog clutched at her. Despite the murk, coyotes in the distance yipped their hunger, hunting by smell.

“See anything?” Moses asked quietly.

“Only the lamp. It's coming straight toward us.”

“Evil things in the fog, Miz Kerrigan. Things that ain't for good Christian folks to see.”

“I think we'll see them soon enough, Mose.” Kate waited until the lantern drew closer and was transformed from a firefly into a halo of orange light, then yelled, “Halt! Who goes there?” She turned to Moses. “Silly thing to say, huh?”

She was answered almost immediately. “My name is Marmaduke Tweng and I'm a steam engineer. I have a man with me.”

“Who is he?” Kate called.

“Just a sickly fellow looking for a private space to kill himself.”

“Come on in and don't let me see you with a gun in your hand,” Kate ordered.

Another man's voice spoke. “Lady, in this fog, you couldn't see a fallen star in my hand. Name's Pete Slicer.”

Kate was alarmed. “Are you one of Savannah St. James's gunmen?”

“I was. Now I'm just looking for a place to die.”

“Well, you've chosen the right spot,” Kate said. “Come in slow.”

The light bobbed closer and then the mist parted to reveal a small, gnome-like man in a leather coat and a top hat with goggles on the front of the crown. He carried a lantern at the end of a willow branch that bent under the weight. Beside him, Pete Slicer stood by his horse, the reins in his gun hand.

Slicer bowed. “I'm sorry to intrude, ma'am. But we didn't expect to meet fellow travelers in the fog.”

“Earlier I was at Savannah St. James's locomotive . . . whatever you wish to call it. I believe you saw me there.”

“I don't doubt it,” Slicer said. “I have been sick in my tent from a cancer deep in my belly. The pain has gotten so bad I've decided to end it.”

“I told Mr. Slicer that because of the
Emperor Maximilian
's tendency to bog down in places, I know the lay of the land around these parts,” Tweng said. “I offered to find him a suitable place to self-destruct and promised to say a prayer over his remains.”

Kate was skeptical. “Did Savannah order you to do this?”

“Oh dear, no. Miss St. James has no hold over me. I'm an engineer. I plan to build a steam-engine flying machine that could have carried Mr. Slicer and myself above the fog, but I haven't perfected it yet. Thus, we were forced to set out on foot.” Tweng turned to Slicer. “Shall we continue on our quest?” He consulted the huge iron watch that hung around his neck. “It's almost midnight.
Tempus fugit
and all that.”

“Mr. Slicer, you are no friend of mine, but I will not see a man, even an enemy, blow his own brains out. There is a fine doctor at my ranch. Let Dr. Fullerton examine you before you make a final decision.”

Slicer nodded. “That is most thoughtful, ma'am, but I'm afraid it's too late. The cancer has taken its course.”

“Let the doctor determine that. If she says the cancer has no cure, then you can scatter your brains with my blessing, Mr. Slicer.”

Tweng smiled a wispy smile. “One of the great pleasures in my life is to meet intelligent women. What you say makes a great deal of sense, Mrs. Kerrigan. I toyed with the idea of operating on the patient while he was under the influence of morphine, replacing his cancerous stomach with one made of bronze and glass. I calculated the valves and cogwheel gearing, but the power source still eludes me. How does one make a steam engine the size of a silver dollar? And what about proper lubrication and maintenance?” He shook his head. “For now I implore you to give the doctor a try, Mr. Slicer. You have nothing to lose.”

Kate frowned. “You mentioned my name, Mr. Tweng. Do you know me?”

“We haven't been formally introduced, dear lady, but I provided the steam that warmed the water for your tea. Miss St. James has spoken of you often, Mrs. Kerrigan, and I fear she means you ill.”

“She's made that pretty obvious,” Kate muttered. She turned to Slicer. “What's your decision, Mr. Slicer?”

“When the fog lifts, if I'm still breathing, I'd like to be examined by your doctor.”

Marmaduke Tweng clapped his gloved hands. “Excellent! And now on a more pleasant note I have here”—he reached into the pocket of his leather coat—“an excellent bottle of cider of my own making, a delightful combination of ripe California apples and a steam press. I suggest we all sit down and enjoy this nectar.”

“Not for me,” Slicer said. “Drinking hurts my belly.”

“Give me the bottle,” Kate Kerrigan said, reaching out a hand. “After the day I've had, I could sure use a drink.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-NINE

In the afterglow of his wild mattress time with Savannah St. James, Jack Hickam accepted her order that he check on the Hunt cattle and search the house for anything of value. After that, he was to burn all the ranch buildings so that Kate Kerrigan would not have a refuge should she by bad luck escape the initial slaughter at her place.

“Leave the herd where it is,” Savannah said. “We can't take a chance on the grass around here. It's probably covered in ticks.”

Hickam merely touched his hat brim and nodded. “I'll be back. I hope you'll be looking for me.”

With practiced ease, Savannah smiled. “Of course I will, big boy. I'll count the hours.”

 

 

The fog cleared just before sunup and the morning light that showed the way to the Kerrigan Ranch also lit the trail for Hickam and his four remaining gun hands.

It was way down in the summer and the sun was less hot, the long grass beginning to recapture its greenness. The sky was blue as an upturned Wedgwood bowl and the air, washed clean by the night's mist, smelled of piñón and late blooming wildflowers.

Hickam noticed none of these things. His intent stare was concentrated on the man who stood outside the Hunt ranch house, watching him.

When Hickam rode within hailing distance, the man grinned and called out, “Jack, my ver' good fren'. How good it is to see you again.”

The man was a large Mexican, his sombrero pushed back on his head. A yellow bandana worn over his black ringlets was tied at the nape of his neck. He was dressed in the brocaded finery of a well-to-do vaquero. Two pearl-handed Colts rode his hips and a wallet-sized painting on metal of the holy Virgin of Guadalupe hung by a thick steel chain from his neck.

Hickam drew rein. “Surprised to see you here, Arturo. I heard the Rurales had strung you up in the town square at Veracruz. I heard you died like a pig.”

Arturo Baxa's grin widened. “Then you heard wrong, my fren'.” He shrugged. “For here I am with my compadres.” He waved to the half dozen men standing behind him, their hands close to their holstered guns.”

Hickam nodded. “I see Gustavo Oliveros skulking there. Heard you robbed a bank down Uvalde way last month, Gustavo, and killed a woman teller. She had four young
niños
, or so I was told.”

Oliveros was a tall thin man with dead eyes. “How come I haven't killed you by now, Jack? That is a situation I must remedy as soon as possible.”

“Come, come,” Baxa said. “There is no need for harsh words. We are all compadres here, brothers under the skin. Is that not so, Jack?”

“Whatever you say, Arturo. Why are you here?”

“Cattle,
mi amigo
. Here there are cows for the taking and I will drive them across the border and sell them in Chihuahua or Piedras Negras, maybe so.”

“The cows are mine, Arturo.” Hickam ordered his men to dismount.

“Ah, perhaps a mistake has been made,” Baxa said after a while.

“You made it, Arturo.”

The Mexican thought about that. After a few moments, he said, “Half, Jack. I will take half the cows, and then, as always, we part
buenos amigos
.”

Hickam shook his head. “No deal, Arturo. The cattle stay right here.”

Baxa spat into the dirt. “Jack, you are making Arturo very angry. You are his good fren' and he doesn't wish to be angry with you. We are both banditos, are we not? I will take just two hundred cows.

“You will take nothing, amigo,” Hickam said. “Now you and your boys git on them horses and ride.”

For a moment, it looked like Arturo Baxa would back down. He made a half turn as though he was about to speak to his men, but then his hands dived for his guns.

Jack Hickam was way too fast. He saw the metal plaque on Baxa's chest jump as his bullet went through it. Then a ball burned across his right shoulder and a second cracked close to his ear as Oliveros fired at him. Hickam swung on the man but the four draw fighters were shooting and the Mexican went down. The gunmen kept up a steady fire, their trigger cadence as fast and regular as a snare drum in a regimental band. The tune they played was death and before the smoke cleared six men lay dead on the ground and Arturo Baxa was dying. The only casualty on the American side was Hickam's burned shoulder.

Hickam stepped to Baxa and looked down at the man, but the Mexican seemed not to notice. He held the plaque to his face and stared at it in strange disappointment. Hickam's ball had put a neat hole through the Virgin of Guadalupe. Baxa looked up at Hickam and an incredulous smile touched his bloodstained lips. Then he fell back and died.

“You're hit, Jack,” one of the gunmen said.

“It's a scratch. Round up their horses and guns.” Hickam grinned. “Hell, at this rate we're gonna get rich off dead Messkins.” He looked around at his gunmen. “Anybody see a cow?”

“I did,” a man said.

“How did it look?” Hickam asked.

The man shrugged. “Like a cow.”

“Good, then we've inspected the herd. Now we'll burn this place to the ground and throw Arturo and his boys into the fire. We ain't got time to bury a bunch of damn greasers.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY

“You don't have stomach cancer, Mr. Slicer,” Dr. Mary Fullerton said. “You have a bleeding ulcer that's very far advanced.”

Pete Slicer's face showed relief and anxiety. “And what does that mean, Doc?”

“It means you're going to have to change your behavior if you expect any kind of cure. What do you eat?”

Slicer shrugged. “Whatever I can get.”

“Bacon and beans. Greasy stews. Burned steaks?”

“Yup, all o' them.”

“Alcohol?”

“Sure. Whiskey, rum, gin, beer, whatever is available. Saloons ain't always well-stocked.”

“And you smoke?” Dr. Fullerton asked pointedly.

“Cigars, cigarettes, a pipe, whatever—”

“Is available. Yes, I know.” The doctor's lovely face grew stern. “All that ends of right now, Mr. Slicer. No smoking, no drinking, and you will watch your diet.”

Slicer grinned. “And if I don't?”

“If the ulcer is untreated it can cause severe bleeding and such a hemorrhage can be fatal. An ulcer can also turn cancerous. That will kill you more slowly but much more painfully.” Dr. Fullerton smiled. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Slicer swallowed hard. “What do I do, Doc?”

“I already told you Mr. Slicer. No smoking, drinking, or unhealthy food.”

“Hell, Doc, what do I eat? Begging your pardon for my language.”

“I'll make up a diet sheet for you and you must stick to it. Soft boiled eggs with a little toast, oatmeal—”

“You mean the stuff I feed my hoss?”

“Made with water and salt, oatmeal is quite tasty and you can add milk if you like. Cornmeal mush, custards, plain boiled rice, chicken broth cooked without skin . . . it's all on the diet sheet. And one other thing, Mr. Slicer, you must avoid all worry and anxiety.”

Slicer was incredulous. “Doctor, I sell my gun. You know how worrisome it is to draw down on a man and wonder if he's finally the one that's half a second faster on the draw than me?”

“If you wish your ulcer to heal, then you must avoid those situations,” Dr. Fullerton said. “One thing more. Once you stop drinking and eat properly you'll lose weight, and that is never a bad thing.” She smiled. “That will be two dollars. I'd like to see you again in a week.”

“Doc, you're the only thing standing between me and death,” Slicer said. “I'm not going anywhere. Where can I find a couple boiled eggs?”

“I suppose he's quite good-looking in a rough and ready sort of way,” Kate Kerrigan said to her friend.

“He's a patient, Kate. That's all,” Mary Fullerton said. “And he's one of Savannah St. James's men, remember.”

“The way he's been mooning around your surgery, it seems that Mr. Slicer has turned a new leaf. Not that I trust him.”

 

 

“Slicer, I don't trust you,” Cobb said. “And when I don't trust a man, bad things can happen.”

“Hell, Frank, I'm not even wearing a gun. Doc Fullerton said I have to give up revolver fighting until my ulcer heals.” He took out a large bronze pocket watch that he'd bought from Count Andropov. He consulted the time. “I've been on a special diet now for . . . forty-five minutes.”

“How many men have you killed, Pete?” Cobb asked.

“Too many. Let it go at that.”

“I don't want you around here. I want you far away from the Kerrigan Ranch.”

“That's not how it's gonna be, Frank. I'm staying close to the doctor. She's the only one that can save me.”

“If I decide to kill you, Pete, Mary won't be able to save you.”

“I'm not gonna fight you, Frank.” Slicer's face twisted in pain. “Now you're making me nervous and my ulcer is starting to hurt. Doc Fullerton said that's what would happen.”

Cobb shook his head. “You don't have a nerve in your body, Pete. Now listen up real good because here's how hard times could come down on you. You make any kind of move against Kate Kerrigan, I'll kill you. Make any kind of move against any member of her family, I'll kill you. Make any kind of move—”

“I get the picture, Frank,” Slicer said, irritated. “I don't intend to make any kind of move against anybody.”

“Then see you keep that picture in your head, Pete. I'm not a patient or forgiving man.”

“You won't catch me wearing a gun,” Slicer said.

“I don't care, Pete. Gun or no gun, I'll kill you just the same.”

 

 

“Frank, I saw you talking with Pete Slicer,” Kate said.

“Just passing the time of day, Kate.”

“You don't lie very well, Frank. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I don't trust him,” Cobb said. “He hired on as a gun with Savannah St. James and he runs with Jack Hickam, a man even meaner than he is.”

Kate changed the subject. “I want to talk to you about something, Frank.”

“Does it concern Slicer? If it does, I'll—”

“No, it's not about Slicer. It's about us, all the people here at the ranch. How many gunmen does Savannah St. James have?”

“I don't know. But I reckon what she has are the best.”

“And who do we have?”

Cobb hesitated only a moment. “Me. Trace is good with a rifle and he'll stand. We can depend on Moses Rice and in a pinch Count Andropov, even though he's as crazy as a bedbug. Quinn is young, but he can shoot pretty good. And there's Marco Salas, but he's not gun savvy.”

“And me,” Kate pointed out.

“And you. But I'd rather keep you out of it.”

“If my sons are in the fight, I'll be right with them. Do we stand a chance against hired guns, Frank?”

“No.”

“Then what do we do?”

“You won't like my answer, Kate.”

“Try me.”

“Savannah St. James will be gone come next spring,” Cobb said. We pull out, all of us, and winter in San Antone. Then, in the early summer—”

“We come back and start all over again.”

“Yeah. That's what we do, Kate.”

“Turn tail and run.” She didn't like it one bit.

“That's the way of it. Hurt pride, but still aboveground.”

“I won't do it. I won't cut a hole in the wind, running away from what's mine. I'll stay right here on my own ground and fight, even if it's just me and my sons.”

“That's a helluva thing to say to me, Kate.”

She lowered her head, not wanting Frank to see the tears in her eyes. “I know it is. And I'm sorry, Frank. I didn't mean a word of it.”

Cobb lifted up her chin with his bent forefinger. “We'll stick together and we'll get through this, Kate.”

Kate rubbed her tears away with the back of her hand. “It's the waiting that's getting to me. Having to stand helplessly by until Savannah St. James decides to make her next move.”

“She'll come soon and then one way or another it will be over.”

“When the smoke clears, we'll be the ones still standing. Won't we Frank? I need you to tell me that we'll all be alive.”

Cobb nodded. But he didn't say a word.