The Lawless (16 page)

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-ONE

Hack Rivette had murdered three people since Frank Cobb had run him off the Kerrigan Ranch. He was lying on his belly on the grass, contemplating killing another.

The big man who went in and out the door of the strange steam carriage seemed to be the bull of the woods. And the way the shapely woman in the scarlet robe fawned on him confirmed that impression.

The woman herself made Rivette's mouth water. His needs were few and simple—he wanted the woman in the scarlet robe and all that went along with her.

The money he'd netted from killing the preacher and his wife up near Fort Worth was all spent. In Johnson County, he'd shot a sodbuster off his horse and found just eighty cents in his pockets. He'd later sold the horse to a slaughterer for five dollars. Hard times all right. But Rivette figured things were shaping up.

He rose and untied his horse from a mesquite bush. He dusted himself off and climbed into the saddle. It was time to make his move and whatever came next could only be a change for the better.

A pistol fighter looking for work?
Jack Hickam watched the big man ride closer and decided that was the case. Bad times were coming down all over West Texas and Reconstruction had cast up a tide of flotsam and jetsam. The huge, uncurried brute with the belt gun was obviously one of them.

A careful man, Hickam called out his boys and waited for the rider to get closer. He spoke when the rider reined in. “Howdy,”

Rivette nodded, not liking what he saw.
Hell, does this part of Texas grow nothing but draw fighters?

“Looking for work? Name's Jack Hickam. I do the hiring around here.”

Hell's fire, more bad news.
Jack Hickam had a big rep and was a gun to be reckoned with. Rivette decided he'd better back up and talk pretties. “Yes, sir, looking for work.” He grinned. “They call me Hack Rivette and I've been riding the grub line this past three-month. I'm feeling mighty gaunt.”

Hickam's eyes flicked to the Colt on the big man's hip. It was well cared for, with a long Texas barrel and expensive leather. “You're carrying iron, Mr. Rivette. Can you do anything with it?”

“I get by,” Rivette said. “I was fast enough to put the crawl on Frank Cobb a spell back.”

Hickam shook his head. “Never heard of the gent.”

“He's a gun. Or at least he thinks he is.”

“Plenty of them around.” Hickam nodded, making up his mind. “Light and set. Two hundred dollars when the job is done. There's bacon and beans in the pot over by the tents and horse lines.”

“What's the job?” Rivette asked.

“You'll find out soon enough.”

 

 

“I saw him through the window and didn't like the look of him. Is he to be trusted?” Savannah St. James asked Hickam.

“Yeah, I think he's to be trusted, and if you didn't like the look of him neither will Kate Kerrigan. With all that hair and beard, he'd scare any woman. Besides, if he don't work out, I'll kill him.”

He and Savannah lay in bed, a foldout cot that doubled as a sofa. Naked as a seal, her hair damp with sweat, Savannah watched the rise and fall of Hickam's hairy chest as he breathed and she smelled the rank odor of the man. Marmaduke Tweng had constructed a network of jointed steam pipes under the mattress to heat the bed in winter. But in the waning days of summer they were not needed. The interior of the
Emperor Maximilian
was hot and close and Savannah was irritable.

“I've reached a decision,” she said.

“What's that?” Hickam asked.

“Kate Kerrigan has lived long enough. I'm going to end it.”

“Just set the day.” Hickam grinned. “I'm looking forward to it.”

Savannah's arms waved in the air like snakes. “Yesss! We strike and then there's no more prissy, stuck-up Mrs. Kerrigan and her spawn. I'm sure she dyes her hair, you know.”

Hickam leaned up on an elbow. “When do we go, Savannah?”

“Sunday. I'm sure we can catch her on her knees praying and that is just so exquisite. Then she's all yours, Jack.”

“Two days from now. That sets just fine with me. You won't be jealous if you see me use another woman?”

“Not so long as you kill her afterward.”

“You got no worries on that score.” Hickam flexed the thumbs and fingers of his huge hands. “Just leave that to me.”

Savannah smiled. “That's why I love you so much, Jack. You're so . . . so masterful.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-TWO

Moses Rice saw Kate Kerrigan in the little cemetery on the rise behind the cabin and was troubled. She stood very still and stared west, her red hair and bright green skirt streaming in the high wind.

Terrible dreams had disturbed Moses's sleep the last few nights and he'd wakened in the darkness very much afraid, the dying coals of Marco Salas's forge casting a scarlet hell-light around him. Should he tell Miz Kerrigan that in his dream, he'd seen her dead body and the bodies of her children and that the wheels of a great machine that belched steam crushed them into the ground? It had been a dreadful dream.

Moses stood undecided about what to do. Miz Kerrigan was still on the rise and maybe she should know. She had the gift, as he did, but maybe her dreams were more pleasant and that would reassure him. His mind made up, he walked toward the rise. He had the reassuring weight of the Colt's Dragoon in his waistband and the white clouds that scudded across the blue sky were a good sign. But still, he carried a heavy burden and the memory of the dreams gave him no peace.

Kate heard footsteps behind her. She turned and smiled. “Mose, what are you doing up here?”

“Saw you, Miz Kerrigan, but I didn't want to disturb you, no.”

“You're not disturbing me, Mose.” Her eyes searched his face. “But you look troubled and you brought your pistols.”

Mose stared at his shuffling feet. “I'm having bad dreams, Miz Kerrigan. I see everybody, all of us, dead.”

Kate said nothing.

“You have the gift. Have you dreamed a terrible dream?”

Kate smiled and took the black man's hand. “Yes, I've had dreams and like you I've seen things. There, where the cabin stands, I saw a great mansion with four white pillars outside. I've seen gardens around the house and fat cattle in the pastures. I see my sons grown to manhood, tall and straight, and my daughters as pretty as a field of bluebonnets. And I see you, Mose, in an armchair on the porch telling my grandchildren what the land was like in the olden days when Texas was wild. I see all those things and I will make then happen, Mose. And you will help me.”

“Is that really how it's going to be, Miz Kerrigan, just like you dream it?”

“Yes, Mose. That's exactly how it will be.”

Moses considered that. “I don't think I'll have bad dreams no more, Miz Kerrigan.”

Kate smiled. “Let's go back to the cabin and get some coffee.”

Marco Salas stepped out of his shop and called to Kate and Moses before they entered the cabin. “I have something to show you, Mrs. Kerrigan.”

She stepped into the shop and Marco waved to an object that stood behind the forge. “What do you think?”

“What is it?” Kate asked.

“It's a cannon, Mrs. Kerrigan.”

“It's a small cannon,” Moses said.

Marco shrugged. “Well, I only had so much iron.”

The black cannon barrel was about three feet long, banded by three shining steel hoops. Brass cogwheel gears cranked by a wooden handle apparently adjusted for elevation and the cannon itself was fixed to a round iron platform about the size of a large dinner plate, though it was at least three inches thick. Inlaid into the barrel were the ornate brass initials
KR
.

“This is what the cannon fires, Mrs. Kerrigan.” Marco dropped a heavy iron ball about the size of a walnut into her hand. “Thanks to Count Andropov, I have gunpowder and fuse,” the blacksmith said. “But only enough for one shot.”

“You haven't tested it?” Kate asked.

“No. The count had only a little piece of fuse in his wagon.” He grinned. “But I don't need to test the cannon. I will shoot it against our enemies.”

“Marco, make sure you stand well back if you ever try to touch that thing off,” Kate cautioned.

“It is a fine cannon,” Marco said. “See, it says KR on the barrel for Kerrigan Ranch, and that means it won't fail.”

Despite her misgivings, Kate smiled. “Thank you, Marco. It is indeed a fine cannon.”

On their way to the cabin Moses said, “I think that is a dangerous thing Marco has built.”

Kate nodded and smiled. “Thank God we'll never have to use it.”

“Well, maybe next Independence Day,” Moses said.

“No. Not even then,” Kate said positively.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-THREE

“The woman lives,” Hack Rivette said. “I want her.”

“Miss St. James wants her dead and that's the name of that tune,” Jack Hickam said. “You don't agree, Rivette, then get on your horse and ride.”

Rivette sat in a tent with Hickam and the four Texas guns. He knew it was not the time to push, but he asked, “Who gets her, the St. James woman?”

“She's mine,” Hickam said. “You stay away from her.”

“Hell, we should all get a taste.” Rivette looked around at the guns, seeking their approval, but they avoided eye contact.

“Leave Savannah be or I'll kill you, Rivette.” Hickam's eyes telegraphed his thoughts. He was ready to draw if he had to.

Rivette read the signs and said, “I made a joke, Jack. That was all.”

Hickam's eyes didn't change any. “Then see you don't make another one. And the Kerrigan woman is mine, at least for a while. You can have her after I finish.”

“And then kill her?”

“Yeah. And then you kill her.”

“A big waste, Jack. Kill a fine-looking gal like that.”

“It's what Savannah St. James wants. How many times do you need to hear that?”

Rivette shrugged. “I got your drift.”

Hickam took a swig from the bottle the men in the tent had been passing around. “Go check the horse lines, Rivette. There are still Comanches about.”

“Why me?” Rivette asked churlishly.

“Because you're the new man and you haven't proved yourself. Now git and do what you're told.”

Hack Rivette stepped out of the tent on a slow burn. He knew he couldn't shade Hickam on a drawdown, but he planned to kill the man and take his woman.
Women,
he corrected himself. That thought made him grin.

He had no intention of walking up and down the horse lines. He wandered close to the
Emperor Maximilian
hoping for a glance of Savannah St. James. The woman was not in sight, but a little man in a leather coat and top hat with goggles in front stood at the rear of what Rivette considered the railroad car. “What the hell are you?”

The little man straightened up. He held the brass handle of a wooden bucket in his hand. “I'm a steam engineer. My name is Marmaduke Tweng.”

“Who the hell has a name like that?” Rivette said, deciding to take out his viciously bad mood on the little gnome.

“I do,” Tweng said. “My name dates back five hundred years to the First Baron Tweng, a soldier of great distinction in the Scottish Wars of Independence. He fought on the English side, of course, since his name was not Marmaduke MacTweng.” He smiled. “A little steam engineer humor there.”

“Like I give a damn.” Rivette nodded to the bucket. “What you got in your poke?”

“Charcoal for the furnace. The
Emperor Maximilian
will be on the move Sunday—”

“That's the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes it is. Very good. I'm firing up the furnace to heat the boiler for the steam, and though charcoal is in short supply around these parts, I can use mesquite in a pinch. It burns very hot and clean but is quite difficult to ignite.”

“How come you got all them big pocket watches on your coat?” Rivette asked. “You're a strange cove and no mistake.”

Tweng smiled and pointed to his watches one by one. “Austin . . . New York . . . London . . . Berlin . . . Peking . . . and Melbourne, Australia. When I manufacture my steam-powered flying machine, I'll need to know times around the world.”

Rivette's big hands bunched into fists. “Flying machines? What the hell are you talking about? You trying to make a fool out of me? I'm gonna beat that smile off your face, you little runt.”

“No, you won't.”

Rivette turned and saw Savannah standing outside the
Emperor
, the door behind her ajar. She held her gold-plated Remington derringer in her hand.

The big man grinned. “Hell, missy, I was just gonna have a little fun.”

“Mr. Tweng is my steam engineer and I set store by him. Now be off with you.” She wore a wasp-waisted leather corset that left little to the imagination.

Rivette walked toward her, grinning. “Maybe it's time you and me sat down for a little talk, missy.”

Savannah raised the derringer to eye level. “I believe I can put two shots into your face at this range. You want to roll the dice, mister?”

Hack Rivette was a bully and a braggart, but there was no bottom to him, no real sand. He knew the woman could do exactly as she said and had probably done it before. “You go to hell.” He turned on his heel and walked away, his face working. Now he had another score to settle.

“Mr. Tweng, are you quite all right?” Savannah called.

“Just fine,” Tweng said, waving a hand.

Savannah smiled. “Maybe I should have shot him.”

Tweng nodded. “Maybe you should have, at that.”