The Sapphire Gun (13 page)

Rosa turned to look once more at her partner. “Once those dead lawmen are found, the rest will be coming after us.”

“There was only one in there when I checked,” Mackie said.

“There was another that you rode straight past on your way out of town.”

“And you killed him? Jesus! That gunshot came from you?”

“He looked right at me! He knew who I was. What the hell else was I supposed to do?”

“That how it happened?” Mackie asked as he glanced over to Eli.

The black man nodded once. Apparently, it was an earnest enough nod for Mackie to believe it.

Even though he believed it, Mackie wasn't happy about it. “Shit,” he muttered. “That's just great.”

“Like two dead marshals is much worse than one,” Rosa said. “Either way, they'll be after us. For all we know, they could be tracking us down right now.”

Mackie shook his head. “It's too dark for them to see shit. Anyhow, this road is traveled so much that any trace we left behind will just mix in with whatever was left behind by all the others who've ridden on it.”

“We're still too close to Carson City,” Eli said. “When they find those lawmen, there'll be a posse formed up real quick, and they'll be willing to ride a ways in the dark.”

“He's right,” Rosa said. “We need to keep riding.”

Mackie pulled on his reins and got his horse's nose pointed to the west. “Then let's get moving. I know a few places we can hole up.”

“Not that way,” Rosa interrupted. “We've still got a contract to fulfill.”

Not only did Mackie bring his horse back to face her, but he rode up close enough to gaze straight into her eyes. Even in the darkness, he could make out every line in her face when he asked, “Are you crazy? The only thing we need to worry about is staying alive and keeping clear of the hangman's noose. To hell with contracts.”

“When we get paid to do a job, we do it. Otherwise, we're no better than some idiot with a gun who hires himself out in a saloon. Folks come to us because they think we can get the tough jobs done.”

“Tough jobs, yeah. Sometimes the jobs turn into impossible ones, and there ain't a damn thing we can do about that.”

“Are we gonna get moving?” Eli asked. “Because I think I hear someone coming this way.”

“Watch yer mouth,” Mackie barked. “We're talking here.”

“Don't address me that way, mister,” Eli said in a steady voice. “I already killed one man for that tonight and I don't mind making it two.”

Mackie's eyebrows raised and he started moving toward Eli. “Is that so? Well let's just see about that.”

“You two want to fight?” Rosa asked. “Go ahead. You want to die? Just stay here a bit longer and I'm sure some angry lawmen will be glad to help. You want to keep working for me? Stop this petty bullshit and come along.”

With that, Rosa snapped her reins and rode in the same general direction Clint had gone a few days ago.

Eli and Mackie swapped a few venomous looks, but they eventually fell into line behind her.

Clint wasn't too worried about catching up to Mr. Galloway. First of all, a man like him was too confident to simply pack up and leave for an unknown period of time after unleashing an assassin onto an innocent man. More than likely, Galloway was sure he'd covered himself from every possible angle and there wasn't anyone smart enough to connect anything to him anyway.

Secondly, there was no reason Galloway would know his plans hadn't been carried out to the letter just yet. Tom Clark wasn't stupid, so he hadn't informed anyone who he had in custody or who'd been killed along the way. That was all the more reason for Galloway to get nice and comfortable while things went to hell outside of his sight.

Third, Clint had needed to rest before climbing back in the saddle and riding all the way back to that Western Union office. The time spent in Carson City had been good. His belly was full and the aches from the last few nicks and bruises he'd collected were fading away. When he actually walked back into that Western Union office, Clint was feeling pretty good.

He felt even better once he saw the surprised expression on Mr. Galloway's face. Galloway was still wearing that expression when he turned around and hurried into his office, leaving a young clerk by himself behind the desk.

The clerk was a man in his late teens wearing glasses. His arms were long and lanky, resembling pieces of wet pasta hanging from his shoulders. Although he seemed puzzled by Galloway's sudden departure, he shrugged it off and faced his customer.

“Hello, sir,” the clerk said cheerily. “What can I do for you today?”

“I'd like to see Mr. Galloway,” Clint said.

“He's . . . uhh . . . He seems to be busy right now. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah. Step aside.”

“Pardon me?”

The clerk's first reaction when Clint started walking around the counter was to position himself so that he was blocking Clint's path. Once it was clear that Clint wasn't going to be stopped, the clerk allowed himself to be moved aside without much trouble. Of course, seeing the gun at Clint's side also played a part in that decision.

In a surprisingly quick movement, the clerk hopped over the counter and backed toward the door. The only thing keeping him from bolting was Galloway opening the door to his office on his own.

“I'll get the law, Mr. Galloway,” the clerk said in a rush.

Galloway extended his hand and quickly replied, “No need for that! This is probably just some misunderstanding.”

“That's right,” Clint said without taking his eyes off of Galloway. “A misunderstanding. Mr. Galloway and I are old friends. Isn't that so?”

When Galloway didn't respond right away, the clerk asked, “Is it, Mr. Galloway?”

Before too long, Galloway nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course. I'm just a little surprised to see Mr. Adams. That's all.”

“Mind if I have a word with you in private?” Clint asked.

“Not at all.” To the clerk, Galloway said, “Watch the office. I'm not to be disturbed.”

The clerk tentatively made his way around the counter. After making it to his spot without incident, he said, “All right.”

Clint spotted the beads of sweat pushing their way from Galloway's brow. Extending a hand toward the office door, Clint stood so the clerk wouldn't be able to see the older man's tension for himself. “After you.”

Galloway walked into his office, and Clint closed the door behind them.

The office was fairly large, but most of that space was taken up by a partner desk which was cluttered by ledgers, papers, and books of all kinds. The right half of the double desk was a bit cleaner, and the chair was pushed neatly in place as if nobody had sat in it recently. Galloway stumbled toward the left side of the desk and leaned on it for support.

“Don't shoot me,” Galloway said in a trembling voice. “If you shoot, someone will be here in a heartbeat.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Clint asked in a bewildered tone. After letting Galloway sweat for a few seconds, Clint snapped his fingers and said, “That's right! You're probably thinking I might be a little angry after you paid to have me and Johnny Blevin killed.”

Clint walked a few steps forward, which put him just inside of arm's reach of Galloway. Lowering his voice to a menacing growl, Clint said, “You'd be right about that.”

“It wasn't my idea,” Galloway stammered. “It . . . it was his!” he said while jabbing a finger at the empty half of the desk. “He said we could get Blevin's property at a cheap price after he was dead.”

“That's a great plan, except you already bought Blevin's property.”

Galloway's eyes moved back and forth so quickly in their sockets that they appeared to be rattling around in his head. His lips trembled while tapping on his desk, and the sweat poured over his face as though he'd been standing out in the rain.

“As much as I'd like to hear what you come up with next,” Clint said, “I'm too tired to wait around for it. So let me save you some trouble.” Grabbing Galloway's shoulder, Clint spun the other man around so he could look him directly in the face. Galloway landed with his back against his desk and yelped as if he'd been nailed there.

“I know it was you who hired those killers,” Clint snarled. “Look in my eyes and tell me I'm wrong.”

Galloway made a fairly good effort to do just that. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to hold Clint's gaze for more than a few seconds before breaking down. “You're right,” he sobbed while hanging his head low. “I wanted to make a deal for less money, but my partner wouldn't have any of it, so I figured I could get that gold back. Blevin was talking so much about traveling when he was paid, and I thought nobody would miss him if he just . . .”

“Disappeared?”

Unable to speak through his trembling, Galloway nodded instead.

“Well, you won't be getting your gold back,” Clint told him. “And that assassin you hired is dead.”

“Wh-what are you going to do with me?”

“You,” Clint said as he dropped a hand onto Galloway's shoulder, “are going to help me get to the bottom of a few things.”

Clint left Galloway's office a while later. The same young clerk was at the desk, and he smiled nervously as Clint tipped his hat to him and walked outside.

Before too much longer, Galloway himself emerged from the office. Dabbing his brow with a wadded handkerchief, he asked, “Has Winston been back yet?”

“No, sir,” the clerk replied.

“Well when my illustrious partner does show up again, there is no need to inform him of Mr. Adams's visit.”

“Mr. Adams? Was that the man who was just in your—”

“Yes, yes,” Galloway snapped. “He was here on business and it doesn't involve anyone but himself and me.”

“If Mr. Winston asks, what should I—”

“He won't ask! Just do as I say or you can look for a new job.”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk replied as if he was about to salute.

Shoving the younger man aside, Galloway said, “Now find something else to do. I have a message that needs to be sent.”

“I can do that, sir.”

All Galloway had to do was stare at the younger man to get the clerk walking in another direction. Galloway kept right on staring until the clerk turned his back to him and began straightening the papers and pencils on the counter used by customers.

Galloway's hand clutched a pencil and he scribbled quickly on his own paper. After reviewing what he'd written, he shook his head, balled up the paper, and tossed it away. He started again, stopped, and threw that away as well. It wasn't until his fifth attempt that he finally wrote something that wasn't discarded. From there, he stepped over to the telegraph machine and began tapping.

Galloway still sat there until he had his reply. Nodding without writing down what was received, he got up and started to leave the building. He stopped short of the front door, spun around on his heels, marched back to the counter, and dug up the papers he'd discarded from the basket against the wall.

Carrying those balled-up papers in his arm, Galloway walked past the clerk without glancing at the perplexed younger man. He kept right on walking until he was outside and heading for the small saloon directly beside a stagecoach platform.

The bar was about the size of a door and was manned by a smiling fellow in his late forties. There was only enough room in the saloon for four more tables, and Clint sat at the one farthest from the door, against the back wall. As soon as he saw Galloway enter, Clint lifted his beer and smiled.

“It's done,” Galloway said as he dropped down into an empty chair across from Clint.

“What is?” Clint asked.

Glancing around, the only other soul Galloway could see was the barkeep. Still smiling, the barkeep nodded and waved.

“You need me to say it?” Galloway asked. “Here?”

“Sorry if I still think you're on the slippery side.”

Galloway let out a beleaguered sigh. “I contacted the same people I contacted before about . . . you know.”

“Yeah. I know. What did they say?”

“Nothing. It's not like they're sitting back and waiting to hear from me.” Leaning forward and dropping his voice to a harsh whisper, Galloway added, “I wasn't even supposed to contact them again.”

“Well, I'm certain they're probably aware by now that things didn't exactly go according to plan. What did you say to them?”

“Just that I needed to talk to someone and that it was important. That should be enough to get them to return my message. I'll know the moment their reply comes through.”

Clint nodded and sipped his beer. It was good, but not nearly as good as the beer Tom Clark had bought for him in Carson City. “And what do you intend on doing when that reply comes through?”

“Just what you told me to do. I'll ask for someone else to come and finish the job and that they need to be quick about it.”

“And?”

Hunkering down so he could press his forehead against his fingertips, Galloway muttered, “And that Mr. Blevin is wrapping up his business here in town.”

“Do I need to tell you again not to go anywhere yourself?” Clint asked.

“No.”

“Good.” With that, Clint got up to leave.

“What do we do now?”

“Wait for the reply.”