Badlanders (20 page)

J
ericho was uneasy but would never admit it to Neal. He branded it a mistake to bring Edana along. Beaumont Adams wouldn't take kindly to the accusation he'd murdered Lice.

Still, Edana was Neal's wife and Neal was his pard, so if Neal wanted to bring her, that was all there was to it.

Jericho said little on the ride into Whiskey Flats. Neither did Neal and Edana, which was unusual. Not until the spreading crop of buildings sprouted in the distance.

“We're almost there.” Edana broke her long silence. “I hope my sister won't resent me for this, but I suspect I'm deluding myself.”

“It has to be done,” Neal said.

“You've made that plain. I'll stand by you, come what may. But I'd like to know. Do you think Mr. Adams will resort to those pistols of his?”

“He might if I came right out and accused him of killin' Lice. But I'm only goin' to tell him what the cow killer said and see how he reacts.”

Edana glanced at Neal. “What was his real name again? It feels strange calling someone ‘Lice.'”

“McCoy, as I recollect, was his last name,” Neal replied. “Jericho, do you remember his first?”

“Isaiah,” Jericho said.

“It would be horrible if Mr. Adams killed him.”

“Out here,” Neal said, “horrible things happen a lot.”

Jericho thought of Billy and Yeager and others he had seen bucked out in gore, and said nothing. He focused on the town. People were bustling about, many on foot or horseback, some in buckboards and wagons. It was hard to believe that two years ago Whiskey Flats was a sleepy little nothing in the middle of nowhere. But then, boomtowns always sprang up quickly, whether the boom was the result of gold or silver or cattle.

Jericho placed his hand on his hip close to his Colt. They passed a butcher's and the millinery and other stores and came abreast of the marshal's office.

Grat was staring out the front window. He saw them, stiffened, and said something to someone behind him. In a few moments Tuck appeared, and then Scar Wratner. All three wore tin.

Jericho met their unfriendly stares.

Ahead reared the new hotel. At five stories high, it was the tallest building in Whiskey Flats.

“Stumpy says they have the whole top floor,” Neal remarked.

Jericho drew rein and stayed in the saddle while they dismounted and tied their horses to the hitch rail. Only when Neal turned to watch the street did he climb down and do the same with his zebra dun.

“You seem a little tense,” Edana said to Neal.

Neal shrugged.

Jericho went up the steps first. Striding into the lobby, he stopped.

Dyson and Stimms were over by the front desk, talking and grinning. Dyson saw Jericho and bent his
head to Stimms and the pair turned, Stimms cradling his Sharps.

Dyson plastered a smile on his face and came over. “Mr. and Mrs. Bonner. Ain't this a surprise?”

“I'm here to visit my sister,” Edana said.

“And I'd like a few words with your boss,” Neal said.

Jericho noticed two other men lounging by the far wall. Both wore revolvers high on their hips. He'd never set eyes on them before, but his instincts told him they weren't there for decoration.

Dyson was saying, “I'll run upstairs and let them know you're here.”

“That's not necessary,” Edana said. “We'd rather just go right up.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm not supposed to let anyone on the top floor without their say-so,” Dyson informed her.

“I hate to put you to any bother,” Edana said.

“Go tell them we're here,” Neal said.

“It won't take but a minute or two,” Dyson said, and made for the stairs.

Jericho shifted so he could see Stimms and the pair by the far wall without having to turn his head.

“We're right popular,” Neal said, nodding toward the lobby window.

Tuck had followed them and practically had his bulbous nose pressed to the glass.

“Scar Wratner must have sent him to keep an eye on us,” Jericho figured. He was more concerned about Stimms and the pair of gun sharks.

The desk clerk was scribbling in a ledger, oblivious of everything going on around him. Over in an easy chair, a gentleman in a suit was reading a newspaper.

Jericho noticed that Stimms had his thumb on the Sharps's hammer, ready to cock it. One of the pair by the wall had his thumb hooked in his gun belt an inch from his holster. The other shooter's arm rested on his revolver.

“I should have brought Isolda a gift of some kind,” Edana said. “As a token of how much I care for her.”

“The next time we come you can bring one,” Neal said.

“I know. I'll invite them to the ranch. Say, for supper this weekend. Saturday, so they can stay the night if they'd like and not have to be back in town until Monday morning. Would you mind?”

“Fine by me,” Neal said.

Jericho caught movement at the front window. Grat was there now, too.

“It will be wonderful to talk to Isolda again,” Edana said. She sounded nervous. “I hope she's as glad to see me.”

“We'll find out directly,” Neal said.

•   •   •

Isolda was sipping a sherry cobbler on the sofa when there was a knock on the door. Beaumont was over at the bar, pouring himself a whiskey, and set the bottle and the glass down.

“I'm closer. I'll get it.”

Taking another sip, Isolda leaned back. It was blistering hot outside, but here in the comfort of their suite it was warm but not unbearable.

Beaumont returned. “They're downstairs. Dyson wouldn't let them up until he'd checked with us.”

“The simpleton.”

“He's only doin' what we told him. Do we have him show them up or go down and meet them?”

“Make her come to me. Have him bring her up. The climb will do her good.”

Beaumont grinned. “Her cowboy, too?”

“I can't say much for her taste in men, but he
is
her husband.”

“Both it is.” Beaumont went back into the vestibule.

Isolda debated whether to stay on the sofa or move to the plush settee with its mahogany arms. It was important she impress Edana. Show her that she could get
along without her. Deciding to stay where she was, she draped an arm across the back of the sofa and adopted an air of nonchalance.

Presently Beaumont came back in and over to the side of the sofa. “You have guests, my dear,” he announced with a smirk.

Edana entered, and after her, Neal Bonner.

“My dear sister and her new husband,” Isolda said.

“And their gun hand, Jericho,” Beaumont said. “He's out in the hall with Dyson.” He didn't sound pleased.

Edana was all smiles. “Oh, Isolda. It makes me so happy to see you again. It's been much too long.”

“You could have visited anytime,” Isolda said.

“So could you.”

Isolda reached out and took Beaumont's hand. He didn't seem pleased about that, either, and she couldn't imagine why. “We've been busy, my handsome man and I.”

“So I hear,” Edana said. “Your new hotel. All your other businesses. Pretty soon the entire town will be your own little fiefdom.”

“Funny you should call it that,” Isolda said, “when your ranch is the size of some states.”

“It's not mine. I'm running it for others as you well know.” Edana sat at the other end of the sofa. “But please. Let's not quibble. I want this to be a nice visit.”

“Where are my manners?” Beaumont said. “Would either of you care for somethin' to drink?” He pulled his hand loose from Isolda and moved toward the bar.

“What I'd like,” Neal Bonner said casually, “is to find out if it's true that you killed poor Lice McCoy.”

Beaumont stopped cold.

“What's going on?” Isolda said. “What's this about a killing?”

“Ask your handsome man,” Neal said.

“I don't know what in hell you're talkin' about,” Beaumont retorted, facing him. “And I'd be mighty careful slingin' accusations like that.”

“It's not mine,” Neal said. “Someone claims Lice paid you a visit and never came back.”

“That someone is a damn liar.”

“He told me that when he asked you where Lice got to, you as much as claimed that Franklyn Wells and me did Lice in to get back the money Wells paid Lice for his property.”

“Who is this ‘he' you keep talkin' about?” Beaumont asked. He suddenly gave a start and snapped his fingers. “It's Heller, isn't it? That old loon who lives way off in the Badlands by himself.”

“So you're sayin' it's not true?”

“I sure as hell am.”

“We'll let the federal marshal decide, then,” Neal said. “I've sent a puncher to find the nearest one and bring him back.”

Isolda saw Beaumont color with fury.

“You did what?”

His tone worried her. It was the tone he used when things were about to get ugly.

“You heard me,” Neal said. “He left yesterday, so don't try and send some of your gun sharks to stop him. They'd be wastin' their time.”

“You shouldn't have meddled, cowboy.”

“You shouldn't have killed Lice, gambler.”

Isolda swore she could feel the air crackle. She needed to stop this before it went too far. Rising, she said, “I want you to leave, Mr. Bonner. You're no longer welcome.”

“Isolda, no,” Edana said.

“Don't you dare,” Isolda snapped. “You waltzed in here with him knowing full well what he was going to do. His accusation is preposterous.”

“You don't know the facts behind it.”

“See?” Isolda said, her anger climbing. “She pointed toward the front door. “I want you out of here, the both of you, right this instant. We won't be insulted. Will we, dear?”

Beaumont didn't respond. He was glaring at Bonner.

Frowning, Edana stood. “This wasn't how I wanted our visit to go. It wasn't how I wanted it to be at all.”

“Then you shouldn't have brought your husband. He has no tact.” Isolda curled her mouth in a sneer. “But what else should we expect from someone who has spent his entire life nursemaiding animals as dumb as he is?”

Edana took a step and slapped her.

Isolda was so shocked she stood frozen in disbelief. “You hit me!” she exclaimed.

“To hell with this,” Beaumont said, and started to slide his hands toward his coat pockets.

“Don't you . . .” Neal said.

Isolda's shock at being struck was nothing compared to the jolt of seeing Beaumont whip his hands into his coat, even as Neal Bonner grabbed for his revolver.

There was the muffled boom of one of Beaumont's pistols—still inside his pocket—and Bonner's shoulder exploded in a shower of blood.

Edana screamed.

T
he shot and scream were like a knife plunged into Jericho's gut. He hadn't liked waiting out in the hall, but when Beaumont Adams suggested that Dyson and he do so, Neal had agreed. He'd been leaning against the hall wall, but now he whirled toward the suite.

“No, you don't,” Dyson said. He was in front of the door, his hand on his Remington.

Jericho sprang. Dyson tried to jerk his pistol, but Jericho already had his Colt out and slammed the barrel against Dyson's temple. Dyson staggered aside. In a twinkling Jericho was through the door and burst into the parlor.

Edana and Isolda were grappling by the sofa.

Neal was on his back on the floor, clutching a bleeding shoulder.

Beaumont Adams stood over him and was pulling a pair of short-barreled pistols from his frock coat. He heard Jericho, and pivoted.

Jericho fanned two swift shots.

The slugs caught the gambler dead center and lifted him onto his bootheels. He gamely attempted to raise his pistols while stumbling back.

Jericho fanned a third shot.

Isolda Jessup screeched like a bobcat as Beaumont Adams crashed to the floor. Letting go of her sister, she ran to him.

Jericho heard someone come in behind him. Tucking at the knees, he spun just as a revolver crashed. Lead whizzed above him. He slammed two shots that impaled Dyson in the act of about to fire again and Dyson deflated like a punctured water skin.

Quickly, Jericho reloaded. He put six pills in the wheel, not the usual five. He glanced at Isolda, who had cradled the gambler's head and was weeping, and at Edana, who had rushed to Neal.

Boots pounded out on the stairs.

“Take care of my pard,” Jericho said to Edana, and darted back out into the hall.

The two gun sharks from downstairs had just reached the landing. Their pistols were out, and they fired at the same instant.

Jericho fanned a shot that smashed into the face of the foremost. The man screamed and crumpled, and his friend did the unexpected; he turned and raced back down. Jericho promptly replaced the spent cartridge. He was about to start down himself when a commotion broke out in the suite. Edana cried out as if in pain.

Jericho dashed back inside.

Edana and Isolda were grappling again. Isolda had gotten hold of one of Beaumont Adams's pocket Colts and was trying to shoot her own sister. Edana was on the bottom and had a gash on her forehead, apparently from being struck. Hissing like a sidewinder, Isolda was forcing the muzzle toward Edana's chest. A little more and she would fire.

Jericho shot her in the head.

Edana let out a wail.

Jericho ran over, grabbed Isolda by the back of her dress, and hauled her off. “Are you all right?”

Edana stared at her sibling, her mouth working but no sounds coming out.

“Neal,” Jericho said. “We have to get him out of here.” By now their enemies would be gathering below. Stimms and Grat and Tuck and that other gun hand and who knew how many others? And then there was deadliest of the bunch, the one real shootist, Scar Wratner.

Numbly nodding, Edana got to her knees and hooked her arm around Neal. She tried to lift him but couldn't.

Jericho helped her. They got Neal up, but Neal was weak and had to lean on Edana. “Can you two do it by yourselves? I need my hands free.”

Neal, his teeth gritted, nodded. “Do what you have to, pard.”

“Stay close but not right behind me.” Jericho scooped up Neal's Colt and with a six-shooter in each hand led them out.

The hallway was quiet. Nor were there any sounds from below. That in itself was ominous.

Jericho paused at the landing so Edana and Neal could catch up. “Remember, not too close.” He didn't want a slug to pass through him and hit them. Taking a breath, he descended. He went slowly, a step at a time. To rush would be rash and prove fatal.

No one tried to stop them at the next landing or the one after that or any of the others. He was almost to the bottom when he caught whispering from the lobby.

Stopping, Jericho looked over his shoulder.

Edana's dress was smeared scarlet with Neal's blood. Neal was pale but holding his own.

“Give me my six-gun and I'll help.”

“Keep him here,” Jericho said to Edana. “No matter what you hear, don't let him go out there until you hear me holler.”

“What if . . .” Edana didn't finish.

“In that case it won't matter.” Jericho smiled to encourage her, looked Neal in the eye, and nodded.

“Jericho . . .”

Jericho took the last steps on the fly and dived through the doorway. Somewhere the Sharps thundered and the slug thudded into the jamb. In midair Jericho banged off a shot at the partner of the man he'd shot upstairs, and the gunny grabbed for his throat. Coming down on his side, Jericho fired at Stimms, who was over by the front door. He rolled, pushed to a knee, six-guns crashing all around him. He felt pain in his left arm, but it didn't stop him from shooting Tuck, who was over by the counter. His hat was sent flying. Grat rose from behind a chair, and Jericho sent a slug into him. Guns were still going off. He launched himself at a settee. It wasn't much cover, but it was better than nothing. He emptied Neal's Colt into Stimms, shot another gun hand by a pillar. A sledgehammer seemed to slam into his back, spinning him. Grat was still on his feet. Jericho fanned a shot, hitting him smack between the eyes.

In the sudden silence, Jericho's ears rang. He slowly rose. Things were fuzzy, his vision not what it should be. Grat and Tuck and Stimms and the man by the wall and the other one were all down and none were moving. He had begun to reload when a revolver blasted, and the next he knew, he was on the floor and his right wrist hurt and his hands were empty. The fuzziness was worse.

The head and shoulders of Scar Wratner floated into view. Scar was smirking.

“Good. I get to finish you myself.”

Jericho struggled to focus. The words had come as from down a long tunnel, and Scar himself was fading in and out.

“Any last words?” Scar taunted.

Abruptly Jericho's vision was crystal clear. He saw Scar's smirk, and the dark barrel of a revolver thrust near to Scar's ear. Scar went to turn, but the revolver went off and the other side of Scar's head erupted like a volcano.

Jericho felt gore splatter him and shut his eyes. When
he opened them again, Neal was crouched at his side, holding the revolver.

“Grat's,” Neal said, wagging it.

“I'm obliged.”

“How bad?” Neal asked.

“Bad.” Jericho wanted to rise but couldn't get his arms to work as they should. “Where'd your lady get to?”

“She went for the new sawbones.”

“Didn't know they had one,” Jericho said, and a veil of blackness fell.

•   •   •

The funeral was small and simple.

Edana buried her sister next to her father. When the parson finished the eulogy and moved off, the few punchers who had attended went with him. She stepped to the grave and stared down at the coffin, and a tear formed. It rolled down her cheek and off her chin. “How did it come to this?”

Neal put his left arm around her. His right was still bandaged, and he was under doctor's orders to use it as little as possible for a couple of weeks. “I never meant it to.”

“I know,” Edana said. “She brought it on herself, I suppose, taking up with a man like Adams.”

“We dig our own graves, ma'am,” Jericho said from the other side of Isolda's. He had more bandages than both of them combined.

“I reckon so,” Edana said.

Neal smiled. “Listen to you. You're startin' to sound like one of us.”

Edana gazed out across the ranch. Longhorns were grazing, and beyond, the buttes reared red in the afternoon sun. “I am one of you now. I'd never go back East, even if you were to ask me to.”

“I wouldn't count on that happenin',” Neal said.

Breathing deep, Edana put her arm around his waist. “It gets into your blood,” she said.

“What does?”

Edana motioned at the Badlands. “The West. It's more than just a place. It's a feeling that settles in your heart and becomes part of you.”

“Amen to that,” Neal Bonner
said.