The Darkness of God: Book Three of the Shadow Warrior Trilogy (16 page)

Del Valle had come back boasting that he’d found something big, bigger than either of his other two strikes. Steadman had suggested they register the claim right away, but del Valle had said there was no hurry. He’d filled out the form papers, and they would take them to the land agent in the morning.

In the meantime, he was thirsty. So they started from bar to bar. Steadman kept arguing with the older man, begging him to get the registration filed, that he might get drunk and blab the location, and somebody would steal their claim.

“I was drinkin', but not as heavy as Raff, an’ he lost his temper, like he does — did — when he’s sweet as a peach. He finally said he was goin’ for me, an’ I best clear out. I got out of whatever place we was drinkin’ at, an’ thought I’d best go back to th’ hooch, an’ get some sleep. I made it, an’ remember losin’ my guts outside. Thought I’d best sit up, try’n sober up some, so I wouldn’t go an’ puke in my blankets. I must’a passed out like that.”

He stopped. There was silence.

“Then shoutin’ sorta brought me to,” he said, “an’ there were all those people around, an’ Raff was dead on the floor.”

“Very nice,” Canfield said. “I don’t think diminished capability is much of a defense. If we even believe it. I think he was pretending to be as drunk as he was, setting up an alibi. Your witness, Wolfe.”

“One question,” Wolfe said. He took the Remington-Colt from his belt. “Is this yours?”

“I dunno,” Steadman said. “Lemme have a look at it.”

Wolfe gave it to Steadman, and a gun jumped into Brakbone’s hand. Steadman yelped in panic.

“Don’t worry,” Joshua said. “It’s defanged. Nice piece, by the way.”

Brakbone growled, reholstered his pistol.

“Yeah. It’s mine,” Steadman said. “Had it around for a couple of years, only started carrying it a month or so ago. Sorry I had to look at it, but I ain’t much of a pistoleer.” He handed the weapon back to Joshua.

“No further questions,” Wolfe said.

Steadman lifted his head, and there was black fear in his eyes.

“What kinda defense are you? You gonna let them just kill me?”

“Go sit down,” Wolfe said. “And remember what I told you.” Deliberately, he let his hand brush his gun butt. Steadman flinched and stumbled back to his chair.

“I think we’ve got enough,” Wolfe said, and voices in the crowd echoed him: “Yeah. Kill the bastard!”

“Shoot ’im!”

“Not quite yet,” Wolfe said calmly. “Let’s consider a couple of things. Start with the sequence of events. According to Doctor Nonhoff, Steadman was sitting at his desk when del Valle came in. He was drunker than a lord, so he would’ve had to have the pistol in his hand, waiting to assassinate his partner. But somehow he didn’t shoot first. Del Valle hauled iron and, at about seven feet, put his bolt three feet away from Steadman, and punched a hole in the wall next to the window. Maybe he was drunker than Steadman by then. But that’s still pretty crappy shooting.

“At that point Steadman came to enough to shoot del Valle quite accurately in midchest. A nice neat hole, according to Doctor Nonhoff. Anyone want to see Steadman’s pistol? Here,” Wolfe said, handing it to a burly miner. “You’ve been hollering for a lynching loud enough. Take a look at the gun.”

The miner fumbled it in his hands. “It’s a gun.”

“Brilliant, sir,” Wolfe said. “Notice it’s set on wide aperture. To make the hole Doctor Nonhoff said it did, it should’ve been set on narrow. If Steadman had shot del Valle the way it’s set now, it would’ve made a big wide messy crater, right? So reset it for me.”

The man pushed the small lever, then pushed harder, his teeth set. “There! Damn thing felt like it was rusted solid!”

“Indeed,” Wolfe said. “Does anyone but me think it’s interesting that when I picked the gun up in Steadman’s shack, it was on wide aperture? And remember he just said he wasn’t much of what he called a pistoleer, so as a gunfighter he would’ve wanted a wide shotgun blast to have any hope of hitting anything. So what must’ve happened was he reset the aperture, shot del Valle, then reset it before he passed out.”

There were mutters. Somebody said, “That’s not enough.”

“Another little thing,” Wolfe said. “Pity that Remington-Colt’s not a powder-burner, so this isn’t that indicative either. But the pistol doesn’t smell like it’s been fired anytime since the Al’ar War to me.”

“Like the man told you,” Canfield said. “That
isn’t
enough. If Brown here could’ve moved it once, someone could’ve moved it earlier.”

“Yeah,” Brakbone said. “Like him.” He pointed to Joshua. “You’re the on’y one said it was set on wide.”

The crowd agreed, but not as loudly as before.

“Sure I could’ve changed it,” Wolfe said. “But let’s assume for the moment I didn’t. Let’s try another explanation for what happened. Del Valle made an ass of himself when he was drunk. Steadman got out of there, threw up, staggered into his hut, and passed out sitting at the desk. His gun ended up on the floor. Who knows how it got there. Maybe it got in his way and he yanked it out of his belt and dumped it on the floor; maybe it fell out when he was being dragged out after the shooting. He’s passed out, so we can forget about him for the moment.

“Then del Valle shows up. He’s drunk, too. But he’s not so drunk he doesn’t see somebody laying for him, somebody with a gun pointing through the side window. Somebody with a heavy Federation pistol that holds a nice, hot beam. Maybe something like this Anderson Vari-port.” Wolfe slid the weapon he’d taken from Saratov out of its holster, then replaced it. “Nice piece. I’ve only seen one other like it since I’ve been in Graveyard. Del Valle draws, snaps a shot, misses. The man in the window doesn’t.”

“Bullcrap!” That came from one of the bartenders.

“If someone wants to go take a look at the shack from the outside,” Wolfe went on, “he’ll find there’s jimmy marks on the window, enough to snap the lockbar and get the window open, so the iso-glass wouldn’t mess up the shot. And there’s a nice scrape on the left-hand side of the window, where someone might’ve braced a blaster to make sure he didn’t need but ohe shot. That would’ve made the shooter right-handed.”

Wolfe looked at Brakbone. “You’re right-handed, aren’t you? And you carry an Anderson.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just making an observation.” Wolfe paused. “This lawyering is thirsty stuff. Somebody pass me a beer.”

There were a few laughs. One of the blowsy women drew a mug and leaned it across the bar. Wolfe drank heartily.

“Thanks,” he said. “Here’s something else. The paperwork. Steadman said del Valle wrote up the claim form. I just checked with the land office clerk, and del Valle hasn’t filed anything in two years.”

Canfield’s expression flickered for an instant.

“I went through both their gear,” Wolfe said. “I didn’t find any claim.”

“Steadman must be lying,” Canfield said.

“Possibly. Murderers do things like that. Now here’s something else. I’ve noticed a lot of people around here have a hobby of going out on the land every chance they get, and trying to see if they can strike it rich like del Valle did.”

“Sure,” a woman said. “On’y way you’ll stop bein’ a comp’ny fool or a wage slave.”

“No question,” Wolfe agreed. “And today I talked to a man who had another kind of hobby that was even more interesting. Seems he and his partner used to help anybody interested in prospecting. In the old days it used to be called grubstaking. These two loaned prospectors the credits, and all they wanted back was ten percent interest per week, plus five percent of the principal. If you didn’t, or couldn’t, pay, it could get somewhat painful, I was told.”

Wolfe deliberately stopped, looked around the crowd. “I see some people out there who’re looking away from me,” he said. “I guess you know what I’m talking about.”

“I assume you’re going to make some kind of point out of all this,” Canfield said.

“I think so. I talked to another man who found something, or anyway he thought he did. It looked to him like a very promising claim. His two ‘partners’ decided they wanted the mine to be in their names. He argued with them. He went to the hospital, and the claim was filed in their names. But that mine didn’t pan out, because the two went back to their old ways. One of the grubstakers was named Saratov.”

He heard a low growl from the crowd, like a tiger awakening.

“That’s one of my employees,” Canfield said. “And I haven’t seen him since this afternoon.”

“Maybe he’s busy,” Wolfe said. “Since this isn’t a court of law,” he went on, “I’ve got a suggestion. Saratov’s partner, like most of you know, is Mister Brakbone here. What say, before we go and do something rash like kill Lef Steadman, we send somebody to inspect Brakbone’s quarters, looking for interesting pieces of paper? I think a man’s life might be worth that, don’t you?”

“The hell you will!” Brakbone shouted, and dove at Wolfe.

Wolfe heard Canfield shout, “You stupid shithead!” as Brakbone was on him, reaching for a stranglehold. Wolfe’s hands went up under his and took both arms by the muscles, pinching sharply. The two tottered back and forth, struggling. Brakbone shouted something, harsh alk fumes stale in Wolfe’s face.

Joshua suddenly bent both knees, stepped forward, pushed up on Brakbone’s left arm, and turned, pulling and ducking under the man’s left as he stumbled forward, off-balance. Wolfe turned sideways and snapped a knife-hand strike into Brakbone’s lower ribs. The man grunted in pain, flailing for balance as Joshua pivoted around him and struck for his groin. The strike missed. Brakbone kicked, catching Joshua in the chest, and Joshua stumbled back. Brakbone came in, and Joshua snap-kicked for Brakbone’s head. Brakbone’s hands blocked; Joshua crouched, let the momentum of his kick spin him, and whipped his leg as he fell, sending Brakbone tumbling.

Brakbone’s pistol dropped out of its holster. As he fumbled for it, somebody kicked the gun into the crowd, and Brakbone came to his feet.

The two men circled. Joshua aimed a knife strike toward Brakbone’s throat; Brakbone ducked aside, whirled and swept a kick into Joshua’s gut. Wolfe doubled over, pulling for air, let himself fall sideways, away from Brakbone’s follow-through, and rolled back to his feet.

Brakbone had a fixed, tight smile on his face. People were shouting, Wolfe paid no mind. Circling …

Brakbone sent two punches at Joshua’s head. He ducked them, threw a sword-hand hooking punch at Brakbone’s temple. It missed the death-spot but smashed into his cheekbone.

Brakbone yelled in pain, tried another kick. Joshua ducked it, struck, missed.

Breathe … breathe … all the time is yours … let the wave take you …

Brakbone attacked again, and Joshua stepped sideways, toward the big man, his forearm snapping up in a block. Brakbone’s arm was flung away, and Wolfe smashed his knuckles into Brakbone’s chest, kept moving into him, striking, striking, and Brakbone fell hard on his back.

Brakbone rolled away from Wolfe’s foot stamp, back-snapped to his feet, and struck. Wolfe blocked one strike, then another, came in hard to smash Brakbone’s lower side with his palm.

Ribs snapped, and Brakbone howled. He stood, swaying.

No sorrow, no joy, as I take what is not mine to take …

Wolfe’s right hand came up, curled, and he struck down, barely a touch, near Brakbone’s collarbone. Brakbone’s hands reflexively grasped his throat, then fell away as his eyes rolled up and he fell bonelessly forward.

Wolfe stepped aside, let the corpse crash to the floor.

There was complete silence.

Suddenly Canfield had a gun in his hand.

“This is utter goddamned nonsense,” he snarled. “Next you’ll be accusing
me …
”

Breathe … breathe …

“Put the gun down, Mister Canfield.” It was Stoutenburg.

“No. I’m leaving — let all of this bullshit settle down. When you’ve come to your senses, then — then we’ll see what happens next.”

“That’s a good idea,” Stoutenburg said, taking a step forward. “But I don’t think you should leave. I do think we deserve some explanations. Now, or in the morning.”

“Not a chance, preacher. Don’t make me shoot you.”

“You’re not a depraved man, Mister Canfield. You won’t shoot an unarmed man.”

Canfield was panting as if he’d run a hard mile.

Stoutenburg took another step.

Kristin’s gun was out, aiming. But the minister blocked her aim.

“Just give me the gun,” Stoutenburg said. “There’s been more than enough killing.”

He was only two feet from Canfield, reaching out.

Wolfe saw, as if his eyes were inches away, Canfield’s finger touch the trigger stud, exert pressure …

All is still, all is solid, all is stone, there can be no motion, all is ice …

Canfield’s finger whitened, but the gun didn’t fire. Tony Stoutenburg took the gun by the receiver, twisted gently, and had it in his hand.

“I think that’s all,” he said mildly.

• • •

“Now what?” Wolfe said, stretched in a steaming bath, feeling his bruises, letting the water outside, the blood within, wash the pain away.

“Now what about what?” Kristin said. She was still dressed, sitting on the bed.

“Since you stuck around after I left, did anybody have any ideas about what to do about Canfield? Or will the lynching bee reconvene tomorrow night, after the hangovers subside? I assume nobody’s going to let him out of the assayer’s vault anytime soon and let him make a run for it.”

“Tony said he’d get some of Graveyard’s reputable citizens together, and set up some sort of council. I guess they’ll have a court or something.”

“So law, order, morality, and straight poker games come to Graveyard.” Wolfe yawned. “And all the players take the fun to Lucky Cuss or Grand Central. Hardly seems worthwhile.”

“You sound like you’re sorry you got involved.”

“Not sorry at all. Canfield was a reek in the nostrils of the Lord. But why the hell does one yutz mean that we’ve got to have parking regulations and dress codes all of a sudden?”

“What do you want? Anarchy?”

Wolfe started to say something, stopped. When he spoke again, the levity was gone from his voice.