The Law of a Fast Gun (17 page)

Poke nodded. “The broker said if there was no more cows coming from here, he could get twice as much for Jessup’s cows when he sold them.”

“That sorry son of a bitch,” Jubal said. “And we played right into his hands.”

“The question now is, what do we do about it?” Schermerhorn asked.

“I know exactly what to do,” Jubal said.

“Oh? What’s that?” Cornett asked.

“I think we should form a vigilante committee and go after them.”

“You sure are quick to want to form a vigilante committee,” Cornett said. “You wanted to do that once before, remember? Matt Truelove and Pastor McCall talked you out of it.”

“Yes, and where is Truelove now?” Jubal asked. He pointed in the direction of the cemetery. “I’ll tell you where he is. He’s lying down there under six feet of dirt, that’s where he is. And so are McCall’s wife and daughter. They’d all be alive today if you’d listened to me the first time I brought this up. I’m tellin’ you right now, the only way to handle this is to overtake the Bar-J and kill ever’ damn one of ’em.”

“So, you think they wouldn’t shoot back?” Cornett asked. “What about it, Poke, you know these boys. Will they shoot back?”

“They’ll shoot back,” Poke said. “And some innocent folks on both sides would be killed. I told you, most of ’em is good boys who don’t even know what happened.”

“I’ll tell you now,” Cornett said. “I’m not going to authorize any vigilantes from this town.”

“What are you going to do about it, then?” Jubal asked. “Send Deputy Foster?”

“No!” Foster said, standing up so quickly that the chair he was sitting in turned over. He shook his head and stuck his hands out. “No, I—I ain’t killin’ no more. No more.” He took his badge off and tossed it on the table. “You folks can just get someone else.”

The others watched in surprise as Foster left the saloon, shaking his head. “No more,” he was saying. “No more.”

“What was all that about?” Jubal asked. “I never figured Foster to be a coward.”

“I don’t think it’s so much that he’s afraid for himself,”
Cornett said, “as it is he’s afraid he’ll have to kill again. Don’t forget, he killed that cowboy from the Slash Diamond.”

“Well,” Jubal said, “if he felt like that, he shouldn’t have taken the job in the first place.”

“The mayor is right,” Schermerhorn said. “Foster’s not been the same since then. Trust me, he is not the person you want to send out for something like this.”

“What about the county sheriff?” Jubal asked.

“Sheriff Sanders?” Clemmons said. “Ha, don’t make me laugh. He’s worthless as tits on a boar hog. The only reason he is sheriff is because he kissed more babies than Rufus Montgomery did.”

“What about Montgomery? Maybe we could deputize him,” Schermerhorn suggested.

“You want to go to California and find him?” Harder asked.

“He’s gone to California?”

“He left last month,” Harder said. “He dropped in for a good-bye drink before he left.”

“Well, what are we going to do about it, Mayor?” Clemmons asked. “We can’t just let Jessup get away with it.”

“I’m a deputy,” Hawke said quietly.

The others looked at him.

“What?” Cornett asked.

“I’m a deputy,” Hawke repeated. “Truelove made me a deputy when I agreed to be a private guard for the Hog Lot. Remember?”

“Well, yes, but you aren’t being paid to be a deputy,” Cornett said.

“Maybe you could rectify that,” Hawke suggested.

“What are you saying? Are you saying you want a job as deputy city marshal?”

Hawke shook his head. “No. As city marshal I wouldn’t have any authority. But if the city wrote out warrants for Jessup and his men, I could serve those warrants as a private citizen.”

“How could you do that?” Jubal asked.

“Bounty hunters do it all the time,” Vernon Clemmons explained. “The only authority bounty hunters have is the authority of a citizen’s arrest and the warrant declared when someone is put on a wanted list.”

“Is that what you’re saying, Mr. Hawke?” Cornett asked. “That you would be willing to go after these men as a bounty hunter?”

“Yes,” Hawke said.

“Why would you do that?”

“Consider my situation, Mr. Mayor,” Hawke replied. “There is no piano in here, and the preacher has just been fired, which means I have no piano to play in church either. It’s time for me to move on, and a little traveling money would help make the move easier.”

“I’d have to call a city council meeting,” Cornett said.

“Why?” Clemmons asked.

“Well, to discuss this with them,” Cornett replied.

“No need,” Clemmons said. “For something like this, you could issue an executive order.” Clemmons smiled. “Executive orders are one of the good things about being a mayor.”

“How do I know Mr. Hawke can handle something like this? As far as I know, it might be like sending out Deputy Foster.”

“Hawke can handle it,” Harder said. “I’ve seen him in action.”

“That may have been a fluke,” Cornett insisted.

“It was no fluke,” Clemmons said.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve researched Mr. Hawke here,” Clemmons said. “Believe me, if he says he will take care of Jessup and the others…” Clemmons paused and looked directly at Hawke. “…he will take care of them.”

“All right, so now it comes down to how much money do you want?”

“One thousand dollars should do it,” Hawke replied.

“One thousand dollars for each man?” Cornett replied with a quick gasp.

“One thousand dollars total,” Hawke said. “No matter how many are involved.”

Cornett smiled broadly. “You’ve got a deal!” he said, extending his hand.

“In advance.”

“In advance?”

“In advance.”

“Well, if I give you the money in advance, how do I know you are going to bring them back?”

“I’m not going to bring them back,” Hawke said simply.

“If you aren’t going to bring them back, what are you going to do with…uh, I mean how can we be sure that—” Cornett stopped and stared at Hawke, whose expression had not changed.

“Oh,” Cornett said, realizing what Hawke meant. “Oh,” he repeated. He sighed. “All right. Come down to my office. I’ll give you the money.”

WHEN HAWKE CAME DOWNSTAIRS FROM HIS
room, he had his saddlebags draped across his shoulder, his bedroll tucked under his arm, and his rifle in his left hand.

“Aren’t you going to have a good-bye drink with a friend?” Millie asked, meeting him at the foot of the stairs.

Hawke smiled at her. “I’d be happy to,” he said. He looked around the empty saloon. “Is everyone gone?”

“Mr. Harder is back in his office. He told me to ask you to stick your head in to tell him good-bye. Bob is behind the bar, the others have gone.”

When Hawke stepped back into Harder’s office, the saloon owner looked up from his rolltop desk.

“You’re leaving now?” Harder asked.

“Yes,” Hawke answered. “They’ve already got a head start on me, I don’t want to let them get too far ahead.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. Oh, by the way, you don’t have to stop by the mayor’s office,” Harder said. “Here’s the money.”

Harder handed Hawke an envelope, and Hawke put it in one of his saddlebags.

“You aren’t going to count it?”

“No need to.”

“I truly enjoyed listening to you play the piano, especially those times in the middle of the night when you thought no one was around to hear. I don’t mind telling you, Hawke, that I’m going to miss you,” Harder said. “It’s not every day someone meets a classically trained pianist. Especially someone like you.”

“I’ve enjoyed working for you, John. You are fair to your employees and honest with your customers. This has been a good place to spend some time.”

“But you don’t want to settle here,” Harder said. It was a statement, not a question.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to settle anywhere until the day I’m planted six feet under the ground. And Lord knows where that will be.”

“Hawke, all I can say is, it must have been one hell of a war for you.”

“It was no worse for me than it was for anyone else who was in it,” Hawke said. “It’s just that we all have our own way of dealing with it. And wandering around is my way.”

Harder stood up and shook his hand. “If you ever come through Braggadocio again, you’ll always have a job. Who knows, I may even have a new piano by then.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hawke said.

When he left Harder’s office, he saw that Millie, Trudy, and the other two bar girls were standing by the bar, waiting for him. Hawke stepped up to the bar and set his load down beside him. “Mr. Gary, if you don’t mind, I would like to buy a drink for all the ladies and me,” he said, sliding a coin across the bar.

“No, sir,” Bob said, pushing the coin back. “Your money is no good here. I’m buying the drinks.”

“Well, thank you, Bob, I appreciate that,” Hawke said as Bob began to pour.

“If you would, Sergeant, pour a drink for me as well,” another voice said.

Turning toward the sound of the voice, Hawke saw Gideon McCall standing just inside the door. Hawk almost didn’t recognize him. Gone was the black suit, ribbon tie, and wide-brim, low-crown hat. Instead he was wearing denim trousers tucked down into calf-high boots, a buckskin shirt, and a hat that was not unlike the hat Hawke was wearing. In addition, Gideon had one pistol in a holster and another stuck down in his belt. And he was carrying a Whitworth, hexagonal bore, .45 caliber sniper rifle, complete with scope.

“I’m going with you, Hawke,” Gideon said.

It wasn’t a request; it was a declaration of fact.

“Going where?” Hawke replied.

“After the people who murdered my wife and child,” Gideon said. “I’m going with you.”

“I don’t think so,” Hawke said.

“My drink?” Gideon said to Bob Gary.

Bob nodded, and poured a drink, then pushed it across the bar to Gideon. Gideon tossed it down.

“Maybe I had better explain something to you,” Hawke said. “I have reason to believe that Clint Jessup is Jesse Cole.”

“Is that a fact?” Gideon asked.

“Yes. And even though I know you were in the army during the war, I don’t think you want to run up against a man like Jesse Cole.”

“Jesse Cole is a tough bird, is he?” Gideon said.

“About as tough as they come,” Hawke agreed. “Wait a minute. You knew that, didn’t you? You said that you knew Jessup when he was at West Point, and you said that Jessup wasn’t his real name. You knew who he was all along, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I know who he is.”

“I understand it all now,” Hawke said.

“And what is it that you think you understand?” Gideon asked. He picked up the bottle and poured himself a second drink.

“I understand your feeling of guilt. You didn’t tell anyone that he was Jesse Cole, so now you blame yourself for your wife and daughter’s death, don’t you?”

“You have it all worked out, do you?”

“I have to tell you, Gideon, getting killed is a poor way to assuage a guilty conscience.”

“I’m going with you,” Gideon said again.

Hawke shook his head. “No. I know how you feel, but I’m going to have a hard enough time looking out for myself. I don’t want to play nursemaid to a preacher who thinks he can handle someone like Jesse Cole simply because he was in the war. This is an entirely different situation.”

“Sergeant Kincaid,” Gideon said in a commanding voice.

Bob Gary stood at attention. “Yes, sir?”

“Sergeant Kincaid?” Millie said as she and the other girls looked at Bob Gary, their faces mirroring their curiosity.

“Tell Mr. Hawke who I am.”

“He is Gideon Mc—”

“Tell him who I am!” Gideon demanded in a loud and commanding voice.

“Major, are you sure you want me to do that? You’ve made a good life for yourself and—”

“Tell him, my friend,” Gideon said, and this time his voice was quiet, gentle, and confident.

Bob Gary cleared his throat. “My name isn’t really Bob Gary,” he said. “My name is Glen Kincaid. I was first sergeant for the Third Missouri Brigade. The Third Missouri was also known as Cole’s Raiders. This gentleman’s name is not really Gideon McCall. His name is Jesse Cole.”

“Oh my God!” Millie said, putting her hand to her mouth. “I was at Spring Hill. I was just a little girl then, but I remember it all.”

Gideon looked at Millie, and there was genuine pain in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “I’m truly sorry.”

“You’re sorry? That’s all you can say, that you’re sorry? My father and my brother were killed at Spring Hill. My mother died soon after. Do you have any idea how different my life may have been? You call yourself a preacher? I could be a wife and mother, living in my own house. Instead, I’m a whore, and it’s all because of you.”

Gideon looked as if he were going to answer her, to challenge her assertion or, perhaps, to accept the responsibility. Instead he merely nodded.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

It was obvious by the expression still on Hawke’s face that he just now realized that Gideon was telling the truth.

“If you are Jesse Cole, who is Clint Jessup?” Hawke asked.

“You may have heard of him as Quint Wilson,” Gideon said.

“Yes,” Hawke said. “Yes, I’ve heard of Quint Wilson. Did you two ride together during the war?”

“From time to time,” Gideon admitted. “I also rode with Quantrill and Anderson, as well as Sterling Price and Jeff Thompson.”

“Why didn’t you tell us who he was?” Hawke asked. “If the townspeople knew who he was, he might not have been able to get away with as much.”

“I figured we had both started new lives for ourselves,” Gideon said. “I thought Quint Wilson was dead, just as I thought Jesse Cole was dead. But I was wrong.”

“Did you really attend a seminary? Were you a priest before the war, or is that just part of your cover story?”

“I was a priest.”

“Gideon—”

“My name is Jesse.”

“Jesse, I can understand how you must feel. But do you want to give up everything you’ve worked for now?”

“Everything I worked for is dead.”

Hawke paused for a moment, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “If you want to go with me, let’s go.”

The Bar-J had a two-day head start on them, and because the Bar-J wasn’t pushing a herd, the cowboys were able to move fairly quickly. Hawke and Jesse rode hard through the first day, getting off and walking their horses frequently to spare them.

That night they had a supper of jerky and water.

“The piano at church,” Hawke said. “How were you able to buy that?”

“I bought it the same way Quint Wilson bought the Bar-J,” Jesse said. “I bought it with money I stole during the war.”

“And you thought that buying a piano for a church would absolve you of all your sins?”

“What do you know about absolution?” Jesse asked.

“I know that I haven’t found it yet,” Hawke said. “And apparently, neither have you. All this talk of my soul still being intact and you finding peace with the Lord. What about that, Jesse? All lies?”

Jesse pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought it was true,” he said. “I really thought it was true. I thought God had made a covenant with me by giving me Tamara. But I know now that it was hollow, all hollow. You are right, Hawke. You were right all along. You and I, and everyone like us, have lost our souls.”

“Come on,” Hawke said, remounting. “If we are going to catch up with them, we’re going to have to go all through the night.”

If Hawke thought he would be able to cause Jesse to turn around because of hard trailing, he was mistaken. Jesse matched him step for step, and though it had been several years since the war, from his endurance and demeanor, Hawke could see why Jesse Cole became a name that was feared all through Missouri and Kansas.

Just before dawn Hawke caught a whiff of frying bacon and held up his hand.

“Yes, I smell it,” Jesse said.

The two men dismounted, then tied off their horses and moved ahead silently until they came to a small hill. Getting down on their hands and knees, they crawled to the top, then looked over.

About one hundred yards ahead of them they saw ten men sitting around a campfire.

“Where are the others?” Jesse asked. “I know more than ten men ride for the Bar-J.”

“They have no cattle to drive,” Hawke said. “They probably split up. Or maybe these men aren’t even from the Bar-J. Wait here, I’m going to go down and talk to them.”

“What are you wasting time talking to them for?” Jesse asked.

“Just wait here,” Hawke repeated.

Hawke went back to his horse, mounted, then began riding, slowly, toward the campfire. The cowboys saw him approaching and stood to face him as he rode into their camp.

“You’re the piano player, aren’t you?” one of them asked.

Normally, Hawke would correct people who called him that, assuring them that he was a pianist rather than a piano player. But this didn’t seem to be the time or the place for that.

“Yes.”

“I remember you,” the speaker said.

“I remember you as well. But I never caught your name.”

“The name’s Clayton, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Are you all with the Bar-J?”

“What if we are? What’s it to you? And what are you doing here?”

“Everyone has to be somewhere,” Hawke replied. He nodded toward the fire. “The coffee sure smells good.”

“Don’t it?” Clayton answered. Neither he nor anyone else offered him a cup.

“I was wondering,” Hawke said. “Did any of you happen to ride into town Sunday morning?”

“You people never give up, do you?” Clayton asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Did the town send you out here to roust us for that? I know you was a deputy or somethin’ in addition to bein’ a piano player. But I can’t believe you come all the way out here after us, just because Deekus and some of the other fellas rode into town, as sort of a good-bye.”

“A good-bye?”

“Yes, I know they horsed around a bit, shot off a few guns. But that was just to let you sons of bitches know that we didn’t appreciate you trying to take them away from us.”

“Is that what you call it?” Hawke asked. “Shooting off a few guns to say good-bye?”

“Yeah, that’s what we call it. Only it turns out that your town don’t take too kindly to us, because Abe Wallace got hisself kilt, just for havin’ a little fun. Fact is, Abe ain’t the only one got kilt. Shorty got kilt, and so did Frank Miller. Three men that come into town with us was killed, but you sons of bitches complain about us havin’ guns.”

“So Frank Miller was one of your riders,” Hawke said.

“Yeah, he was one of us. What of it? I was one of the men who come into town that night. We didn’t shoot nobody, we was just havin’ a little fun. But Miller got killed. Now Abe got killed. What does it take to satisfy that town of yours anyway? You’ve kilt three of us, and we ain’t done nothin’ to any of you.”

“Do you really not know?” Hawke asked.

“Do I really not know what?”

“The group of cowboys who rode into town on Sunday, just to tell us good-bye, killed Marshal Truelove, Mr. Gates, Mr. Lankford, the pastor’s wife, and Lucy, the pastor’s little girl.”

Clayton looked surprised, and Hawke surmised immediately that the surprise was genuine.

One of the other cowboys shook his head. “You’re a lyin’ son of a bitch,” he said. “Nothin’ like that happened.”

“I don’t know, Billy,” Clayton said. “If you think back on it, Deekus was—”

His words were cut short by a shot, and Hawke felt the concussion of a bullet passing within inches of his head, then saw a spray of blood and brain detritus spewing from the side of Clayton’s head. That was followed by the sound of a rifle shot.

“What the hell?” Billy shouted in alarm. “Who’s shooting us?”

While the cowboys stood around in shocked inaction, Hawke mounted his horse and galloped back to the hill. As Hawke rode away, bent low over the horse’s neck and waiting for a bullet to tear into his back, he saw a flash of light and a puff of gun smoke coming from the hill in front of him. Twisting around in his saddle, he saw Billy go down. Not until then did the remaining cowboys react, not by returning fire, but by scattering for cover.

Hawke leaped off his horse just as Jesse was reloading the long rifle.

“Jesse, what are you doing?” he shouted in anger.