The Shopkeeper (17 page)

People who have never killed find it easy to act casual about violence, but Bradshaw was right. Still, though I had tried to get Washburn into the street just a few minutes ago, I didn’t like somebody else telling me to shoot someone. I decided to direct the scheme along a more benign path. “We’d like to indict Washburn for conspiracy to murder Bolton.”

I asked Captain McAllen to describe our scanty evidence. When he finished, I asked Bradshaw, “Enough?”

“Well … I can probably engineer an indictment as long as the arraignment date is set for after the election. But if you don’t get any more evidence, the case will be quietly dropped a day or two in advance of the hearing. In the meantime, it should give Mr. Washburn something else to worry about.”

I felt it was time to bring up another subject. “I want to see the circuit judge. He telegraphed me that he was tied up in Carson City. Where can I find him?”

“Neither. That’s the widow Clark; Judge Wilson is courting her. I don’t know if she’s serious about his advances or just likes the food here.”

After a few minutes of sizing up the little man, I described a rough plan to McAllen. He thought about it a moment and then said, “Let’s do it.”

Chapter 30

McAllen and I walked over to Wilson’s table and glared down at the couple. Wilson was so enthralled by the widow Clark’s cooing that he didn’t notice us, but she broke his trance by glancing up in annoyance.

I slammed the table. “Get out of here? Would you tell the Cutlers to get out of here? Hell, no!” I did my best to appear mad as a March hare. “I’m the one who killed those sons of bitches. Now tell the lady to make herself scarce. We got business.”

The man literally trembled in fear, but he managed to sputter, “I’m an officer of the court.”

“Who gives a shit?” I said.

McAllen stepped behind the widow and stood uncomfortably close to her. She looked at the two of us and said, “I really need to visit the room out back anyway. I’ll just be a few minutes.” Without waiting for permission, she scurried away.

I let a long silence ensue before I said, “I want you off Washburn’s payroll … and on mine. I’ll set up an assured payment system for three years.”

McAllen squeezed for a long moment and then let go of Wilson’s scrawny hand. He then made a show of slowly withdrawing his own hand to let it rest against the butt of his gun.

Wilson’s nervous eyes flitted around the room looking for help. “What if, for sake of argument only, I said that Washburn and I had some mutual business dealings? Why would I discontinue involvement with profitable enterprises?”

“The difference between Washburn and me is that Washburn would pay to have you shot in the street. I’d do something quieter, easier to turn a blind eye to, like slip poison into your food.” I shrugged. “You die either way.”

Wilson shook his head. “No. I saw Washburn at your table. He meant business.”

“That was just Washburn throwing a bluff.” I made a dismissive gesture. “But you’re right, this little war is going to get bloodier than hell—and you’re on the wrong side. I’m giving you one chance to switch … or you become my first target. And I don’t let unfinished work hang around long.” I gave him a few seconds. “What’ll it be?”

Wilson whispered again. “I’ll come to your side, if I can keep it secret. I’ll delay the cases Washburn wants and tell you what’s going on in his camp.”

I leaned into Wilson’s face. “Judge, you can’t stay neutral or play both sides. I’ve got writs I want approved … tonight.”

Wilson sat back, a picture of cowardly alarm. “I can’t. I won’t.” He looked between McAllen and me. “Can’t we work something out? I’ll do anything else.”

I pretended to think. “Tell you what. You give me a letter of resignation, and I’ll get you a letter of recommendation from the current governor. That should help you get a judgeship in another state. Telegraph me after you get to where you’re going.”

Wilson backed up his chair as if to leave.

“Stay put,” I said. “I want that letter now.” I motioned toward McAllen, who immediately went to the hotel lobby for writing materials.

With McAllen gone for the moment, Wilson started to get up, but I reached into my coat, and he sat back down. McAllen returned, set the inkwell down with a resounding snap, and tossed paper and pen in front of Wilson.

I merely said, “Write.”

After a few minutes, the honorable judge Wilson handed me his resignation. I read it and then flipped my fingers in dismissal. Wilson bolted for the door without a word.

We walked back over to Bradshaw, and I threw the letter in front of him. “I regret to inform you that the Nevada circuit judge has found it necessary to resign. Do you think the governor can appoint a replacement?”

Captain McAllen escorted me to my room. As we walked up the stairs, he said, “You forgot to mention that letter of recommendation to Bradshaw.”

I kept climbing. “Why would I do that?”

Chapter 31

The next morning, I asked Captain McAllen to eat breakfast at another table. I had come to accept most of the new disruptions in my life, but I wanted a few private minutes with Mark Twain before the day began. I was reading Jeremiah’s copy of
The Adventures of
Tom Sawyer
, but I made a mental note to buy my own in Carson City. Twain had worked here as a reporter for a spell, so I felt confident I could find his book at one of the general stores.

Tom Sawyer
was written in a fresh, natural style that somehow seemed uniquely American. I hoped it did not catch on, because my writing was much more literary, or at least what I believed New Yorkers thought of as literary.
Tom Sawyer
threw eastern conventions to the wind. The story engaged the reader with quick-paced action, spiced it with humor, and read so easy it seemed the writer had just taken down verbatim the narrative of a skillful storyteller.

The more I read, the more I became engrossed in the story and forgot about analyzing the style. I would read it again, but next time it would be my own copy, so I could make notations in the margins. This time, I would just let the story carry me along.

A glance at my pocket watch surprised me—I had spent nearly two hours at the breakfast table. Reluctantly, I put the book down and then noticed McAllen staring intently at something or someone over my shoulder. When I turned to see what held his attention, I saw the two guards that had accompanied Washburn the prior evening. This was not good. Even with Captain McAllen and his men protecting me, I could not lose myself in a book. I needed to kill that habit, or I might get myself killed.

I stood, stretched, and then sauntered over toward Washburn’s henchmen. McAllen leaped to his feet and moved quickly to catch up with me. The eyes of everyone in the restaurant followed my short walk, and I suddenly sensed a tension in the room that had probably been there the whole time I had been absorbed in
Tom Sawyer
.

As I approached, I noticed that their empty breakfast plates had been pushed away, and one of the men had turned his chair so that it faced the room instead of the table. “Gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed your breakfast?”

They sat silent, and the one facing the room tried a stern look meant to scare me into retreat. His three day’s worth of black whiskers actually made him look scruffy, not mean. The other one finally spoke in a mocking manner. “Must be a good book.”

“An excellent book.
Tom Sawyer
. When you learn to read, you should pick it up.”

I saw a flash of movement to my right and reached for my gun in a spasm of panic. With my gun leveled at the whiskered man, I risked a glance at his partner. McAllen’s long-barreled Smith & Wesson pointed at a bloody mouth spitting teeth. Ramming my gun under the other one’s chin, I reached down with my left hand and took his pistol. McAllen did not disarm his man.

McAllen smiled and said, “Now you can eat shit with that mouth. No chewing required.”

The man tried to answer, but his mouth spewed only red spit and some odd noises.

“Don’t try to speak,” McAllen said. “Too late to apologize, and a threat will just get you dead. I only bash a man once. The next time I kill him.” The only response was a pathetic gurgling. McAllen shifted his attention to the one under my gun. “You or your partner even look to cross our path, and I’ll kill you both.” When the man’s face showed fear, McAllen added, “Now, help get your friend over to a dentist.”

I holstered my own gun and spilled out the cartridges from the one I had taken. As the black-haired bodyguard helped the injured man to his feet, I dropped the empty pistol back into his holster. I saw his eyes measure the distance to the gun in his partner’s holster, but the sound of McAllen cocking his weapon made it a fleeting thought. The two men stumbled out, and the room suddenly became noisy with animated conversation.

I walked back to my table, intending to pick up my book, when McAllen said, “Sit. Let’s have a cup of coffee and talk a minute.”

I did not need any more coffee, but I sat down anyway. After McAllen took a seat on the opposite side of the table, he said, “You were lost in that book.”

“You’re right.”

McAllen nodded. “Good. Don’t lie to me.” He seemed to relax a bit and grinned. “But it was a fine lie to tell them fellas. From now on, order breakfast in your room.”

“Of course,” I said, realizing that my days in Pickhandle Gulch had caused me to forget the refinements of a decent hotel.

“All right.” McAllen sounded friendlier than usual. “We sure didn’t need to wait long for an opportunity to show our violent side.” He looked around the room at all the whispering guests. “Bradshaw got what he wanted. Word will get all over town in less than an hour.”