Slocum took his time riding back to Espero, waiting for the shadows to lengthen so he could escape any sentinels Julian might have posted along the road. When he reached the outskirts, dusk hid his features. Not riding the same horse and having two others trotting behind might also provide some cover, but Slocum doubted that. Anyone Julian—or Hawkins—posted would be smart enough to recognize him. With the countryside filled with posses hunting down Liam Neville, it was a stretch of the imagination to believe they didn’t also look for him.
At the edge of town he heard the mournful peals from the huge bell Hawkins had put into a ten-foot-tall bell tower in front of his funeral parlor. A solemn note sounded every thirty seconds. Slocum counted, then nodded an instant before a new peal rolled out over the town.
He wanted to investigate, but another matter occupied him first. He rode to the livery stable. The barn Neville had blown to smithereens still smoldered some distance away. He expected to see corpses stacked like cordwood but nothing of the sort showed through the twilight. Sniffing, he tried to catch any hint of decomposing bodies. All that made his nose wrinkle were the mingled odors of burned wood and the sharp ammonia scent of detonated dynamite.
Dismounting, he led his horses into the livery stable. The owner snored peacefully in a back stall. Slocum looked into every stall until he found his horse and gear. Only then did he awaken the man and dicker some for the return of his own property and the sale of the three horses in his possession. Selling Polly’s horse bothered him but only for a moment. Chances were good she wouldn’t need it if her pa died—and Slocum doubted the man would survive to see another day. She would have the buggy and horse to ride in style to Dexter Junction. Selling them there would get her money for a railroad ticket out of Texas.
And if he lived, Liam Neville would require almost constant attention. Polly had no place to go in the buggy in that case nor would she miss her horse.
The thought crossed his mind he could always give her the money he got from selling Buttermilk. That gave him a good reason to seek her out again. She was fiery and the kind of woman he appreciated most in life—and in bed. If she moved on after her pa died, Slocum saw no reason the two of them couldn’t ride together.
For a woman like Polly Neville, remaining on the Box N would be nothing but a constant reminder of bad days and worse people in Espero.
He pocketed seventy-five dollars for the three horses and another hundred for the gear. So much money stuffed into his vest pocket almost compensated for having Julian and his men rob him.
It would take far more than getting back the money they stole to leaven his desire for revenge. Awakening in the coffin the way he had would burn in his soul forever.
Best of all, he got back his own horse and rifle. He didn’t remember where he had dropped it when he had lit out to stop Neville, but it had to have been close by his horse for someone to stuff it back into the saddle sheath. A quick check convinced him it wasn’t damaged and would stand him in good stead when he had to use it again.
After he left the livery stables richer and feeling better about his chances of settling the score with Hawkins, he noticed the funeral bell still tolled. Counting under his breath brought him to thirty seconds and another clang. He knew better, but he had to see what was going on. He rode around back of the mortuary and saw where Julian and his men were camped.
Three cooking fires warned him the gang leader had recruited more men than he could handle alone. As much as he wanted Julian and the men who had buried him to end up in graves of their own, he would forgo that pleasure in return for putting a bullet into Hawkins’s fat gut. He was the source of all the trouble in town and in Slocum’s life.
Slocum had dealt with such men before. All the way from Bloody Bill Anderson and William Quantrill on, after the war had been filled with men itching to do harm—and every one of them had come to a grievous end because of John Slocum. He took no real pleasure in killing, but for Leonard Hawkins, he would make an exception.
He looked up in alarm when the bell did not deliver its usual peal at the thirty-second interval. The men in Julian’s camp stirred but made no sign they considered the cessation out of the ordinary. Slocum rode around to the street in front of the funeral parlor in time to see Miranda wiping her hands on a cloth, then mopping her face. The oppressive heat hadn’t slackened as the sun went down. If she had been ringing the bell for long, the exertion would have explained the way she turned back to the mortuary, shoulders bent and step hesitant.
Slocum found a spot down the street to tether his horse. He returned to peer in the mortuary’s open front door. What breeze there was stirred about in the vestibule but hardly moved the heavy velvet curtains hiding the viewing room.
He stepped back when he heard a soft swishing sound. A cloud of dust flew from inside, the product of Miranda’s aggressive sweeping. She didn’t look up until he softly called her name.
“What?” Then her eyes went wide when she saw him. “Oh, no, you can’t be here!”
He stepped into the vestibule and pressed his back against the wall. It was still warm from the day in the sun. Like a striking snake, he reached for her and caught her wrist. He pulled her close until their bodies touched.
“So you’re married.” Slocum held up her left hand with the large diamond ring on the fourth finger. “How’s married life so far?”
“Don’t be like that, John. Please.”
“You want to thank me for not killing him before you got hitched?”
The question caused her eyes to grow wide. She started to speak, but no words came out. After a strangled gurgle, she swallowed hard and then said, “Thank you. Now you can do me another favor and get the hell away from me!”
“I’ll be happy to do so,” he said, “after I kill Hawkins.” He watched her reaction. Before, she had begged him to let her groom live. Now she made no protest.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I put six slugs into his rotten heart?”
“There’s no need for you to waste the ammo.”
“That’s a strange thing to say.”
“Leonard is not a well man. He . . . he is prone to seizures and one will kill him someday soon.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of any malady other than his gout.”
“John, you must go before he finds you—before Julian or one of his men spots you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Thanks,” he said with only a touch of sarcasm. “Not only do you value my hide now, you don’t want me wasting my ammunition.”
“If you stay and meddle in my affairs, you’ll end up getting hurt. Or worse.”
“By Hawkins? Or the man who followed you here from Dexter Junction?” Again he had rattled her, but Miranda covered her surprise.
“You’re nothing but a meddling cowboy who doesn’t know when he has it good.”
“I had it good. I had a wad of greenbacks stuffed into my pocket for escorting you here, but they got taken off me before Julian buried me alive.”
“Is that all? The money?” She pushed away from him and wrenched her left hand free of his grasp. “I’ll get you the money. How much? Four hundred? Five hundred? I’ll give you five hundred to ride from Espero and never look back.”
“That’s mighty tempting. You’d give me so much money? You who Hawkins has sweeping up like a maid and ringing the bell outside? What was that about?”
“The bell? I had to ring it ten times for each death at the wedding. Leonard is going to be busy for a week interring the thirty-two that died.”
“How did you and him escape such an explosion?”
Slocum pressed his ear against the wall, listening for movement anywhere in the mortuary. All he heard was the creak and groan of a building settling. Being so near the heart of Hawkins’s power made him edgy.
“I don’t know. We were up front. I never saw the man with the dynamite. The parson had just pronounced us man and wife and Leonard had put the ring on my finger. It didn’t fit. It hurt, so I jerked back and lost my balance. I fell down as the explosion ripped through the barn.”
“How’d Hawkins get away?”
“I asked. He said he saw the crazy man and dived down behind the dais. He was so angry at ruining his suit.”
Slocum stared at her. She spoke of Hawkins as if he were a stranger, someone who meant nothing to her.
“He didn’t try to save you?”
“No.” For the first time, hardness came into her tone. Her jaw tensed. She turned away so he couldn’t see her as clearly in the faint light.
“He doesn’t love you. Do you love him?”
“I married him, didn’t I?”
“That’s no answer,” Slocum said.
Before he could press her, he heard voices from deeper inside the funeral home.
“That’s Hawkins. I have to fix him dinner.” Miranda bit her lower lip, then said with forced sincerity, “I must go fix Leonard’s supper.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Be careful, John. Whatever there is between you two, ignore it. Leave. Leonard will be just fine.”
“The money,” Slocum said harshly. “Give me the money he owes me.”
“Oh, well, yes, of course.” She sounded disappointed, as if she expected more from him. It wasn’t what Slocum intended, but he wanted an excuse to stay around until he could get the undertaker in his sights.
The voices grew louder. Slocum recognized Hawkins and Julian. He reached for his six-gun, but Miranda stopped him. She silently shook her head, then put a finger to her lips to keep him quiet. Then she held up four fingers.
“Guards?”
She nodded vigorously and pushed him toward the front door and into the night.
Just as Slocum slipped through, he caught himself and waited just beyond the door.
“There you are, Miranda. You miscounted on the bells. You were two rings short. Which Espero citizen did you disrespect by your inattention?”
“Why, Leonard, uh, I thought I counted properly. There wasn’t anyone I intended to insult. Their family, I mean, since they are dead and don’t care.”
“Don’t say that. I like to think—I know—they are watching from above. You will never get into Heaven by heaping such dishonor on all the deceased.”
“But, dear, you said I only missed two—that means one of those who died. I—”
“You will fix my dinner, then go and start over. Two tolls, thirty seconds apart for each of the deceased.”
“That’s more than another half hour of ringing the bell. Won’t the rest of the town protest ruining their sleep? Can’t I do it tomorrow morning before the burials? This is only our second night together, dearest.”
Slocum slipped his six-shooter free. The sound of Miranda being slapped set his blood to boiling. Only luck saved him from foolishly going to her rescue. His coat caught on a nail in the wall, preventing him from whirling about. At the instant he would have confronted Hawkins, three of Julian’s gang stepped out to look around.
The night hid Slocum as the men looked into the street but not behind them against the wall where he was caught. They made a few crude comments about what a night with Miranda would be like, then went back inside and closed the door. A locking bar dropped into place, making it impossible for Slocum to pursue them even if he had wanted to. He gently unhooked the thread from the nail head, then walked to the side of the building and looked back toward the outlaw camp.
Too many of Julian’s gang sat around their cooking fires for him to have any hope of taking them out one by one. Slocum stepped back, looked up to the funeral parlor roof, and went to the water barrel under the gutter. He climbed to the rim of the barrel, gripped the downspout, and pulled himself up. The nails holding the drainpipe pulled free with a mournful creak, but before Slocum found himself falling, he pulled himself up over the gutter and onto the sloping roof. He waited a few minutes, listening for any hint that he had been seen.
He looked over the gang’s camp. Seeing nothing to show they were aware of his presence, Slocum made his way along the roof to the chimney and began prying loose a few bricks next to it. When he got his spyhole clear, he flopped belly down and put his eye to the opening. He made sense out of what he saw in the room below. A table was set with a meal, untouched. Muffled voices came from another room. He changed his perspective, then caught his breath.
Moving like a ghost to the table, the mystery man stopped, took something from his pocket, and poured a powder over the food on one plate. He looked up suddenly, then rushed out of Slocum’s sight as Hawkins and Miranda appeared in the room and sat at the table.
The food that had been dusted sat in front of Hawkins.
Slocum tried to pry a larger hole to get a better view, but to do so would create too much noise. He shifted again, trying to see Miranda. She sat with her back to him. From the way she leaned forward slightly, it was as if she was intensely interested in whatever Hawkins said—or she waited for him to fork in food from his plate.
Every time the undertaker lifted the fork with a morsel impaled on it, he hesitated, then lowered it back to his plate. Slocum wished he could hear what was being said, but both spoke in low tones.
“Now,” Hawkins said loudly, throwing his fork onto his plate with a loud clatter. He stood. “The time is now!”
“Must we, my dear?” Miranda stirred uneasily. “Let’s finish supper so we will have energy for . . . the entire night.”
“Now.”
Hawkins shoved his chair back and came around the table, grabbing Miranda by the arm and jerking her to her feet.
“Now.”
“But, Leonard—”
He kissed her with a savage passion that caused Slocum to wonder if he could get a good shot through his peephole. Then any hope of plugging Hawkins disappeared with the couple below.
Slocum made his way to the edge of the roof, intending to jump down and find a window. Treating Miranda the way Hawkins had infuriated him, but on a colder, deadlier level he knew this was his best chance of getting his revenge on the undertaker. Before he could drop to the ground, Hawkins and Miranda came around the building and took a path leading away from the funeral parlor. Slocum slid his six-gun from the holster but never had a clear shot. The dark complicated his shot, but Hawkins pulled Miranda along behind him, using her as an unintentional shield.
Slocum stood and saw that the path led into the woods some distance away. From the way Miranda protested, he wondered if she had second thoughts about not letting him kill Hawkins before the marriage.
The couple disappeared into the woods. All Slocum saw were the occasional flashes of lightning bugs. He looked at the sky. Tonight was clear with no hint of a summer storm.
A grim smile crossed his lips. The storm would be wherever Hawkins took the unwilling woman.
He crouched when he heard someone prowling about under him. Carefully looking over the gutter, he saw a dark figure move around, then kneel and look at the soft earth hunting for tracks. When the man found the path taken by Hawkins and Miranda, he set out after them.
Slocum followed the man with his sights centered on his back, then lowered his pistol. If anyone saved Miranda this night, let it be her mysterious companion. Something else piqued Slocum’s curiosity.
When the man vanished into the woods, Slocum gripped the gutter, fell forward, and slammed into the wall, hanging for a second before dropping to the ground. He made some noise but not enough to alert any of Hawkins’s guards. With his step silent, he bent low and moved as easily as any Apache to find the door where the trio had left the funeral parlor. A quick twist of the knob opened the door, letting Slocum enter.
The interior proved darker than outside. Without the stars overhead to give some light and no oil lamp burning, Slocum had to edge carefully through the room. He bumped into a coffin and recoiled. Using a lucifer from the tin he carried in his vest pocket, he got a good look at the woman in the casket. Holding the flaring match higher, he looked around the room. It was crowded with coffins. Hawkins was the only undertaker in town and must have worked overtime to prepare so many bodies for burial this fast.
Before the match burned down to his fingers, he hurried through the maze of coffins to the door leading into the vestibule. From here he made his way through to the viewing room and, using his nose to follow the smell of cooked food, found the living quarters in a rear room. The small kitchen opened onto the dining room Slocum had spied on.
He stood in the doorway and studied the room. Over beside the chimney a tall cabinet stood half open. This had to be where Miranda’s companion had hidden. The firelight kept it hidden in shadows while illuminating the rest of the room with a soft light.
Slocum went to the table. Miranda wasn’t much of a cook from the look of the food, but it was better than anything he could have whipped up on the trail. He reached for a slice of beef on her plate, smeared some gravy on it, and started to sample it. He froze when he saw a rat on the table sniffing about.
The rat went to Hawkins’s plate. Its whiskers wiggled about as it made a small meal from the food. Then it went into convulsions, flopped onto its side, kicked tiny clawed feet in the air, and died.
Slocum dropped the beef. He had seen the mystery man pour powder on Hawkins’s food. He might have similarly treated Miranda’s.
He left without touching anything else. Miranda might be in as much danger from her stalker as she was from her new husband.