ED CASE WAS IN a reflective mood. He sat staring at a spot of sunlight on the wall, hands laced across his stomach. His mind was focused on a puzzle of sorts.
Events of the past few days seemed to him somehow intermeshed. Long ago he’d decided that anything happening in Denver affected his position. Whether uptown politics or downtown vice, his rule of the sporting district was dependent on never being caught off guard. He believed strongly in the adage that action was preferable to reaction. He therefore made it his business to know precisely who was doing what to whom. His squad of hooligans served as his eyes and ears around town.
Ever prudent, Case was the sort who never underestimated anyone, particularly an enemy. Instead, he was at some pains to overestimate any man who posed a threat. His concern regarding Earl Brannock had led quite naturally to an interest in the activities of all the Brannock brothers. He was still of the opinion that there was more to the Brannocks than met the eye. None of them had yet challenged him openly, but that was neither here nor there. He saw the potential for trouble.
By noon yesterday, he’d already received several reports. Word first arrived about Virgil Brannock’s meeting with Hughes and Evans. Seen leaving Hughes’ office, Virgil had paused on the street with his youngest brother. A minute later Evans had emerged, brushing past the Brannocks with a hostile look. Shortly after that, Evans and the mayor were seen rushing back to Hughes’ office. The purpose of their hurried confab wasn’t difficult to surmise. Virgil Brannock had somehow antagonized Hughes.
While pondering that, Case got word of still another meeting. Clint Brannock, after leaving his brother, had proceeded on to a conference with Ben Holladay and the U.S. Marshal. Upon hearing this, Case quickly put two and two together. Holladay, with or without the federal lawman’s approval, had apparently sicced Clint Brannock on the stage robbers. Which would explain Brannock’s actions of the day before, when he’d ambushed the gang during a holdup. Yet, all things considered, there was insufficient proof to warrant an arrest. No effort had been made to take Quintin and the gang members into custody.
Late last night, however, Quintin had taken matters into his own hands. Obviously a man who believed in tit for tat, he’d staged an ambush for Clint Brannock. One of his men had been wounded in the process and was reported holed up in their hotel. The town marshal, to Case’s vast disappointment, had emerged unscathed. Still, there was a positive note to an otherwise sloppy attempt at murder. Quintin and his men had proved themselves to be willing assassins.
Thinking about it now, Case considered how he might put the information to use. He was concerned that Clint Brannock might somehow tie him to the stage robbers. By law, having exchanged money for stolen gold, he was an accessory after the fact. There was, moreover, the matter of Virgil Brannock.
From all appearances, the elder brother had broken with David Hughes. Whether that signaled a challenge to Denver’s political hierarchy was a question that vitally interested Case. Were it to happen, then it seemed likely that Earl Brannock would make his move on the sporting district. All the machinery was in place for the three brothers to pull a daring power play. A grab for all the marbles, uptown and downtown.
Case trusted no man to look after his interests. David Hughes, in particular, would sacrifice him on the instant if it proved to advantage. Nor was he all that confident of Hughes’ strength, should a power struggle develop. Hughes, as well as Evans and the mayor, was especially vulnerable where the railroad was concerned. Their scheme to siphon off the construction funds had become apparent to him almost from the outset. And if he knew, then it was reasonable to assume that Virgil Brannock had also uncovered the truth. All of which could be used to topple Hughes and his cronies.
Therein lay the crux of the problem. The Brannocks might very well overthrow the uptown crowd. Their next move, logically, would be to link him with Hughes and demand his ouster as well. In that event, his squad of hooligans were hardly adequate to prevent his downfall. No man, especially a vice lord, could long stand in the face of public outrage. So it appeared that he’d been right all along. The Brannock brothers were opportunists and spoilers. And not to be underestimated.
The puzzle seemed to him complete. All the pieces fitted neatly together, and only one question remained: how to defuse the situation and rid himself of the Brannocks wasn’t yet clear. He was thinking hard on it when a knock sounded at the door.
Hank Newcomb ushered Mayor Stodt into the office. Case knew instinctively that the visit had nothing to do with their ordinary business. Some visceral hunch told him that the solution to his problem had just walked through the door. He managed to look pleasantly surprised.
“Well, Mr. Mayor,” he said, nodding. “What brings you all the way down here?”
Stodt took a wooden armchair before the desk. “I’ve come at the request of David Hughes. It seems you were right all along.”
“Oh?” Case replied. “Right about what?”
“We’ve decided that three Brannocks are three too many.”
Case eyed him with sardonic amusement. “What brought about your change of heart?”
“No one thing,” Stodt said blandly. “We just feel they’re more liability than asset. A potential problem.”
“Someone told me”—Case hesitated, let the silence build—“that Hughes and Virgil Brannock are on the outs. Anything to it?”
“You shouldn’t listen to rumors. Our concern has to do with the good of the town. And yours, I might add.”
“Hmmm.” Case considered that a moment. “How am I involved in your affairs?”
Stodt laughed shortly. “Our concerns are your concerns. We all row the same boat.”
“And you think Virgil Brannock might capsize us, is that it?”
“Exactly,” Stodt said in a careful, precise voice. “So we want him attended to, along with his brothers. Three birds at once, so to speak.”
“Attended to?” Case repeated with a certain amount of sarcasm. “Are you talking about roughing them up—or what?”
Stodt stared at him like a stuffed owl. “What we want is to have them removed.”
“Cut the double-talk,” Case said cynically. “You’re asking me to have them killed, aren’t you?”
“Use whatever word you choose. However, it must be done with a degree of finesse. No links to myself or Mr. Hughes—or you.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
“It must also be done quickly. Any delay would jeopardize certain plans already under way.”
“Let me worry about the timing. To do it right, I’ll have to organize things just so.”
“No,” Stodt said sharply. “You have five days to get it done. That time limit is absolute.”
“Five days?” Case grinned as if at some private joke. “Brannock must really be crimping Hughes’ style. Will the railroad fold if I miss the deadline?”
Stodt fixed him with a baleful look. “Keep your wit to yourself. All we want is a job done well, and done quickly.”
Case’s eyes went hard as slate. After a moment of deliberation, he leaned forward, elbows on the desk. His face was a mask and his tone was offhand, almost matter-of-fact.
“I’ll do your dirty work,” he said. “But I want you to deliver a message back to Hughes. Tell him the price for murder is steep. So I’ll expect something in return.”
“What might that be?”
“Ten percent of everything he steals from the railroad.”
“Impossible,” Stodt said crossly. “Hughes won’t sit still for extortion.”
“Then I guess he’ll have to do his own killing.”
“Don’t be a fool! We’ve come to you in good faith.”
“Those are my terms.” Case’s mouth went tight, scornful. “Take it or leave it.”
Stodt glowered at him. “It seems we have no choice. I’ll speak with Hughes and suggest that he go along. For now, let’s say your terms are acceptable.”
“Nice doing business with you, Mr. Mayor.”
Stodt ignored the gibe. He rose with a brusque nod and walked from the office.
When the door closed, Case leaned back in his chair. He’d struck a hard bargain, but he felt certain the arrangement would be honored. David Hughes was in no position to negotiate.
After a time, his eyes went once more to the spot of sunlight on the wall. His gaze became abstracted and a slight smile played over his mouth. He began planning murder.
Quintin rolled out of bed. He padded barefoot to the wash-stand and poured water from a pitcher into a cracked basin. He briskly scrubbed his face.
Fully awake, he began dressing. As he stepped into his pants, he wondered about Bob Tobert. Last night, in the midst of the shootout, Tobert had taken a slug through the arm. From his guerrilla days, Quintin was familiar with gunshot wounds. After returning to the hotel, he’d swabbed Tobert’s arm with whiskey and wrapped it tightly. He thought there was little chance of infection.
From Tobert, his mind went automatically to Clint Bran-nock. He still had no idea how the town marshal had tumbled to them. Or why the sneaky bastard had ambushed them on the Black Hawk road. Stage robbery was hardly in the bailiwick of a town lawdog. But Frank Purdy swore that his eyes hadn’t lied to him. He’d recognized Brannock as the man on that rocky hillside.
Upon returning to Denver, Quintin had felt reasonably safe. There were no witnesses, apart from the marshal, and it was his word against theirs. The chances of being arrested or brought to trial seemed remote. Still, Quintin took it personally when someone tried to bushwhack him. So he’d arranged a surprise party of his own last night. The upshot was scarcely what he’d expected, and he still couldn’t believe all those slugs had missed the mark. He told himself that Brannock must lead a charmed life. Nothing else accounted for the way it had worked out.
Finished dressing, he buckled on his gunbelt. He was hungry and he figured it was time to roust the other men out. Except for Tobert, who would have to rest for a couple of days, there was no reason for them to loaf around in bed. Several things needed discussion, and a damnsight better planning! For openers, since they were almost broke, another holdup would have to be considered But before that, they would have to figure a way to haul Clint Brannock’s ashes. Some things took priority over others.
A knock sounded as he took hold of the doorknob. He pulled his gun and stepped aside, against the wall. With his left hand, he opened the door a crack. Hank Newcomb stood in the hallway.
Holstering his gun, Quintin swung the door open. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Case wants to see you.”
“What about?”
“Ask him,” Newcomb said roughly. “C’mon, let’s get a move on.”
Quintin’s eyes flashed. “You oughtn’t to push so hard, friend. Tell him I’ll be over after I’ve had breakfast. Think you can keep that straight?”
Newcomb held his stare a moment. Then, with a dour look, he turned and walked off down the hall. Quintin hesitated, debating whether or not to tell his men. He decided to have breakfast alone.
Some while later Quintin was shown into Case’s office. The vice lord waved him to a chair and waited until he was seated. They sat for a moment looking at each other.
Case wagged his head. “Heard you had some hard luck trying to rob the Black Hawk stage.”
“Nothin’ I can’t handle.”
“I’d say that’s open to debate. You and your boys sure muffed it last night.”
Quintin grunted coarsely. “Every dog has his day. We’ll get him next time.”
“Clint Brannock strikes me as a man who takes considerable getting. Maybe you ought to try the indirect approach.”
“I don’t exactly follow you.”
“You’re aware that Earl Brannock is the marshal’s brother?”
Case gave him a crafty look. “How would you like to own the Bella Union?”
Quintin blinked, sat erect. “You’ll have to spell that out.”
“It’s simple enough,” Case said lazily. “You and your boys throw a scare into Brannock. Offer him continued good health for a quit claim to the Bella Union.”
Quintin screwed up his face in a whiskery scowl. “What’s that got to do with the marshal?”
“I understand Clint Brannock’s a hothead. When you threaten his brother, he’ll just naturally come looking for you. See what I mean?”
“I’m still listenin’.”
“Well, that makes it personal, doesn’t it? He’d be acting on his own, not as a lawman. You’ll have a legitimate excuse to kill him.”
“Sounds a little too pat,” Quintin stalled. “What’s your interest in the Brannocks?”
“Strictly business,” Case said with a sourly amused look. “Earl has some notion he ought to be running the sporting district. I figure he’s overstayed his welcome.”
“Why not use your own men?”
“Too obvious,” Case noted. “Besides, that wouldn’t solve your problem, would it? You’d still have the marshal dogging your trail.”
Quintin regarded him with squinted eyes. “Purdy says there’s a third brother, a liquor dealer. What if he decided to take a hand?”
Case’s laugh was scratchy, abrasive. “What’s another Brannock more or less? Unless, of course, you’re not interested in the Bella Union.”
“No,” Quintin said with vinegary satisfaction. “I like that idea just fine. Owning a gambling dive would sure beat rob-bin’ stages.”
“Good,” Case said amiably. “You’re my kind of man, Jack. I think we’ll do well together.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Suppose Earl Brannock don’t scare? Wouldn’t that sort of put the quietus on the whole works?”
“I have confidence in you, Jack. You’ll think of something.”
Quintin gave him a lopsided grin. “I reckon I will at that. Got anything more you want to tell me?”
“One last point,” Case said smoothly. “You’ll have to wrap it up by the end of the week. Otherwise all bets are off.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I want it that way. When you take a chair in my game, you play by my rules. Any objections?”
Quintin laughed a loud booming laugh. “Hell, what’s to object about? Consider it done.”
Case walked him to the door. They parted with a genial handshake and mutual assurances for the future. After seeing him out, Case looked somewhat like a cat spitting feathers. He congratulated himself on a nifty bit of sleight of hand. All in one day, he had Quintin in one pocket and David Hughes in the other.
And the Brannock brothers a step away from the grave.