“Okay,” Darby Letloe challenged. “Now that you’ve voted to give Farrel his payoff, which one among you brave gentlemen is going to be the one to ride up to Farrel and hand him the money?”
The saloonkeeper’s question was answered by awkward silence. It was one thing to vote, but quite another to put your vote into personal action.
“What? No volunteers?” chided Letloe.
The mayor cleared his throat. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I think this particular duty falls under the province of the sheriff’s office.
“With the sheriff incapable of riding, the deputy, here, acting as the legal arm of the council, would be the one to deliver the money to Farrel.”
“Hold on!” shouted Ray Dodd in sudden panic. “Nobody’s gonna railroad me into facing Major Farrel. Get yourself another boy. I ain’t going.”
“Take it easy, young feller,” said John Howell in his calm and reasonable style. “Major Farrel probably isn’t even out there.”
“You’re a whole lot surer of that than I am,” said Dodd. “So why don’t you deliver the money?”
“Yeah,” said Darby Letloe sarcastically. “That’s a fine idea. I nominate John Howell to be the council’s emissary to Major Farrel.”
“Do you accept the nomination, John?” asked the mayor.
Howell had trapped himself in his own web of logical reasoning and smooth talking. If he refused to accept the nomination he’d look like a hypocrite. Worse, thought Howell to himself, he would not only look like a hypocrite, he’d be a hypocrite.
Being new to the West and having had a relatively uneventful crossing of the high plains, Howell was of the opinion that most of the stories that circulated about Indians and outlaws were ninety-percent exaggeration. In short, he was never really capable of comprehending the danger that a man like Major Farrel represented. Ultimately, he really believed the things he’d been saying at the council meetings, even if he overstated his case occasionally in order to make his points. After all, if he was going to be mayor of Kimble someday, he had to stand out from the crowd. And maybe showing that he had the courage of his convictions would hasten the day that he might become mayor.
To everyone’s surprise, John Howell accepted the nomination. And to no one’s surprise, he was the only man nominated. The vote was unanimous. Howell was to be Kimble’s representative to Major Farrel.
The two thousand dollars in tribute was to be taken out of the Kimble treasury. Those funds were kept in Walter Kestler’s bank. At the moment, however, that money, along with the rest of the bank’s assets, was stashed in the false bottom of Kestler’s trunk.
Taking that money out of his trunk and handing it over to Howell was going to reduce Kestler’s final embezzlement by almost fifteen percent. It hurt the banker to lose the money, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Or so he thought at the moment.
Sheriff Mason listened to all he could stomach, then, even before the meeting broke up, he struggled to his feet. Hunter moved swiftly to his side and put his strong right hand under Hank’s arm, steadying the old sheriff as he slowly stood to his full height.
“I can’t look at those buzzards no more,” he whispered dejectedly.
Hunter felt sorry for the old man. Hank Mason had given so much of himself to keep this town safe, and now they were going to throw it away with a lot of fancy words. For some reason they just couldn’t understand that Farrel wasn’t like them, that Farrel didn’t deal in words and votes, but rather in bullets and blood.
In the early afternoon, Walter Kestler delivered a large pouch containing two thousand dollars to Howell’s General Store.
“I’ll need a receipt for that,” said Kestler, after the storekeeper finished counting it out.
“Of course.” Howell signed a piece of paper, taking official custody of the money.
“When are you leaving?” asked the banker.
“Right away. There’s a horse saddled and waiting for me at the stable. The sooner we get this over with, the better for everyone in Kimble.”
Kestler suddenly realized that this would likely be the last time he’d see John Howell alive. Surely Major Farrel would take the money and then kill the poor devil. Well, thought Kestler, it was Howell’s own fault for being a fool.
But, as Kestler left the general store and slowly walked back toward the bank, a terrible doubt began to gnaw at him. What if he was miscalculating all this? What if Howell, Kleese, Turner, and Mayor Baldwin were right? What if Farrel should accept the money and spare Kimble from attack? It was possible. Perhaps not probable, but yes, it was possible. And if Farrel did take the money and leave Kimble alone, then Kestler could count on his neck getting stretched.
The banker stopped dead in his tracks. There were no two ways about it. John Howell had to be killed. It was likely that Farrel would do the job, but Kestler could not afford to take any chances. Someone had to stop Howell before he could offer Farrel the money. And Kestler knew just the man for the job. He had to find Ray Dodd.
As he resumed his walk, he whistled a jaunty little tune, thinking how clever he was to be covering every possibility. Farrel would naturally be blamed for the murder, and he, Kestler, would be getting back the two thousand dollars.
They met, once again, in Kestler’s office at the rear of the bank.
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Kestler?” asked the deputy, curiosity showing plainly on his face.
“Ever kill a man?” asked the banker, making sure of his man.
“Yeah. Why?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Dodd.”
“All right, I’m listening.”
“Would you kill a man for pay?”
Dodd smiled. “I always knew you rich, well-dressed folks got to be where you are by killing and stealing.”
“Never mind the commentary. I asked you a question. Would you kill a man for pay?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Depends on the pay, depends on who it is I’ve got to kill, and depends on what my chances are of getting caught.”
“What if the man you were to kill was unarmed, the chances of getting either blamed or caught were a thousand to one, and the pay was, say, five hundred dollars?”
Dodd grinned again and said, “I’d do it. But now I’ve got a question for you. Is this all just a lot of talk or is there someone you really want plugged?”
“It isn’t talk. I want you to kill John Howell before he sees Major Farrel. And I want the money he’s carrying returned directly to me.”
Ray Dodd wasn’t stupid. “There’s something going on here,” he said quietly. “Why would you want to have John Howell killed?”
“I have my reasons, Dodd, and they’re none of your business. Let’s keep it that way. You want to make that five hundred or don’t you?”
The young gunman thought about it for a few seconds and saw that it was just as Kestler had said: easy money and virtually no risk. He nodded his head and said, “I’ll take the money now.”
“No,” retorted Kestler. “You get your five hundred when you hand me the money Howell’s carrying, and not before. The money will be the proof that you’ve done the job.”
Dodd shrugged. “Okay. You’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll meet you here around midnight.”
“Good.”
They didn’t shake hands.