Will Storm might have been reading Dwyer’s mind. Charlie Dwyer was no coward, but he didn’t like to waste his courage on something he couldn’t win. He sat on the stoop of the primitive ranch-house, looked across the Broken Spur valley and followed his thoughts. A great deal depended on what he decided. Mostly his own future.
He had plans for himself. Ed Brack and his power was no more than a stepping-stone. He feared Brack and he admitted the fact. But he knew that there would come a day when he would fear the man no longer. He was at present running his cows in with Brack’s herds with the great man’s consent. It was not an unusual arrangement for a foreman to make with his boss. It was also not unusual for an unscrupulous foreman to shift some of the ownership from the boss’s calves to his own. He didn’t doubt that Brack was fully aware of this possibility, for Brack was always aware of all possibilities. That was what made him what he was. Dwyer also knew that if the steal was ever proved, Brack would most likely kill him. Or have him killed. Brack was too big a man to do his own dirty work anymore. And Brack’s money made it possible for him to hire the best. Nothing but the best for Ed Brack. If he hired guns, he would hire more and better guns than anybody else could.
Dwyer decided that he would take the action that he thought Brack would want him to take and write and tell him what he had done. He no sooner decided this than he went into the house and sought out pen and paper. He was a fair hand with a pen and he wrote a letter of which he was proud. It looked good and neat. And that was the way he liked to do things. That done, he went into the yard and bawled for Hank Tristem.
Hank came slowly from the bunkhouse. He didn’t hurry himself for any man, mainly because he wasn’t afraid of any man. Dwyer watched him coming towards him, a tall, gangling man, somewhat lugubrious of mien, occasionally given to offering the world a wry lop-sided smile. In the face of opposition, he was loyal to the brand, but Just the same Dwyer reckoned he wasn’t above making a bit on the side for himself.
He came and stood in front of Dwyer, thumbs hooked in his belt.
‘Yeah? he said.
‘I’m ridin’ to Denver,’ Dwyer told him. Tristem stared at him blankly, but Dwyer was aware that the man knew what he was going to Denver for. Tristem was no fool. With his sad face and drooping moustache, he teetered on the edge of being a figure of fun. But he was a man who knew how to look out for himself. He was first-class with cows and horses. The men respected him. Dwyer went on: ‘You’re in charge. You carry on with the work like normal. You stay away from Three Creeks. You let the Storms be. Hear?’
‘Sure.’
‘I don’t aim to enjoy the sights of the city. I shan’t be gone more’n seven-eight days.’
‘Mart Storm an’ that there Negro,’ Tristem said. ‘You don’t reckon they’re just goin’ to sit on their butts on their side of the pass, do you? They ain’t the kind. They’re loaded for bear.’
‘Maybe they’ll come in here,’ Dwyer said, ‘an’ maybe they won’t. Keep out of their road if you can. We have two men hurt now, we don’t want any more. This outfit is here to nurse cows.’
‘A man expects to fight for his brand. None of the boys is chicken.’
‘I don’t reckon they are,’ Dwyer said. ‘But let’s play this smart. I don’t want this place littered up with dead men. I want the Storms clear outa the country. That’s the way it’s goin’ to be. I don’t have to tell you to keep your eyes open.’
‘How about shippin’ cows?’
‘That can wait till this is settled.’
Tristem turned and tramped back to the bunkhouse. He wasn’t unduly worried, but just the same he didn’t like being left with this little lot on his shoulders, not with two men like Mart Storm and Joe Widbee on the other side of that pass.
Charlie Dwyer rode out the following dawn, riding a good-looking bay and leading a sprightly grey. He aimed to make some speed. He’d ride change and change about and he wouldn’t let up except for the necessary sleep until he reached the city.
In the city, he was as good as his word. He let the drink alone, even though he was a drinking man. He mailed his letter to Brack, then set about finding the men he wanted. He asked around. Soon men knew that he was looking for men of a certain stamp. Some of them sought him out, offering their services, but none of them were what he wanted. He was paying top-prices and he wanted the best that money could buy.
Finally, he found Ira Murdoch.
He found him in a brothel, which didn’t surprise him. Ira was man who disliked human attachments, but he had insatiable appetite for women. As he was the deadliest of men, Dwyer didn’t approach him until his business with a red-head from County Donegal, Ireland, was completed. It was a classy joint where the girls were top-standard and top-price. Ira lived well as befitted a man at the peak his career and profession. Dwyer was sitting waiting in the lobby of the house talking with the madam when Murdoch came out from the depths of the place.
Dwyer had never met the man before and he looked at him with considerable interest. As befitted a professional earning top money Murdoch dressed with some care. A fastidious killer. His clothes showed taste and proclaimed the fact that he was a gentleman.
His medium length wavy fair hair was topped by a wide-brimmed black hat, slightly curled, slightly dandified, but sober. Just the right touch. The linen shirt of the purest white showed in contrast against the black thin bow-tie and the impeccably cut claw hammer coat. The grey pants hung well. The black low-heeled boots were shining and were of the best quality. No bulging gun spoiled the lines of his clothes.
When he spoke, his accent proclaimed him to be an educated Virginian.
‘Word was brought me,’ he said, his tones soft and well-modulated, ‘that a Mr. Dwyer wished to see me.’
Dwyer rose and said: ‘That’s me.’
‘Proud to know you, sir.’
A soft hand touched Dwyer’s, the cold pale face was lit for a brief moment by a glimmer of a smile.
‘Can we talk?’ Dwyer said.
‘Business, I imagine.’
‘That’s right.’
Murdoch turned to the madam.
‘Would you be good enough to excuse us, madam?’
The woman rose and disappeared without a word into the rear of the house. She was afraid of Murdoch.
The killer waved a hand to the vacated chair. They sat. Murdoch smiled encouragingly.
‘I have work for you in the Three Creeks country,’ Dwyer said.
Murdoch looked at his nails. He sighed.
‘First, I must know the circumstances; second, the subject; third, whether you are able to meet my fee, sir. I come high. Perhaps too high for your purse.’
T work for Ed Brack,’ Dwyer said.
Murdoch raised his eyes and looked at him. They were remarkably pale eyes. Strange, Dwyer thought, but in his experience, all killers of this kind had light-colored eyes.
‘That is an acceptable credential,’ he said.
Dwyer was nettled by his tone. The man acted like a goddam prima donna.
‘Now,’ Murdoch went on, ‘tell who the subject is.’
‘Two of ’em.’
‘Together?’
‘That’s up to you. It should be easy enough to get them separately?’
‘Who are they?’
‘One is Mart Storm.’
Murdoch raised his pale eyebrows. The name meant something to him.
‘I know the name,’ he said. ‘And the other?’
‘Joe Widbee.’
That name also meant something to Murdoch. He smiled coldly.
‘You have certainly found yourself some strong opposition,’ he said. ‘Eliminating them will be an expensive business.’ He studied his fingernails closely. They were well-cared for. ‘The Negro is not only good with guns of all kinds, but he is remarkably adept in wild country.’
Dwyer felt an urge to get under this man’s skin.
‘Does that mean you can’t handle him?’
‘Let us not forget our manners, Mr. Dwyer,’ he said. ‘There’s no man living that cannot be handled, as you put it. Giving this Negro the treatment in the Three Creeks country presents problems which will keep the price high, that is all.’
‘Does that mean that you would want other men to help?’ Dwyer asked.
Murdoch looked shocked.
‘Dear me, no,’ he said. ‘I would never consent to work with anybody else. That makes for untidiness. If I accept your fee I assure you that both subjects will be removed without trace. Nobody will be aware that I am even in the country. Clean, painless execution is guaranteed. No evidence, no come-back. Nothing but the best for your good self and Mr. Brack.’
‘Let’s talk money, then,’ Dwyer said.
‘By all means,’ Murdoch said, ‘but may I suggest that we do so in a civilized manner over dinner. Join me at my hotel in an hour and we shall enjoy the best that Denver has to offer. The wines, I assure you, are excellent.’
They arranged to meet and Dwyer departed. Over dinner that night he came to an agreement with Murdoch. The price was breathtakingly high, but after some ineffectual haggling, Dwyer agreed to it. He felt he should have awaited Ed Brack’s consent, but he deemed that the situation was dangerous enough for him to take action on his own. When Brack heard just who was in the Three Creeks country he would fall in with Dwyer’s arrangements. Storm and Widbee had to be removed before they consolidated their position. It was spring, the trail grass was up and, if Dwyer knew Texas cattlemen, before too long there would be Texas cows on the Three Creeks grass. Brack’s winter grass would be eaten away. He agreed to pay Murdoch half of the agreed sum now and half on delivery. There should be no more personal contact between the two men. Satisfied, he went to bed. The following morning, he headed for home.
As for Ira Murdoch, he decided that there should be no delay in carrying out his agreement. He had lived well in Denver and cash was running low. He had a wife back home in Virginia and he saw to it that she wanted for nothing. Regularly he sent her money so that she could live to the standard to which she was accustomed. So long as she kept her distance from him, he would look after her. He would have ridden out for the Three Creeks country that very day, but there was fine dark girl at Moira’s he hadn’t had and he thought it would be nice to do so before he ventured womanless into the mountain country.
When he rode out the following day, he wore plain woolen clothes of somber colors, suitable for the rough travelling he had ahead of him. He scorned buckskin. Nothing in his opinion was less fitted for a man working in the open. After it was wet it dried to the consistency of a board; in hot weather it made the wearer hotter; in cold weather it did nothing to protect him. No, the wear for the mountain trails was wool.
He rode a fine buckskin horse with a respectable Henry rifle in immaculate condition under his right leg. From his saddle horn hung a shotgun by Greener of London. Nothing but the best for Ira Murdoch. Under his short coat on the right side hung a Colt’s gun, .38 caliber, five shots, with four of the chambers loaded. Around his neck he wore a sober bandanna of dark blue; on his head his customary black hat. He still favored low-heeled boots and could not abide the high heels of a cattleman. A gentleman rode with no more than his toes in the stirrup iron. In his saddlebags, he carried two changes of underwear and a set of good German razors. He liked to be clean-shaven on the trail and hated to be unshaven when executing a man.
He rode with a light heart, for he enjoyed his work. It wasn’t so much the killing of a fellow man that excited him, but the organization, the skill that led up to the final coup. There was a sort of pride of pitting himself against two such men as Mart Storm and Joe Widbee. It was a pity that he could not boast of being the means of their demise after the job was done. But he would never mention it to any man. Discretion was what his clients paid for and he had never failed any man once he had contracted to do a job. He would slip in quietly through the rear door to the Three Creeks country, execute his men and quietly slip away again. Nobody would ever know he had been within miles of the place.
He had studied the map of the country, such as it was, for several hours and its shape was imprinted on his mind. He surveyed it now as he rode, planning his route. He would ride parallel to the valley until he reached the tangled country to the south of it and then, having left his horse on grass, he would go silent as a stalking lion into the Three Creeks and make his kill.
He was confident, but he did not fool himself that it was going to be easy. Joe Widbee was too old a hand in rough country for it to be that. The Negro would have to be stalked with the skill necessary to track down a particularly spooky deer. Mart Storm would be a different proposition. He would not be so difficult to get near, but he was one of the fastest and most accurate men in the business. He was also cool.
However, Murdoch comforted himself, nobody could protect himself against a shot in the back. All he had to do was get these men in his sights and pull the trigger.
He promised himself that he would pick up the other half of his fee within a couple of weeks.