Someone had tacked one of the broadsides to a post on the street outside Ella Chrisman’s house. Kenton was the first to see it, and something about it drew him to it. He read the title line, swore beneath his breath, and yanked the cheaply printed paper from its nail.
“What does it say, Kenton?”
Kenton read for a minute, ignoring the question, then wadded the broadside and tossed it down. “Now there’s no question that someone is manipulating this situation. I’ll bet my life it’s Straker. That blasted broadside is made to look like I wrote it. Straker must be trying to get Deverell killed.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Inheritance, if I had to take a guess. And if that’s right, that means he’ll have to get Mary Deverell out of the way, too.”
Kenton explained his suspicions as he and Gunnison continued on a near run toward Deverell’s.
Gunnison was awed by the theory, but had to admit it made great sense.
As they progressed, Gunnison began to notice something unusual about the town. The streets were relatively empty, and in the atmosphere was a spark of tension and danger. Gunnison wondered if he was imposing his own feelings on the situation or picking up on something objectively there.
A man approached with a copy of the broadside in hand. “A good service you’ve done here, Mr. Kenton, if I must say so,” he said, waving the paper. “I knew that eventually the truth about Briggs Garrett would come out. ‘The truth will out,’ that’s what I told the Missus. ‘The truth will out,’ I says.”
“It hasn’t outed yet,” Kenton responded.
The man heard that but didn’t seem to grasp it. “There’s no name signed to this story, Mr. Kenton—but you’re the man who wrote it, right?”
At that, Kenton whirled and faced the fellow, shooting lightning from his eyes. “You are not right. Far from it. That paper is the damnedest, most dangerous lie I’ve had the misfortune ever to see. You spread the word, friend: Brady Kenton had nothing to do with that broadside, whatever you think you’ve read between the lines. That paper represents an effort to get an innocent man killed.”
The man still didn’t seem to understand, but there was no time to waste with him. The journalists went on, leaving him blinking after them.
“Blood may flow because of this,” Kenton said. “Let’s just hope it hasn’t already.”
Deverell’s house was dark when they arrived. Neither was there light in Straker’s quarters at the top of the stairs. Kenton knocked on the main door but received no answer.
“This is dangerous,” Gunnison muttered. “There’s probably people watching the house.”
“I know. Come on, let’s check the back. Maybe they’re hiding out in there. Lord knows Deverell has reason to hide, if he’s seen this.”
They found the back door locked as well, and the rear of the house as dark as the front.
“Maybe he’s gone to safety. We can only hope so,” Kenton said.
There was a heavy, crashing sound from inside the house.
“Kenton—”
“I heard it. Stand back. I’m going to break in this door.”
It took only one run and heave for Kenton to pop the lock and hammer the door open. The journalists went inside. Kenton struck a match and by its light found a lamp, which he lit. They heard a bumping noise from the front room and carefully edged that way.
Lamplight spilled in and revealed a body on the floor, lying beside an overturned china cabinet. The face was turned away, but both could see it was not Deverell. They went to the prone man and rolled him over. The man, still alive, let out a groan. There was blood beneath him, leaking from a bullet wound.
Kenton held the lamp higher, and light spilled onto the face.
“Currell!”
And so it was. The man’s face was pale. A little blood leaked from the corner of his mouth and stained his mustache.
“Who did this to you?” Kenton asked.
Currell’s eyes trembled open. “Mark Straker…shot me.”
“We’ll get you help, Currell, right away.”
Currell grabbed Kenton by the collar with the unencumbered hand. “No…not yet. First you’ve got to listen to me! Got to hear me out. Straker’s got to be stopped.”
The man obviously was determined. “Go ahead, then,” Kenton said.
“It was Straker behind everything all along…he wants his uncle’s inheritance. He’s in the will to get it all when Mr. and Mrs. Deverell die. He had that broadside printed so people would think Deverell is Garrett…. You seen it?”
“I’ve seen it.”
Gunnison asked, “Currell, was it you who kept Chop-off Johnson from killing Lundy and me at Deverell’s mine?”
“Yes…I wouldn’t be part of no more murdering.” He stopped, swallowed, moaned from his pain.
“‘Murdering’? What are you saying?”
“Listen to me…Straker is bad. A lot of the robberies and such going on, he’s been behind them. He keeps a lot of the local footpads supplied with opium, cheap liquor, and such in return for a cut of what they take. A man named Jimmy Rhoder started doing the same at his billiard hall. Straker got mad, went over drunk one night. Lynched Rhoder right in his own building, then set the place afire. Then he paid Chop-off Johnson and me to take Rhoder’s body and dump it in Deverell’s empty mine. Me and Chop-off thought that when the body was hid, that would be the end of it.”
Currell paused, groaning. The exertion of talking was hard on him, but he forced himself on. “When that Scarborough fellow collapsed on stage hollering about Briggs Garrett, the whole town got to talking about it. That started Straker to thinking, trying to figure some way to use those rumors to his advantage. He finally figured a way to cover up Rhoder’s murder once and for all and get his hands on his inheritance besides.
“He told Chop-off and me to get Rhoder’s body back, put it somewhere where it would be found. That’s why Chop-off and me was at the mine that night, Gunnison. Straker’s idea was that folks would believe Briggs Garrett had killed Rhoder, and we would all be free and clear. Then he could spread the rumor that Deverell is Garrett, and somebody would shoot him or string him up.
“Chop-off and me went along with it all, but after it went bad at the mine, Chop-off went loco and decided on his own to get rid of the O’Donovan boy. All that time I was getting jumpy. I wanted out. It bothered me bad that the Deverells would have to die for Straker to get what he wanted. I never cared much for Deverell himself, but Mrs. Deverell, she’s a good woman. She don’t deserve to be murdered. When I saw that printed paper tonight, I came down here to tell Deverell the truth. But Straker was here—shot me down before I could talk. I think he thought he killed me, but I was conscious enough to still hear him. He took the Deverells off somewhere, telling them he was going to keep them safe. I heard mention of the old Darwin cabin in California Gulch.”
Currell was speaking more slowly and softly as he went on, weakening, and there was more blood on the corner of his lip, gurgling up from inside him.
“You’ve got to stop talking now,” Kenton said “We have to get you to a doctor.”
“Too late for me…just listen to me, please. I passed out after they left. When I came to, I tried to get up on that cabinet and just pulled it over. Thank God you heard it, Kenton. Thank God. Now maybe you can stop Straker.”
Wearied by the exertion of talking, Currell relaxed and seemed to sink back deeper into the floor. His eyes closed.
“Don’t go out on me, Currell. Tell me how to reach the Darwin cabin.”
“Like I said…California Gulch…” He was fading out fast.
Kenton said, “Currell, I’m sending Alex to find help for you. I’ll stay beside you until it arrives.”
“No! No time…you got to stop Straker…before it’s too late.”
Kenton propped a pillow from the sofa behind Currell’s head and covered him with a decorative quilt he pulled down from the wall. “We’ll stop him, Currell. I promise you.”
Currell spoke without opening his eyes. “You get Straker for me, Kenton. And save Mrs. Deverell. Tell her I was sorry for what I did.”
“We’ll get you patched up. You’ll live, Currell. You’ll have the chance to tell her yourself.”
Currell did not answer him. He opened his eyes wide, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. When the breath was gone, so was the luster of his eyes.
Kenton pulled the quilt up over Currell’s face.