Clayton R. Scofield slept peacefully that night. It didn’t bother him that he was in a strange town, and neither did it bother him that he would soon meet with a woman who possessed a deep and abiding hatred for him. He slept with the confidence that all of that would soon end. He would be out of this ramshackle town by dark and, by the time he left, Ella’s hatred would be stilled. A corpse cannot hate.
It was late morning by the time he finally got out of bed. Then, only after he shaved and dressed, did Scofield sit down at a table to write Ella a note.
He had noticed last night that Ella and her escort had hurried away toward the south side of town. With that in mind, Scofield suggested in his note that the two of them meet at dusk in the privacy of the open plain outside the south edge of Lost Creek.
Out there in the barren emptiness, there would be no witness to his act of murder.
All that remained was to make sure that she would, in fact, meet with him. But that, perhaps, was the easiest thing of all to arrange.
In his note to Ella he simply said, “I have news of your mother.”
“How about if I take the reins?” Hunter suggested to Del O’Connell when they stopped to water the horses.
The stage driver gave Hunter a hurt look and said, “Do I really look that bad?”
“You look like hell,” replied Hunter.
O’Connell shrugged and said, “You think I look bad, you should’ve seen my wife this morning. But at least she got to stay home and sleep it off. Me? I got to go on this lousy run to Galena, chokin’ on dust and bouncin’ up and down on this miserable rutted excuse for a road.”
“So answer my question,” said Hunter patiently. “Do you want me to take over the team while you sleep up top, or what?”
O’Connell thought about the offer for a moment, considering the possibility that the stage might get held up and they’d have nobody riding shotgun.
“I tell you what,” said O’Connell, wiping sweat from his forehead even though it was a cool April afternoon, “take over for me, and if anybody tries to rob the stage, use your first bullet on me, then push me off the back of the coach. Maybe you’ll get lucky and my body will make the bandits’ horses break stride. And then, later, you can say, ‘Del got hit with a slug in the first volley of shots.’ That’ll explain how you couldn’t fight back, and I’ll be a hero. Died in the line a’ duty, so to speak. Anyway, shit, at least I’ll be outta my misery.”
“All right,” agreed Hunter with a smile, “get on up there with the baggage and sleep it off.” O’Connell stroked the neck of one of the horses as he watched them drink and said, “Do me one favor, will you ... no, make that two.”
“What?”
“First, make sure to wake me up before we get to Galena. I wanna be drivin’ this coach when we get into town.”
“And second?”
“Second,” said the stage driver, thinking of the bumpy road, “try to go real goddarned slow.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Hunter.
“Fair enough,” O’Connell sighed with relief.
A few minutes later they were back on their way to Galena, moving at a slow and easy pace.
S. J. Lindstrom paced back and forth in his room at the Lost Creek Hotel. He had expected to pay Bledsoe off this morning for the killing of Dave Bennett, but Bennett was alive and Lindstrom had run out of patience with the bounty hunter.
Bledsoe, sitting in an overstuffed chair by the window, knew that he was on the verge of losing the biggest bounty of his career. Four thousand dollars was a lot of money. With that much cash in his pockets, he could go where he pleased, when he pleased, and take it easy, killing stray renegade Indians, pulling in easy bounty money without taking big risks. But first, he had to kill Bennett. And even before that, he had to convince Lindstrom, that he was still the man for the job, especially after his humiliation at the hands of War Hunter the night before.
“Bennett was supposed to die last night,” said Lindstrom bitterly. “You said you had it all figured out. Witnesses, self-defense ... and what happened? You got slapped down like a two-bit gunnie ... in front of the entire town!”
“I had Bennett all set up,” protested Bledsoe, his once cocky attitude toward Lindstrom replaced by a desire to hold onto his chance at a four-thousand dollar payday.
The rancher stopped his pacing, poured himself five fingers of rye, downed it, and walked right up to Bledsoe and said, “You had nobody set up except yourself! And maybe me! Hell, I’ve been paying you top dollar for better than four months to sit around and do nothing. Wait ’til spring, you said. So I waited. But Bennett’s still alive ... and my daughter’s been cold in the ground—” He had to stop and turn away as tears suddenly filled his eyes.
“Bennett would’ve been dead last night, like I promised, if it hadn’t been for Hunter,” said Bledsoe softly, cleverly working on Lindstrom’s dislike for the shotgun rider.
“Hunter,” muttered the rancher. “Why does he always get in the way?”
“He won’t get in the way this time,” said Bledsoe.
“This time?” questioned Lindstrom. “What are you talking about?”
“I have a plan,” the fast-thinking bounty hunter said.
“I suppose,” said Lindstrom sarcastically, “you’ll want to wait until summer before you act on it.”
“No,” said Bledsoe, ignoring the rancher’s remark, “I’ll kill Bennett today ... before sunset.”
“How?”
Bledsoe sat back before answering, feeling the satisfaction of having Lindstrom back on the hook again. And this time he would pull him in for the full four thousand dollars.
“Well?” demanded the rancher.
“Bennett’s leaving for the Caldwell place late this afternoon with a wagonload of explosives,” the bounty hunter explained. “And I’m thinkin’ that if a slug hits a barrel of black powder in the back of that wagon it would blow Bennett up in to so many pieces that they’d never find enough of him to fill up a coffin.”
The thought of Dave Bennett blown to Kingdom Come was enormously appealing to Lindstrom. He nodded his head in approval.
“There’s one thing, though,” cautioned Bledsoe.
“What’s that?” the rancher asked suspiciously.
“When Bennett dies today, there isn’t going to be any doubt as to who did the killing ... not after last night. You’ll be in the clear; folks’ll just think it’s me gettin’ back at Bennett. But I’ll be wanted for murder. Now I’m willin’ to take my chances with a posse, but I figure I ought to get paid for puttin’ my life on the line with the law.”
Without hesitating, wanting only to see this day end with Dave Bennett’s death, Lindstrom asked, “How much do you want?”
“Another two thousand. Six thousand all together.”
“When Bennett is dead, leave town and ride due west, then circle back around to my ranch after midnight. Make sure that no one sees you. I’ll pay you then.”
The bounty hunter stood up, ready to leave. But Lindstrom wasn’t finished. He had one more important question.
“You said that this time War Hunter wouldn’t be in the way. What did you mean?”
“It’s simple,” replied Bledsoe. “Hunter is riding shotgun on the stage to Galena today. He shouldn’t be back ’til dusk. And Bennett, he’ll be leaving for the Caldwell place well before that if he’s gonna get there before dark.”
“Rub it in Hunter’s face,” said the rancher with bitter pleasure.
“What do you mean?”
“Bennett will be heading south won’t he?”
“Yeah. So?”
“That means he’ll be riding past the Sloans’ house, where Hunter lives. I want you to send Bennett to hell right there—right by Hunter’s front door.”
It would’ve been easier to kill Bennett out on the trail, but Bledsoe hated Hunter as much as Lindstrom did ... maybe more. Killing Bennett in Hunter’s front yard was a nice touch. Despite the extra risk involved, Bledsoe took a perverse pleasure in acceding to Lindstrom’s request.