TEX MADSEN WAS a tall, rail-thin cowpoke with dull, deep-sunk eyes and a walrus mustache. He was only twenty-nine years old, but climbing the stairs of the Powder Horn Hotel in Canaan, he wheezed like a geezer. He cursed as his weak lungs constricted, stopping on the landing to catch his breath.
He leaned against the wall as a loud coughing fit gripped him. The paroxysm raked his insides like sandpaper. When it subsided, Tex lifted his head, wiped his nose and mouth, and peered grimly at the blood-laced fluids soiling his handkerchief.
“I knew I shoulda stayed in Texas,” he mumbled, continuing down the narrow hall between closed doors. “Cold like this ain’t natural. It’s … it’s taken my youth.”
Tex had been stricken with the virus nearly a month ago, and being sent out into the subzero weather to round up some gunslick wasn’t going to help him get over it. Hell’s bells, he’d probably end up like old Yancy Kellogg, the old Double X hostler who’d died of pneumonia last winter and whose body was ravaged by mice and owls as it awaited a spring burial in the barn loft.
Cursing the ranch foreman who’d sent him out in this chilblain weather, Tex stopped at room 15 and knocked, stifling another cough.
“Who is it?” came a Spanish-accented voice.
Sniffing, Tex leaned toward the door. “Tex Madsen. I’m supposed to show you out to the Double X. If you’re Mr. del Toro, that is.”
“Si,” Del Toro grumbled. “Give me a minute.”
You can have the whole goddamn morning for all I care, Tex said to himself. It wasn’t exactly steamy in the hotel, but he was in no hurry to go back outside where he could hear the brittle wind howling. His cheeks and toes were still numb. His head and back were chill with fever.
Tex was waiting with his back against the wall when the door opened and a blond girl stepped out. Her face was puffy with sleep, her hair and dress disheveled. Tex didn’t know her name, but he’d seen her working in the saloon downstairs. Not bad-looking for a soiled dove in these parts. She softly latched the door behind her, paying no attention to Tex, and drifted down the hall, her short red dress swishing against her legs.
Tex gave a fragile grin and turned back to the door as it opened again. Another blond poked her head out and looked around. A beret hung loose in her hair. Bigger than the first girl and rawboned, she scrutinized Tex dully, gave a little smile, stepped out, and shut the door behind her. Smoothing her dress, she whined at a tear and headed for the stairs.
“Well, I’ll be …” Tex muttered wonderingly.
He waited another five minutes, noting the feeling returning to his toes. He couldn’t believe it when the door opened again and another girl slipped out, carrying two empty whiskey bottles and three water glasses. She was not wearing a dress, but had wrapped a sheet around herself. A brunette with a pretty, round face, she looked haunted and struggled awkwardly with her load while holding the sheet closed at her bosom. When she saw Tex she gave a start, her grip on the sheet loosening, giving Tex a momentary shot of her chafed, red-mottled breasts.
Tongue-tied, Tex tried a smile and fingered the rim of his big Stetson.
Stiffly the girl marched up to Tex. Fire sparked in her eyes. “That man is an animal,” she hissed, then scurried down the hall, tripping on the sheet. Tex heard the crash of a bottle; it clattered as it rolled down the stairs.
The door opened once again. Tex turned to it, expecting to see another rumpled girl, but this time a tall, straight-backed, lean-faced Mexican man stood before him. The man’s gray coat appeared to be wolf hide, and the nickel-plated pistols he wore strapped to a wide cartridge belt were Colts with mother-of-pearl grips—butts forward, holsters bent back and tied to the man’s thighs.
The pistols were probably the finest Tex had ever seen, but it was the man’s lake-blue eyes in the long, narrow face, its hollows filled with shadows, that held the Texan’s attention. The eyes looked both humorous and menacing, flashing like blue glass in a muddy stream. Tex felt the skin behind his ears prick as the man sized him up, chewing on a thin black cheroot.
“Don’t let her fool you—she loved every minute of it,” the man said, grinning with his eyes.
The comment caught Tex off guard. “Pardon me?”
“The girl calls me an animal, but she never once asked me to stop.” The man’s lips parted around the unlit cigar, showing little square teeth, slightly discolored.
Tex turned to look down the hall, as though the girl were still there. “Oh … oh, sure,” he said.
“Have you ever spent a night with three women, amigo?”
Tex laughed. “Who? Me? Nah.”
“You should try it. It is the closest thing to heaven a man will experience on earth. Light?”
Tex dug inside his coat for a lucifer, scratched it on the door frame, and lit the man’s cigar, careful not to betray his
anger. He didn’t like playing servant to some uppity greaser, no matter how many men the gunman had slain, no matter how many women he’d diddled in one night.
When the cigar was lit, the gunman turned into the room, picked up his war bag and rifle, and tossed them to Tex. Then he picked up his saddle and started down the hall, leaving the door hanging wide behind him.
Tex stood there, grappling with his sudden burden and silently cursing the man. He peered into the room, where the bed stood in complete disarray, the mattress hanging off, the sheets and quilts twisted and strewn. The dresser had been pulled out from the wall, and its mirror was shattered. A tattered dress lay on the floor.
Tex shook his head slowly, not knowing what to make of the Mexican gunman.
Three women in one night? Tex thought, starting down the stairs. A man like that could do some damage around here.
THE GUNMAN RODE beside Tex on the snow-covered wagon road, on the black stallion Tex had led to town for him, and never uttered a word. Tex decided the man was either too uppity or ornery for idle banter, and that was just fine with Tex, who was too cold and feverish for conversation.
“The boss and the others are waitin’ for ya inside,” he told the man when they’d passed through the front gate of the sprawling Double X headquarters. “I’ll take your horse into the barn.”
The man did not reply, but sat staring at the three-story terra-cotta mansion with its cylindrical towers, arched windows, balconies, and ornate woodwork. From the look on his face, Tex figured the man hadn’t been expecting to see such an elaborate hacienda this far off the beaten path.
His eyes played along the wide verandah to the carved oak door, in which the Double X brand had been burned, and up past the massive gable, with its deep-set window to the great stone chimney. Smoke lifted and was torn away on the wind.
One sleigh and a saddle horse stood before the verandah, the shaggy horses turning their drooping heads and twitching their ears at Tex and the gunman, clouds of breath jetting from their nostrils. Finally the man dismounted and handed Tex his reins. Wordlessly he walked up the wide steps, and the big door opened as though of its own accord.
Leading the stallion toward the barn and looking over his shoulder, Tex watched the gunman enter the house, the door closing behind him.
“There she blows, boys,” Tex mumbled darkly, turning away. “There she, sure as shit, blows.”
KING MAGNUSSON WAS sitting in the stuffed leather chair behind his desk, hands laced behind his head. His foreman, Rag Donnelly, and his business partner, Bernard Troutman, president of the First Stockman’s Bank in Big Draw, had joined him in his den, and were sitting on the couch against the wall, to Magnusson’s right.
The banker’s beaver hat sat between him and Donnelly on the overstuffed cushions. They were drinking coffee and cognac and chatting easily, waiting for their meeting to start.
Magnusson was a tall, lean man in his late fifties, with hard, weathered features and thick, wavy blond hair combed back from a slight widow’s peak. His eyes were blue; his friends said they had an amiable cast. His enemies called them the eyes of a liar, calculated to take your mind off the knife he was about to stick in your back.
Minnie McDougal, the housekeeper, was bending before the visitors, offering coffee and cognac from a silver tray. A
hot fire sparked in the enormous stone hearth to Magnusson’s left, filling the room with the smell of pine.
Magnusson lifted a coffee cup and saucer from the tray Minnie offered him now, declining more cognac—he wanted to stay clear this afternoon—and turned his eyes to his visitors. Minnie left the tray and returned to her chores.
“So when’s this man supposed to get here, King?” Troutman asked. His red hair was matted and his pale, freckled cheeks were still mottled from the cold.
“At one o‘clock, but who knows how badly drifted the road from Canaan is. It blew all night, and it’s still blowin’.”
“Why in hell did he take the train to Canaan? That’s way the hell north—a two-hour ride in good weather.”
Magnusson shrugged. “It’s enemy territory,” he said. “Said he wanted to check it out while he was still anonymous. Sounds like a good idea, if you ask me. Tells me the man knows what he’s about.”
The nervous Troutman didn’t seem to be listening to Magnusson’s explanation, but forming his next question. “How much did we agree he was worth?”
Magnusson suppressed a scowl. “We’ve been all over this, Bernie. Six thousand now—today—and another six when the job’s done.”
“How do we know when the job’s done?”
“We’ll know.”
“And how do we know if he’s caught he won’t sing?”
The foreman, Donnelly, turned his cool wrangler’s eyes to the banker. “Calm down now, Mr. Troutman—before you start giving me the jitters.” He turned the smile to Magnusson, who dropped his eyes and plucked a long nine from the cigar box on his desk.
Biting the end off his cigar, Magnusson said, “He comes highly recommended. I can’t say by whom, but …” He let
his voice trail off and sat quietly smoking and listening to the clock.
A thought occurred to him and he turned to Donnelly. “How many beeves did you say Jack Thom was trying to get away with the other day?”
Donnelly shook his head. “I didn’t see it. Randall and Shelby Green said they saw him hazing five off toward the Rinski place.”
Magnusson’s eyes grew dark, and he shook his head. “That arrogant son of a bitch.”
“Shelby also said he saw several of our brands in Grover Nixon’s pens—right there at his headquarters!”
Magnusson puffed and stared off into space.
Troutman piped up thoughtfully. “Well, the army came in and sided with them, so now they think they can do whatever they goddamn well please.”
“Not for long,” Magnusson said, darkly wistful. “Not for too goddamn much—”
He was stopped short by a tap on the study door.
“Come,” Magnusson called.
The door opened. Minnie McDougal reappeared, nervously feigning a pleasant smile. Something had disturbed her. “There’s a gentleman here to see you, sir.”
“Send him in, Minnie.”
She threw the door wide to let del Toro step past her. The smile vanishing, she left, closing the door behind her.
“Mr. del Toro!” Magnusson said buoyantly, standing and moving around his desk. “I’m so happy to see you made it. How was your train ride?”
Del Toro shrugged. “Pleasant enough, señor.”
Magnusson shook his hand. “I’m King Magnusson. This is Mr. Troutman, my business partner, and Mr. Donnelly, the Double X foreman.”
Both men stood and shook the gunman’s hand. Donnelly
was smiling, coolly sizing up the Mexican. Troutman appeared flushed and tongue-tied as he eyed the man’s wolf coat and fancy, prominently displayed pistols.
Magnusson had to admit that the man’s presence was … unique, to say the least. He imagined the man even gave off the odor of death, however subtle. The blue eyes were downright startling. Magnusson mused he couldn’t have handpicked a man this obviously appropriate for the job.
“Please sit down.”
When the gunman had seated himself in the stuffed chair angled before the fire, crossing his long legs, Magnusson gestured toward the tray Minnie had left on his desk. “Coffee and cognac?”
“Just the cognac,” the man said, looking around the room, at the western oils and watercolors hung in gilt frames, at the game trophies, and at the bear rug before his chair. “It was a chilly ride.”
He seemed to be quite taken with the room’s furnishings. Magnusson thought the man was probably more comfortable in bawdy houses and gambling dens.
When the rancher had given the man his cognac and had retaken his seat behind his desk, he said, “Well, let’s get down to business, shall we, Mr. del Toro?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Del Toro drawled.
Magnusson retrieved his cigar from an ashtray before him and inspected its ash. “It’s really very simple, and I’m not going to beat around the bush. There are about fifteen ranches north of us, on the other side of the Little Missouri, giving us trouble. Stealing our beef, taking our summer graze. We want them out.”
A thin smile broadened below the gunman’s mustache. “I thought you tried driving them out five years ago.”
Troutman growled, “Heard about that, did you?”
“I heard they called the army in from Fort Lincoln to settle things down,” the gunman continued.
“That’s right,” Magnusson said with a nod. “At that time the army, not knowing the full story, sided with the small cattlemen.”
“What makes you think things are gonna be any different now, señor?”
“An old friend of King’s was just elected governor,” Troutman said with a grin.
Magnusson looked at Del Toro, his eyes hard. “I’ve been wanting those goddamn human coyotes off the Bench for a long time. None of us can increase year after year if we’re sharing the Bench. There’s simply not enough grass to go around, and the acreage I need to keep turning a profit and satisfying my eastern investors has forced me to get nasty. It’s a simple matter of economics … and survival of the fittest.”
He paused, stared thoughtfully through the variegated smoke cloud hanging in the study. Gray winter light penetrated the window behind him, outlining him against it and angling down on the leather top of his desk like quicksilver.
“I tried once before to clean off the Bench,” Magnusson continued. “I failed because I didn’t have the right men behind me. Now with Charlie Sparks in the governor’s office … well, let’s just leave it at that, shall we, Mr. del Toro?” He smiled, self-satisfied.
From the shadows on the far side of the fireplace, Del Toro looked at each man in turn. He removed his hat, primly smoothing his shiny black hair, and planted the hat on his knee. Returning his hand to his lap, he looked at Magnusson and said, “So how many do you want to disappear?”
“Disappear?” the banker said, frowning.
Donnelly snickered.
Magnusson said, “That gunman’s talk for die, Bernard. Go to the henhouse. Buy the farm. Comprende?”
Troutman looked at him, scowling. “It ain’t every day you hire a gunman, King.”
“No. And let’s hope we won’t need to ever again.”
Turning to Del Toro, Magnusson continued, “You see, we want this to be taken care of much more quietly than what happened five years ago. Five years ago, we let our tempers get away from us, and we lost control of our men.” He shot an accusatory look at Donnelly, who dropped his eyes. “Things got very messy, to say the least. Out of control. This time, we want to be sure of every step we take. We want the right people excised with the precision of a well-schooled surgeon.”
“And we don’t want anything to point back to us,” Troutman added.
Magnusson slid his chair out from his desk, opened a drawer, and produced a legal-size sheet of paper. “To that end, my two colleagues and I have drawn up a list.”
Del Toro smiled, loving it. “A list of those to disappear, uh?” He got up to retrieve the paper. “A death list.”
“Exactly.”
Donnelly said, “Once you’re done with it, burn it.”
“I know my trade, señor,” Del Toro said absently, standing before Magnusson and regarding the list. He took it to his chair and sat down. “Ten names.”
“Yes,” Magnusson said.
“How much?”
Magnusson decided to start low. “Eight thousand. Four thousand now. Four when you’re through. We’ll wire it to you after you’re gone from here in a hurry.”
Del Toro shook his head. “Uh-uh. Fourteen thousand. Nine now, five when I’m done.”
Troutman chuffed. Donnelly smiled at Magnusson.
Magnusson sighed and puffed his cigar, studying the calendar clock on the fireplace mantle. He regarded his partners,
then the gunman. “We’ll go no higher than twelve. Two increments of six thousand.”
“Let’s see it,” Del Toro said.
Magnusson opened another drawer. He counted out a pile of bills, slipped them into an envelope, and slid the envelope across his desk.
The gunman turned his head to the banker. “Would you mind bringing it to me, senor?”
Troutman gave Magnusson a flabbergasted look, mouth and eyes drawn wide.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Donnelly said, standing and grabbing the envelope from the desk.
He took it to the gunman. Del Toro casually accepted it in one hand while offering his empty glass to Donnelly. The tall, rangy foreman refilled the glass, then returned it to the gunman. By this time, Del Toro had counted the money. He’d stuffed the envelope and the list in his coat.
“Gracias, señor,” he said, accepting the glass from Donnelly. He sipped, then asked Magnusson, “Is there only one lawman in the county?”
“Yes, and he’s harmless. Believe me.”
Troutman and Donnelly both gave a laugh.
“Sí, I saw him at the train station,” Del Toro said. “A soft old bear who hibernates all year long, eh?”
“You got that right,” Troutman said. “Sleeps and drinks. When we tried clearing off the Bench five years ago, he hid out at the Sundowner in Canaan. When he finally decided he needed to take action, he called the army in.”
“But that won’t happen this time,” Magnusson said importantly.
“Very well,” Del Toro said, nodding. He polished off his cognac. He stood and donned his hat, adjusting it carefully.
Magnusson walked around his desk and shook the gunman’s
hand. The other men did likewise. There was a knock at the door as the gunman turned toward it.
“Yes?” Magnusson called.
The door opened and a pretty dark-haired girl, flushed from the cold, poked her head inside, gazing around Del Toro at Magnusson. “Hello, Father. I just wanted to let you know I’m home.”
“Suzanne!” Magnusson said, his face fairly glowing, the hard features dissolving under the shine of parental adoration. “Get Minnie to heat you some chocolate. I’ll be right out.”
The girl smiled and gingerly withdrew from the door, latching it quietly.
Del Toro turned to Magnusson. “Your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Muy bonita, señor.”
“Yes,” Magnusson said, his smile turning cold. “And completely off-limits.”
“Of course, senor,” the gunman said with a lascivious smile. He tipped his hat at the men and left the room.
Magnusson stared at the closed door, feeling an icy finger probe his spine and wondering if he hadn’t just made a pact with the devil.
WHEN HE’D SEEN Bernard Troutman off on his sleigh, King Magnusson heard boots crunching snow across the yard. He lifted his eyes to see his son, Randall, walking toward him from the barn.
Randall Magnusson was two inches shorter than his father, with a bearded, moony face and weak brown eyes. Long hair hung down the back of his buckskin coat. He wore a floppy flat-brimmed hat with a snakeskin band, secured with a cord beneath his chin.
“Hello, son.”
“Pa.”
“How’s that heifer?”
Halting beside his father and turning to look at the sleigh dwindling in the distance, Randall said, “Eating a few oats now, anyway. Who’s the greaser?”
“Name’s Del Toro. He’s gonna help us clean off the Bench, once and for all. Let’s keep it under wraps, shall we?”
“Gunslick?”
Magnusson nodded.
Randall turned to his father. “You never told me you was hirin’ no gunslick.”
“Didn’t want the word to get around.”
“I can keep my mouth shut!”
King turned to him. His eyes were overtly patronizing. “We both know that isn’t true, son. Especially after you’ve had a few drinks with the boys.”
“Sure I can!”
“Randall,” King admonished, arching an eyebrow. Having punctuated the conversation, he turned toward the house.
Puffing up his chest, Randall said, “You didn’t need to go hirin’ no gunman, Pa. Hell, me and Shelby Green can do what he can do, and we’re a hell of a lot cheaper!”
King regarded his son skeptically. “Now, son, I appreciate that fine bit of detective work you and Shelby did out on the range. Finding Jack Thom with those beeves was a real help to me. It confirms what I’ve suspected all along about the smaller ranchers trying to ruin me. But I think it best if we leave the dirty work to those who’ve been schooled in that arena. Don’t you?”
He smiled and put a broad, thick hand on Randall’s shoulder, squeezing. “You may be a lot of things, son, but you’re no gunman. That’s a credit to your character, not an allusion to your poor marksmanship. You just keep working those
mustangs, and one day you’ll be as good a broncobuster as Rag.”
King smiled, parting his thin, chapped lips.
Randall smoldered. Rag this, Rag that.
“Come on inside,” King said, giving his son’s shoulder another squeeze. “Your sister’s back from Frisco.”
King turned away.
Randall said to his back: “Yeah, well, tell that guman not to worry about the Rinskis.”
“What?”
Giving an evil grin, the younger Magnusson stared into his father’s eyes for a full three seconds. He wanted to tell him about what he and Shelby had done to old man Fairchild and that fancy-pants schoolteacher from Pittsburgh, but he resisted the impulse. When it came down to it, not even the old man had the stomach for what needed to be done to clear the Bench for the Double X.
“Me and Shelby caught Jack Thom butchering one of our steers Saturday. He held us off with a rifle, so we let him go. The next night we rode over to his cabin and let him have it.”
He gave a self-congratulatory smile and sucked his cheek. “You can be sure the Rinskis won’t be collarin’ any more Double X beef.”
Magnusson looked dully at his son. He lifted his chin and breathed sharply through his nose. “Let me get this straight. You and Green killed Jack Thom?”
“That’s right.”
“Did anyone see you?”
Beside himself with pride, Randall said, “We wore masks.”
“Anyone else around?”
The young man’s smile dulled. “Um, well … yeah. I mean … no.”
“Well, which is it? Yes or no?”
“No. I mean … well, Rinski’s daughter was there.”
King looked surprised. “Daughter?”
“Yeah, well … she and Thom seemed to be … you know—carryin’ on … with their clothes off and such.” Randall laughed uneasily.
Magnusson drilled his gaze deeper into his son’s face. “You shot Jack Thom while he was diddling Rinski’s daughter?”
Randall wasn’t sure if his father found the information humorous or horrifying. He looked for evidence of either as he said, “Yes, sir.”
“So the girl saw you?”
“But … we were wearin’ masks.”
“Well, at least you had sense enough to do that.” King looked around, digesting the information. “You didn’t harm the girl, did you?”
Randall swallowed. “N-no, sir.” He swallowed again and smiled.
King nodded. “Well, I reckon if you caught Thom red-handed, he deserved what you gave him.” He sighed. “But from now on, you leave that work to the gunman. This Del Toro knows how to get things done quickly, cleanly, and quietly. Best of all, no one knows him, and no one knows who he’s working for.”
“Pshaw, I could—”
“You listen to me now, Randall,” King said, waving a crooked finger in his son’s face. His tone was again patronizing. “Just because you were lucky enough to catch Jack Thom in a … uh … compromising situation, and got the drop on him, that doesn’t mean you’re going to have that kind of luck again. You don’t think I’d risk my only son getting killed over a few rustled beeves now, do you? So you leave well enough alone. You just hang tough with those broncs, and leave the gun work up to Del Toro.”
He gave Randall a wink. “Maybe one of these days I’ll be
able to tell my poker buddies that my son can ride as well as Rag Donnelly.”
He turned and went into the house.
Randall glowered at the door. “Rag Donnelly this, Rag Donnelly that,” he muttered, curling his upper lip. “You’ll see who’s who and what’s what around here, you old duffer.”