Chapter 26

Dahl and Sara turned toward the sound of the buggy rolling back into sight, Matheson slumped on the driver’s seat. A large bloody welt ran across the side of his forehead. Billy Nichols rode along on his horse beside the buggy, leading Kern’s horse by its reins.

“You won’t believe this,” Nichols said to Dahl as the buggy rolled to a halt a few feet away. “These bags are full of money.” He stopped his horse and gestured for Matheson to get down from the buggy. Once standing on the ground, Matheson looked at Kern’s body and shook his head in disgust.

“I believe you, Billy,” said Dahl. “The banker here poisoned the two guards and unlocked the payroll bags. He rebagged the payroll money. The deputies were going to ride off with newspaper trimmings and the townsmen on their trail. These two were taking off with the real money.”

Nichols looked taken aback by Dahl’s knowledge of the incident.

“I guess I was wrong, you do believe it,” he said.

Dahl saw the young man’s disappointment in not being the one to break the news.

“But you’re the one who caught him and brought him back,” Dahl said quickly. “I’d say the town of Kindred owes you a debt of gratitude.”

“It’s not Kindred’s money,” Matheson said sorely. “Anyway, I’m both a bank manager and an elected town leader. I have every right to be out here protecting this money. Once the townsfolk hear how this all happened, I know—”

“Save it for the townsmen, then,” Dahl said, cutting him off.

“The townsmen, ha!” said Matheson. “What was I just thinking? There’s no explaining anything to those idiots in Kindred. They do well to find their mouths with both hands and a wooden spoon.”

“Be sure to mention that to them,” said Dahl. “Maybe it might make them go easier on you.”

Matheson gave him a puzzled look. “What is your position in all of this, mister? Aren’t you some sort of hired gun?”

“Yes,” said Dahl, “I’m some sort of . . . hired gun.”

“What I mean is . . . ,” Matheson said, stepping over closer and lowering his voice. “Isn’t there a way for us to—you know—end this to everyone’s satisfaction?” He looked back and forth between Nichols and Dahl. “There is a great deal of money in those bags, sir. If you get my meaning.”

Dahl looked at him. Then he looked at Nichols, then at Sara, who had taken a step back when the buggy rolled up.

“I get your meaning,” he said to Matheson. Nodding toward Sara and Nichols, he said, “Why don’t you two walk up there and take the doctor and the woman back inside?”

Sara hesitated. Nichols looked stunned.

“It’ll be all right,” Dahl assured them both. Seeing Nichols hang his head in disappointment, he said, “Go on, Billy. This is the way it’s done.”

Matheson grinned with satisfaction. He and Dahl watched on in silence until Sara and Nichols had climbed the stairs and followed the doctor and the woman inside.

“I’ve got to hand it to bankers and politicians,” Dahl said to Matheson. “You always find a soft place to land when the storm’s over.” He gave a slight smile.

Matheson returned the smile and spread his greasy hands.

“What can I say?” he said. “We all have to make allowances for—”

“Except for this time,” Dahl said, cutting him off again. His smile was gone, and a cold, hard look had come into his eyes.

“Pardon me?” said Matheson, not believing what he’d heard.

“This time, there’s no soft place to land,” Dahl said quietly. He looked toward Kern’s Colt lying in the dirt three feet away from Matheson. “Grab the gun and make your play.”

“Whoa, hold on,” said Matheson, his hands went chest high. “I was under the impression we were coming to a deal here.”

“We are,” Dahl said. “You just heard it.”

“I’m no gunman, sir,” said Matheson. “We can each have half of this money, to do with as we please.”

“Or one of us can have it all,” said Dahl. “To do with as we please.” He nodded at the gun in the dirt. “Grab it. That’s the deal.”

“I’m a banker,” said Matheson. “I don’t take foolish risks . . . and that’s what this is. I’d never make it to the gun. You’d kill me first.”

“You need better odds?” said Dahl. He slipped his gun into his holster. “How’s that?”

“Uh-uh,” said the banker, “I’m not a fool. I don’t take the broad risk—I leave that to the other party. I always take the minimum risk for the greatest return.” He managed a thin smile, liking the banter, the negotiating.

“Then how’s this?” Dahl lifted his Colt from his holster and unloaded it, letting one bullet after the other drop in the dirt at his feet.

“That’s better, but still . . . ,” Matheson said hesitantly.

“Now grab the gun,” Dahl said. “This is the best odds you’ll get from me. The deal won’t get any better . . . only worse from here.”

But Matheson didn’t understand how that could be. He’d taken the deal this far. What else could he get? He looked at the bullets in the dirt, the empty Colt in Dahl’s hand. This was turning out better than he could have hoped for, he thought. Still he pressed for more.

“No, I’m not going for it,” he said. “I need more than this. Give me something else.” He gave a thin, nervous smile. “Call it stronger security, better collateral if you will.”

Dahl shook his head slowly. “You turned down my strongest offer.” He looked at the empty Colt in his hand. Then he pitched it over ten feet away.

“Well, well . . . ,” said Matheson in surprise. A confident gleam came to his eyes. He looked at the bullets on the ground and at the big Colt lying far out of Dahl’s reach. The gunman just gave it up, he told himself. He had to make a move now. This was a deal to his liking—no risk, all gain.

Dahl didn’t move an inch as he watched the banker leap to the ground, grab Kern’s Colt and scramble around in the dirt toward him.

What’s this? He hasn’t moved . . . ! Matheson thought, cocking the Colt, raising it. Why hasn’t he moved . . . ? This fool . . . ! He threw the Colt out at arm’s length and aimed it. Not my problem . . . , he thought. I have him . . . ! It’s all over—

But his thought stopped suddenly as Dahl’s right arm sprang up from his side. A small, two-shot Marston hideout pistol jumped out of Dahl’s duster sleeve into his hand . . . and fired, all in one motion.

“You turned down the better deal,” Dahl said. The banker’s dead eyes turned up toward a gaping hole in the center of his forehead. “Greedy, I guess . . . ,” he murmured, shoving the hideout gun back up in his duster sleeve and snapping it into place on a small spring-loaded metal track.

Hearing the shot, Sara ran out the front door of the cabin and hurried down the stairs. A few feet behind her, Billy Nichols walked down a little slower, seeing that Dahl wasn’t wounded.

“Oh my God, Sherman! Are you all right?” Sara said, her voice trembling. This time, instead of flinging herself into his arms, she stopped warily at the foot of the stairs and looked down at the banker’s body lying in the dirt.

“He went for Kern’s gun,” Dahl offered, seeing the questioning look on her face.

“I—I see that,” Sara said. “But I never thought I’d see a gun in Lyndon Matheson’s hand.”

“Well, now you see it,” said Dahl. “Unless you think I put the gun in his hand.”

“No, I didn’t think that,” said Sara. “I know you wouldn’t do something like that. . . .” She paused for moment, then asked, “Did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” Dahl said. He gave her a look and a smile. He stepped over and picked up his Colt and walked to Sara and Billy Nichols, picking up his bullets on the way. He saw the look in Nichols’ eyes as he reloaded his Colt. “All right, maybe I did put the gun in his hand, in a manner of speaking,” he said. “I can’t deny I wanted him to grab for it.”

Billy Nichols nodded, satisfied. “But he made his choice,” he said in Dahl’s defense.

“Yes, he made the choice, Billy,” Dahl said. “Much obliged.”

On the upper porch, Dr. Washburn stepped out and looked down.

“Does anybody need me down there?” he called out to them.

“We’re good, Doctor,” Dahl replied.

Billy sensed that Dahl and Sara wanted to be alone.

“I’ll take these horses over and water them down,” he said. “Then I’ll dig holes and bury these two if you want me to.”

“No, these two are going back to Kindred, along with the payroll money,” Dahl replied without taking his eyes off Sara’s.

“All right,” said Nichols, leading the buggy horse away with one hand. He guided both his horse and Dahl’s with his other.

“This is all done,” Dahl said. “I’m able to leave anytime.”

Sara let out a breath and said, “You’ve been able to leave for a while. I’m obliged you stayed and helped everybody out.” She looked him up and down. “Is that something most hired gunmen would do, for free, I mean?”

“Fighting man,” Dahl corrected her. “It is if I want to.” Sara smiled. “And now you’re leaving . . .”

“If I want to,” Dahl said.

“Do you . . . want to, that is?” Sara asked.

“I don’t think so,” Dahl said. “I can go home, but there’s no home there.”

“Then stay here,” Sara said. “Make this your home. If you want to, I mean.”

“Would you like me to do that?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, I would,” she said, “if that’s what you want.”

“It is,” he said. He stared into her eyes. She saw something leave him, something that she knew he had kept masked from the world—something cold and distant in his demeanor that had been there only a moment ago, and now was gone. Whatever it was, she was glad to see it vanish.

“What about the fact that I’m a whore—I mean, a dove?” she corrected herself. “Should we talk about that?”

“If we need to,” he said. “Do we need to?”

“I think so,” she said. “I am a dove. I have been for a while now.”

“Do you want to be?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, not anymore,” she said.

“Then don’t be,” he said. He tipped her chin up to his face, standing close to her.

“I won’t,” she said.

“All right, then,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad we talked about it.”

“Me too. That was nice,” she said.

They turned, arms around each other’s waists, and stepped around the two bodies lying in the dirt. They walked along the rocky trail for a few yards, feeling a cooling breeze blow in off the far green hill line.