Chapter 33

Grant Dragoman pushed through the Lone Star’s heavy oak doors.

He stepped to one side and looked carefully around the vast, cavelike room.

The old reprobate, Catfish Charlie Tuttle, was gone.

Good.

It was almost noon, so there were plenty of diners and drinkers, serving girls hauling large trays of steaming food to men—mostly men, but a few women as well, for the Lone Star’s dining room was deemed fitting for the fairer sex. Yes, the place was busy. Julia was really making a killing, though Dragoman himself preferred the grub over at the Chinese Lantern. He considered the food here bland, overpriced slop.

Of course, maybe his resentment had something to do with his bleak assessment.

Inwardly he chuckled.

The important thing was that the place was busy. The milling crowd would mostly cover him, render him less conspicuous as he made his way around the rear of the room and over toward the broad, carpeted stairs, as he did now, feeling his heart thud nervously. He’d left his foreman over at the Chinese Lantern. He’d told Caville he was returning to the Lone Star for a drink with his attorney. Caville didn’t know what he was really up to. No one but a handful of others in town did.

Men he hoped he could trust. He was staking his reputation, as well as his freedom, on them. It certainly would have helped, had they sent the right men to get the town’s two lawmen out of the way. He’d thought they’d be killing Abel Wilkes and Bushwhack Wilbur Aimes, but that was before Wilkes and Aimes were killed by Frank Thorson. It should have been easier to take out the aging and out-of-practice Catfish Tuttle and Brazos McQueen, but they’d flubbed the job. All the killers they’d hired, including an old nemesis of Catfish’s—Black Taggart—had flubbed it good.

Dragoman was out of time, however. He couldn’t wait any longer. He’d waited long enough. With Eldon Ring having met his Maker, which Dragoman had gambled he would do, the time was ripe now to finish Julia, once and for all.

He paused near a carved stone elephant, mounted on a carved stone column, near the bottom of the staircase in order to check his gold-washed timepiece. One minute after eleven. He snapped the lid closed and returned the piece to his coat pocket and started up the stairs.

His heart beat eagerly.

His man should be entering through the saloon’s rear door—really, a very flimsy affair—locked with only a bracketed crossbar, which was too meager for an establishment that took in very impressive profits a day. Julia never posted any guards back there. You’d think she would know better. She probably thought she and her fine establishment were above being robbed. She didn’t think anyone would dare.

Silly woman. She really had needed Dragoman in her camp. In her bed. Now she’d pay for her foolishness, and the Lone Star would be out of business, no longer around to mock him.

Her manager, Howard Dale, would be in her office, going over accounts and preparing cash drawers for the afternoon. He’d have most of the money from this morning in there, was probably counting it now. And he had a safe stuffed, likely to near brimming, with cash from the past week’s business in there as well. Julia deposited the money in the bank only once a week.

Smiling and pinching his hat brim to a couple of nymphs du pave descending the stairs, chatting animatedly between themselves, likely too distracted to take much note of the rancher’s presence—no, no one outside his tight circle of local conspirators must suspect he’d had any part in what was about to occur—he ascended the stairs to the third story. He was glad when he saw no one else in the long hall before he drew up to the door behind which he knew Julia lay, recuperating.

He lightly tapped with his knuckles, turned the knob, and poked his head into the room. She wasn’t alone. The former marshal’s daughter was with her. Beth Wilkes turned to Dragoman. She sat on a chair beside Julia’s bed, spooning soup into Julia’s mouth. Now she held the spoon just above the steaming bowl and frowned curiously at the rancher.

“Well, hello, there, young lady,” he said, stepping into the room and removing his hat. “How’s our girl doing?”

Lying back against two pillows propped partway up against the bed’s brass headboard, Julia stitched her brows in a scowl, croaking out, “Grant . . .”

She didn’t appear all that happy to see him. Just self-conscious, Dragoman supposed. She’d looked far better.

Unless Catfish had shared his suspicions with her . . .

Dragoman took another couple of steps into the room, holding his hat low before him. “I came as soon as I heard,” he said. “How are you doing, Jul”—he glanced at Beth gazing incredulously up at him, and amended—“er, I mean, Miss Claire?”

He smiled broadly, warmly. Julia, of course, saw no warmth in the smile. The man’s eyes were flat and hard. Her heart quickened, the blood in her veins chilled. Beth could sense it as she shuttled her own troubled gaze between Julia and the tall, red-faced, handsome, but hard-eyed, man looming over them. His short, thin brown hair, combed straight back from a pronounced widow’s peak, was laced with gray. Gray in his sideburns as well. He had a big, walnut-gripped pistol holstered high on his right hip. Beth could see it behind the lapel of his dust-sprinkled gray coat.

A well-known, successful man, he was an intimidating specter before them.

Standing over them, Dragoman was reflecting on what was likely happening in Julia’s back-room office at that very moment—his man, a killer known as Hobarth, moving into her office, drawing down on Julia’s manager, likely beating the man until he opened the safe teeming with all that raw cash . . .

Not that he needed the cash. No, that would go to the men, his cohorts, and the killers they had working for them . . .

Dragoman would be satisfied with merely putting Julia out of business, once and for all. Of course, Zhukovsky might have done it. Though he’d never met the man, the Russian had given Dragoman the idea of going even further. He liked the idea of ruining her name, but Dragoman knew Wolfwater better than the Russian did. The town would forgive her trespasses, and she’d continue ignoring Dragoman’s pleas for a business partnership and marriage.

No, ruining her name in Wolfwater was impossible.

But he could destroy her. Utterly destroy her, as well as her precious business, the Lone Star Outpost.

Anger burned in him, but he kept the smile on his face as he turned to Beth Wilkes. “Miss Wilkes, would you mind if Miss Claire and I had a private word?”

She frowned up at him, hesitant. She looked at Julia. Julia slid her gaze to her. The two women looked at each other in silence for about two seconds and then Miss Wilkes set the bowl on the table beside the bed, haltingly, her hands shaking a little, the spoon rattling.

“Oh,” she said, rising from her chair. “Of course.” She looked down at Julia, gave a stiff smile. They seemed to be silently communicating something. What was it? “I’ll be back . . .”

Julia gave a slight nod, then returned her incredulous gaze to Dragoman.

Miss Wilkes glanced up at Dragoman, then moved to the door. At the door, she stopped, glanced at Dragoman and then Julia once more, then twisted the knob and went out.

Dragoman slacked his tall frame into the chair Beth had abandoned; holding his hat on his lap, he reached forward to wrap his right hand around Julia’s left one, atop the covers. “How are you doing, my dear? Does it hurt terribly? What did the doctor say?”

Julia turned to face him, smiling. “I’ll be fine.” She lifted her head slightly, lifted her pale hands as well, and fiddled with her messy hair. “Good Lord—I must look terrible.”

“Oh, you couldn’t if you tried!”

Julia grimaced, shook her head.

Dragoman took her hand in both of his, pulled it up to his mouth, and planted a repellent kiss on it. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d married me, you know? I would have protected you . . . from him.”

Julia gazed up at him flatly.

“Have you met him, Grant? Zhukovsky? Did you throw in with him . . . to ruin me? Is that why you hired the inept fool Eldon Ring?”

Still holding her hand up close to his mouth, Dragoman shook his head. “No, no. I wasn’t in cahoots with him. True, I hired Ring because I wanted Zhukovsky to continue bedeviling you. I thought he might drive you . . . and the Lone Star . . . to me at last.” Again, he shook his head, regarded her somberly. “I didn’t want this to happen, Julia. It must have been a mistake. I heard you were out with that fat fool of a town marshal. Zhukovsky likely wanted him killed and out of his way. Just as I’ve tried to.”

The rancher chuckled dryly. “I swear the man must have nine lives. I’ve heard a good dozen men—tried-and-true killers, all—attempted to kill him and his deputy. Hasn’t happened yet. But I heard the deputy was taken out of commission last night. That leaves only Catfish. He’s likely dead drunk . . . dead asleep. If not”—he gave a deep sigh—“oh, well. He’ll wish he was.”

“Why?”

“Here’s what’s going to happen, my dear. I’m robbing you. I and several of the smaller saloon owners in town. You see, I convinced them that once we robbed you and burned down your establishment, you’d be ruined. Better than merely ruining your reputation could ever do. We’ve hired a gang of men.”

Dragoman released her hand, pulled his timepiece from his pocket, and clicked open the lid. He smiled down at the watch, snapped it closed. “In about two minutes, they’ll be here. Shooting up the place, robbing your barman, just as my other man, Hobart, is likely cleaning out your safe even as we speak.” He returned the watch to his pocket and rose from his chair. “They and the other saloon men will split the plunder among themselves, and once I burn you out . . . burn the business to the ground . . . any inquiring authorities will chalk it all up to simple robbery. Nothing more, nothing less. The robbers have orders to head to Mexico just as soon as they meet the saloon men at a determined place in the desert and split the proceeds.”

He’d walked over to a chest of drawers and scooped a hurricane lamp from its surface. He caressed it almost lovingly before him, the lit wicking aglow in the room’s shadows relieved only by sunlight edging around the drawn curtains of the single window. The coal oil sloshed around inside the lamp’s glass bowl. The flame flickered, dancing this way and that as the rancher gently rocked it.

Julia watched the flame, her heart quickening.

She chuckled to herself. She’d been so afraid of Zhukovsky that she hadn’t realized who her true enemy was. A man who’d professed to love her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. With her and the Lone Star Outpost, of course.

Men.

She should have known even before Catfish had put the thought in her head.

This was it, then. This was the end.

Unless . . .

Dragoman’s face grew stony as he walked back to the bed, staring darkly down at Julia. He set the lamp on the night table, beside the bowl of half-eaten soup. He sat down in the chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Don’t worry—I won’t let you burn, my dear. At least . . . not alive. I still love you, you see. You deserve better than that. I’ll make it as quick as I can. All right?” He leaned farther forward, shoving his large hand out toward Julia, wrapping them around her neck almost tenderly.

“Grant,” she said as he began to apply pressure. She tried to slide her fingers behind his hand, to pry them loose, but in her weakened condition, her strength was no match for his. She choked as more pressure was applied. “Grant!”

Dragoman smiled devilishly down at her as he tightened his grip.

As he cut off her breath, large, dark motes filled Julia’s vision. Her head swelled, and she tried to gasp in vain for a breath.

Above the rushing in her ears, Julia heard the door latch move . . .

. . . saw the door open slowly . . .

Beth Wilkes stepped into the room, her brown eyes large, round, and bright with terror. She held Julia’s pearl-gripped pocket pistol in both hands. She stepped forward haltingly, and just as haltingly said, “M-Mr. D-Dragoman . . .”

Keeping his hands wrapped tightly around Julia’s neck, Dragoman whipped his gaze toward Beth, anger flaring his nostrils. “Put that gun down! You’re no match for me! Do you know who I am?”

“I know exactly who you are,” Beth said, voice trembling. “And I’m going to shoot you if you don’t take your hands away from Julia’s neck.”

“Put that gun down, I said!” Dragoman barked, keeping the pressure applied to Julia’s neck.

Beth narrowed one eye as she aimed down the Merwin & Hulbert’s barrel.

The gun popped. The bullet screeched past Dragoman’s head to plunk into the wall behind him. He flinched and pulled his hands away from Julia’s neck. Julia tipped her head back, gasping for air and placing her own hands on her bruised neck.

“You silly child!” Dragoman said, facing Beth, who was aiming the revolver at him from six feet away. “You’re no match for me!”

“Oh, yes, I am!” Beth retorted, her voice quaking with fear, but laced with satisfaction as well.

Just then, a man’s voice bellowed from the saloon’s main drinking hall—“All right, this is a holdup! Everybody on the floor!”

Another man shouted something unintelligible.

A gun roared. Then another.

Beth lowered the pistol and turned her head with a gasp.

“Beth!” Julia cried as Dragoman lunged toward the girl.

Beth swung back toward Dragoman and screamed as the .38 bucked and roared, knocking her backward.

Dragoman yelped and flew backward into the chair and night table. He rolled off the table, screaming as the lamp he’d just shattered with his body spilled burning coal oil on him. Instantly the floor on that side of the bed and table was in flames. The flames were crawling like flickering orange snakes up the drapes drawn over the window. They engulfed the writhing form of Grant Dragoman as he tried to fight them in vain, screaming.

They were slithering away from the burning rancher toward the bed.

“Julia!” Beth screamed.