DOC MORTIMER STUDIED Wyatt’s face as he came out of the office. He didn’t much like what he saw there, but he wasn’t sure whether that was professional concern or something personal. The man looked like he was holding himself together with a massive effort of will. He was drawing on his reserves of strength, but there was something else behind that, something that was driving Wyatt on, dangerously close to the limits of even his big body. He had suffered a whole series of shocks, emotional and physical, and by rights he should now be convalescing, getting over the effects of the amputation. But he was on his feet, driven by that inner purpose that Mortimer was afraid was pure blood-lusting revenge. He had seen men go the same way in the Civil War—wounded troopers so furious at their hurt they couldn’t wait to recover even if the Army had allowed them the time, just wanting to get back into the fighting to settle their personal score. That kind of hate gave a man a burst of intense energy, but it usually ran out fast, leaving him drained, sometimes a ruined hulk. Mortimer hoped that wouldn’t happen to Wyatt.
He looked past the big man, into the office, and heard Abner Teech gasp beside him. Tansy Moran was sprawled on the floor in one corner of the small room. His shoulders were hunched up against the angle of the wall as though he had crawled there, trying impossibly to hide where there was no refuge. His head rested back against the planks, the eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, his mouth wide open in what looked to be a scream. Blood was drying on his face, lines running down from the corners of his gaping mouth. The hilt of the Bowie knife jutted from between his ribs.
Abner Teech closed the door.
‘Be best folks didn’t see that.’
Mortimer nodded, then almost reluctantly: ‘He tried to escape if anyone asks. Tyler stopped him.’
He turned, looking again at Wyatt. The big man was slumped in a chair, his eyes a long way away. The light Mortimer had seen there when Wyatt looked at Tansy was gone, replaced with something close to satisfaction. He waited for the man to speak.
Finally Wyatt said, ‘He heard about the strongbox in Las Cruces. Then he ran into Jennings—seems like they knew one another from way back. Jennings promised him a share.’
‘That don’t make sense.’ Abner Teech scratched his head. ‘Was Jennings told you about Tansy.’
‘It makes sense if you think like Jennings,’ murmured Wyatt. ‘He’s got a funny sense of humor. And it means one less to share with.’
‘What else did you find out?’ Mortimer asked.
‘Jennings and the rest of them are headed for a place called Terlingua.’ Now Mortimer could hear the satisfaction in Wyatt’s voice. ‘A border town. Just a short run from Mexico. Tansy was supposed to meet them there.’
He stood up, moving across the room to peer at the big map Teech kept pinned to the wall.
‘Here.’ He stabbed a finger at a mark right on the border line. ‘I guess I’ll be taking Tansy’s place.’
‘Not for a while.’ Mortimer stared at the map, calculating distances. ‘That’s two weeks’ ride. You’re not that well.’
Impatience showed on Wyatt’s face and for an instant the dangerous light flickered in his grey eyes, then he shrugged, his features composing into calm.
‘I guess you’re right, Doc. Besides, they’ll most likely feel safe there.’
‘The marshal can get a posse organized.’ Abner Teech sounded enthusiastic. ‘Get our money back.’
‘No!’ Wyatt rounded on the depot manager, towering over him. ‘I go. Alone.’
‘You’re crazy,’ argued Teech. ‘What can you do single-handed?’
He gulped as he realized what he had said, mumbling an apology.
‘It don’t matter.’ Wyatt shook his head. ‘But they’re mine. You understand that, Abner? It was my folks they killed. My hand they broke. They owe me.’
‘The stage line might think different,’ said Teech. ‘Those bastards lifted three thousand dollars. An’ they robbed just about everyone in Black Rock.’
‘Yeah.’ Wyatt nodded. ‘I know that. But what the hell you think will happen if a Federal Marshal rides in to Terlingua with a posse?’
Teech shrugged, confused.
‘It’s an outlaw town,’ said Wyatt. ‘Chances are there won’t be no questions asked about where the money come from. Chances are the folks there’ll back Jennings against any posse. A marshal rides in, he could just tip Jennings off. Set him to running.’
‘You think he’ll wait up there?’ asked Mortimer.
‘I do.’ Wyatt nodded again. ‘No reason for him not to. He’s got money to spend an’ he’ll be feeling safe. One man will stand a better chance than a posse. Jennings won’t be expecting one man.’
‘Two months,’ Mortimer said. ‘That’s how long you need. Two months minimum.’
‘Two months.’ Wyatt said it thoughtfully. ‘All right. But then I ride.’
The time passed slowly. It chafed on Wyatt, but he recognized the sense in waiting. He was still weak, his healing arm still hurt. And he was going up against a pack of professional killers, literally—as Teech had said—singlehanded. He had already worked out a way to compensate for the loss of his hand, a way that he would put into action as soon as he felt strong enough to handle metal again, but he needed more than that: he had seen the gang use their guns, and knew that he wasn’t fast enough. Not in a stand-up fight. Not yet.
He took to practicing with his own pistol, taking the Colt out onto the prairie surrounding Black Rock to blast away at targets for hours at a time. He had always had the co-ordination of hand and eye that make for a good marksman. The loss of his left hand did not hamper him when using a pistol, though it made firing a Winchester difficult. He satisfied himself that he could hit his target with all six loads in a straight aim-and-fire situation, then went to work on his draw. He had never considered himself a fast gun; never seen the need for it. Until now. And now he channeled all his frustration, all his pent-up rage, into perfecting his draw.
From soon after sunrise to close on sundown, the people of Black Rock heard the echoes of Wyatt’s firing rolling in off the prairie. He got a new belt from Wilbur Meacham’s store, a Mexican loop rig that tied down snug on his right thigh, the leather oiled to speed the exit of the pistol from the holster. He practiced until he was shattering bottles with each shot from a standing position, then tried it falling, rolling, going down on his face. He returned to his empty home with his shirt soiled and his pants’ knees scuffed, the bandages covering the stump of his left wrist filthy. But he improved. Slowly, gradually. Maybe not so good as a real gunfighter, but getting better all the time. Getting faster and surer.
And the doubt he had felt before—the doubt he had expressed to Cole Garrett—was gone. When he faced Jennings and his men, he wouldn’t feel any compunction: he knew he could kill without qualm or hesitation.
It was a bitterly satisfying knowledge, for he saw that it meant a part of him had died. The fears Mortimer had felt, he knew himself: he had changed. He realized that the thing driving him, the reason he was recovering so fast, was the hard, cold core of hatred that had settled at the center of his being. He wondered if Josie would recognize him now—and knew that if she were still alive, he would not be like this. But Josie was dead, and when he saw his face in the mirror as he shaved, he saw a coldness in his eyes, a lurking, blood-lusting light that brought a cynical smile to his lips.
Physically, he was healing fast. The pains in his arm ceased, and when Mortimer examined the stump, he pronounced it healthy, mending well. He prescribed treatments that would harden the skin padding the amputation and Wyatt followed them religiously, adding his own devices to the toughening process. Regularly, he soaked the stump in salt water, rubbed it with liniment. He began to punch with it, driving it against objects of increasing hardness, ignoring the pain it brought as he exulted in the rapid callousing.
Then one day Mortimer announced he was healed enough to think about an artificial hand. Together they took clay and plastered it around the stump, letting it set to form a cast. Wyatt studied the cast through most of one evening, and the next day he set to work.
Mortimer pumped the bellows, smoke lifting from the forge for the first time since the killings. Wyatt selected metal from his stocks, high quality steel intended for the forging of knife blades. He melted it down to a malleable state and began work on it, using the cast as a base. What emerged at the end of the first day was a thing that looked like a cup, ten inches around the brim and three deep inside. Externally, it was just under six inches long, a little less than the length of a hand, taken from the base of the cup to the rounded end. He worked it flat towards the end, almost like a cowbell, then set it aside. The next day he set to work again, cutting holes at the open end wide enough to take leather straps, and three slits, set close together at the closed end. He used more steel to forge three blades, a little over four inches long, that he worked in gentle curves, ending in points. He took each blade and set the narrower edge against a grindstone, Mortimer turning the wheel as Wyatt held the metal to the stone. He took his time, honing each blade to razor sharpness, the tips to needle points. The third day, he mounted the blades in the slots at the end of the cup-like object, fusing each one in place so that the three of them sat firm, jutting from the cup like lethal claws.
Less used to working with leather, it took him longer to get the arrangement of straps right. There were four, one either side of the cup, one on top, and one below. He was using part of a harness rig, and the straps ran back to join a circling sleeve of leather that could be tightened with an arrangement of small buckles. Finally, he soaked a piece of leather, molding it into a shape that fitted over his stump. He added layers, producing a kind of cushion that he glued inside the cup.
It was finished.
As Mortimer watched, he set it over his wrist. It went on smoothly, sliding over the hardened stump and covering about two inches of his forearm. He drew the straps tight, fastening the leather collar, then buttoning his shirt cuff over the webbing. He raised his arm, holding the thing up to the light. Sun glinted off the blades, off the flattish area of the palm. Wyatt smiled. Mortimer’s eyes were fastened on the artificial hand. It looked efficient—for what Wyatt intended—hard and cold and deadly. It was, Mortimer saw, a weapon that could be used in several ways. The hand part was an effective club, the blades could cut or stab. Mortimer looked at the smile on Wyatt’s face and felt like he needed a drink.
He asked, ‘How does it feel?’
‘Good.’ Wyatt was staring at the thing with an ugly light in his eyes. ‘I’ll need to get used to it. Need to practice with it. But it feels good.’
He damped the forge and put his tools away.
‘You’ll need a new blacksmith,’ he said. ‘Maybe someone’ll buy the place.’
‘I’ll handle it.’ Mortimer knew this was a kind of farewell. ‘You’ll be coming back sometime?’
‘After,’ Wyatt said. And didn’t need to add anything.
‘I’ll buy you a drink,’ Mortimer offered. Then his mouth opened in surprise and he shook his head. ‘Hell, no! You can buy me one. You must own the place now.’
‘What?’ Wyatt looked up from his perusal of the metal hand. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Cole owned the Belle, lock, stock and barrel,’ said Mortimer. ‘Josie was his only blood kin. You’re kin by marriage, so you must own it now.’
Wyatt shook his head, bemused.
‘I never thought of that.’
‘You had things on your mind.’ Mortimer looked at the hand again. ‘But that’s how it must be. You own the Belle, Tyler. You’re a wealthy man.’
‘It don’t matter.’ Wyatt laughed bitterly. ‘A saloon’s no use to me.’
‘It makes money,’ said the doctor. ‘Everyone needs money.’
‘I ain’t running no saloon.’ Wyatt swung his arm, testing the weight of the hand. ‘I got other things to do.’
‘Let it run itself,’ suggested Mortimer. ‘That way you got an income.’
Wyatt nodded, thinking. Then: ‘Will you look after it, Doc? I can trust you.’
‘Me?’ The physician was genuinely surprised. ‘That’s kind of like setting a fox to guard a hen house.’
Wyatt shrugged. ‘Just run it for me. Drink as much as you like, but look after it. Will you do that?’
‘I guess.’ Mortimer began to smile. ‘Hell! That’s about as close to heaven as I thought I could get.’
Wyatt was out on the prairie practicing with a Winchester settled between the tines of the metal hand when the Federal Marshal came back with George Carby. He had already spoken with enough townsfolk to get a picture of Jennings’ bloody sojourn, but Wyatt was the only one to have seen the killings at first hand.
He sat down in Cole Garrett’s old parlor, studying the marshal’s weather-beaten face as he filled two glasses.
The lawman was close on his middle years, which meant he had to be good. His face was deeply tanned, striated with a network of wrinkles that gave an impression of age and wisdom. His eyes were very blue, almost silvery as his close-cropped hair. They showed no surprise as they fastened on Wyatt’s hand.
‘That’s one helluva thing you made yoreself, Wyatt. Looks like you could gut a man with that.’
‘Yeah.’ Wyatt drank whiskey, his grey eyes steady. ‘Guess I could.’
‘You intend to?’ The marshal’s name was LeFevre. ‘You aim to go after the Jennings bunch?’
‘They killed my wife.’ Wyatt shrugged, holding his face still, struggling to keep the fury from his eyes. ‘They broke my hand.’
‘Tell me about the killings,’ LeFevre urged. ‘You was the only one saw everything that happened.’
Wyatt told him. The peace officer nodded.
‘An’ the stage guard? Tansy Moran? Tell me about him.’
‘Jennings said he was in on it.’ Wyatt’s voice was even, virtually expressionless. ‘Said Tansy put him onto the money. I guess Tansy thought he could set up an alibi, coming back here. We grabbed him. Planned to hold him until you got here.’
‘But he died,’ said LeFevre, his own voice matching Wyatt’s. ‘He got killed.’
‘He tried to escape,’ Wyatt lied. ‘I had a knife.’
‘So it was self-defense.’ LeFevre nodded. ‘All right, I’ll buy that. He’d’ve hung, anyway. He tell you anything?’
Wyatt smiled, shaking his head.
‘He was in on it, he must’ve expected a share.’ The marshal toyed with his glass. ‘He didn’t have no money on him an’ I don’t think he left any in Albuquerque. Certainly not in Las Cruces.’
‘Maybe Jennings was planning to share it out later,’ Wyatt said. ‘Give Tansy his cut when things got quiet.’
‘Yeah.’ LeFevre nodded. ‘What I figgered. But where? Tansy tell you that?’
Wyatt shook his head again. ‘You think I’m holding out on you, Marshal?’
LeFevre looked at him for a long time. He reached across the table and topped his glass.
‘Heard you been practicin’ with a handgun. Every day, folks tell me. They say you’re getting real good.’
Wyatt shrugged, not answering.
‘Like a man plannin’ to use it on someone,’ said LeFevre. ‘Now you’re sittin’ here with them knives on yore arm. I’d say you was all tooled up to try some killing.’
‘Maybe.’ Wyatt drank whiskey.
‘All right.’ The peace officer swirled liquor around his glass. Drank. ‘I got no reason to hold you. Can’t stop you goin’ where you want, But, Wyatt, you remember one thing—Jennings an’ his bunch are the Law’s problem. I know they hurt you, but you try takin’ the law into yore own hands—that goddam metal thing included—you’re gonna come up against me. You remember that.’
He climbed to his feet.
‘Thanks for the whiskey.’
Wyatt nodded, watching the door close behind him. He stared at the artificial hand, turning it so that the three tines caught the light from the lantern suspended at the center of the room, flashing shards of brilliance off the honed edges.
‘That’s just what I’m gonna do,’ he murmured, mouth stretching in a feral smile. ‘Take it into my own hand. Make them see my points.’