Wes Hart sat in the outer office and tried not to think about the nagging jolts of pain that shot through his left shoulder. The doc had spent the best part of an hour probing for the fragments of shot that had become stuck in the flesh, some close to the bone. Hart had stared at the ceiling and tried to think of other things, other places: all that had come to his mind had been a dead girl and a bitter, angry mother and beyond that, back way beyond that, Kathy.
‘I want to marry you. For you to come and live here. For us to have kids. ‘
‘I’ve told you. Not while—.’
‘Kathy, it’s not like before. I’m a Ranger, a lawman. That’s different. It’s—’
‘It isn’t different. It’s the same.’ She’d stared at the Colt holstered at his side. ‘That’s the same.’
‘Kathy, for Christ’s sake, you don’t understand!’
She’d shaken her head, a strand of brown hair caught across her face.
‘No, Wes, it’s you that doesn’t understand.’
‘Look—’
Hart had moved towards her and seen her flinch; flinch then freeze.
Now he shifted marginally on the bed and concentrated on the pain in his shoulder, sharper, safer.
‘Hart?’
‘Yeah.’
The man in the doorway was broad, not very tall; he was wearing a three-piece suit with a silver watch chain looped across the vest, and his shoes shone enough to sparkle.
‘You better come in.’
Hart followed the railroad manager into his office. There were wooden filing cabinets against one wall, a map of the sections of track opposite. On the floor, close by the desk, a large dog with a wolf-like head and a stone-gray coat looked up at him and, for a couple of seconds, growled in its throat and bared its teeth.
‘Take a seat.’
Hart did so.
‘Cigar?’
Hart shook his head.
The manager flipped up the lid of a box and took a long, fat cigar out; he took a small pair of clippers from the side pocket of his coat and cut away one end; from another pocket he took a match and struck it against the leg of the desk. A few moments later he was puffing satisfactorily and blue-gray smoke was starting to cloud up towards the white ceiling.
‘Why d’you want to do this?’
‘Does that matter?’
The cigar came out of the mouth. ‘It might.’
Hart shook his head. ‘What matters is results.’
‘Namely?’ The cigar went back between the manager’s teeth.
‘You get your money back. As much of it that’s still around.’
‘Two thousand dollars.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And the gang that robbed the train? We can’t afford.. .’
‘They won’t stick up no more trains. Yours or anyone else’s.’
A near-perfect smoke ring lofted upwards. ‘Because they’ll be dead?’
Hart shrugged. ‘That matter to you?’
‘No. Only—’
‘Only what?’
‘You’re reckoning on setting out after these men alone.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Seven of them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘One man?’
‘They won’t likely be together. They’ll split up the money and then ride separate ways.’
‘You think?’
Hart nodded. ‘Yeah.’
The railroad man chewed on the end of his cigar for a little longer, concentrating his thoughts on a point somewhere above Hart’s head.
‘I don’t like it,’ he said finally.
‘Why the hell not?’ Anger bristled in Hart’s voice.
‘It’s too risky.’
‘For who?’ Hart was half out of his seat.
‘For the company. For the railroad. We stand to lose all that money while you go out on some one-man crusade. That and a bunch of desperadoes licks its lips and tries again.’ He shook his head decisively. ‘No. We got our own detectives. They’ll track ’em down.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Hart was on his feet, pointing at the man behind the desk. ‘How long you think that’s goin’ to take? One month, maybe two? I can ride out today while the trail’s hot an’ there ain’t nothin’ goin’ to stop me bringin’ those bastards in. One way or another. I swear to God I will.’
The manager exhaled slowly, made calming gestures with his hands. ‘Sit down, sit down.’
‘To hell with that!’
The railroad man closed his eyes a moment, rubbed at the lid of one with the heel of his left hand.
‘We’re wastin’ time,’ said Hart.
‘The woman, what’s she to you?’
Hart hesitated before answering. ‘Nothing. We were travelling together, that’s all. Met her down Caldwell way a while back, her and her husband.’
‘Where’s he?’
‘She left him back there. Buried.’
The manager raised his eyebrows. ‘She don’t have much luck, does she?’
Hart ignored the question. ‘You don’t hear nothing from me inside a week, then send out your detectives. Soon as I strike one of ’em, I’ll wire you.’
The manager rubbed his eye again.
‘I said, we’re wastin’ time,’ said Hart.
‘All right.’
Immediately Hart turned for the door.
‘We didn’t discuss payment.’
Hart stopped. ‘Ten per cent of whatever I recover. Expenses. Any bounty on the gang stays mine.’
The railroad man nodded: ‘Okay.’
Hart let himself out, the pain in his shoulder only hitting him again when he reached the street. Back inside his office the railroad manager chewed some more at his cigar and dragged on it heavily and thought he’d send a couple of detectives into the field anyway.
The door to Emily’s hotel room was locked. Hart hesitated a while downstairs before going up and now he waited again, listening. The clerk had assured him that she was inside, her and the boy. She wasn’t taking meals, wasn’t receiving callers, hadn’t spoken a word more than was essential to a soul.
Outside, hitched to the rail, Hart’s hired horse was saddled up and ready to go. The saddle bags were filled with supplies, salted beef, bacon, sourdough bread, biscuits, coffee, flour, .44 cartridges for his Henry rifle, .45s for his pistol, ten-gauge shot for his sawn-off Remington. His water canteens were full. Time was passing by, the gang he was setting out after were getting further and further away and he was standing outside a Wichita hotel room waiting for something from a stubborn, hurt woman who’d locked herself behind the door.
Something, he didn’t know what, some sign, some word.
He shook his head and knew he was wasting precious minutes.
There was nothing that she could do for him now, even less that he could do for her. What he was riding out to do, that was for himself and no one else.
Skinny Jim’s Trading Post sat on the north bank of the Neosho like a fat, pink pig. Some years back Jim had got the idea of painting its walls so as to give the place a brighter look and attract more custom. Gradually the paint had peeled and chipped and faded away from its original red to the present color which resembled nothing as much as blistered skin.
Hart came up upon the post from the east, following the bank of the river, riding slow, alert. There were half a dozen horses out back, four of them saddled. An old wagon rested on its tail end close to the nearest wall. Despite the heat of the day, smoke drifted up from the tin chimney that bent awkwardly from the roof.
God knew who was inside, but Skinny Jim’s usually succeeded in attracting every down-and-out and no-good drifter in the territory. Maybe it had something to do with the paint.
Hart dismounted thirty yards short of the place and led the horse on foot, treading soft as he could go.
He looped the rein over the end of the long rail out back, gave the horses and saddles a quick check over to see if there were any that he recognized.
There weren’t but Jim’s wasn’t a place where it paid to take chances.
He checked the load in his Remington ten-gauge and stepped quietly up to the back door. The sound of voices came from within, none of them that he knew at once, not even any of the words making themselves clear.
Hart leaned back, lifted his right leg and thrust it forward, hard and fast; the underside of his boot struck the door close by the frame and sent it swinging loudly back.
Hart followed in fast, the shotgun already beginning to swing through an arc, covering right to left.
The door slammed into a crate, knocking a couple of bottles from the top down on to the floor. Into the midst of their crash came several shouts and the sound of a chair hitting the ground.
Hart didn’t need to speak: the sight of both barrels of the shotgun was enough.
Off to the right, one of the men who’d been playing cards on the top of an upturned barrel had begun making a move towards his gun belt but the action froze before his fingers had got within six inches of the pistol butt.
Hart looked them over carefully.
The man who’d started his draw was around forty, graying, short; he wore a faded blue shirt with a long tear down the front which reached almost to his pants belt. The two men with him were about the same age, one bearded and balding, the other thin and gaunt.
He wasn’t as thin as Skinny Jim who stood a few feet behind the door, just in Hart’s sight, a long skinning knife on the rough-hewn wood counter before him. One of Jim’s eyes was blue, the other brown, and they both flicked from Hart to the knife and back again.
The only other person inside the trading post was crouching in the furthest corner, one arm sheltering his head, a slow wailing sound beginning to come from his open mouth. Hart tried to figure out how old he was, but it wasn’t possible. Not with him the way he was. The face seemed old and young at the same time, as though grandfather and grandson had somehow become merged in the same person.
As the noise continued, Hart glimpsed the pink end of a curving tongue poking lizard-like between the man’s thin, wide lips, and something made him shudder inside.
‘That’s Carey,’ said Skinny Jim. ‘You don’t have to pay him no mind. He hardly got one of his own.’
Even as he was talking, Jim’s eyes kept glancing down at the skinning knife.
‘You ain’t fixin’ on doin’ anythin’ with that knife, are you?’ asked Hart.
Jim shook his head.
‘Then stop eyin’ it an’ just knock it out of reach with the back of your left hand.’
Jim hesitated, blinked.
‘Do it.’ The Remington came round to point at the proprietor square on, and he did as he was ordered.
‘Okay. Now you—’ Hart pointed the shotgun at the short, gray card player. ‘You finger that Colt of yours up out of that holster an’ let it fall close. Then kick it over by the side wall, behind where you’re standin’.’
‘Hell, mister, I ain’t—’
‘You do like I said.’
‘I ain’t never give up my gun to no man.’
Then you best remember there’s a first time for everythin’. Get it done.’
The man chewed a little on his lower lip, scratched at his chest hairs through the rent in his shirt, then drew the gun carefully and dropped it to the ground. While it was still spinning, he kicked it backwards.
That’s good. How ’bout you two doin’ the same?’
They complied quickly.
‘An’ him in the corner?’ asked Hart, looking at Jim.
‘I told you. Carey, he’s madder’n a jackass on fourth of July. He don’t know from guns or nothin’. Honest.’
‘Okay. Now I got me some questions to ask and it’ll come better if you set me up a beer and a good shot of whiskey.’
‘You payin’?’ blinked Jim.
Hart grinned. ‘You got a lot of gall, askin’ a man who’s standin’ over you with both barrels of a shotgun loaded if he’s payin’ for his drinkin’.
Jim licked his dry lips. Gulped. ‘Well, are you?’
Holding the shotgun steady, Hart took a silver dollar from his vest pocket and tossed it down on to the counter. That serve?’
‘Sure.’
Skinny Jim picked it up fast and transferred it to one of his own pockets.
The three card players slowly sat back down to their game, but they weren’t about to concentrate, not till they knew what was going on. In the corner, Carey carried on his wailing.
‘He have to do that?’ asked Hart.
Jim set the glass of beer on the counter and readied a whiskey to go beside it.
‘Anythin’ sudden sets him off. He’ll quieten down after a while. I’ll give him some candy then he’ll be like a kid again. Go out and look to the horses, likely.’
‘He live here?’ asked Hart after taking a swallow at the soapy-looking beer.
‘Kind of. No one else wants him around an’ he don’t get in my hair much. Does odd jobs, helps out as much as he can. I feed him an’ he sleeps on some sacks over in the corner by the stove.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Used to be a clever man, Carey did. Read an’ write. Did a little medicine. All manner of things.’
Hart nodded his head backwards. ‘What happened?’
‘Indians took him. Him an’ the woman he lived with. Don’t know if no preacher ever spoke words over ’em, but they’d been together best part of ten years when it happened. Them bucks they had theirselves a time with the woman while he was tied up an’ lookin’ on. Carved a few pieces out of him when the rotgut whiskey they was drinkin’ got to ’em. Finally rode out an’ left him half-starved, naked, out of his wits. Took him near four days to get the woman back to civilization, part carryin’ her, part draggin’ her over rocks an’ the like. She was kinda hard to move, he bein’ stiff an’ gone after the first day. Carey there was out of his head afore another white man met him. Ain’t said a word of sense since.’
Hart swallowed down half the whiskey and turned to look at the young-old man huddled in the corner, an arm still wrapped around his head, the wailing sound subsiding.
‘You come in like you was expecting’ trouble,’ said Skinny Jim.
‘Lookin’ for it.’
‘How come?’
Hart told him and he nodded. ‘Heard tell ’bout the train.’
‘Who from?’
Jim jerked his head sideways. ‘One of them over there. Got himself a drink on the strength of the tale.’ Jim chuckled. ‘Do love a good tale.’
‘You’d been there,’ said Hart, ‘you’d’ve known there weren’t nothin’ good about it.’
He finished the whiskey and took the beer glass over to where the men were sitting by the barrel. The cards had been gathered together but not dealt. The bearded man was shuffling them, over and over, waiting. They were all waiting.
‘Hear one of you knows somethin’ ’bout a robbery on the Atchison, Topeka couple of days back.’
The cards roughed together in the man’s hands and several of them fluttered outwards and fell to the floor.
‘You?’ Hart stared at the bald man, beer glass in his left hand, right meaningfully close to the mother-of-pearl of his holster.
The man gulped, nodded.
‘You one of ’em?’
Sweat sprang from the pores on the man’s forehead along the dome of his largely bald head. ‘No, mister. Jesus, that ain’t … I … nothin’ to do with me, I heard a feller talkin’ about it is all.’
‘What feller? Where?’
‘Highwater. That’s ten or so miles upriver from here. Just a small pi—’
‘What was his name? What did he look like?’
The sweating head shook and drops of perspiration flew on to the barrel, on to the backs of the cards that lay there.
‘No name. Don’t know no name. He was in the saloon. Ain’t but one. Big feller. Real big.’ He glanced up at Hart. ‘Taller’n you by a good four or five inches, I’d say. Heavy too. Big, big feller.’
‘Get on with it. What did he say?’
‘He’d been drinkin’ a lot. Most of the day, I reckon, an’ it was drawin’ in night time I was there. He was leanin’ that great weight of his against the bar like if he ever tried to move he’d keel plumb over. Told anyone who’d listen how him an’ some others stopped the train and blew the freight car to kingdom come. Run off with one hell of a lot of money. Bills in his pockets. Kept showin’ ’em to folk around.’
‘Ain’t there no lawman in this, this Highwater?’ asked Hart.
The bald head shook again and more sweat flicked away from it. ‘No. An’ even if there were, I can’t see no sheriff wantin’ to go again’ a man like that. ’Specially when he’d been drinkin’ like he had. Bullet hit him, it’d bounce back off or else he’d explode like kerosene.’
Hart sank the remainder of his beer and left the glass on the barrel.
‘Nothin’ else,’ he asked. ‘No one with him?’
‘No, not as far as I could see.’
‘An’ this was when?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Okay.’
Hart backed away from the table, nodded to the three men, raised a hand towards Skinny Jim. ‘Any of that bunch get in here, you keep your mouth shut about me, you understand that? I might be passin’ back this way an’ I’d hate to think you’d been runnin’ off at the mouth.’
Jim licked his lips and nodded. ‘You do come back,’ he said, ‘try the front door. I’m goin’ to have to fix this one back on its hinges straight.’
‘Okay,’ said Hart. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
He gave a final glance at the now silent, still cowering figure of Carey on top of his sacking and went out the front way. When he was sure that no one had interest in coming after him, he mounted up and headed up river for Highwater.