14

Slocum laid Teddy LeGrande out in an empty stall, then stripped and rubbed down the horses. Pete’s bay went into the corral, but LeGrande’s flashy palomino stayed in the barn, where he couldn’t be seen by curious eyes.

Pete had killed Teddy LeGrande, all right, but he’d sure taken his own sweet time about it. LeGrande had been shot once in his left lung and once through his upper arm. Judging by the amount of blood that had come from those two wounds—and decorated LeGrande’s white leather jacket—they hadn’t killed him.

The other two wounds were straight through the heart. One had bled a little; the other one, not at all.

Slocum had constructed a pretty fair scenario of what had happened before, he once again climbed the porch steps to the house.

Pete was half-lying, half-sitting on the smaller leather couch. His jacket and shirt were off, exposing his pasty-white chest, and both women were buzzing around him—and fussing over him—like bees at a bed of spring flowers.

“Get the slug out?” Slocum asked as he closed the door behind him. His shirt was still flapping and he was colder than all get out. Directly, he went to the fire and threw another log atop it.

“No need,” said Tia Juanita.

“It went through,” added Becky, busy with bandages. “We found it just inside his coat, halfway through the wool. Darnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Pete, who was sipping on what looked like a bourbon, smiled lopsidedly, and held up a slightly misshapen slug.

“Souvenir,” Pete said, then yelped when Becky tried to move him forward just a tad.

“Honestly, you big baby,” Becky scolded, although her voice was full of relief. “Hold still.”

“You mind her, Pete,” Tia Juanita said as she gathered up the pan of water and bloody rags. She carried them to the kitchen.

“You want a report, Slocum?” Pete asked, still wincing. He took another big sip of his whiskey.

Slocum slouched into a chair and put his boots up on the ottoman. “You shot LeGrande. Shot him twice.” He dug into the humidor by his chair and pulled out a cigar. “You waited awhile, then snuck up to make sure he wasn’t playin’ possum. Which he was.”

Slocum flicked a lucifer into flame and lit his cigar. “You fired point-blank, and a few seconds later, you fired point-blank again,” he continued. “I’m guessin’ that he clipped you between the first two and the last two shots. How’m I doin’?”

“Hell, I don’t know why I bothered to come back,” Pete growled as Becky stood back and surveyed her work. “Can I get somethin’ to cover me?” he asked Becky. “I feel naked as a jaybird.”

“Surely, Pete,” she replied. “I’ll fetch you a blanket.” Throwing a look backward that Slocum couldn’t read, she went down the hall.

“I take that means I’m right,” Slocum said. He got up and crossed the room, found the whiskey amid the other decanters, and poured himself a shot. “Damn, it’s cold out there!”

“Not cold enough to snow,” mused Pete absently. The whiskey was beginning to take hold. “But darn near.” He studied the bottom of his empty glass, then held it out.

Slocum rolled his eyes, but took it. After pouring out a generous refill—Pete was still white as a ghost—he handed it back.

“Thanks,” said Pete, and downed half of it.

“Go slow on that,” Slocum warned as he sat down again.

“Soon as I get my innards warmed up decent,” the foreman replied. “You put up my horse?”

“Yeah,” Slocum said just as Becky bustled back into the parlor, carrying a worn but soft-looking Navajo blanket.

She draped it gently over Pete’s shoulders and tucked it in a bit, then said, “You’re not going back out to the bunkhouse, Pete. You’re staying here, in the spare room, until you’re better.”

With a pained expression, Pete whined, “Do I gotta?”

Slocum was about to say the same thing. Pete was going to be all right, and the last thing Slocum needed—or wanted—was a big pair of ears on the other side of Becky’s bedroom wall.

They sometimes disturbed Tia Juanita, and her room was on the other end of the house!

But in a firm voice, Becky said, “You’re staying up at the house, Pete. For at least tonight.” When Pete opened his mouth to protest, she said, “I mean it. No arguments!”

Pete let out a weary sigh.

Slocum did, as well, although his was more in frustration. He guessed that put the cap on any more loving tonight. Damn it.

Tia Juanita came back in from the kitchen. Having obviously overheard the preceding conversation, she went to Pete and said, “Can you stand up?”

Pete allowed that he could, although the actuality of it was accompanied by a great deal of help from the housekeeper, and a lot of whines, whimpers, and groans on his part.

Pete made a grab for his whiskey glass at the last minute, but Tia Juanita said, “You touch that again, I will poke your shoulder on purpose. You have had enough.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pete said sheepishly. She led him from the room.

In silence, Becky poured herself a whiskey and took a long, thoughtful sip. Sighing, she looked across the room at Slocum, and locked eyes with him. She said, “We’re in a lot of trouble, aren’t we?”

Frowning around his cigar, Slocum grunted. “Looks like.”

 

The next morning, Cassidy came downstairs to find a note, left with the desk clerk, that read, “Mr. Cassidy, Please be in my office at nine o’clock sharp.” It was signed, “Tate McMahon, Esq.”

Cassidy snorted at that “esquire” bit. Who did McMahon think he was fooling, anyway. He crumpled the note in his hand, and when the desk clerk was distracted by someone asking what time the stage to Prescott would be through, he had a good look at the hotel’s mail slots.

McMahon had left a note in LeGrande’s box, too. Same kind of paper, same size.

It was apparent, then, that McMahon didn’t know that last night, LeGrande had left the hotel and scooted out of town. If he did, he’d also know that LeGrande was never coming back to Indian Springs; at least, not in the condition in which he’d left it.

Cassidy located the wastebasket and tossed his crumpled note into it, then walked out the front doors. He went down the street to the Hummingbird Café—which he guessed McMahon didn’t own, since his name wasn’t plastered all over it—and ordered himself a big plate of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and sausage.

He had an hour before he had to go up to McMahon’s and act surprised when LeGrande didn’t show up. Keeping a watchful eye on the front window and the street outside, he tucked the napkin into his collar, picked up a fork, and dug into his breakfast.

 

“What are we going to do with him?” Becky asked.

Despite Slocum’s warnings, she had insisted on walking down to the barn to view the body. They stood outside the stall where Dave knelt beside the body.

“Bury him, I reckon,” Slocum said.

“Not beside Jack, you won’t,” she said firmly.

This startled Slocum a little, although he realized that it shouldn’t. Still, why was he taking everything so personally when it had to do with Becky Jamison and her late husband?

By the time Becky looked over at him, his face was stone and he said, “We can take him out on the range, then.”

“Fine,” Becky said. “And don’t mark it,” she added before she turned on her heel.

Slocum said to Dave, “You heard the lady,” then went to join her.

As they walked up to the house she snapped, “Honestly, Slocum!”

“What?”

“How could you think of planting a man like that killer next to Jack? For all I know, LeGrande killed my husband!”

Slocum reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her to a halt. “We’ll bury him wherever you say, Becky,” he said. “But LeGrande wasn’t the killer.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I checked his rifle and his cartridge belt. All plain casings. The man we’re lookin’ for—”

“Marks his with a puma,” she said, cutting him off. “I know. You told me. But how do you know for sure that it wasn’t just some sort of a lark with LeGrande? What if he did it then, but now he doesn’t?”

He scratched the back of his head. He hadn’t thought of that. On further consideration, though, he said, “Don’t seem likely, Becky.”

“I still don’t want him buried anywhere near my house,” she insisted, and began to walk again.

Slocum stayed where he stood, watching as she stomped toward the house and up the porch steps. When Becky got like this, well, he knew to just stand back and let her thrash. She’d calm down all by herself, and in her own time.

He walked out to the far end of the corral, Concho dogging his steps along the other side of the fence. Patting the horse on the neck, he muttered, “At least you’re always the same.”

He looked east, in the direction of Indian Springs saying softly, “Wish I knew what was goin’ on with Cassidy.”

 

“Well?” McMahon demanded.

Cassidy, who had just walked into McMahon’s office for the second time that morning, perched lazily on the edge of the desk and said, “That big yellow of his is still gone. Figured this would happen when I found him took-off last night, the big, dumb sonofabitch.” He shook his head.

“I ought to fire your worthless ass, too!” McMahon shouted. Things weren’t going his way at all, and he had to holler at somebody. Cassidy was handy.

“You didn’t fire Teddy LeGrande,” replied Cassidy, idly picking at a thread on his knee. “I reckon he sort of fired his own self.”

“You know what I mean!” McMahon stormed. He found himself on his feet, found his hands balled up into fists. “Why didn’t you let me know what was going on? You’re supposed to be working for me!”

Cassidy, apparently unimpressed, shrugged. “It was late. Didn’t want to bother you. Besides, what were you gonna do? Send out the goddamn cavalry or somethin’?”

McMahon went to the window and stood there a moment, simmering. However maddening he might be, Cassidy was right. What could he have done in the dark of night? Besides, Cassidy might not have considered all the possibilities. Why, LeGrande might have been scared off by all the Slocum stories and just plain run out on them! Yes, that was more probable.

Suddenly, McMahon wheeled toward Cassidy.

“He’s tucked his tail,” he announced to Cassidy, who just cocked a brow.

Cassidy pursed his lips and nodded. “Maybe so,” came the reply. “Mayhap he lit out. Didn’t consider that.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t,” McMahon said curtly, and went back behind his desk. He signaled to Cassidy to get the hell off his desk—which he did, albeit slowly—then slid out a piece of stationery.

He should have done this in the first place, he thought as he scribbled out the message. He blotted the ink, then folded the paper. He handed it to Cassidy.

“Take that to the telegraph office,” he said.

Cassidy didn’t accept the paper, though. He just stood there, frowning. “What? I’m your errand boy, now? Seems to me you hired me for a whole different kind of job.”

“I did,” snapped McMahon. “But if you don’t want to be fired, you’ll go send that wire. It’s my suspicion that Slocum’s reputation is what caused our Mr. LeGrande to leave in the middle of the night. Perhaps it’s true. Perhaps only half of it’s true. But I want two men on my side.”

He looked Cassidy up and down. “Perhaps just one and a half,” he said, sniffing.

Cassidy, expressionless, snatched the paper from his hand, then nodded.

“Anything you say, boss,” he said.

 

Cassidy walked until he knew he was out of McMahon’s sight, then stepped into the mouth of an alley.

“A man and a half my aunt Betty, you shiny, slicked-up sonofabitch,” he muttered as he unfolded the paper. He held it at arm’s length and squinted.

The proposed wire was addressed to somebody named Jeb Crowfoot in San Francisco, and the message included a “Please Forward.” The rest of the message was filled up with telling Crowfoot that McMahon had a job for him—and telling the telegrapher to put the wire on McMahon’s bill.

“Hell!” Cassidy muttered, in the throes of a new surge of disgust. “He’s payin’ this Crowfoot a thousand!”

His first inclination was to simply crumple the paper and forget he’d ever seen it. But then, maybe this Crowfoot would prove interesting. He’d sure buy them some time, having to come from San Francisco and all.

Carefully, Cassidy refolded the paper and stuck it into his breast pocket.

He’d send McMahon’s damned telegram, he thought, stepping back up on the boardwalk.

And then he’d take himself a little ride out west of town to see old Slocum.