28
They reconvened in the den. Hammett, his foot still smarting from the wrenched bandage, sat this time at the desk. The others stood. Charmian had sent the disapproving Eliza Shepard to town on an overnight errand.
“I still think we should abandon our course,” Charmian said, “but Mr. Siringo has agreed to abide by your decision, Becky. The ranch is yours too. I was wrong to consider letting it go to Clanahan without asking you.”
“Thank you. I—”
“Hang on,” Siringo said. “This is about more than just real estate, or selling illegal goods. Kennedy means to control this country, and he ain’t above hiring murderers to get what he wants. If we don’t stop him here, history won’t thank us.”
“History’s hooey.”
“That’s mighty enlightening, Mr. Hammett,” Siringo said, “but maybe you’d care to go on for those of us who missed a class or two.”
“What I’m saying is let’s not pump the job up so big we can’t see around it. Kennedy’s just a politician, same as Clanahan, and when you get down to it Mike Feeney, may he rest in peace. How many hands he’s got doesn’t count. You take out the head and the hands go with it.”
“Are you suggesting assassination?” Becky’s voice was almost inaudible.
Hammett shook his head.
“Mr. Siringo and I had our fill of that when we were with Pinkerton. It’s why we left. I say we go to Kennedy and tell him the jig’s up.” He looked at Siringo. “You said yourself he isn’t much for bluffing. He’ll back off when he sees his plans are known. If he doesn’t, we’ll threaten to send his notebook to a Republican paper.”
“We can’t go to Frisco and leave this place wide open.”
“We did before.”
“Then we didn’t have something Kennedy wants back. It won’t take him long to match Charlie O’Casey to Charles A. Siringo.”
“We’ll manage,” Charmian said. “We have the laborers.”
“Oh, they can swing a sledge and snag a man’s hat on a pitchfork, but they need to get in range first. Mr. Edgar Edison Lanyard’ll pick ’em off with his long gun before they do.”
“We’ll send a wire,” Hammett said.
“He’ll never get it. Don’t forget we agreed Clanahan probably owns the local Western Union office and the telephone switchboard too. He won’t let anything go through to stop his payday. We’d just be telling him where he can send the eel.”
“Kennedy will figure that out when he finds out his notebook’s missing.”
“Why save him time?”
Hammett had been sitting with his injured leg stretched out before him. Now he drew it back. “It doesn’t matter one way or the other.”
“Says who?”
“Says the man who knows the sound of a two-year-old Dodge when he hears it.”
Siringo heard it then: the rataplan of pistons approaching the house. He turned and parted the window curtains.
“Could be worse,” he said.
Charmian went to the window. “It’s Vernon Dillard.”
Siringo unstrapped the Winchester and levered a cartridge into the chamber. The noise made her spin around. “What are you doing? He’s the sheriff!”
“Just a precaution, in case he forgot. You and Becky go out on the front porch and keep him busy. If he asks for us, you ain’t seen us.”
“Where will you be?”
“Attic. Better field of fire.”
Hammett took out his .38 and inspected the cylinder. “I’ll watch from the window.”
Becky said, “You won’t kill him in cold blood!”
“You’ve got me mixed up with someone else. I’ve never killed a man in my life.”
“Me neither.”
Everyone stared at Siringo.
“That I know of,” he said. “A lot of us slung plenty of lead in the old days. We couldn’t always keep track of where it all went. I ain’t fixing to find out now, but that’s up to Dullard.”
“Dillard,” Charmian said.
“Potato, po-tah-to,” said Hammett.
* * *
A trapdoor led into the attic from the pantry next to the kitchen, with a ladder leaning on the wall nearby. He slung the carbine from his shoulder by its strap and climbed up.
* * *
“Brothers, you have allowed a spy to enter your ranks, and he now sits within reach of my hand. He’ll never leave this hall alive. You know your duty.”
He felt the Colt under his coat, the bowie stuck in his belt, a cold trickle of sweat marching down his spine.
Before he could get to either weapon, the men with the miners’ union searched him as a new member, found a union account book, and noticed a leaf missing. He’d cut it out and sent it to Pinkerton headquarters.
They let go of him while they were studying the book. He got to his bowie first and cut a path through the crowd, making for the house he’d rented and fitted with locks and shutters.
After twenty minutes dodging wild rounds from the ports he’d cut in the shutters, they left men to watch the house and returned to the union hall to discuss strategy. All night long he heard their voices raised in violent argument, blows struck when words ran dry. Without being able to follow the conversation except by the fluctuating volume, he knew their decision by the harmony of the pitch near the end. As dawn broke over the raw earth of Gem, Colorado, the striking miners emerged from the building where they’d planned their revolt and surrounded the house, raw-boned men with the whites of their eyes glistening in their dirty faces, carrying picks, shovels, and dynamite …
* * *
That time he cut a hole in the floor and made his escape between the timbers of the foundation. This time he drew the ladder up behind him and lowered the trapdoor.
It was stuffy in the unfinished room under the rafters. Siringo opened the window, but not for air. He found an empty burlap sack, folded it, laid it on the floor, and knelt on it, resting the carbine’s barrel on the sill and cocking the hammer. He had a fine view of the sheriff’s big touring car, and of the sheriff himself as he drew the brake and stepped to the ground, a big muscular man gone to suet, the star shining on the vest of his dusty black suit. He took off his homburg, mopped his red ham face with a handkerchief the size of a placemat, and started toward the house. He stopped when a screen door strained open at the end of its rusty spring and shut with a bang. The porch roof obstructed Siringo’s view, but he recognized Charmian’s voice.
“Good morning, Sheriff. Is this a social call?”
“’Morning, Miz London. How do, Becky. I’m afraid it’s law business. I need to speak to your guests.”
“Guests?”
“The hotel in town’s part of my rounds. Fred, the clerk, told me two strangers checked in last night and out again this morning. The names they registered under didn’t fit their description. I’d like a word with Siringo and Hammett.”
Becky’s voice answered. “What makes you think they’d be welcome here? The last time they brought a killer with them.”
He scratched his burry head.
“Killer’s harsh. The fellow was trying to throw a scare in someone, and he sure enough did. I got the location of that stolen horse out of young Butterfield before I got back to town. I figure the shooter’s in line for a good citizenship medal.”
“Even if he were, how would you find him?”
He showed his teeth in Charmian’s direction: one grown-up to another.
“They left their bags behind. I searched ’em and found a couple of jars of contraband liquor, but I ain’t here to make a federal case. It’s enough to hold ’em till I get some answers.”
“Be that as it may,” Charmian said, “they’re not here.”
Dillard scowled down at his hat, appeared to notice for the first time that it wasn’t on his head, and put it on. It seemed to contain most of his authority, as his voice got louder and deeper.
“I see it’s time to put my cards on the table. Somebody swore out a complaint against ’em for theft, which I reckon is why they faked their names this trip. Where are they if they ain’t here, I’d like to know.”
“You’re the lawman,” Becky said. “I’m sure you can figure it out. Perhaps not, on second thought. I forgot who I was talking to.”
His face darkened a shade.
“There’s no call to talk to me like that, little missy.”
“You left two women here without official protection after someone fired a shot through our window. What is the call if not that, I’d like to know.”
“You don’t have any objection to me going in and looking around, I guess.” He took a step toward the porch.
Charmian said, “You guess wrong, unless you’ve come with a warrant.”
He stopped.
“I was sheriff when your husband was still digging up other folks’ oyster beds. I never had to get a warrant to go in anyplace in this county.”
“Never’s a long time. You’re not coming in and that’s that.”
“Who’s to stop me?” He strode forward.
Siringo drew a bead and squeezed the Winchester’s trigger. Dirt sprayed the sheriff’s pants cuffs from the slug he’d placed at his feet. The echo of the report growled over the rolling hills of the Valley of the Moon.