Jurisdiction Page 12

  Huey Sweeney took a step forward as Billy Odle led the horse out and down the narrow, snow-covered path toward the trail. “Not so fast, Sweeney,” said Willie John, causing the half-drunken outlaw to stop mid-step, “I need an hour . . . let the kid get out of here a safe distance.”

  “I never known of you giving a damn about anybody but yourself, Injun.” Huey Sweeney gave him a sly grin.

  “You want the money, don’t you?” said Willie John.

  “What do you think?” said Sweeney, grinning, his hand poised near his pistol.

  “And you know there’s no amount of torture going to make me tell you unless I’m ready?” Sweat ran down Willie John’s forehead. Sweeney took note of his condition and let his hand relax.

  “Yeah,” said Sweeney, “I reckon I can wait a little while. It ain’t like I’ve got plans to be somewhere.” He stepped close with caution, reached down and picked up the bottle of whiskey. He raised it, took a drink and offered it out to Willie John. “Might as well finish this off with me. We’ve had many a drink together, eh, pal?”

  “That’s a fact.” Willie took the bottle with trembling hands, holding it carefully. He sipped from it and tried handing it back up to Sweeney. But his strength gave out and he let the bottle slump until Sweeney stooped down and caught it before it fell. “Look at me,” said Willie John, “I’ve never been in such a sorry shape in my life.”

  “And to think I let you bluff me a while ago,” Sweeney grinned, sitting down near the fire and tipping the bottle toward Willie John in salute. “I got to hand it to you, Injun . . . you’ve never been short on guts.” He sipped the whiskey, then lowered the bottle and said, “Hell, you should just as well go on and tell me now where that money is, don’t you think? That kid won’t hear nothing, not this far back in the hillside.”

  “A few more minutes,” said Willie John.

  Sweeney shrugged. “At least tell me how much we’re talking about. I heard ten thousand . . . is that close?”

  “It’s close enough,” said Willie John. “It’s enough to throw one wild winter in Old Mex. A man can’t ask for more than that can he?”

  “He might ask,” Sweeney grinned, “but he wouldn’t get it.” They sat in silence for a few moments longer, then Sweeney said, “I ain’t carrying a watch; reckon it’s long enough?”

  “Why don’t you take it easy, Sweeney,” said Willie. “You’re holding the only winning cards in this deck. You know I would never have sent him out of here if I thought I was coming out of this alive. The shape I’m in, I couldn’t outrun a posse even if you didn’t kill me. You’ve got my word.”

  “Yeah, I already thought about all that,” said Sweeney, seeming satisfied with himself. “I have to admit, Injun, your hide’s pretty much nailed to the wall this time. What I don’t get, though, is all this concern you have over that snot-nosed kid. It just ain’t like you.”

  “I don’t know,” said Willie. “Call it a case of conscience here at the end, I suppose.” His words trembled a bit as a fevered shiver ran the length of him. He drew the blanket up tight under his chin with both hands and gritted his teeth before going on.

  “A conscience?” Sweeney chuckled and sipped the whiskey, shaking his head. “Injun, who’ll ever believe that?”

  “Laugh if you want to, Sweeney,” said Willie John in a weakening voice, “but I’ve become a changed man . . . seeing that boy, and the faith he had in me. Nobody ever looked up to me that way.” There was a tearful sound to his voice. “It makes me wish I could go back now and live my whole sorry life over—maybe do something decent, instead of being the rotten bastard I’ve always been.”

  “Stop it, Willie John,” said Sweeney, looking away as he held the bottle over to him. “Here, take a drink. We need to get this thing done with.”

  “See, Sweeney, you know it’s true. We’ve both been a foul piece of work our whole miserable lives. What kind of men ride together, then turn on one another this way? You . . . getting all set to kill me for money. Look at me, Sweeney. Tell me what low devils we are.”

  “Shut up, Injun, I mean it,” said Sweeney. He refused to face Willie John. “Don’t give me no deathbed sermon. Maybe you’re stricken by some kind of conscience here when you’re dying, but not me. I’m still well and kicking. I’ll take that money, cross that border and before you know it I’ll be—”

  The muffled sound of the pistol shot through the thick folds of the blanket clapped like low thunder in the confined area. A long streak of fire flared then fell, causing the horses to tense up for a second and flatten their ears back. The mule began a long steady bray as Huey Sweeney fell backward on the dirt and rolled away from the fire, his pistol spilling from his holster where he had placed it loose and ready. Blood spewed high from the middle of his chest until he managed to clasp both hands to it and cursed in a hoarse whisper, “You dirty, sneakin’, lousy . . .” His words trailed away behind clenched teeth. Then he sobbed in rage, “I believed . . . you. An Injun’s word . . . is supposed to mean something!”

  “I’ve told you people time and again.” Willie John flipped the blanket off himself and struggled up to his feet, Billy Odle’s gun hanging limp in his hand. He clasped his free hand to his shoulder wound and rocked back and forth on his feet. “I ain’t that kind of Indian.” He struggled forward. Taking both thumbs to cock the pistol again, he aimed it down at Sweeney.

  “The boy?” Sweeney rasped. “The . . . money? What you said . . . about conscience? All lies?”

  “You tell me,” said Willie John, slinging the smoking blanket around the barrel of the pistol. “You know so much.” The pistol bucked in his hand, a lick of flame exploding through the blanket.

  Willie John limped over to the frightened animals and settled the braying mule. The horses turned quiet but remained tense and restless, stepping back and forth in place as Willie clung to one by its mane, holding on for a moment to regain his strength. He shook the blanket until the smoke dissipated from it, then he threw it up over the horse’s back. Too weak to even try to toss a saddle, he pulled the horse and the mule to one side, slipped the reins to the other animals free and shooed them from the cave. The mule honked and bucked in place, the motion of it causing pain in Willie John’s shoulder. “Easy, mule,” he said, “or I’ll dress you out right here.”

  Limping, he led the two animals toward the entrance, stopping long enough to pick up Sweeney’s big great coat from the ground and toss it over the horse’s blanketed back. “Conscience?” he murmured, looking down. “Conscience?” he repeated, louder this time even though the effort sent pain throughout his chest and shoulders. For reasons he did not understand, hot rage boiled inside him. Gathering all of his strength, he drew back a boot and kicked Sweeney’s dead face. “There’s conscience for you . . . you stupid sonuvabitch!”

  Chapter 11

  Tinnie Malone crossed the street early, before any of the townsmen had gathered to clear the snow away. The snow was still falling straight down, slow and steady. Sam Burrack stood at the window of the hotel and watched her approach. He smiled to himself, seeing Tinnie curse under her breath. In her agitation at the weather, she slung her striped wool muffler up around her throat and hunched her shoulders inside the heavy man’s overcoat she wore. Her hands stayed inside the coat’s folds, keeping her hem hiked high and dry, almost to her knees.

  Sam met her as she stepped inside the hotel door and stomped her feet on the braided entrance rug. Behind the desk, the clerk lowered his spectacles on his nose and shot her a look of disdain. She returned his look, saying in a gruff tone of voice, “What do you expect me to do, stand outside?”

  “Indeed,” the clerk murmured, picking up a mop from behind the counter and heading over to the door with it.

  Tinnie shook snow from the heavy coat and stepped off the rug, joining Sam. “How is she?” Tinnie asked.

  “Sleeping, finally,” said Sam. At a round oak serving table, he picked up an empty white china cup, handed it to Tinnie and sa
w her smile gratefully as he lifted a silver pot and poured coffee for her. “She was up off and on until almost dawn, cussing one minute and praying the next . . . shivering, getting sick all over the place, then trying to get past me to leave.” He shook his head and set the pot back down on the table. “I swear it was worse than trying to contain a she-panther.”

  Tinnie sipped her coffee, studying the Ranger’s face closely, taking note of the fierce jagged scar that ran the length of his right jawline. “Tell me something, Ranger,” she said. “Are you this kind to everybody you meet?” As she spoke, she gestured a nod up toward the rooms at the top of the stairs where Hattie Odle lay sleeping.

  “No,” said Sam, his fingertips idly brushing past the scar on his face, aware of it now that he’d seen her notice it. “Ordinarily I pistol-whip a person as soon as I meet them; it gets us off on the right foot.”

  She smiled at his dark joke. “You know what I mean, Ranger. There’s not many people who’d waste their time on somebody like Hattie Odle.”

  Sam sipped his coffee, then lowered the cup. “I hope I never think that helping somebody is a waste of my time.” He looked her up and down, then added, “I notice you seem to have time yourself.”

  Without responding, Tinnie sipped her coffee again and then put the cup down on the serving tray. “Come on, let’s take this upstairs. She’ll be better today than she was yesterday. She’s getting it out of her system.”

  “I hope so,” said Sam. “I need to get on the trail, see if I can find her boy—and Willie John.”

  “In this weather?” said Tinnie. “From the looks of the sky we’ve got lots of snow to come, maybe a squall before it’s over.”

  “All the more reason I need to get out there and back,” said Sam, his voice laced with urgency.

  They had started up the stairs, but Tinnie stopped with the serving tray in her hands and looked him up and down. “Excuse me for getting personal, but do you have a woman somewhere, Ranger? A wife, a fiancée?”

  Sam blushed. “No, ma’am, I’m unattached. This work hasn’t allowed me much time for myself since I started.” He stepped forward up the stairs, Tinnie beside him, smiling to himself at the way he’d described himself as unattached.

  “I see,” said Tinnie. “How long have you been doing this work?”

  Sam seemed to consider it for a second, then he said, “A little over a year, ma’am.”

  They stopped at the top of the stairs. “Do me a favor, Ranger, call me ‘Tinnie’ . . . I don’t feel like a ‘ma’am.” ’

  Sam nodded. “All right, Tinnie, and you call me Sam, if you please.”

  “Fine,” said Tinnie. “How did you come to be a Ranger, Sam?”

  “It’s not worth talking about, Tinnie,” said Sam. “I started doing this work because it needs to be done. That’s as well as I can explain it.” He quickly changed the subject. “Do you think Dahl will give Hattie Odle any trouble once I’m out of town?”

  “Who knows? Asa Dahl is a snake. He’ll do whatever suits him, so long as it lines his pockets some way.”

  “Then why do you work for him?” Sam asked.

  She stopped outside the door to Hattie Odle’s room and considered it. “That’s a good question, Ranger. I wish I knew the answer. Remember what I said about whores and lawmen? About us being a lot alike?”

  “Yeah, I remember you saying it,” Sam replied, “but I never said I agreed with it.”

  She smiled. “Well, whether you agree with that or not, it’s a fact that women in my line of work do some peculiar things. Working for men like Asa Dahl is one of them.”

  Sam opened the door for her and stepped aside as she walked in carrying the coffee tray.

  Looking around the corner of the bank building down on the snow-covered street, Hopper Ganston looked back and forth in each direction for a second. Then he ducked back out of sight and turned to his brother Earl, his breath swirling like steam out of his mouth. “They’re gathering with shovels at the far end of town. We won’t get a better chance at this than we’ve got right now.”

  “There’s no horse at any hitch rails?” asked Earl, checking the pistol in his gloved hand.

  “Not a one,” said Hopper. “It’s like what we just saw at the livery barn. Everybody stabled their mounts before the snow got heavy.”

  The first thing they had done upon entering the town was to slip into the livery barn and look all around in the looming darkness. “That felt strange,” said Earl, “seeing all them horses just standing around barebacked, the whole town unprepared.”

  Hopper said, “It felt even stranger seeing Willie John’s big dapple-gray there among them, Willie’s saddle and tack laying over that rail—like ole Willie had just left and was coming right back for it.”

  “Seeing that horse there told me one thing,” said Earl. “Willie’s gone on to his happy hunting ground.” He spread a wicked grin. “Too bad we never found out where he kept his money stashed.”

  “Yeah, too bad,” said Hopper, leaning forward and checking along the street once again. “One thing’s for certain, this whole town is unsaddled and unbridled. It’s like an answer to a robber’s prayer.”

  “What about that line of hoofprints we came upon earlier?” asked Earl.

  “What about them?” Hopper responded, still looking back and forth along the street, seeing the townsmen begin to shovel snow from the front of businesses and into piles along the boardwalks.

  “Think it might be that posse?”

  “So what if it is, brother?” Hopper raised his pistol and began checking its loads as well. “It was over an hour ago when we saw them. They’re long gone up into the hills. Forget about them . . . we’ve got to get ourselves some pocket money.”

  “I’m ready when you are,” said Earl.

  “Good,” said Hopper. “Get back there with the horses. Be ready when I come busting out through the back door.” He reached over and picked up the shovel they had found in the livery barn.

  “I’ll be ready,” said Earl. “Just get to it.” He stepped back, away from his brother and toward the rear of the bank building where their horses stood hitched to the side of a woodshed.

  Once Earl was out of sight, Hopper Ganston stepped boldly out onto the boardwalk, shovel in hand, and walked over to the front door of the bank. He took the door handle in his gloved hand and shook the door, looking in past the CLOSED sign hanging down on a thin bead chain. “Open up here,” Hopper said, standing close to the door. He could see the two men inside, a portly old man with a bald head, and a younger man wearing a green clerk’s visor and a pair of sleeve garters on his boiled white shirt.

  The young man stepped quickly over to the door as if he feared it might be shaken from its hinges. “We’re not open yet . . . come back in twenty minutes—”

  “I know you’re not open yet,” said Hopper, cutting him off. “If you want this snow piled away from out front, you better let me in and talk about it.”

  The young man turned and relayed the message across the room to the older man who stood with a canvas bag hanging in his right hand. The older man replied, but through the glass door, Hopper Ganston could not make out his words. Then the younger man turned back to Hopper, saying, “Mr. Vittitow says wait just a second. He’s got to put the bag away.”

  “Mr. Vittitow better hurry up,” said Hopper, feeling better about this by the second. “It’s cold out here. I’ve got other things that need doing.” Staring through the glass, Hopper watched Vittitow, the bank owner, step into a back room.

  “Oh, all right,” said the young man, sounding put out. “Hold your horses. I’ll let you stand right inside here.” He reached up and slipped the safety bolt, then turned the key in the door and swung the door open. “I’m not really supposed to be doing this . . .”

  “It’s neighborly of you,” said Hopper, stepping in while glancing back over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching. He turned back to the young man and looked past him, saying with a shocke
d look in his eyes, “My God! What’s that?”

  “Huh?” The young man swung in the direction of Hopper’s pointing finger. The last sound he heard was the loud twang on the shovel smacking him in the back of his head. He crumbled forward onto the floor. Hopper slipped the safety bolt on the door and hurried across the floor, dropping the shovel on his way.

  “Timothy?” Darton Vittitow called out, hearing the noise. “What’s going on out there?” He started forward, stepping away from the open vault door, the bag still in his hand. But before he could get through the doorway into the next room, Hopper Ganston met him with cocked pistol.

  “I’ll take that!” Hopper snatched the canvas bank bag from Vittitow’s hand as he poked the gun barrel into his soft belly and shoved him back against the open door of the vault. “What else have you got for me while I’m here?”

  Sam and Tinnie left Hattie Odle’s room. Once they had descended the stairs, Sam asked in a quiet voice, “Do you think she means it, what she said about quitting the business?”

  Tinnie turned toward him, a serious look in her eyes. “I hope so, Sam, for her and the boy’s sake. Hattie should have never took up this profession. She wasn’t meant for it.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve said something like that. It sounds like you think some women are born to—”

  “No,” she said, stopping him, “that’s not what I mean. I don’t think anybody was born to be any one thing or another.” She tossed her wool muffler in place around her neck and drew the coat around her, then moved toward the door, motioning Sam along with her. Sam stepped ahead and opened the door for her as she continued, “I think it’s a matter of what road life leads you on and what turns and side roads you take along the way. But there are some women who are more suitable to this sporting life than others. Hattie had already settled into having a husband and a child. This was never something she would have imagined for herself.” Outside on the boardwalk, she slipped her arm into Sam’s and asked, “Walk me to the saloon?”