Way of the Gun Page 3

  ‘Four years ago!’ Cahill yelled at him. ‘Why the hell didn’t you say so? Has he been in here lately? The last couple of weeks?’

  The bartender shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no. Nothing like that. Not recently.’

  ‘You goddam lamebrain!’ Cahill growled. He holstered his weapon. ‘Come on, boys. We’re done here.’

  A few minutes later Cahill was at a local telegraph office sending Provost yet another wire with bad news. After that he joined the others at a small hotel where they had taken two rooms. He and Ross shared a room with two beds. They had just taken their guns off to relax before returning to the dining room for an evening meal, when a knock came at the door and it was the desk clerk.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir. You have a wire from a Maynard Provost.’

  When the fellow left, Cahill opened the telegram and read it to Ross.

  ‘Got your wire. Stop. We need a palaver. Stop. Will be there in two days. Stop. Do not leave hotel. Stop. Maynard.’

  ‘Oh, hell,’ Corey Ross grumbled. ‘Provost coming here?’

  Cahill gave him a look. ‘It’s his daughter, Ross.’

  ‘Well. At least if all the ideas are his he can’t blame us when they fail.’

  ‘I think he’ll head through northern Wyoming into Montana,’ Cahill conjectured. ‘He knows that Latham spent a lot of time around Billings before he came to the ranch. We might just find her up that way.’

  ‘He may drive us all the way to California,’ Ross said heavily.

  Cahill went over and stood close to Ross. ‘If you think this is unpleasant, think of what that girl might be going through, damn it!’ Cahill said loudly to him.

  Ross looked sheepish. ‘You’re right. Don’t pay me no mind.’

  Cahill shook his head. ‘You got clabber for brains, Ross. Shape up or I’ll fire you myself. Now go get the boys and we’ll go find that dining room.’

  It was later that same evening when Duke Latham, his two men and Dulcie made hardship camp alongside a small stream in southern Kansas. They had purposely avoided riding through any town on the way south, since Latham wanted no contact with the rest of the world until they arrived in the Indian Territory.

  They all dismounted under the shade of low cottonwood trees, and Latham, as usual, untied Dulcie from her saddle and helped her to the ground. She rubbed her wrists and glowered at Latham. ‘I’m tired. When is this going to be over? Where are you taking me?’ He had only spoken a few words to her on the entire trip.

  ‘You’re going where your daddy would never think to look,’ Latham grinned at her. ‘Weeks, get the horses watered and fed. Ira, maybe you can find some dry firewood nearby. Dulcie, as usual, you get the pans out and the food. You’ll be fixing us some rabbit and beans. This ain’t your daddy’s ranch now, where you had a cook and a housekeeper. This is the real world, sweetheart. It’s your world now. You might as well start getting used to it.’

  ‘Do you know how much trouble you’re causing yourself?’ she asked him.

  Latham laughed, and Weeks joined in over by the horses.

  ‘The only one that could be in trouble is you, Provost offspring,’ Latham explained harshly to her. His aquiline face was tired-looking now. This whole thing had been very emotional to him. ‘You’re mine now. You belong to me, just like as if I’d bought myself a new, fancy pair of brocaded boots, or a new mount.’

  Weeks giggled as he came back from the gurgling stream: ‘Just like a new horse!’

  Ira Sloan dropped a small load of firewood on to the ground near Dulcie, sober-faced. He didn’t like having a teenage girl to babysit. She was giving them trouble at every turn, and she was good to look at, young or not. She was all curves under the tight riding pants and shirt, and Weeks was already sneaking hungry looks at her.

  ‘I got her pans out,’ Sloan said to Latham. ‘That will save her some trouble.’

  Latham turned to him and said fiercely, ‘I don’t want you to save her trouble! If anybody saves this spoiled brat trouble, it will be me!’

  Sloan eyed him soberly. ‘Right.’

  ‘I don’t want the damn pans!’ Dulcie fairly yelled at Latham. ‘I’m through cooking and working for you low lifes! I’m not hungry. If you’re hungry, cook your own meal!’ She walked over and kicked one of the pans into the creek, and it floated away downstream.

  Latham walked over to her casually, turned her around, and slugged her in the face. Dulcie gasped when his fist hit, and then went flying to the ground. She lay there unmoving, a low moan issuing from her throat.

  Latham stood over her, eyes wild, his breath coming short. ‘You goddam mini-Provost! I should put a bullet in your head! You don’t know how good you’ve got it, girl. I could have shot you right there at Wolf Creek. That was my first notion, you know.’

  ‘She can’t hear you,’ Sloan told him gravely, shaking his head slowly.

  ‘She’s out cold!’ Weeks grinned, his scarred ear site glowing dully in the small fire Sloan had just started.

  ‘She’s coming around,’ Sloan said.

  Dulcie moaned again, and moved her head. Her eyes fluttered open. Weeks stood over her, running his eyes over her body, grinning. Dulcie saw Latham, and focused on him, her green eyes narrowed down.

  ‘You . . . hit me.’ Thickly.

  Latham grunted, cooling off now. ‘Welcome to your new world. Tie her hands and feet, Weeks. And if she gives you any back-talk, gag her.’

  Weeks got a happy look on his face. ‘It’s done.’

  Sloan gave Latham a narrow look, then went and got some food from the saddlebags, to do the cooking. Weeks spent several minutes on Dulcie, and took every advantage to brush Dulcie’s curves, with Latham distracted at the fire.

  Less than a half-hour later, when they were putting down rabbit, beans and corn dodgers, Dulcie was still bound hand and foot, on the hard ground at the edge of camp. Her mouth was bruised and bleeding, and her jaw hurt. She hadn’t thought Latham capable of that kind of physical violence, and she was still shocked, lying there. She thought how good her life was just a couple of days ago, sitting and having coffee with her father on that lovely morning. Now that could be gone forever, she realized, no matter how much optimism she tried to maintain. She had no idea where she was, and she suspected Maynard Provost wouldn’t, either. She fell into a deep depression, lying there on the hard ground and feeling the hurt in her face that Latham had put there. One thing was clear in her head. If Latham began raping her, she would find a way to kill herself. It was the lesser of two evils.

  The three men were gathered around a low fire now, and rabbit meat was slowly burning on a spit. A tin of beans sat right in the fire. Duke Latham looked different from the way he had in Nebraska. His dark hair hung into his eyes, and his lean face showed new lines of fatigue. He didn’t seem as relaxed as he had been earlier, not so much in control. He was obviously still working out what he wanted to do with Dulcie. In some corner of his mind she was a surrogate for Provost’s deserved punishment. But she also had value to him. The difficulty was in assessing how much. He had always considered her a very attractive girl, even when she was fourteen.

  After a short time they were all eating, but the food didn’t taste good to Latham. Weeks was wolfing his meal down as if it were his last. Ira Sloan, looking broad-coupled and blocky sitting there on his saddle, hadn’t spoken a word since they sat down. Now he looked over at Latham sombrely.

  ‘You haven’t talked much about exactly where we’re headed, Duke. I for one would like to have a better idea of where this trail is taking us.’

  ‘Who cares?’ Weeks grinned past his heavy mastication. ‘I’m having a great time!’

  Sloan gave him an acidic look.

  Latham set his tin plate down beside him, with food left on it. ‘I didn’t want to go into details until I was sure in my head what was best for us.’ He swigged a cup of coffee. ‘About a year ago I spoke with a drifter in an Ogallala saloon. He had spent most of his life in the Territory.
Some of it running from the law.’

  He looked out into the night. Over on the ground not far away, Dulcie saw him glance towards her before he continued. Off in the dark somewhere, a coyote wailed into the blackness.

  ‘This fellow passed on through town and I never saw him again. But in that talk we had, he told me about a little town in central Oklahoma not far from a couple of Indian reservations. Name of Pawnee Junction. Just a few dozen houses, a store and a saloon. Outside of town a half-mile is an old house that’s been sitting empty for over a decade. He thought a man could hide out there till hell freezes over and nobody would ever find him.’

  ‘It sounds perfect,’ Weeks opined. He looked small, sitting close to Sloan.

  ‘What if that house is occupied?’ Sloan suggested. ‘You talked to that drifter a year ago.’

  ‘Who cares?’ Weeks said blithely.

  ‘Then we’ll have to do an eviction,’ Latham commented darkly. ‘We’ll make that our permanent headquarters. There must be plenty of banks and stage depots within a hundred miles. I hear it’s like a candy store down there.’

  ‘Did you say permanent?’ Sloan said.

  Latham looked over at him. ‘You said you wanted to make some money. You can’t carry water on both shoulders.’

  ‘We never stayed anywhere permanent,’ Sloan argued. ‘Eventually the candy will run out.’

  ‘Duke will have his own private supply of candy,’ Weeks grinned, jerking a thumb at Dulcie.

  Latham cast a hard look at him. ‘Just remember whose candy she is,’ he said ominously.

  The grin on Weeks’ face evaporated. ‘Sure, Duke.’

  Listening distractedly to the conversation, Dulcie moaned softly, over by herself.

  ‘That won’t fill our bellies when the food runs out,’ Sloan grumbled.

  Latham caught his eye. ‘When I said permanent, I didn’t necessarily mean Pawnee Junction. We could move a hundred miles south and start all over again. The whole Territory is full of possibilities.’

  ‘What if we get tired of the Territory?’ Sloan persisted.

  Latham gave him an irritated look.

  From Sloan again: ‘I don’t mean to throw mud on nobody’s plans. But I didn’t like the girl from the first. She can only be trouble, and make trouble. I say take your pleasure with her and then end it.’

  ‘End it?’ Latham asked.

  ‘That’s right. She is Provost’s daughter, ain’t she? She is the enemy?’

  Dulcie had heard the exchange. ‘Don’t kill me!’ she mumbled.

  Latham looked over at her. ‘Finishing it for her isn’t in my head right now. Maybe it will be, I don’t know. But for now I don’t want to hear any more about it.’

  Sloan shrugged. ‘She’s your property.’

  ‘Yes. And don’t either of you forget it.’

  Sloan sighed inwardly. ‘I’ll untie her and give her some beans.’

  Latham shook his head. ‘No, you won’t. She said she wasn’t hungry. She won’t eat till we get to Pawnee Junction.’

  Over on the ground, Dulcie frowned at him.

  So did Sloan. ‘That could be two days,’ he said slowly. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Latham replied, staring into the fire fiercely.

  Sloan studied his dark countenance. ‘Right,’ he said, without inflection.

  ‘Right, starve her!’ Weeks grinned laconically from across the crackling fire.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Maynard Provost sat quietly staring into a beer mug. He was in the Last Chance Saloon in Billings. Montana, and it was a busy Saturday afternoon. Drinkers stood along the bar and sat nursing tall bottles at tables around the room. At Provost’s table, sharing a pitcher of beer with him, were Jake Cahill and Corey Ross, looking glum. At a nearby table sat the other two ranch hands who had been helping search for Dulcie. The small group had made inquiries through Wyoming and eastern Montana before arriving in Billings, and had failed to develop any information about Latham anywhere. Provost had thought that if he led the mission they might have better luck.

  That hadn’t happened.

  Provost ran a hand through his silver hair, and looked over at Cahill. ‘Well. This is it. I don’t know what to do next. He might have gone southwest. He could be in California.’ He let a long sigh out. ‘I may never see my daughter again, Jake. The hard truth is, that bastard might keep her from me for ever.’

  ‘If that sonofabitch don’t go to hell,’ Corey Ross grated out, ‘there ain’t no use having one.’

  ‘There’s another couple of places we can check here in town,’ Cahill reminded him. ‘I don’t know what to do after that.’

  Provost slammed his fist down onto the table, making his men at the next table look up in alarm. ‘Goddam it! It’s so damn frustrating! I’ve always been her protector, Jake. Ever since she could crawl. And especially after she lost her mother. She expects me to make things right for her if she gets into trouble. Wherever she is, she’s expecting me to ride in and rescue her. And here I am. Feeling completely impotent to help her. To wrest her from that evil man’s grasp.’

  Cahill sighed. ‘Well. If she’s not out here in Latham’s old stomping ground, she’s out there somewhere, Maynard. I’ll keep at this as long as you want to.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Ross added.

  Provost gave him a narrow look. He still hadn’t forgiven him for giving Dulcie over to Latham, as illogical as that was. He turned back to Cahill. ‘I appreciate that. But we could wander the country and come up with nothing, without some sliver of evidence to guide us. I hate to say it, but I think we have to return home. Regroup there. Double-check for any hints locally. I’m drained, Jake.’

  Silence fell over the table, amid the clamour around them. A piano started up in a rear corner, and all the gaiety sounded bizarre to Provost’s ears. He sat there thinking of all the good times he and Dulcie had shared over the years, and a tear welled up into his eye. Dulcie was his life.

  ‘Maybe it is better,’ Cahill agreed, ‘to return to the ranch. Hell, Latham might even have tried to get in touch with us. Maybe he changed his mind, and would give her back for a ransom.’

  But Provost shook his head. ‘No, that pond scum didn’t do this for money. He wants to hurt me as much as he can. The longer he keeps my daughter, the more he gets back at me. He’ll do this for as long as he’s able.’ His voice was sombre.

  Just at that moment the slatted doors up front swung open, and Wesley Sumner pushed through them.

  Nobody paid any attention to his entrance. The loud laughing and joking continued unabated, and the piano music was lively. Sumner, dressed all in black clothing, Peacemaker hanging ominously on his hip, stopped just inside the entrance and let his eyes sweep the room, examining each table and each drinker at the long bar. Only then did he walk over to the bar and order a double whiskey.

  Over at Provost’s table, Provost was telling Cahill that they would take rooms at a nearby hotel for the night, and leave for Nebraska early the following morning.

  ‘The looking is over for now,’ he was saying. ‘I want to get back just as fast as our mounts will carry us.’

  He went on about duties at the ranch, while Sumner, over at the bar, relaxed with his Red Top Rye. When the bartender came past again, he stopped him. ‘Has a man named Jenkins been in here in the past few days?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ the other man replied. ‘Is he a friend?’

  Sumner swigged some whiskey. ‘He’s wanted by the law.’

  The bartender’s face sobered. ‘Oh. You’re one of them.’ And he walked away.

  Provost had taken no notice of Sumner. Drinkers laughed across the room, and the music played, and up front three more men entered the saloon. They were rough-looking characters, greasy drifters, and they bore a family resemblance. They wore soiled trousers and shirts, with various colours of vests over them. They came swaggering in arrogantly, and bellied up to the bar a short distance from Sumner, with nobody in betwe
en him and them. They all ordered ale, and then the bartender stopped across from Sumner again.

  ‘Say, I know who you are. Looking for Jenkins. I heard you was in this area. You’re Certainty Sumner, ain’t you?’

  ‘Go wash some glasses,’ Sumner grunted at him.

  But down the bar, the nearest drifter turned to stare at Sumner. He then leaned in to speak in low tones to the other two men drinking with him. Finally, he called down to Sumner.

  ‘So we finally found you!’ in a satisfied voice.

  Several others at the bar turned to listen, and the saloon went quiet suddenly. Over at the Provost tables, all five men took notice of the new action. Sumner glanced down the bar.

  ‘You are Sumner, ain’t you?’ the drifter persisted.

  Sumner downed a swig of his whiskey. ‘You writing a book or something?’

  ‘I’m Jethro Walcott. You murdered my brother Jed almost a year ago. These boys is his other brothers.’

  Now a complete silence had fallen over the saloon. At Provost’s table, he and Cahill exchanged a look. Ross and the other two Provost men were caught up in the exchange at the bar, too.

  ‘Your brother was a cold-blooded killer,’ Sumner replied quietly. ‘Now why don’t you let it go?’ He ordered another shot of rye.

  ‘We been hoping to run onto you, back-shooter,’ Jethro went on. He was the tallest of the three, and more dangerous-looking. All three were armed with sidearms, and seemed very confident with them. ‘I reckon this is our lucky day.’

  Sumner turned back to his drink. ‘Why don’t you do yourselves a favor, and let it go?’ he said in a casual manner.

  Jethro said something to his brothers, and they moved out away from the bar, fanning out into a half-circle. The barkeep, standing nearby, got a half-grin on his meaty face. ‘Too bad, bounty man.’ He had been washing a shot glass, and now held it motionless in his hand. ‘They got you cornered.’

  Sumner ignored him.

  But now the threesome were all facing Sumner with their hands out over their weapons. They knew nothing about Sumner, and had heard only lies from associates of their dead brother. Because of their numbers, they had no fear of him at all.