The Complete Western Legends Omnibus, page 8
“Knowin’ you two didn’t hate me ... it eases my conscience some,” Cort said quietly, almost in a hush.
“I didn’t realize this weighed on your mind. The last twelve years must have been a lot tougher for you, Cort, than for John and me.
“Look, we’ve talked far too much,” she said suddenly. “You need plenty of rest. Sleep for a while, then I’ll make more broth—and if you’re a good patient, some coffee.”
Cort gave her a grateful look, then closed his eyes. Minutes later he fell into untroubled sleep.
Over the next few days, Clare took care of this lean, raw-boned man, and helped him gain back his strength. When Cort didn’t sleep, and she wasn’t either feeding or doctoring him, they would talk.
At first Cort was reluctant to be drawn into conversation, for fear that Clare would inevitably begin questioning him about his past ... Did he really outdraw Bo Vreen up in Silver City? Did he really empty both barrels of a shot gun into a lynch mob when sheriff Charles ‘Chuck’ Belmont was killed on the jailhouse steps? He preferred to keep these, and so many other events of his life, buried and, hopefully, forgotten.
Only she never asked those questions.
“I hear Oregon’s beautiful,” she said once, “have you ever been there, Cort?”
“Yes.”
“Is it as lush and green as people say?”
“On the ocean side of the mountains it’s like that. Tall pine, redwood, and fir everywhere.” He warmed to the subject. “East of the green belt, though, is the Oregon I really love. It’s all high country, with snow peaks dotting the sky. There’s rich grass and the air is cool and crisp like a tonic. If you’re unprepared, it can be a murderous country in the winter, but snug in a cabin, with lots of firewood and smoked beef, there’s not a quieter, more peaceful place to be on all this earth.”
Clare watched wonderingly, as, right before her eyes, a seemingly world-weary gunfighter became a lover of beauty and peace. There was so much more to Cort Lacey, the man, been to Cort Lacey, the boy, that it was hard for her to realize they were one and the same.
Chapter Ten
Long summer days passed. Very long days for William Cliffords. If he caught himself near a window, he scampered back into the shadows of his ranch-house. If he heard a sudden sound, he yelled for his bodyguards to keep him company. And when it grew dark, his fear was like a second skin, never leaving him for an instant.
It became worse as another day, and then another, was crossed off the calendar. Cliffords began talking to himself ... “The stranger has to be out there,” he worried as he paced the darkened library. “Yeah, he’s out there, just biding his time, waiting for a chance to put a bullet in me. I can’t let my guard down. Not for a second.”
And so the patrol of the Double C’s perimeter and the eight-man guard around the ranch-house continued.
Work out on the range ground to a halt. Fences were left unmended. Cattle were allowed to roam far and wide. Hay that would be needed for feeding through the winter was left uncut. There was only one job—play nursemaid to the boss.
Many of Cliffords’ hired men were beginning to think little of their employer. Sure enough these hardcases knew full-well that to work for the Double C meant killing a lot of innocent people. That didn’t bother them. What sapped their confidence was that the man who put jingle in their pockets seemed to have no guts at all. Before this stranger turned up, they may not have liked Cliffords, but he always rode ahead of them wherever they went. That meant something. But now, something rankled deep down among many of the hired guns. They wondered, each alone in his own thoughts, if, when the time came, they would be willing to die for a man who was, himself, unwilling to risk death.
Four and a half days after they left the Double C, Wilson and Nash returned. They were accompanied by a man in his mid-thirties who was built strong and wiry, much like the man he was being hired to kill. His face was exceedingly white. Almost albino. He wore a wide-brimmed hat to protect his sensitive skin from the hard western sun. Underneath the hat he had jet black hair with streaks of gray in it. It often surprised folks to see such dark hair on a man whose complexion was so light. One thing, though, matched on his seemingly incongruous face ... as black as his hair were his eyes—the eyes of a snake by the name of Wassin.
Before they even had a chance to dismount, Lou Harris came from inside the house and up to the three dusty riders.
“The boss wants to see you right away,” he announced.
After delivering Cliffords’ order, Harris turned to go into the bunk-house, but Nash stopped him and asked, “What’s it been like here since we left?”
Cliffords’ messenger grimaced and said, “I ain’t seen nothin’ like it. As far as Cliffords is concerned, the stranger has this place surrounded all by his lonesome. Most of the men haven’t ever seen the boss since Big Al got his. Cliffords just sets and hides behind closed doors, waitin’ for I don’t know what.”
“Maybe you don’t know ‘what’ but me and Wilson do,” Nash said sarcastically. “He’s been waitin’ for his salvation.” Gesturing toward the silent, solemn figure of Wassin, Nash said, “Harris, meet salvation.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Salvation.”
Nash shrugged.
“Harris,” Wilson laughed, “You’re a damn fool.”
“Let’s get on with it,” Wassin said irritably. “I’ve been in this sun long enough. You, Harris, take our horses. And you two nickel and dime gunnies,” he said maliciously to his supposed friends Wilson and Nash, “Don’t be introducin’ me to no dimwits as ‘Salvation,’ Jesus Christ, or even Sam Bass. I’m liable to forget who it was that fetched me this job.”
Wassin took a few steps toward the ranch-house and then turned to Wilson and Nash who had fallen in behind him.
“You got me here,” Wassin said belligerently, a redness coming into his white face that had nothing to do with the sun. “Your job’s over. Don’t try hornin’ in on this bounty. I work alone ... and I walk alone. Beat it!”
As Wassin stepped through Cliffords’ front door, Nash softly rasped, “A man like that surely ain’t gonna make a lot of friends. Leastaways not me.”
“Nor me,” echoed Wilson.
In an offhand sort of way, Wilson said, “When we have enough for a stake, let’s get the hell out of this business. Maybe we would do some prospectin’ down in Mexico or somethin’.”
Nash surprised himself when he said, “Sounds good to me. And the sooner the better.” Against his better judgement, Nash smiled. It felt good. “Yeah,” he repeated, “the sooner the better. Let’s you and me try to keep alive, huh?”
Knowing that this man Wassin was finally on the grounds helped puff up Cliffords’ courage. Then seeing this expensive hired killer, the ruthlessness of those dark black eyes, Cliffords felt confidence come soaring up his backbone.
“If anyone can take care of that damned stranger, this hombre can,” Cliffords silently assured himself.
“You Cliffords?” Wassin questioned the man who stood appraising him.
“Yes, I’m Cliffords. And you would be Mr. Wassin?’
“I’m Wassin.”
“Well, we have much to discuss,” Cliffords said expansively. “Have a drink and sit down.”
Wassin poured himself a shot of whiskey, drank it, and remained on his feet.
“Before I sit down,” he said, “I want to see the color of your money. I don’t work for I.O.U.’s.”
Not wanting to appear overanxious about securing Wassin’s services, Cliffords hesitated and said, “You wouldn’t see so much as a Confederate penny if I didn’t know your reputation. Wilson and Nash tell me you’re good. I hope you’re good enough.”
“Quit stallin’. If you got the five thousand, I’ll kill a man for you. If you haven’t, stop wastin’ my time.”
“Of course I have the money,” Cliffords said with indignation. Then he opened his wall-safe, and took out a fat envelope.
“There’s six thousand here,” Cliffords explained. “Two thousand now, three thousand when you drag the stranger’s body to my door step, and the last thousand is a bonus if you kill him within the next seven days. Agreed?”
Wassin’s eyes lit up just a bit and then he said, “It’s agreed when you count out two thousand dollars.”
With the first payment on the death of the stranger tucked into his shirt, Wassin finally sat down and said, “Let’s talk about the man you want dead. Tell me what you know.”
Cliffords related everything about the stranger he could think of ... from his method of attack with dynamite the night he killed Big Al and the other nine men, to a hazy description of his looks.
But Wassin’s answer to all this information was just a muttered, “Not helpful. Could be a lot of gun-hands.” Then he said thoughtfully, “What I’d like to know is what brought him here. A man’s got to have a reason for stickin’ his neck out. Usually it’s for money, but you say the only people who could even hope to pay him have denied it—and you believe ’em. You say this Ella Frank lady got no livin’ kinfolk, so he probably threw in with her just to stop you. And now you can’t find her neither.
“Well, I just don’t know. The only hardcases capable of doin’ what this feller’s done, and who I’ve known to drift to these here parts are Jeff Packard, Billy Thomas, and Bo Vreen. Last I heard, Packard was in Lead Pencil, New Mexico, servin’ time for bank robbery. It ain’t Billy Thomas ’cause I seen him not more than two weeks ago headin’ toward the town of Dogwood Springs, been hired as sheriff. As for Bo Vreen, you can scratch him. He decided to fight a gun-duel with Cort Lacey ... ”
“Lacey!” Cliffords shouted. “I should have known it!”
Wassin scowled and said, “I don’t know where you got such an idea. Lacey never comes down around here. He’s always up in the north country. It can’t be Lacey.”
“I tell you it’s him,” Clifford exclaimed. “He used to live here about a dozen years ago. His brother is one of the owners of the Five Fingers. I don’t think I ever met Cort Lacey back in those days, but I heard about him. If I remember right, he left after crippling John Bell in a gunfight. And never once came back—until now. Not until right now. It’s got to be Cort Lacey. Everything the stranger has done makes sense if it’s him!”
“I see,” Wassin reflected. “All right, let’s say it’s Cort Lacey.” With a hard expression on his face he added, “Let’s also say the price on his head is ten thousand instead of five.”
“What do you mean?” Cliffords gasped.
“I mean five thousand is my usual price for killin’ a man. But Cort Lacey is no ordinary gunny. I just told you a minute ago—he killed Bo Vreen. Now I can track down and kill the likes of men like Wilson and Nash in no time at all, but Cort Lacey, that’s gonna take lots longer and be much tougher. And I tell you, Cliffords, you’d have to scour the west to find the few men capable of putting a bullet in Cort Lacey. I’m one of ’em. If you don’t meet my price, I’ll ride out. And I guarantee you, if Cort Lacey has promised to kill you—he’ll kill you. It’s ten thousand or kiss your rosaries good-bye. What’s it to be, Cliffords?”
Cliffords’ throat was sandstone dry. He believed every word that Wassin told him. And he felt as helpless as he had when his brother, Howard, ran the Double C and made all the decisions. Why did he always lose control? It maddened William Cliffords to be at the mercy of either Cort Lacey or Wassin. Somehow he always managed to box himself like this. But as far as he was concerned, the choice was clear. To eventually become master of his own fate once again, he would have to pay Wassin the ten thousand. Once Wassin completed his job and left the valley, William Cliffords would control not only his own fate, but the entire valley’s as well.
Cliffords took himself a drink to relieve the parched feeling in his throat. He poured another. Holding it in his hands, he said, “Ten thousand it is.” Then he swallowed his second drink. “Take care of Lacey any way you see fit, so long as you get him and get him quick.” Then Cliffords added haughtily, as the liquor warmed his chilly insides and loosened his tongue, “It’s still just a two thousand dollar advance. There’s no sense givin’ you any part of the remainin’ eight thousand if Lacey is as good as you say. The money won’t do you any good if Lacey kills you before you can kill him.”
“Mister,” Wassin said acidly, “If Lacey kills me, that eight thousand ain’t gonna do you any good either.” And then he stood up and started to walk out.
“Just a minute,” Cliffords yelled. “What are you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna take seven of your men with me and ride out to Five Fingers. Maybe we’ll bring a little dynamite of our own along if you have any.”
“We have some,” Cliffords responded eagerly. The idea of giving the Five Fingers a taste of what his own men had swallowed appealed to his twisted sense of justice.
Wassin was pleased. He knew how he’d use the dynamite. Smiling, he went on to say, “The key to Cort Lacey is his brother ...”
“Sam Lacey,” Cliffords volunteered.
“Okay, we’ll get Sam Lacey and hold him. Cort won’t put a bullet through your head as long as his brother is a hostage. With the brother under wraps,” he continued, “I’ll have a better chance of flushin’ Lacey out into the open.
“When a man’s workin’ for sentiment instead of money, it gives the man workin’ for money an edge. I’m gonna lop off Cort Lacey’s head with that edge.”
Chapter Eleven
“How’s your leg today?” Clare asked as Cort opened his eyes on the fifth day of his recuperation.
Cort laughed. “Give me a chance to wake up,” he said.
“Maybe some hot coffee will help get you on your feet,” she answered easily.
“Sure.”
He took a couple of gulps from his coffee cup, and a satisfied grin appeared on his face.
“You make a good cup of coffee, Clare. I think I’d sooner get another bullet in me than have to walk away from a campfire where you’re doin’ the cookin’.”
“I suppose that when I’m not looking you’ll shoot yourself in the foot,” she kidded.
“You know, that reminds me of a story I heard from an old mountain man I met at the eastern side of the Cascades. He said he once came across a bear cub that had lost its mama. Besides bein’ all alone, the little grizzly’s paw was hurt, so the mountain man took the cub to his cave to nurse and feed it.
“Well, this little bear healed soon enough, but took a likin’ to the mountain man’s food. Year after year, long after that little cub grew into a killer grizzly, it would come around and eat whatever the mountain man put on the table for supper. Mostly the bear liked the old man’s coffee, and he would drink gallons of it. The animal was known to steal tins of coffee and sugar from other trappers—he liked his coffee sweet—and bring the booty to his lonely old friend’s cave.
“Now this mountain man and grizzly bear grew old together. But not without occasional misunderstandings. Whenever the old mountain man got a little peeved at the bear for doin’ things like drinkin’ all his fresh water durin’ a drought, or passin’ water in the cave—excuse me Clare, it’s part of the story—well, he’d just give the old grizzly the silent treatment. Wouldn’t sing to him or talk to him or nothin’.
“The bear, he would get mighty upset ’cause he knew he’d done somethin’ wrong, even if he didn’t know what it was he’d done. If the old mountain man was mad, there just had to be a good reason.
“The old grizzly, to get back in the good graces of his friend would feign havin’ a hurt paw. The bear figured it had worked in the beginning, so it would again. And it always did. The old mountain man would laugh, make a show of fixin’ up the paw, and then sing his old grizzly bear friend a Welsh ballad—which was his favorite type of tune ... the grizzly’s favorite, I mean.
“It was durin’ one raw autumn day that the old mountain man had an accident with one of his traps, and hurt his leg real bad. Tryin’ to drag himself to his cave, he passed out. Feeling himself being dragged along the ground, he came to. The grizzly was carrying him by his shirt-front and ended up dropping him on his makeshift bed in the cave.
“The old man was delirious, but he says it was the old grizzly who cleaned his wound and saved it from infection—just like he had done for the bear’s paw so many times in the past. In one of his clear-headed moments the old man bandaged his own leg, but he was far too weak to get up off his back for well over a week. That old feller swears the grizzly stayed a week through, and brewed him the best coffee he’s ever tasted in his life.”
Clare pleaded with him to stop as tears of laughter rolled down her face.
He stopped, but not without some regret. It gave him a special pleasure to watch her eyes start to dance when he stretched a short story into a tall tale. In the last twelve years, when he spoke to someone, he didn’t ordinarily make them laugh. He made them tremble.
Clare sensed the deep well of Cort’s feelings and couldn’t stop herself from reaching out and touching his cheek with her hand. She said nothing—only caressed his face and brushed hair back over his ear. Outside of her nursing duties, it was the first time she had touched him. She liked the feel of his face.
Clare felt Cort’s penetrating gaze search her heart and mind, trying to see past this tender gesture, to find out what lay behind it—pity, love ...
When she had the courage to look at his face, she saw only confusion clouding Cort’s eyes. That was only fair! She was just as confused. She smiled bravely, and then gently slapped Cort’s face with the hand that had just caressed him. “Now how about the leg?” she questioned.
Cort tried to hide his emotions by giving all his attention to the last of his coffee. After a moment, he placed the cup down and then forced himself to his feet. The leg hurt, but he found he could walk on it.
