Six Ways from Sunday, page 21
I respected him. He was a ghost, and a killer, and an ambusher, and I knew he had a lot more experience, and he could easily get the best of me. So I just glided along, making myself aware of the soft noises of the night. When there’s trouble in the night, those soft noises disappear, and there’s a strange silence, like something waiting, and all the rhythms of nature just shut down. If I had any chance at all with him, it’d be because I wasn’t no city feller who didn’t know what peaceful night was like. I knew, and now I was counting on that to keep me outta trouble.
So I just pushed away from the creek, heading toward the foothills where Glan would be patiently waiting and watching. I found the cemetery plot all right, or it found me. I ran plumb into the wire. I found the gate and looked it over. There wasn’t nothing. The diggers wouldn’t even start until daylight. But what I wanted was to see the ridges, and there was just enough of a moon to show them to me. Glan didn’t need to get close, not with that fancy artillery of his, so he could be well back and still do his job.
It was a good place, that plot. Carboy was planning to stay there, and begin a family, and this is where they would rest. I studied it close and then headed for the foothills, ghosting along, not really knowing where I was going. I just wanted some height so I could see how the land lay when the sun rose. Maybe this was all just nonsense. Maybe Glan was somewhere else. But I had some sort of feelin’ that him and me, we’d meet this day, and someone would get hurt bad. That didn’t quiet me any.
So I climbed them hills, and now and then I could see the peaks and ridges of the mountain high country up above, but I wasn’t interested in that. I just wanted to find a place overlooking the plot. I finally reached a little flat and realized I was far beyond a rifle shot to the cemetery plot, but it was a good place to hunker down. I dug into the sack and found some boiled eggs and a beef sandwich, which suited me fine. It’d been a long time since I ate, and the stuff tasted real good. That My Ling, she was a talented lady.
Then I sat down and waited for the dawn, which wasn’t long coming. I was grateful, since I get bored fast, but pretty soon the sky blued up in the east and I could start makin’ out things off a way. There hardly was light on the land when I saw a pair of grave diggers set to work down there, cutting through the sod with a spade and then digging down. It takes a heap of work to dig a grave, and if a rock stops you, then you either got to bust it up with a pike or start over. But they took turns, and pretty soon were down a couple feet. By the time the sun took hold and lit the valley, they were knee-high in that hole.
I took to studying the country, but I didn’t see nothing. Glan, he had himself a good spyglass and could see some ant crawling over a rock a hundred yards away, but I didn’t have nothing. I did quietly move to an aspen grove where I’d be concealed, and settled there in the middle of a lot of sticks. Them aspen drop leaves and sticks all over, real sloppy. But it was a good place, and I was down in deep shadow but could look out and around, checking for movement in most every direction.
But I’m not patient, and I itched to get my legs moving. It was a battle between my itchy legs and my mind, telling me to stay quiet. At least I could see them grave diggers at work, and about the time they got down to their chests, they quit. It wasn’t even noon yet, but immediately there was a procession coming out from Carboy’s place, and they carried Amanda’s wrapped body on a handcart. They was going to do her real quick, which seemed a good idea, and soon they was all gathered at that fresh grave, and Carboy was standing at the head, fixing to read something or other down there.
I looked around sharp, and didn’t see anything, and thought it’d go well enough. I checked the ridges above me, and there wasn’t nothing, and no crows flapping around or magpies jabbering like they were disturbed, so I thought it’d be pretty good, and they’d get Amanda proper buried.
But then I glanced off to one side, and halfway down the slope was Glan behind a big old log, where no one would look for him, and he was fixing to shoot that long rifle. There wasn’t no time at all, and I was out of good range for a revolver. Glan was lying easy on the ground, that rifle resting on an old log, taking his time.
I reckoned it was an awful long shot for a revolver, but I couldn’t get closer in time. Down below, they were slowly lowering Amanda into that grave, and Carboy was standing at the head, waiting for them to put her into her last resting place. But that didn’t matter now; all that mattered was me stopping Glan from assassinating Cletus Carboy. I found a dead aspen log and laid my revolver barrel over it to make a rest, and sighted down it, and raised it some because I knew that lead pill was going to drop a lot at that distance, so I aimed a foot or so above Glan, and squeezed. The revolver went off, and not much happened far as I could see. Glan heard it, though, and turned around, swinging that long barrel at me. He spotted me all right, just as I tried again, a little lower this time, right at his head. I felt it buck in my hand, and this time I hit him good. He flipped up and settled down, looking surprised, and then he got a shot off at me. I tried again, and nicked him in the shoulder, but he’d taken the measure of me and fired that Sharps of his, and that big chunk of lead lifted my slouch hat clear off my head.
I’d fired three and had two more and a blank chamber, so I tried again. This time I missed, or at least didn’t see him move. The shots rolled on down to the funeral party, and now they was scrambling for cover behind that cart or wherever, and there was a couple of Carboy’s men coming fast toward us, revolvers out.
Glan didn’t fire and I rested that barrel on the log and aimed a little high, and squeezed, and felt it buck, and Glan took it somewhere. I don’t know where. His arms flailed out, and he dropped that rifle and lay on the grass dying slow and hard. I opened the cylinder and dropped the brass and reloaded from belt loops and shut her up again and waited some. But Glan was lying flat on his back, studying the midday sky. So I stood slow and waved at them two men of Carboy’s and they waved back, and we all reached Glan about the same time.
Glan had three holes in him, but my bullets had gone so far they hardly done damage. It was the last one, right into his teeth, that did him.
“Let’s get Amanda buried proper,” I said.
Chapter Thirty-one
After that, things got real quiet in Swamp Creek, but no one was fooled. Everyone in town knew who shot Amanda Trouville, and why. They all knew I had shot Glan, and nobody mourned him. He’d killed a few right around the district, and maybe lots more somewhere else. He’d been dumped into a three-foot-deep grave in Swamp Creek’s cemetery, and was barely shoveled over before everyone got away.
Scruples knew I done it, and I wasn’t gonna be his snitch, and I suppose that meant I was marked for a killing, but I didn’t much care. I could deal with short-gun men. It was Glan bothered me the most, and now he was under the sod. So I kept a wary eye out for them other thugs, and minded my own business.
I rode out to them woodcutters to see about the paid vacation Carboy was offering, but they wasn’t interested, not even with Glan gone. They said they liked the work, being outside and making cordwood, and the mill was buyin’ every stick. So I returned all them eagles to Carboy. The summer was stretching into fall, and it looked more and more like Scruples would walk away with the pile of money he wanted, especially now that poor Amanda was no longer around.
Then one day, things got interesting again. A dandy in a black silk stovepipe hat come into town, in a black carriage driven by a monkey in green and blue, and with that dandy was three other fancy-lookin’ fellers, in tweeds and walrus mustaches. It was pretty plain that Scruples had himself a buyer for the Swamp Creek District, and the dude was looking the whole place over. And it was clear that them other fellers knew a whole lot about all that stuff. I heard that one was a geologist, another a mining engineer, and the third an accountant.
They put up at the town’s excuse for a hotel, a dump called the Mountain House, which doubled as a parlor house and had some girls upstairs. Maybe that’d just help the sale along. Anyway, they got settled in there, and pretty soon Scruples showed up in his rig, guarded by some of them toughs he had on his payroll, and then the whole lot drove off for a tour. I kept clear, but sure heard about it from Billy Blew at the Mint, who knew everything there was to know.
“That there gent in the stovepipe, that’s Ambrose Marcus, and he’s made killings in the California goldfields, and in the Comstock Lode, and in Butte,” Billy told me. “He’s lookin’ to buy the whole district from Scruples. Those are his experts, along to make sure he doesn’t get took.”
I’d heard of Marcus a few times. He had a piece of the copper mines up in Butte, and was actually, from what I heard, a good man, paid them hard-rock miners a good wage, and most everyone up there liked him. He was also tough, and went after them that tried to euchre him. He lived in Virginia City, Nevada, but made trips up to the territory here now and then on business. It was plain that Scruples’ brokers had lured him to take a look.
Next I knew, that bunch of bigwigs had toured the valley, stopping at each property, where the geologist took ore samples and looked over the mine. They were being real thorough, and took a long look at Aggie Cork’s old mine as well as Bob Brass’s Lola Montez Tunnel Mine and all the rest, all the while guarded real good by Scruples’ thugs. I seen old Lugar sort of commanding the whole lot of them. There was a lot of firepower riding along with them buyers.
I couldn’t do nothing about anything, and neither could Carboy. Scruples pretty much owned the town of Swamp Creek, and the whole district, and controlled a lot of the people around there. You couldn’t even get near that hotel without facing a few thugs ready to say no.
I decided late one afternoon to go see Celia, since it’d been a while. So I did my usual routine of comin’ around behind, crossing the creek, and climbing her stairway, making sure no one saw me. I knocked, and she asked who it was.
“Me,” I said.
“Alone?”
“Yep.”
She opened a crack and studied me, and then let me in. She had that little lady revolver in hand.
“Town’s full of crooks,” she said.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
She was looking a little drawn, like she hadn’t been out for a while. She led me into the parlor, but didn’t put down that revolver.
“I’m glad you came,” she said. “Cotton, I’m in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Those people looking to buy up the district, they asked if they could talk to me about the Fat Tuesday, and why Armand sold it to Scruples. If they’d come by, I would have told them that Armand was killed and the mine was stolen and belongs to me. So, well, you can imagine. I’ve had those thugs standing around this building. You know what would happen if I went out? I’d be kidnapped and killed somewhere. If one of those buyers came calling, there’d be big trouble. I don’t know what, but I probably wouldn’t live through it. So I stay here, keep my door barred, and keep this revolver ready. I’d shoot anyone who tried to push in, and I’d keep right on shooting, too.”
“Looks like a word from you could blow Scruples’ deal.”
“A word from me, or a word from your friend Carboy.”
“And they’ve got you penned up in here, short of killing you, and they’ve got Carboy penned up at his house.”
“But they’re going to find out, sooner or later. Someone’s going to tell those buyers all about Swamp Creek.”
“Some of those toughs decide to bust in here and silence you, Celia, there’s no stopping them with that five-shot revolver.”
“I told you I’m in trouble,” she said, some irritation in her voice. “I don’t dare leave here. I’ve been here three days without going out. My, well, chamber pot’s full, and I’m running out of food, and I’m real glad you came.”
“This ain’t good,” I said. I slipped aside a drape a little so I could look out of one of them upstairs windows.
“There’s always a man watching here,” she said.
I couldn’t pick one out, but that didn’t mean nothing. A man could be over to Ma’s Dining across the street, keeping an eye peeled.
Scruples had her boxed in here. He had Carboy boxed in to his house. He simply wanted them out of sight and out of the way while he did his deal. Carboy had some mine guards protecting him. It was enough to keep the crooks out of his house, but he couldn’t go nowhere, and neither could Celia. The town belonged to Scruples now, and he had snitches posted in every saloon and probably the livery barn, too. You want to know everything going on, you pay a snitch in the livery barn.
But Celia was flat in trouble. She was down to a few pinto beans, and the flat was getting pretty rank.
“We’re gettin’ out and I’m takin’ you to Carboy’s place,” I said.
We had to wait until it was dark, which took a while, but she packed up some spare clothing and when it was dark enough, I slid out first and looked around. It looked peaceful enough, except a lot of lamps was burning over in the hotel, and them buyers was floating in and out, past some of the thugs standin’ around on the street. That was fine with me; it kept people lookin’ that direction.
“All right, Celia, let’s vamoose.”
We slid out of there, down them rear stairs, and waded across the creek. She was game, and didn’t mind getting her skirts wet, but pretty quick I got her into the scrub trees, untied Critter, put her on the horse, who thanked me with a nip on the arm, and then I led her out of there real quiet. There was something of a moon to help us, but also reveal us, so I hugged the moon shadow and we made our way down to Carboy’s.
“I guess you’ll stay in the bunkhouse with me,” I said.
She laughed suddenly. “I knew you’d find a way,” she said, and I got all heated in the face, and was glad she couldn’t see it.
“Carboy’s got two mine guards at his house, and there’s some groundsmen in cottages around here, all armed. He don’t have a bunch of killers. That’s not his way. But at least he can defend himself. I’m sayin’ this because you could stay up to the big house if you want.”
She sighed. “I just don’t understand you, Cotton. First you capture me and take me to your lair, and then you want to pass me along to someone else. What’s a lady to think? Don’t you like me?”
Danged if I could figure myself out. I thought I was being real proper, but I should of knowed Celia wasn’t a proper woman. She was a gambler’s widow, and that’s a breed unto itself. Truth is, sometimes I’m dumb as a stump.
“Guess we’d better let Carboy know you’re around here,” I said, diggin’ my grave deeper.
She sure eyed me like she’d been rescued by the village idiot. But then she nodded, and we made our way across the moonlit lawn. There was lamps lit in the big house, but the drapes was drawn so no one could see nothing. We got to the porch and a voice told us to wait, so we waited, and pretty soon Carboy came and invited us in.
It sure was a nice house in there.
“How about some tea, Cotton?” he asked. “And you, Mrs. Argo?”
I can mostly hardly swaller the stuff but I gave it another try.
While we was waiting for the tea to be fermented, I told him that I’d rescued Celia. She was boxed in to her rooms, pretty much like everyone around here was boxed in, because Scruples had a mess of shooters loose in town.
Carboy poured that tea when it arrived in a pot made of some dishwatery blue he called Wedgwood, and handed it out. I imagined if I tried hard enough I could get her down, all right.
“Actually, all of Scruples’ sales efforts came to nothing,” Carboy said. “Oh, I still have a few informants in town, and they get the news out to me. Marcus and his people will be leaving in the morning, and there’s little chance of a sale. He told a few people he doesn’t like the smell of it. He senses something’s quite wrong, even if he never talked to Celia about the Fat Tuesday, or me about the Big Mother Mine. You have to give Marcus credit, you know. He’s got a good nose and he uses it.”
“They’re leavin’?”
“Tomorrow. The Swamp Creek mines remain in Scruples’ hands.”
“You know what happened? Why they’re not gonna buy?”
“Marcus’s geologist, Sam Pike, wandered into the Mint for a drink and got to talking with the barkeep there, Billy Blew, and got an earful. Before he had one red-eye down him, Pike learned about how Scruples got the Fat Tuesday, and before he finished another red-eye he got the story of how most of the independent miners vanished or were killed, and how Scruples got Johnny Brashear’s papers, including all the blank forms. That’s all it took.”
“I could go back to town then,” Celia said.
“I’d advise against it, Mrs. Argo. There’s something you should know. Billy Blew was dragged into the alley behind the Mint and killed.”
That sure slapped me harder than a bullwhip. Not Billy. Just for telling the truth. My friend Billy Blew messed up Scruples’ deal and paid the price for it. This valley sure had a lot of grief in it. I knew at once who done it: The Apocalypse.
“Oh,” Celia said, growing real silent.
“You’re welcome here. I’ve a spare bedroom you may occupy. I think your life would be in grave danger just now, and Swamp Creek is no place for you. You simply know too much. Just as I know too much. There’s not much we can do against an army of killers, except lay low for the moment. Our moment will come. I’ve not been idle, I assure you.”
I sipped some of that tea, which tasted like swamp water, and eyed Celia, who was hesitatin’, not because she worried about danger, but because she’d be stuck in the big house with Carboy, and living real proper, instead of having her way with me in the bunkhouse.
But then she surrendered. “All right,” she said. “I guess you know what’s what.”
I guess I’m about the unluckiest man ever lived, I thought, knowin’ where she’d be staying. But I was a piece luckier than Billy Blew.
