Savage Sunday, page 24
“I certainly hope so.”
As they were engaged in conversation, there was a knock on the door, and a man’s voice called out. “Nettie, are you here?”
“Yes, Eli, the door is unlocked. Please come in.”
Eli Kendrick stepped into Nettie’s apartment, carrying a box of Whitman Chocolates. He had a big grin on his face. “Hello, Nettie, I brought you some—” He stopped in midsentence, and the smile left his face when he saw John sitting there holding a cup of coffee. “Oh, uh, I didn’t know that you had company.”
“John just brought me an advanced copy of today’s newspaper,” Nettie said. “Wait until you read it. It’s beautifully written and will, I’m certain, cause a lot of people to rethink their ideas on what happened. Won’t you join us? I’ve coffee ready.”
Eli stared at John. “No, I . . . under the circumstances, I don’t think it would be appropriate.”
The expression on Nettie’s face reflected her confusion over Eli’s strange remark. “Under the circumstances? I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“I must go,” Eli said as he set the box down, then started toward the door.
“Thanks for the chocolates,” Nettie called out to him.
Without an answer or a response of any kind, Eli stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him.
“What do you suppose that was about?” Nettie asked.
“Nettie, do you really not know?”
“No, I don’t have the slightest—” she stopped in midsentence, gasped, and put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my. Do you think he might have been jealous?”
John chuckled and nodded. “Oh yes. You might say the Green Monster came upon him. That’s exactly what he was.”
“But why would he be jealous? I’ve never given him any reason to think that I would consider him as a”—she paused, looking for the words—“romantic interest. I have known him for five years, and our relationship has never been anything other than Joel’s friend, and the vice president of the bank.”
“You are an exceptionally attractive woman, Nettie. And you are a widow. There will be men like Eli . . . and me,” he added, “who might seek to gain your attention and perhaps win your affection.”
Nettie put her hand on his and smiled at him, but she didn’t speak.
The cabin
“Are you telling me that you didn’t even try?” Bart asked, after Lou gave him his report.
“We would have been killed,” Lou said. “And what good would it do me to be dead, even if we did wind up getting the money? I would be as broke then as I am now, and worse, I would be dead.”
“Lou’s right, Bart,” Moe said. “Look how many men we have lost so far. Yes, not all of them were with our original group, but there sure have been a lot of ’em kilt, enough that we should have learned by now that it’s dangerous to mess with Duff MacCallister.”
“All right,” Bart said. “Stop trying to snatch MacCallister’s woman.”
“I thought you said that taking MacCallister’s woman would mean he would come after her and we could set up an ambush,” Lou said.
“Our friend is sending us someone who deals in situations just like this. I’m quite sure he will be able to handle the situation for us,” Bart said.
“Our friend?”
“Our silent partner, you might say.”
“Who is he sending?”
“He’ll be here in a couple of days. Then you can see for yourself.”
* * *
Two days later the person who had been sent by the silent partner arrived. Because they had been told he would be coming, they were on the lookout for him, and as the rider approached, all eleven men were on the front porch to greet him. The rider who dismounted was a most unprepossessing man who wouldn’t warrant a second look, unless someone saw his eyes. His eyes were yellow, and the pupils so large, black, and intense, that it made one think that he could see all the way don’t to your soul.
“Boys, this is James Hill,” Bart said.
“James Hill? You mean the one they call Evil?”
Hill smiled. “Yeah, I’ve been called that,” he said in a sibilant voice.
“How many men have you kilt, Evil?” Moe asked.
“Do you mean how many have I been paid to kill? Or just how many I’ve killed?”
“That isn’t any of our business,” Bart said, interrupting a discussion he feared might become troublesome. “What’s important is the man he is going to kill next.”
“Duff MacCallister,” Willard said.
Bart nodded. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this, ’n I believe it’s the best way to go.”
“How much is it costin’ us?” Lou asked.
“Five hundred dollars now, ’n two thousand more when it’s done.”
“Twenty-five hundred dollars? That’s a lot of money,” Lou said.
“Yes,” Bart agreed. “It is a lot of money, but we have no choice. MacCallister needs to be stopped.”
“We ain’t hardly even got two thousand dollars, have we?” Moe asked.
“No, we don’t,” Bart replied. “But Hill has agreed to wait until we get our money before he gets the rest of his payment.”
“When are you goin’ to do it?” Lou asked.
The man sometimes called “Evil” didn’t answer Lou. He just looked at Lou for a few, brief seconds, and Lou felt a little shiver, as if someone had stepped on his grave.
“I will go now,” Evil said.
“Moe, you know what MacCallister looks like. Go with Hill so you can point out MacCallister. You’ll probably find him in the Red Bull. I’ve learned that he spends a lot of time there.”
“All right,” Moe answered, though it was obvious he wasn’t too pleased with the assignment.
* * *
Duff and Meagan were having a drink in the Red Bull. She had invited Nettie to join them, and he had invited John. It wasn’t particularly designed to put them together since Duff was unaware of their growing relationship.
Nettie arrived first, and she and Meagan were in a spirited conversation when John approached the table. He stopped and stood for a moment as if hesitant to approach any closer.
“Would you be for having a seat, John?” Duff asked.
John looked directly at Nettie. “Do you mind if I . . .” He finished his question with a wave of his hand toward the empty chair.
“Of course I don’t mind,” Nettie replied. “Why should I mind?”
“The Whitman chocolates?”
“What?” Meagan asked, confused by the cryptic response.
“I was there when Mr. Kendrick came calling on you, carrying a box of chocolates. I just thought that maybe . . .”
“John, Eli Kendrick was my husband’s executive officer when they were in the army, and now he is the vice president of the bank. Though now, I expect he is the president of the bank. And that is the extent of our relationship. Now, please join us.”
“You’re wrong,” Duff said as John was taking his seat.
“What?” John asked. “Why do you say I’m wrong?”
“I’m nae talking about you, John. ’Tis the lass who is wrong.”
“Duff, whatever are you talking about?” Meagan asked, voicing the question that the surprised look on the faces of John and Nettie were posing.
“Kendrick is nae the president of the bank.” Duff nodded toward Nettie. “Joel owned the bank, ’n now the lass here, owns it. ’N because she owns the bank, that means she is the one who is president of the bank.”
“Oh,” Nettie said, putting her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I suppose I am president of the bank, aren’t I? I never thought about that.”
“Yes, but unfortunately, it is a bank that is insolvent, thanks to the man who murdered Joel,” John said.
“This is why I wanted to meet with you,” Duff said to John. “’Tis thinking, I am, that if you would do a story about the lass here being the new president of the bank, that it might stir up a bit of interest.”
“Duff, I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Meagan said. “It’s enough that you’re using me as bait. Now you’re planning on using Nettie as well?”
“I’ll do it,” Nettie said quickly. “I’ll do anything that will help prove my husband’s innocence and find the man who killed him.”
“All right. In that case I’ll do the article,” John said resolutely.
* * *
As John was agreeing to do the article, James Hill stepped through the swinging batwing doors of the Cowboy’s Haven saloon, and as had been directed by Bart Jenkins, Moe Conyers was with him.
A couple of the bar girls came toward them wearing practiced smiles and not much more.
“Hello, boys,” one of them said, then looking into James Hill’s eyes, the smile left, to be replaced by facial expressions of absolute terror.
“Get out of my way,” Hill hissed.
The two girls hurried back to the far side of the room.
“It’s Evil,” one of the saloon patrons said.
“He’s killed more ’n thirty people.”
“What’s he doin’ here?”
“Anybody seen MacCallister?” Moe asked.
“I just seen ’im over to the Red Bull,” said one of the men standing at the bar. “What are you lookin’ for him for?”
Evil glared with such intensity at the man who had just asked a question, that, frightened, he turned away and stared into his beer.
“Let’s go,” Evil said, heading toward the door without another word.
Moe, who thought they might have a drink and visit for a few minutes, had to hurry to catch up with him.
“Where is the Red Bull?” Evil asked.
“This here is Fifteenth Street. The Bull is over on Sixteenth,” Moe replied.
Evil stepped right out into the street without regard to the wagon that was approaching.
The driver hauled back on his team. “Hey, why don’t you watch where you’re goin’, you damn fool?” the driver shouted.
Instead of hurrying to get out of the way of the team, Evil stopped and stared at the driver.
The driver, facing the intense glare, had second thoughts about what he had intended to add to his earlier outburst. “Uh, my fault. I was going too fast. Go ahead and cross.”
Moe, who had waited for the wagon, hurried to cross with Evil.
“That’s the Red Bull,” Moe said a few minutes later as they approached the saloon. It was a larger, and obviously much nicer, establishment than the Cowboy Haven, and was easily identified by the large red bull above the sign.
James Hill pushed through the batwing doors with Moe just behind. “Do you see him?”
Moe looked around for a moment then nodded. “Yeah, that’s him.” He pointed to the table where Duff and Meagan were sitting with John and Nettie. “He’s back there at the table with three others. He’s the big guy with the blue shirt, sittin’ back against the wall. How are you going to do this? Call ’im out, or what?”
“I’m goin’ to kill ’im, ’n how I do it ain’t your problem,” Evil said.
“All right, but you need know that he is very fast.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Evil repeated, almost as if it were a mantra. He walked over to the table.
When Duff and the others looked up, they saw that he had already drawn his pistol.
“You’re MacCallister?” Evil asked, looking at the man Moe had pointed out.
“Aye, I’m MacCallister.”
“The rest of you, leave the table,” Evil ordered.
John and Nettie got up, but Meagan remained.
“Girlie, I’m goin’ to kill MacCallister ’n if you’re still sitting there, like as not, I’ll kill you, too.”
“Leave the table, Meagan,” Duff said.
“Duff, I—”
“Please, lass, I would nae want for anything to happen to you.”
“All right,” Meagan said as she reluctantly got up from the table and walked over to join Nettie. John had disappeared somewhere.
“You’re planning on killing me?” Duff asked, his voice as calm as if he were ordering a glass of Scotch.
Evil smiled, but somehow the smile made his features look even more grotesque. “I’m getting paid a lot of money to kill you.”
“All right. But let’s have our fight out in the street,” Duff suggested. “That way ’tis less chance some innocent person will be hit.”
“What fight?” Evil replied.
“Dinnae you just challenge me?” Duff asked.
“I ain’t bein’ paid to fight you. I’m bein’ paid to kill you,” Evil said. He raised his pistol, pointed it toward Duff, then cocked it.
The roar of the gunshot filled the saloon, and bounced off the walls. But the sound did not come from Evil’s gun. Half of James Hill’s head was blown off as blood, bits of bone, and brain matter erupted from the wound.
Duff looked over toward John, who was holding the double-barrel, ten-gauge shotgun as a little wisp of smoke was still curling up from the muzzle of the gun.
“I saw you take the gun from behind the bar, ’n ’twas my hope that you would have time to use it,” Duff said.
Moe Conyers, who had not moved from the door, was shocked by what he had just witnessed. He stood there for no more than a moment longer, watching the reaction of the others. Then he left the saloon.
“Bart sure as hell ain’t goin’ to like this.” Moe didn’t know if he spoke the words aloud, or just thought them.
Chapter Thirty-three
John considered writing an article about the death of James Hill, aka Evil. It certainly was newsworthy. James Hill was one of the most noted and feared gunfighters in the entire West. But because John was the one who had killed Hill, he wasn’t comfortable writing the story, so he asked Morrow, one of the publishers, if he would write it.
“I suppose I can,” Morrow said. “After all, I was doing most of the writing before we hired you. But the truth is, I’m a little hesitant to write anything now. I’m afraid our readers will compare me to you, and I won’t come out all that well by comparison.”
“You are a very good writer, Mr. Morrow.”
Morrow smiled. “There’s no need to butter me up, John. Your job is secure. I’ll write the article.”
“Thanks. I have another article I want to write,” John replied. “And if you don’t mind, I would like for the article I write to be front page, above the fold.”
“Are you kidding? What could be a bigger story than the killing of one of the top gunfighters in the entire West?”
“That may be a bigger story than the one I’m going to write, that’s true. But that’s not the kind of attention I want for myself.”
Morrow nodded. “All right, John. I can see your point. If you are going for front page, top of the page, make it a good one.” Morrow paused, then chuckled. “Listen to me telling you to write a good story.”
New President of
Cattleman’s Bank of Cheyenne
by JOHN CUNNINGHAM
Many of the readers, perhaps even most readers who have been following the articles printed in this newspaper about an alleged suicide and embezzlement of the funds from the bank have, by now, come to the conclusion that Joel Prescott did not commit suicide. That is certainly the belief of this scribe.
Regardless of cause of the demise of Mr. Prescott, his death did leave a vacancy in the administration of the bank. One might suppose the position of president of the bank would be filled by the current vice-president, Eli Kendrick. But one would be wrong. You may well ask if not Kendrick, who then, will occupy the chair of president of the bank?
Before the name of the new president is revealed, it is incumbent upon this newspaper to provide its readers with some background information. When Joel Prescott arrived in this fair city five years ago, he was accompanied by his wife, Nettie Lindell Prescott, and his closest friend, Eli Kendrick. Shortly after Joel arrived, he started the Cattleman’s Bank with borrowed funds. He subsequently paid off the loans, and became the sole owner of the bank. As the sole owner, he was also president of the bank.
Upon the death of Joel Prescott, his wife, Nettie, became the sole owner of the bank. Therefore, it stands to reason that as owner of the bank, Mrs. Prescott has assumed the position of president of the bank.
You may wonder what difference it makes as to who might be president of a defunct bank, but those who know Mrs. Prescott know her to be a woman of tenacity, ingenuity, honesty, and resolve. With Mrs. Prescott bringing all those qualities to the position of president, don’t give up on the resurrection of the Cattleman’s Bank of Cheyenne.
Noted Gunman Killed
by J. B. MORROW, Publisher
James Hill met his just end on the 7th instant. Hill was a gunman who killed so frequently and with such lack of compunction, that he was known by the sobriquet “Evil.” One could say that he was a man in name only, for he was possessed of less redemptive tissue than an outhouse cockroach.
Of recent, there have been frequent attempts upon the life of Duff MacCallister, as well as his lady friend, Meagan Parker. Hill was known as a man who sold his gun for money, and it requires no stretch of the imagination to believe that he was employed by a person, or persons, unknown to kill Mr. MacCallister, and that supposition is borne by the fact that he was heard to say, “I’m getting paid a lot of money to kill you.” But as he raised his cocked pistol to carry out his nefarious mission, the roar of the gunshot that filled the Red Bull Saloon came not from his gun, but from one being wielded by our own John Cunningham.
The weapon in the hands of Mr. Cunningham was so employed as to energize eight large missiles of double aught buckshot from the barrel of a 10-gauge shotgun. The damage thus rendered upon James Hill’s body was substantial and fatal.
After reading the newspaper, Lou Martell dropped it on the table in disgust. “Hell and damnation,” he said, his words little more than a growl.
“What’s the matter now?” Bart asked.
“Cunningham. It’s not enough that he’s been writing all those articles, he’s also the one that killed Hill.”
