‘‘Why did you shoot Axel?’’
‘‘It was self-defense.’’ Josephine picked up the heavy meat cleaver from the floor. ‘‘He came at me with this,’’ he said. His mustache was stiff with dried blood. ‘‘I had to defend myself.’’
‘‘McBride, was Axel holding the cleaver when Mr. Josephine shot him?’’
McBride noted the ‘‘Mr.’’ and his temper flared. ‘‘He was working with the cleaver in the kitchen. When he came out he probably forgot he was still holding it.’’
‘‘How do you know that for sure? You said ‘he probably forgot.’ ’’
‘‘All right, then he did forget.’’
Harlan was silent for a moment; then he said, ‘‘Was Axel armed with a meat cleaver when he approached Mr. Josephine in a threatening manner?’’
‘‘I thought you wanted the truth.’’
‘‘I do, so tell me the truth. Was Axel armed with a meat cleaver when he threatened Mr. Josephine? Yes or no?’’
‘‘He didn’t threaten him, Harlan. He wanted him to stop hurting the girl.’’
‘‘What did Axel say?’’
‘‘He said, ‘That won’t do.’ He said something along those lines.’’
The marshal nodded. ‘‘Then it was a threat.’’
McBride felt trapped. He looked across the room at Josephine. The man’s lips were twisted in a triumphant sneer. ‘‘Harlan, it was cold-blooded murder. I know it, you know it and so does that no-good tinhorn over there.’’ He looked hard at the lawman. ‘‘Ask the girl, Clare. She saw it.’’
Harlan smiled. ‘‘I already did. She says Axel Davis came at Mr. Josephine with a meat cleaver. She says Lance was protecting himself and her.’’
‘‘The girl is afraid of Josephine. She’ll say anything you want.’’
Harlan seemed to consider that; then, dismissing it, he said, ‘‘You can go, Mr. Josephine. Better get Doc Ritter to take a look at that nose. Your father wouldn’t want you to miss the funeral.’’
Mrs. Davis rose to her feet. In her black waitress uniform it looked as if she were already wearing widow’s weeds. ‘‘Damn you to hell, Thad Harlan,’’ she shrieked. ‘‘You’re letting that scum go because he’s a rich man’s son, the spawn of a mayor who has opened this town to every killer and two-bit outlaw in the territory.’’ She took a step toward the marshal, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. ‘‘How can you live with yourself?’’
‘‘I live with myself just fine,’’ Harlan said. His thin face was stiff, as though it had been chipped from granite. ‘‘Now go grieve for your husband as you should.’’
‘‘I’ll grieve for him,’’ the woman said tightly, as though the words tasted bitter on her tongue. ‘‘And I grieve for you, Thad Harlan. You’ve sold your soul to a devil named Jared Josephine and I say be damned to you.’’
‘‘That’s enough out of you, woman,’’ Lance Josephine said. His nose was swollen to twice its normal size and he was breathing noisily through his mouth. He picked his gun up from the floor, shoved it into the holster, then reached into the back pocket of his pants. He produced a leather wallet and counted out some bills. He proffered them to Mrs. Davis. ‘‘Here, take this. It’s five hundred dollars.’’
The woman angrily slapped his hand away. ‘‘I won’t take your blood money. I hope you burn in hell.’’
‘‘Well, that suits me. I was giving you too much anyhow,’’ Josephine said. ‘‘What’s the life of a cook worth?’’
‘‘More than you can ever pay, Lance.’’ Dora Ryan was standing in the doorway, wearing a gray hooded cloak that was black with rain, the hem mud-spattered. Her hard edge was showing, a woman who had seen the worst of human nature back in a shady and mysterious past. What men did or said no longer surprised or offended her, and that was evident in the flatness of her voice. ‘‘Now do as the marshal says and get your nose seen to. You sure don’t look so pretty anymore.’’
Josephine seemed stricken, as though it had just dawned on him that his handsome features could have been ruined by the big man who was staring at him with such silent contempt. He rushed for the door but stopped and turned at the sound of Harlan’s voice.
‘‘Mr. Josephine, do you want to press charges against this man?’’
Josephine seemed surprised by the question. ‘‘Of course I want to press charges. I want that man dead.’’ He hesitated a moment, then added, ‘‘He wears a shoulder holster.’’
‘‘I know where he carries his gun,’’ Harlan said.
Josephine stepped through the door into windblown rain. A trail of blood spots across the floor marked where he had walked.
As Dora did her best to comfort Mrs. Davis, the marshal said to McBride, his skin tight against the bone, ‘‘Three serious assaults already and you haven’t been in town two hours.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Well, in my experience, all hard cases need is to be locked up for a spell and they go back to being virtuous.’’
McBride’s voice rang with disdain. ‘‘You mean breaking Lance Josephine’s nose is not a hanging offense, Marshal?’’
Harlan shrugged, his eyes like ice. ‘‘It might be, so don’t push it, McBride. It depends on what the mayor thinks. I should warn you that as a general rule he’s not a forgiving man.’’
The lawman’s voice hardened. ‘‘You’re under arrest, McBride.’’ The shotgun barrels came up and centered on the big man’s belly. ‘‘Shuck the armpit stinger with your left hand and lay it on the table in front of you. If I see more than your fingertips on the handle I’ll cut loose and blow you in half.’’
A man, if he’s wise, doesn’t argue with a scattergun at close range, and McBride did not. He did as he was told, and Harlan said, ‘‘Now move away from the table.’’
Suddenly Harlan was a man forged from iron, unyielding and hard. By itself, the Greener shotgun was not a killer—but it was an effective tool in a killer’s grasp. Looking into the lawman’s cold eyes, McBride saw the dark soul of a man who had been a beast of prey too long. He was dissociated from the rest of humanity, a man who would kill human beings, men, women or children, as dispassionately as a hunter kills a rabbit.
There was nothing of compassion or empathy for another’s suffering about Thad Harlan, and McBride knew that if he made a single wrong move he was a dead man. He backed away from the table, the marshal following his every move.
‘‘Dora,’’ Harlan said, without taking his eyes off McBride, ‘‘don’t forget to be on the street later for the funeral.’’
The woman was holding Mrs. Davis in her arms. Her eyes lifted to Harlan, looking at him evenly. ‘‘I’m not likely to forget, am I?’’
The lawman’s lips stretched in a thin smile. ‘‘Better not, since the mayor is leading the procession. If he doesn’t see you, it could be bad for business.’’ He let his glance slide to her for a moment. His words were slow and considered as though he were picking them out of a box. ‘‘Bad for everything.’’
‘‘I’ll be there,’’ the woman said, quietly, as though she’d just suffered a small defeat.