“You were right. Something is very wrong here,” Shores said for the old warrior’s benefit and swung down.
One of the women tried to move her arms as if to warn him to get out of there. Another was shaking her head at him. A boy with a tear-streaked face was gazing at the dead dog.
Shores walked to the dead man. The victim had been shot twice high in the chest, and when he fell, his hat had come off. His features betrayed great surprise. Shores stared at the man’s close-cropped snow white hair and trimmed white beard and was reminded of the description he had been given of Brock Alvord. What a coincidence, he thought. The man even had blue eyes like Alvord.
Gruff voices from the saloon alerted Shores the killer must still be in Painted Rock. Crouching, he crept to the near corner, then along the wall to a window. It was raised halfway, and the dingy brown curtains had been tied back. Raising his right eye to the sill, he spotted a big bearded man at a table glumly regarding two others over by the bar. One had curly hair that spilled over his ears. The other was barely old enough to shave and wore pearl-handled Colts.
“—no call to do that, damn it!” the curly-mopped man was saying. “He was the boss of this outfit, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I ain’t forgettin’ nothing. But you seem to be forgettin’ that didn’t give him the right to butt in like he done.” The younger man leaned his elbows on the counter. Besides, who says we need him anymore? We know all his contacts. We know where the relays are. Why can’t we carry on without him?”
“And who’s going to lead us? You?”
“Watch your tone with me, Curly Means.”
Shores stepped back. “Curly Means?” he whispered and happened to glance at the name of the saloon: The Lucky Star. A keg of black powder went off in his skull. At last he understood the significance of Mat-ta-vish’s drawings. He also realized he was alone. Red Fox had disappeared. Good riddance, he told himself. He didn’t need the old warrior’s help anyway. Darting to the corner, he cat-stepped toward the rear. There had to be a back door. He would get the drop on them. Better yet, he would shoot them while their backs were turned. He wasn’t taking chances with a gun-shark like Kid Falon.
One of his spurs jingled, and Shores stopped, appalled by his carelessness. He swiftly removed both and set them in the grass.
Shores didn’t give the outhouse a second glance. Cocking the Smith & Wesson, he gingerly tried the latch of the back door. Metal scraped on metal, but not loud enough to be heard from up front. Cracking the door open, he peered down a narrow hall. It was deserted. He stayed close to the wall, where there was less likelihood of a floorboard creaking, and he slunk past a small kitchen to the doorway to the saloon.
Big Ben Brody was still at the table. Curly Means had found a jar of pickled eggs and was filling his belly. Kid Falon had his back to Shores and was saying, “Why do we even need a leader? We should each have an equal say. And each get an equal share. I never did think it was right of Brock to take an extra ten percent for himself.”
Tingling with suppressed excitement, Shores took precise aim at the center of the Kid’s back. He curled his forefinger around the Smith & Wesson’s trigger and was heartbeats from ending the Kid’s blood-drenched career when a hard object gouged him behind his left ear and a voice laced with a Southern accent warned, “I wouldn’t do that, mister. Not unless you’re partial to havin’ your head blown off.”
A hand came from behind and relieved Shores of his revolver.
Shores remembered the outhouse and wanted to beat his head against the jamb. Instead, he elevated his arms. “John Noonan, I presume?”
“None other.” Noonan shoved him into the saloon. “Lookee what I found, boys. This polecat was fixin’ to backshoot the Kid.”
Kid Falon spun and glowered. “Another pack rat comes out of its hidey-hole. I know just what to do with him.”
“Wait.” Curly Means was about to pop an entire egg in his mouth, but he dropped it back in the jar. Looking Shores up and down, he said, “This swivel dude ain’t no local. He’s store-bought from bottom to top.”
“That he is,” the Kid thoughtfully agreed and filled his left hand with a Colt. “Who the hell are you, four-flusher? And why would you want me toes down? I never set eyes on you before.”
Shores desperately tried to think of a lie they would believe, but his mind had gone as blank as a newly cleaned blackboard.
“Catamount got your tongue?” Noonan holstered his pistol and poked his hands into each of Shores’s pockets. “What does this say?” he asked, handing Shores’s identification to Curly.
Big Ben Brody rose and lumbered over. “Want me to break a few of his bones to loosen his tongue?”
“No need.” Curly grinned like a bobcat that had caught a chipmunk to play with. “What we have here is Mr. William E. Shores from the United States Department of Justice.”
“Never heard of him or it,” Kid Falon said.
“He’s some sort of federal John Law,” Curly explained. “Hails all the way from Washington, D.C. Looks like Brock was right. Gunnin’ down those soldiers made people sit up and take notice.”
“To hell with Brock, and to hell with this federal.” The Kid gripped Shores by the front of the shirt and hauled him toward the front door. “Mighty stupid, if you ask me, to come all this way to dig your own grave.”
Shores was tempted to grab for the Kid’s Colt, but he knew he would be dead before he touched it. The other Hoodoos were tagging along, and to them he said, “You owe it to yourselves to hear me out.”
“Did I say you could talk, four-flusher?” Kid Falon demanded and swung his left arm out and down.
Shores ducked, but he was much too slow. Excruciating pain nearly blacked him out. His knees buckled, but Big Ben Brody’s huge arms encircled him, and he was hefted like a sack of potatoes out into the street and dumped onto his hands and knees.
John Noonan said, “Any last words?”
Blood dripping down his face, Shores felt the muzzle of the Kid’s Colt pressed to his forehead. He braced for the blast and the black veil of oblivion but was granted a momentary reprieve.
“Hold on, Kid,” Curly Means urged. “I’ve got me a better idea.”
The people at the cabin were watching aghast, as if they knew what was to come. Shores searched for some sign of Red Fox but couldn’t find him. For all the old Indian’s talk about how he wanted revenge for his brother, when push came to shove, Red Fox had turned tail. Shores didn’t blame him though. The Shoshone had shown more common sense than he had.
Hooves drummed. Curly Means rode up, uncurling a rope as he came. “I’ve always wanted to do this with a human being.”
Shores wondered what the Hoodoo was up to, then noticed the black dog a few feet away. Its eyes bulged, and its tongue lolled limp in the dirt. The cause of death was self-evident: the middle of its neck bore the inch-deep imprint of a rope. “No!” Shores glanced at Curly Means just as a noose settled over his head. He reached up to tear it off, but Curly had already applied his spurs.
The ground rushed up to meet Shores’s face, and he was dragged down the center of the street. Dust swirled into his mouth, his nose, his eyes. Frantic, he clawed at the rope. Waves of pain washed through him. He couldn’t breathe. He could hardly see. Somehow he got his knees under him, but he was wrenched flat again. His lungs ached abominably, to the point where he thought they would explode.