“We’d like strict privacy here,” the lawyer said, emphasizing the word.
“Well,” Longarm replied, “we’re not leaving this office, if that’s what you have in mind. So I guess that you’ll just have to put your damned heads together and whisper like a bunch of schoolchildren.”
“That man is finished!” Huffington raged. “Finished!”
Longarm grinned. If he could prod Abe Huffington into attacking him, then he would be able to deck the offensive sonofabitch as well as put him under arrest for assaulting an officer of the law. That would suit Longarm right down to the ground.
The lawyer understood this, and was able to calm Huffington until they were both ushered inside Mead’s cell. Longarm took the precaution of locking the cell behind them, and then he went back to sit and wait. Without any preamble, Mead, Huffington, and the lawyer put their heads together and began to confer in frantic whispers.
Longarm jammed an unlit cheroot into his mouth and offered one to Marshal Jones, who declined it. They both watched the huddled group of men with a mixture of amusement and interest. Longarm couldn’t overhear what was being discussed, but he had a pretty good idea. What he did not Yet know was if Abe Huffington had any prior knowledge of the murder of his son or of the ambush of Pete Walker.
“You murdering fool!” Huffington suddenly exploded.
Before anyone could react, the older man attacked the already badly beaten Art Mead. The powerful Huffington sledged his huge fists into Mead’s purple and swollen face, then grabbed the dazed prisoner by the hair and smashed his skull over and over against the cell’s rock wall in a series of sickening thuds.
Bright red blood trickled from Art Mead’s ears and mouth. His body went limp, but Huffington was crazy and kept pounding his head into the stone.
“Marshal!” the lawyer shrieked as he tried vainly to pull Abe Huffington away. “Help!”
It took Longarm a few seconds to get the cell door unlocked. When he did, it required all of his strength to drag Abe Huffington off the unconscious prisoner, then knock him practically senseless, before the big politician was finally subdued.
Ashen-faced, the lawyer bolted out of the cell and began to vomit on the floor. Marshal Jones rushed past Longarm to Art Mead’s side. He felt for a pulse, but it was missing. He placed his ear to Mead’s chest, listened carefully, then shook his head.
“Mead is dead.”
“Well,” Longarm said, studying Abe Huffington, “then we’ve got a new prisoner to charge with murder. Abe, get up!”
Huffington was still on his knees, head bent, now sobbing. Longarm motioned Jones to help him drag Art Mead’s body out of the cell. When that was done, Longarm went back into the cell and stood over Abe Huffington.
“So,” he said, “you weren’t an accomplice to the murders.”
“Hell, no!” Huffington choked. “I loved Noah!”
“But he was going to marry Miss Vacarro and that could have derailed your political career. Maybe you just couldn’t bear that possibility.”
Huffington looked up, and his beefy face was a mask of twisted grief. “I’d never kill my own son!”
“But you just killed Art Mead. And Nick was a part of the plot to murder Noah. Mr. Huffington, you can say goodbye to becoming California’s next governor. Even with a sharp attorney, you’re going to go to prison for a long time and your murdering son Nick is going to the gallows.”
Huffington sobbed again, then pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and blew his nose. “I want Nick to burn in Hell for his role in killing Noah!”
The lawyer shouted, “Don’t say another word, Mr. Huffington! Not a single word!”
“Why?” Huffington cried. “That scum told us everything. I knew Nick was wild and had a mean streak, but I never believed that he would be a part of murdering his own brother! Blanton actually stabbed Noah to death, but they-“
“Mr. Huffington, I beg you!” the lawyer wailed. “Say nothing more!”
“You’d probably better listen to your attorney,” Longarm advised. “But for what it’s worth, there’s no doubt in my mind that you didn’t have anything to do with murdering Marshal Walker—or your son. Instead, you just killed our prisoner, and you’re now under arrest for murder.”
Longarm stepped outside the cell and looked at the attorney. “You want back in there to advise your client?”
“No,” the attorney said in a trembling voice as he gazed vacantly down at his white shirt, now stained with fresh blood and flecks of his own vomit. “There doesn’t seem to be a lot of point in that at the moment, does there.”
“I don’t think so,” Longarm replied. “Do you know where I can find and arrest Nick?”
“No.”
“I do.” Huffington raised his head. He appeared to have aged ten years in the last ten minutes.
“Mr. Huffington, please don’t say anything more!” the attorney begged.
“Nick is on his way to Newcastle.”
Longarm’s blood went cold. “To murder Agnes.”
“I don’t know why he’s going there,” Huffington said. “I just know that’s where he’s gone.”
Longarm shot a glance at Marshal Jones. “How could Mead have gotten word to Nick about our Newcastle witness!”
“I don’t know,” Jones replied, throwing up his hands. “While you were taking a nap, there were no visitors, but Mead did wake up and ask for a paper and pencil. Said he wanted to write down the name of an attorney … or some such thing.”
“An attorney?” Longarm shook his head. “I’ll bet anything he wrote a note to Nick and tossed it through the bars of his cell window. And the note would have told Nick about Agnes being the key to a conviction. That’s why Nick is on his way to Newcastle!”
Longarm sprinted for the door. He had to get to Newcastle in a hurry, or that poor, wretched woman and her children were as good as dead.
Chapter 17
Longarm barreled out the door and grabbed his horse. He swung into the saddle and rode hard for Newcastle. It was only three miles down the line, but he realized that he would have to ride another couple of miles more in order to reach Agnes’s shack.
Longarm blamed himself for taking a short nap. Had he stayed awake, he would have seen through Art Mead’s request for writing materials. Tragically, his mistake just might have cost Agnes and perhaps even her brood of children their lives.
It seemed to take forever to reach Newcastle, and a lot of heads turned as Longarm galloped hard on through town heading west toward the turnoff that would bring him to Agnes’s dilapidated shack.
Longarm could hear the pack of hounds as soon as he turned off the main road and started down the narrow, winding lane toward the woman’s shack. The dogs sounded so mournful that the hair stood up on the back of Longarm’s neck. He forced his exhausted mount down the lane, and when he burst into the clearing, he saw Nick Huffington standing in the middle of the yard. Agnes was sprawled across her porch, lifeless hands clutching her shotgun. Longarm saw dead hounds scattered all over the yard, two of them howling in agony, gut-shot and slowly dying.
He saw no children’s bodies, and realized that they had probably scattered like frightened quail into the forest. Nick was preparing to go hunt them down and kill them too.
“You’re under arrest!” Longarm shouted, drawing his six-gun.
Nick unleashed a bullet that struck Longarm’s horse squarely in the chest. The running animal did a somersault that catapulted Longarm over its head. He hit the ground and tried to roll, but struck a rock. His Colt was knocked flying into the brush.
Nick fired again, and Longarm felt hot lead scorch the side of his head. He almost lost consciousness, and tried to scramble to his feet, but was too dazed. Longarm figured he was probably going to die in the next second or two. Lying on his stomach, he wormed his hand in under his coat and palmed the derringer that was attached to his watch fob and chain. It was a solid brass, twin-barrel .44 and it had saved Longarm’s bacon more than once. He prayed that it would save him again.