“I enjoyed her visit more than I thought I would,” Clara said.
“I’m glad,” Frewen replied. “I know that she thinks the world of you.”
“Hiyaaaah!” Ed shouted, popping his whip over the head of the six-horse team. The horses started forward and with yet a second pop of his whip, Ed started the team into a rapid trot.
Out at Thistledown Ranch, a rider dismounted, reached into his saddle boot and pulled out his rifle. Neither Winchester nor Henry, this was a Sharps .50 caliber with a thirty-four-inch barrel and a double-set trigger. He carried the rifle in his right hand, hanging low as he started toward the front door of the house.
“Hold it, Mister, where do you think you are going?” Reed called.
When the man looked back toward him, Reed gasped. The man had some sort of skin condition that made his face beet red. In addition, the skin was so tightly stretched that it gave one the impression that he was staring at a red skull. He had very thin lips, and his eyes were more yellow than brown. Not since he was a child, and attended church and Sunday school at the insistence of his mother, had Reed ever given any thought to Satan. But if Satan had suddenly appeared in front of him, Reed was sure he would look exactly like this man.
“Is this the Thistledown ranch?” the man asked.
“Yeah, that’s what it says on the gate. Who are you?”
“My name is Silva. Carlos Silva, and I have come to offer my services to Mr. Teasdale,” the man said, his voice a sibilant sigh.
“What sort of services would that be, Mr. Silva?”
“Whatever service Mr. Teasdale might want,” Silva said, emphasizing his statement with a slight lift of the rifle he was holding.
“There is a lady in the house,” Reed said. “Mr. Teasdale never discusses business around her.” He pointed to the stable. “Suppose you wait over there. I’ll go get Mr. Teasdale and bring him to you.”
Silva nodded, but said nothing. He walked over to the stable and leaned back against the unpainted and sun-bleached wall as he waited. A few minutes later Reed returned with Teasdale.
“I’m William Teasdale,” Teasdale said. “I understand you wanted to speak with me?”
“I’ve heard that you want someone killed,” Silva said.
“What? What would make you say such a thing?”
“Perhaps I have made a mistake,” Silva said. “I’ll just be on my way then.” He started toward his horse.
“Wait!” Teasdale called after him.
Silva stopped, but he didn’t turn around.
“Where did you hear something like that?”
“I heard it from Kyle Houston.”
“Houston is dead,” Teasdale said.
“Yes. He was stupid. And so were you to hire him.”
“Hold on there!” Reed said. “You don’t come on Thistledown and call Mr. Teasdale stupid!”
Silva gave Reed only the barest glance, then he turned his attention back to Teasdale.
“I am expensive,” he said. “But, unlike Houston, I will deliver.”
“Are you faster than Houston was?”
“I’m not fast at all,” Silva said.
“Then how do you intend to—uh—do the job?” Teasdale asked.
“With this.” This time Silva lifted the rifle high enough that Teasdale got a good look at it.
“That’s a most unusual-looking rifle,” he said. “Two triggers? Why two triggers when it has but one barrel?”
“One trigger sets the other, taking up all the slack so that it fires with the lightest of finger pressure,” Silva said. “Would you like to see a demonstration?”
“Yes.”
Silva took a dime from his pocket and handed it to Reed, then he pointed to a fence post that was at least one hundred yards away. “Get yourself a piece of cord and tie this coin to that fence post,” he said.
Reed laughed. “Are you serious? You won’t even be able to see it from here, let alone hit it.”
“If I miss, I’ll ride away with no further attempt to sell my services,” Silva said. He looked at Teasdale. “But if I hit it, you will hire me to kill Jensen. And my price is five thousand dollars.”
Teasdale was silent for a moment.
“Do I shoot or not?”
Teasdale held up his finger. “One shot,” he said. “No excuses if you miss.”
Silva nodded.
“Go put the dime up, Mr. Reed,” Teasdale said.
As Reed started toward the distant fence post, Silva walked back over to his horse. Reaching down into his saddlebag, he removed something long and black, then he returned. It wasn’t until then that Teasdale saw that it was a telescopic sight.
Teasdale put the scope on, made a few adjustments, then waited until Reed returned.
“I got it tied on,” Reed said. “Can you see it? It’s about six inches below the top of the post.”
“I can see it,” Teasdale said. “But barely.”
Silva loaded the huge bullet into the breach, then, cocking the rifle, he raised it to his shoulder, set one trigger, then bent his head down to look through the sight. He held it for about three seconds before he pulled the trigger.
The resultant boom of the heavy-caliber round rolled out over the yard, startling the horses in the stable and corral so that several of them whinnied while others began galloping around. The other ranch hands on the place, those who weren’t actually out on the range, began to appear from various locations, the cook shack, the machine shop, the barn, and the carpentry shop, drawn by the loud explosion.
“What happened?”
“What was that?”
“Mr. Teasdale, is ever’thing all right?”
“Everything is fine,” Teasdale called back with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Mr. Reed, go retrieve the dime,” he said.
“Oh, there won’t be any dime,” Silva said.
“If there is no dime, how will I know if you hit it?”
“You’ll know,” Silva said. “Mr. Reed,” he called. “Do you have a pocket knife?”
“I do.”
“You will need it to retrieve what is left of the dime,” Silva said.
By now the other hands, having figured out what was going on, came to stand near Teasdale and Silva. They watched with interest as Reed took out his knife and began digging around in the fence post. A moment later he returned, holding his right hand palm up, fist closed.
“Is that the dime?” Teasdale asked.
“Some of it,” Reed said. He opened his hand to show nothing but slivers of silver.
“Son of a bitch!” one of the hands said. “Are you telling me that he hit a dime on that post from here?”
“That’s what he done, all right,” Reed said.
“Very well, Mr. Silva, the job is yours, with one caveat,” Teasdale said. “You get nothing until the job is completed.”
Silva held out his hand. “A dime,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I would like you to replace the dime.”
Teasdale laughed. “All right,” he said, sticking his hand in his pocket. When he pulled it out, he was holding a silver dollar. “I don’t have a dime, but it was worth a dollar to see the show.”
“Thank you,” Silva said, taking the dollar. He started toward his horse.
“Where are you going?” Reed called.
“To do the job I was hired to do,” Silva replied.
Chapter Nineteen
Matt was with a group of cowboys who had been rounding up cattle, and though he hadn’t been hired as a cowboy, he did lend a hand here and there when it was required. He awakened just before dawn, rolled out of his blankets, pulled on his boots, then sat staring into the fire. Although he was an early riser, he was not the first one up. Tibby Ware, the black cook, had been up for an hour, and now he stood in the light of his lantern at the lowered tailgate of his wagon, rolling out biscuits for breakfast. He had already made coffee, and the aroma permeated the encampment area.
Just beyond the bubble of light created by the cook’s lantern and the campfire, the cows that had already been rounded up stood in the quiet darkness, watched over by a single night rider. Matt walked over to the large blue coffeepot which was suspended over an open fire.