“You’re barking up the wrong redwood, Marshal,” Frank said with a smile. “I’d never even heard of the Terror until yesterday. I don’t know what it is. I just want to put a stop to the killing.”
“A gunfighter, wanting to put a stop to killing.” Sarcasm dripped from Price’s voice. “If that don’t beat all.”
Frank suppressed the flash of annoyance he felt at the marshal’s attitude. Price was just trying to put a burr under his saddle, and Frank wasn’t going to let him do that.
They reached the undertaking parlor and found the proprietor, a fat man with a round, unaccountably jolly face, waiting for them. “Take the deceased around back,” the undertaker told Frank. “I heard about you bringing a body into town, Mr. Morgan, so I have a couple of my assistants waiting back there to take charge of the remains.”
“Before I do that,” Frank said, “do you recognize this hombre?”
The undertaker studied the dead man’s face for a moment, then shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. But then, I don’t pay much attention to what folks look like until I see them under these circumstances, when they’re never at their best.”
Frank turned the dead man over the undertaker’s assistants. As they left the place, Marshal Price asked, “What are you going to do now, Morgan?”
“I thought I’d get some lunch, and then I plan to go out and try to pick up the Terror’s trail again.”
“How do you figure to kill a thing that can do”—Price jerked his head toward the undertaking parlor to indicate the corpse they had just left there—“that?”
“Reckon I’ll figure that out when the time comes,” Frank said. He didn’t mention the fact that he didn’t plan to kill the Terror as long as there was a chance the thing was really Ben Chamberlain. He had given his word to Nancy Chamberlain.
So what he really had to figure out was a way to trap a creature that could tear a man limb from limb and move through the woods with the speed and stealth of a ghost.
That was all.
Chapter 15
Grimshaw looked around as he went into the Bull o’ the Woods Saloon. His men were scattered around the establishment’s big main room, drinking in groups of two or three, but not clustered together so it was obvious that they knew each other. That was the way Emmett Bosworth wanted it. The timber magnate didn’t want anyone in Eureka suspecting that he had assembled a gang of hired killers.
As Grimshaw went to the bar, he caught the eye of the man on the other side of the hardwood. He gave the bartender a tiny nod and then said, “Give me a beer, Harry.”
The drink juggler drew the beer, wiped the bar in front of Grimshaw with his rag, and then set down the foaming mug. When Grimshaw picked up the mug, his other hand moved smoothly to rest on the spot where the beer had been. That move with the rag had allowed Harry the bartender to slip a key under the mug, and now Grimshaw’s hand rested on it without anyone being the wiser. When he moved his hand, the key went with it.
The key unlocked a door that opened from the alley behind the Bull o’ the Woods into the saloon’s back room. There was nothing in that room except a table and some chairs. From time to time, private poker games took place there. Months ago, Grimshaw had slipped Harry a tidy little sum to insure that he and the other men working for Bosworth would have a place to meet where no one could observe them together.
Grimshaw drank about half the beer, then left the rest and walked out of the saloon after tossing a coin on the bar to pay for the drink. The others knew what to do. After making sure that no one on the street was paying any attention to him, he stepped into the narrow passage beside the building and made his way to the alley in back. He unlocked the door, stepped into the private room. It had one window, but the shade was tightly drawn.
Within minutes, the first of the other men showed up, seeking entrance with a discreet knock. One by one, they filtered into the meeting place until all thirteen remaining members of the gang were there.
“You got it?” Hooley asked eagerly. “You got the money?”
Grimshaw took the roll of bills from inside his shirt. He had already discreetly peeled off his share and stashed it in one of his pockets. As he tossed the money on the table, he said, “What do you think? There it is, boys. Twenty-eight hundred dollars, as promised.”
“Wait a minute,” Radburn said. “There’s only thirteen of us here, not countin’ you, Jack. What about Nichols?”
Grimshaw shook his head. “Nichols won’t be collecting his share.” They would hear about it sooner or later anyway, so he thought he might as well go ahead and tell them the news. “The Terror got him. Frank Morgan brought his body in from the woods.”
“Morgan!” one of the men said. “I heard he was in these parts. How do you know Morgan didn’t kill Nichols?”
“Because he wasn’t shot,” Grimshaw replied flatly. “His back was clawed so wide open that most of his blood spilled out.”
“Son of a bitch,” Radburn said in a soft, awed voice. He turned his head to look at Hooley. So did several of the other men.
“What?” Hooley demanded. “You think I should have stayed there and got ripped open, too?” He started to cough, and had to cover his mouth with his hand.
“What’s done is done,” Grimshaw said in a hard, emotionless voice. “What it amounts to is that there’s an extra two hundred bucks in that roll. You fellas can split it up any way you want to.”
“I don’t really care,” one man said, “as long as Hooley don’t get any of the extra.”
Another man jerked his head in a curt nod. “Yeah, that sounds good to me, too.” Mutters of agreement came from several of the others.
For a moment, Hooley looked like he was going to fly into a rage. But then he controlled himself with a visible effort and his lip curled in a snarl.
“Take it,” he snapped. “I don’t want any of the damned money except my share.”
“Fine,” Radburn said. He scooped up the roll from the table and began passing out the bills. One of the men was pretty good at ciphering, so he figured out that if they split the extra money evenly, everybody would get an extra $16.66.
“How the hell are we gonna do that?” one man demanded. “These are twenty-dollar bills.”
Grimshaw took a couple of double eagles from his pocket and slapped the gold pieces down on the table. “There you go, boys,” he said. “That’ll make it come out even, an extra twenty apiece.”
“We’re obliged, Jack,” Radburn said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“We’re all in this together, ain’t we?”
Radburn gave Hooley a significant look. “Most of us are anyway.”
Grimshaw laughed and clapped a hand on Radburn’s shoulder. “You were playin’ peacemaker earlier, so don’t go stirrin’ up trouble now,” he advised. Then he addressed the whole group. “The boss said he’d have some more work for us in a while. Until then, just lie low. You can have a good time, but stay out of trouble. And whatever you do, watch what you say. No talking about anything that happened today.”
Radburn shook his head. “I don’t reckon any of us would much want to talk about that anyway, Jack.”
Grimshaw knew exactly what his fellow gunman meant. Bushwhacking was one thing, but mutilating a bunch of corpses was something else entirely. There was a time in his life when he would have said no to such a job and ridden away.
But that time was gone. Grimshaw didn’t have any family left, no home to return to, damn few friends. He had his job, and by God, he was going to do it, no matter how unpleasant it got sometimes.