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Authors: Loren D. Estleman
Tags: Action & Adventure, Western
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down, I noticed that his arm was mottled all over with X-shaped scars.
Marshal Honyocker came in from the back presently to investigate the shots. Showed the dead snake, he stood sucking a cheek. His spectacles glittered. "Conducting business, Wedlock?"
"This here's a private party," replied the saloonkeeper.
"See it stays private." He withdrew.
After that, the others in line were a blur. Wedlock was interviewing the last man when a newcomer entered. He was slat-thin in clothes that hung on him like wash on a line and his face was a matting of black beard that started just below his eyes and grew down past his chin so that when he grinned, a gold tooth shone like a nugget in a bed of moss. He had a slouch hat pulled low and his right arm hung in a sling of filthy muslin. He was carrying a coiled bullwhip in his left hand.
"Afeared I went and missed it." He squirted tobacco juice into a cuspidor, making it wobble. "Bull's-eye! They ain't ary a soul in Armadillo'd give a honest man the time of night."
His nasal whine had the same effect on me as the shining object in my dream. I grasped Mr. Knox's sleeve. "That is Pike!" I exclaimed, pointing. "The man with the whip the night Flynn was killed!"
Nazarene Pike turned murderous eyes on me. The hand holding the whip drew back. Mr. Knox reached inside his pocket, but before he could bring out the pistol, a metallic crunch announced that Ben Wedlock's reflexes were faster. The Remington was trained on Pike, who froze.
"What's this about killing?" The saloonkeeper's attention remained on Pike, but the question was directed at me.
I glanced at Mr. Knox, who nodded shortly. I said, "He used to ride with Jotham Flynn, the Quantrill man I told you about. He was one of the men who killed him."
"A raider, you say?" Wedlock turned his head my way. Suddenly the whip lashed out, snatching the Remington out of his grasp. Before anyone could react, Pike vaulted the bar and ran out the back. Mr. Knox gave chase, weapon drawn. Presently he returned from the storeroom. "Twice now that man has eluded me," he said. "There will not be a third time. How many other nightriders are you recruiting, Wedlock?"
"None, if I've a voice." Rubbing his hand, he turned to the bartender. "Hold that man for the marshal if he comes back. Shoot him if he gives you cause. I'll have no bushwhackers on this expedition."
"I think it is up to me what we will and will not have," Mr. Knox reminded him.
"Yes, sir. Just looking out for your interests."
"That fellow seemed to know his way about the place."
"I do a good trade here. I cannot answer for everyone who moves in and out."
The schoolmaster pocketed his pistol. "Wedlock, I've reserved a Pullman and a stock car on the ten-ten to Cheyenne tomorrow morning. You will have your band of heroes at the station. Each man will supply his own provisions and mount, or arrange for them in Cheyenne. This should get them started." He removed a sheaf of notes from his wallet and laid them on the table.
Wedlock seized the money. "Count on us."
"I intend to. What became of the Judge?"
"Present." Judge Blod stepped from behind a coatrack. As we went out the back, Mr. Knox asked, "Judge, what have we wrought?"
Behind us, Christopher Agnes was demanding to know who was going to pay him for his damaged rattlesnake.
Chapter 8
Â
WE BEGIN OUR QUEST
Â
O ur group attracted considerable attention at the depot later that morning. Passengers, greeters, and hangers-on forsook their various pursuits to stare at the men in rough clothes carrying rucksacks and blanket rolls, from the ends of which protruded rifles and carbines of every make and manufacture, yet forswore to ask them what they were about. Those in our party who had horses led them to the stock car for loading and stood around pummeling one another and laughing coarsely at tales of past journeys and adventures. Christopher Agnes arrived with a squirming burlap sack and the notion of hawking live rattlesnakes
Marshal Honyocker came in from the back presently to investigate the shots. Showed the dead snake, he stood sucking a cheek. His spectacles glittered. "Conducting business, Wedlock?"
"This here's a private party," replied the saloonkeeper.
"See it stays private." He withdrew.
After that, the others in line were a blur. Wedlock was interviewing the last man when a newcomer entered. He was slat-thin in clothes that hung on him like wash on a line and his face was a matting of black beard that started just below his eyes and grew down past his chin so that when he grinned, a gold tooth shone like a nugget in a bed of moss. He had a slouch hat pulled low and his right arm hung in a sling of filthy muslin. He was carrying a coiled bullwhip in his left hand.
"Afeared I went and missed it." He squirted tobacco juice into a cuspidor, making it wobble. "Bull's-eye! They ain't ary a soul in Armadillo'd give a honest man the time of night."
His nasal whine had the same effect on me as the shining object in my dream. I grasped Mr. Knox's sleeve. "That is Pike!" I exclaimed, pointing. "The man with the whip the night Flynn was killed!"
Nazarene Pike turned murderous eyes on me. The hand holding the whip drew back. Mr. Knox reached inside his pocket, but before he could bring out the pistol, a metallic crunch announced that Ben Wedlock's reflexes were faster. The Remington was trained on Pike, who froze.
"What's this about killing?" The saloonkeeper's attention remained on Pike, but the question was directed at me.
I glanced at Mr. Knox, who nodded shortly. I said, "He used to ride with Jotham Flynn, the Quantrill man I told you about. He was one of the men who killed him."
"A raider, you say?" Wedlock turned his head my way. Suddenly the whip lashed out, snatching the Remington out of his grasp. Before anyone could react, Pike vaulted the bar and ran out the back. Mr. Knox gave chase, weapon drawn. Presently he returned from the storeroom. "Twice now that man has eluded me," he said. "There will not be a third time. How many other nightriders are you recruiting, Wedlock?"
"None, if I've a voice." Rubbing his hand, he turned to the bartender. "Hold that man for the marshal if he comes back. Shoot him if he gives you cause. I'll have no bushwhackers on this expedition."
"I think it is up to me what we will and will not have," Mr. Knox reminded him.
"Yes, sir. Just looking out for your interests."
"That fellow seemed to know his way about the place."
"I do a good trade here. I cannot answer for everyone who moves in and out."
The schoolmaster pocketed his pistol. "Wedlock, I've reserved a Pullman and a stock car on the ten-ten to Cheyenne tomorrow morning. You will have your band of heroes at the station. Each man will supply his own provisions and mount, or arrange for them in Cheyenne. This should get them started." He removed a sheaf of notes from his wallet and laid them on the table.
Wedlock seized the money. "Count on us."
"I intend to. What became of the Judge?"
"Present." Judge Blod stepped from behind a coatrack. As we went out the back, Mr. Knox asked, "Judge, what have we wrought?"
Behind us, Christopher Agnes was demanding to know who was going to pay him for his damaged rattlesnake.
Chapter 8
Â
WE BEGIN OUR QUEST
Â
O ur group attracted considerable attention at the depot later that morning. Passengers, greeters, and hangers-on forsook their various pursuits to stare at the men in rough clothes carrying rucksacks and blanket rolls, from the ends of which protruded rifles and carbines of every make and manufacture, yet forswore to ask them what they were about. Those in our party who had horses led them to the stock car for loading and stood around pummeling one another and laughing coarsely at tales of past journeys and adventures. Christopher Agnes arrived with a squirming burlap sack and the notion of hawking live rattlesnakes
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