This Gun for Hire Page 28

  They both ordered chicken and dumplings, a side of carrots, and asked for extra bread and beer. When the waitress was gone, Whit eyed Chick’s half-empty glass and reminded him to go easy.

  “I know you like it,” said Whit. “But I can’t say that I’ve ever seen it like you back. A commotion like the one you caused in Reidsville could have powerful ramifications if it happens here.”

  “You mean like we won’t get paid real money.”

  “That’s one. There are others.” Whit’s eyes darted toward a corner at the rear of the restaurant and waited for Chick to follow his gaze. When he did, he said, “That’s the town lawman sitting there. Hobbes, I believe is his name. He was pointed out to me this afternoon when we were shufflin’ those cases around.”

  Chick nodded. “Good to know, but I don’t have any plans to start a ruckus.” He chuckled. “Especially not one with a man carrying a stick. Lordy, whatever would I do?”

  “You never have plans. It just sorta happens—that’s what I’ve been noticing.” He lowered his voice until it reached its most menacing pitch. “And you better not have your gun tucked in the back of your trousers. We talked about that. No weapons. Not yet.”

  Chick picked up his glass and sipped his beer as dainty-like as a debutante. He put out a pinkie just to piss with his friend.

  Whit’s menace faded, replaced by a genial smile. “Tonight while you’re sleeping, I’m going to break that finger.”

  Uncertain, but alarmed now, Chick pulled his pinkie back. “C’mon, Nick, there ain’t no cause to do that. I was only having some fun with you. And I ain’t carrying.”

  Whitfield placed his large hands flat on the table as he leaned forward. He spoke softly. “Call me that again, and I will do more than break your finger. You understand?”

  Chick Tatters’s narrow face drained of color. He did not nod. He did not move.

  “Well?”

  Whispering, Chick said, “I forget your name.”

  “Jesus Christ.” When he saw Chick frown, he said, “That’s not my name, you idiot. I’m Marcus White.”

  “Right. Yeah, I remember now.”

  “I just told it to you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Whit itched to grab Chick by the throat, but he leaned back and snagged a thick slice of warm bread instead. Still speaking quietly so his deep, rumbling voice did not carry beyond their table, he said, “How the hell did you come up with Rocky?”

  “How’d you think? We’re in the middle of the mountains.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Your parents name you Rocky, or is that a sobriquet?”

  “I don’t know about that sober part, but I figure my parents named me Simon Peter Castro, and called me Rocky on account of Simon Peter being the rock and all. That’s from the Bible.”

  “Amazing,” Whit said under his breath. “No other word for it.”

  “Astonishing,” Chick said helpfully. “That’d be what you call a cinnamon.”

  “Uh-huh. Let’s leave it at amazing.”

  “Sure, Marcus.” He grinned. “See?” And feeling confident with his memory, he raised his glass and asked for another beer.

  Nick Whitfield turned his chair a few degrees so he was no longer squarely facing his partner. It was not widely known that he and Chick Tatters were distantly related through their mothers’ side of the family. Their familial connection rarely came up in conversation, and when it did, it was because Chick raised it, usually harking back to some incident in their childhood. Back then, long before Whit had grown into his oversized hands and feet and filled out the promise of his large-boned frame, it was Chick who had been the leader of their kinship boys gang, and Chick who had used his fists to great effect defending Whit from his tormentors. The head blows Chick had received in those early years of acting as the defender had gradually taken their toll, leaving him a couple of bullets shy of a full load.

  Whit reminded himself of that now. There was no denying that he had an obligation to Chick Tatters, but there was also no denying that some days were harder than others to live up to it.

  Chick followed Whit’s example and turned his chair an equal number of degrees toward the window. He was more comfortable with the lawman at his back anyway. There was no way of knowing if there was a wanted notice with his face on it posted in the constable’s office.

  “Well, look there, Marcus,” said Chick. He started to raise his hand to point, thought better of it, and lowered again. He wrapped his fingers around his glass of beer, figuring they were safer with something to occupy them. “That’s her, ain’t it?”

  Whitfield murmured agreement. He had noticed the pair of women walking along the opposite side of the street before Chick had. He would have been happier if Chick had not seen them. It was bound to lead to a conversation that he would rather have take place elsewhere. It was hard to turn Chick once he had the bit between his teeth.

  “Seems kind of provincial.”

  “Providential,” said Whit. “That’d be another cinnamon.”

  “How about that.” He nodded, impressed. “So what do you want to do? It’s like she’s teasing us.”

  Whitfield shook his shaggy head. “Teasing us? Think. She doesn’t know we’re here. The two of them are probably going into that shop over there. The one with the gown in the window. See how their steps are slowing?” Even as he was speaking, the women were making a turn toward the shop’s door. A moment later, they were inside.

  “Gone,” said Chick. “Feels like a missed opportunity.”

  “To do what?”

  Chick shrugged. “Shoot one, take the other.”

  “On Main Street. In the daylight. In front of more witnesses than I can count on my fingers. That does not sound workable to me. This is why you are not supposed to have a gun.”

  “I don’t. I swear. I was considering what might have been. Anyway, it’s not Main Street. They call it Ann Street. You know, after her. I saw a signpost.”

  Whit sighed. He was glad for the interruption of their waitress bringing plates of hot food and another beer for Chick. He thanked her and slid his chair closer to the table. “She puts me a little in mind of my Rosalie.” He tapped his jacket pocket where he kept his sister’s photograph.

  “There’s a resemblance,” said Chick and immediately changed the subject. “Have you thought about how hard this is going to be?”

  “It’s timing.”

  “Hmm. Hey, you should call me Rocky more often. Get used to it.” He picked up his fork and speared a dumpling. “Probably would help me get used to it, too.”

  “All right, Rocky. I can do that.”

  Chick grinned and tried not to stare at the hand Whit still had over the photograph. He plopped the dumpling in his mouth and then spoke around it. “I have to tell you, Marcus, I am not real fond of this job.”

  “It’s a little late, don’t you think, to be saying that? You could have spoken up weeks ago.”

  “Huh? We only got moved to Kittredge’s crew yesterday.”

  Whit’s features cleared as he realized which job Chick was talking about.

  “That’s right. Dynamite, Marcus. We are working with dynamite. Crates and crates of it. Must be thousands of sticks. When’s the last time you touched dynamite before yesterday?”

  “I’d have to say it was when we opened that safe on the express mail car between Omaha and Fort Kearney.”

  “That’s what I’m remembering, and that was a ways back. And come to think of it, how come I wasn’t invited to join you at the bank in Bailey?”

  “No one was. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision when I was passing through.” He forked some chicken. “Do I have to remind you that there were consequences? That’s why my likeness was on the posters. You can bet it wasn’t because of that Falls Hollow whore. Anyway, it turned out to be a good thing. I need
ed you to break me out of jail.”

  “Amos helped,” Chick said.

  “I told you, Amos had a piece in me getting caught, but I blame myself, too. I was feeling pretty good about what I’d done on my own, and hubris was my downfall. I said something about it, and then so did he. That was wrong. I should never have trusted him the way I do you.”

  “That’s ’cause we’re kin.”

  “Probably is.”

  The truth of that settled over them and they ate in silence for a time. It was Chick who finally broke it.

  “Still, don’t like working with Hercules,” he said, sopping up gravy with a chunk of bread. “Especially what that Kittredge fella has us doing now. You know how dangerous it is, don’t you? Those nitro crystals.” He lifted his hands, palms out, fingers spread, and parted them slowly. “Boom. We could be dead before we get to what we came for.”

  “Then we will have to be careful, won’t we?”

  Chick lowered his hands. “Real careful.” He jerked his chin toward the shop across the way. “What do you think they’re doing in there that takes so long?”

  Whit made a beak with his hand and opened and closed it several times. “They’re women,” he said. “Only two ways I know to shut them up.” He closed his hand into a fist and gave it a shake. “One’s like this.”

  “What’s the other?”

  “Eight hard inches of what I’ve got between my legs.”

  “So you are carrying your gun.”

  Too astonished to speak, Whitfield stared at Chick for a long moment before his laughter boomed as hard and loud as a nitro crystal explosion.

  * * *

  Calico and Beatrice shared a sofa in the front parlor while Ann sat across from them in one of the chairs. Ann was reading, or mostly pretending to. She had no particular interest in the exercises that her aunt was showing Miss Nash. She was reflecting back on an interesting encounter at the livery when she had been introduced to a gentle mare named Daisy and a gentler young man named Boone Abbot, who worked in the livery grooming and feeding the animals and mucking the stalls.

  Ann knew she must have seen Boone Abbot around Stonechurch before, but she could not remember a particular time or place or a single pleasantry they might have exchanged. Until he was standing beside her while she was tentatively stroking Daisy’s nose, he had not existed in her world, not even in her imagination. She blamed the dime novels for that. It was precisely as Miss Nash had warned her: too many scoundrels and too few good men.

  Was Boone Abbot a good man? she wondered. He seemed as if he might be. He was not shy, but he spoke quietly, and when he saw she was as skittish around him as she was around Daisy, he kept a respectful distance. At first he even talked to her through Daisy, and his voice drew her in so that she was the one who stepped closer. She did not mind when Daisy began to nuzzle her, and she did not notice when Miss Nash walked away, and she could not clearly recall when she joined the conversation Boone was having with Daisy, yet all of that had happened.

  He was tall and straight and had an easy smile that reminded her of Quill McKenna. Similarity ended there. Boone Abbot had hair the color of a polished chestnut and eyes that closely matched it. He had a narrow face and a nose that was a shade too big for it. The bump on the bridge gave it distinction. She must have stared at it, she thought, because he rubbed it now and then with his knuckle, and she wondered if he was self-conscious. He should not have been. She thought he was very fine. Very fine indeed.

  It was only when he was escorting her back to Miss Nash that she realized Boone Abbot walked with a slightly uneven gait. She wondered about it, but she did not ask. It did not change how she thought of him. It was as unimportant to her as the bump on his nose.

  Beatrice was demonstrating how Calico should rotate her arm in small and large circles when Ann said, “Why have I never met Boone Abbot before?”

  Both women turned to look at her. Beatrice’s features evidenced some surprise, while Calico’s evidenced mild interest.

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Beatrice. “Boone’s always been around. He is Abigail and James Abbot’s third son, but their fourth child. He has an older sister and a younger one, and then there are more boys. I believe there are seven children in all. Hardy family. No deaths to the usual diseases that afflict so many during childhood.” She took Calico’s wrist and raised it, encouraging her to start the clockwise circles. “Are you saying you met Boone Abbot?” she asked. “Or was it a rhetorical question, dear?”

  “I met him. Miss Nash introduced us.”

  Beatrice looked askance at Calico and received verification that this was true. She raised her eyebrows a fraction. “Tell me about it. I should like to hear how that came about.”

  Ann said, “Miss Nash recently pointed out to me that while I am able to employ all the requisite social graces in my home, I am neither comfortable nor confident outside of it.”

  “That is simply not true,” Beatrice said stoutly. “You have beautiful manners. Everyone says so.”

  “Aunt Beatrice,” said Ann. “I know you say that as a kindness, but Miss Nash is right. I say very little when we are out.”

  “Perhaps that is because I say too much. Is that it? Have I done you wrong?”

  “No. Not at all. And Miss Nash never suggested that you did. The point is that she realized that I should have lessons outside of the classroom.”

  “Shooting? Have we returned to that?”

  When Ann did not respond, Calico realized she was looking to her for help. She stopped rotating her arm. “This has nothing at all to do with those lessons, but if you hope we are done with them because of my unfortunate accident, I am afraid you are mistaken. This is something else entirely. Ann has been practicing conversing with me as if I were Mrs. Neeley-Brown or Mrs. Birden or Mr. Zimmer from the laundry. She would like to step forward instead of hanging back, and she would like to know more about the people she passes and never sees. She wants to be more like you in that regard, Beatrice. Ann admires the way you can speak to anyone and that you know something about everyone.”

  Beatrice’s hands came together; her fingers twisted. She moved to the edge of the sofa cushion, perching there like a fluttering bird. “Oh, but I had not realized. Ann, you are such a good hostess to your father’s guests. You always know what to say to make them welcome. I am certain you impress them. And these are important people to Stonechurch Mining. My chatter embarrasses me when they are around. I can say quite truthfully that I am happy to excuse myself when Ramsey wants to discuss business matters.”

  Ann said, “It is not hard to be gracious to them when they expect nothing from me except that I be gracious. They would be alarmed if I expressed an interest in the company, and I am not certain their alarm would be any greater than my father’s.”

  “Are you interested, Ann?” asked Beatrice.

  “Of course I am, but that is for another discussion. Right now I want to talk about Boone Abbot. What do you know about him? Besides the fact that he is the third son?”

  Beatrice waved at Calico again to resume her exercises. “Well, he is certainly a nice young man. And conscientious. He has that in his favor. When I rent a rig, he always goes over the leather seat with a cloth and helps me manage that first step. I would even go so far as to call him gallant.”

  Ann closed her book and put it aside. She leaned in, her expression earnest as only a youthful countenance can be. “I thought the very same thing, Aunt Beatrice. The very same.”

  Calico continued to rotate her arm in smaller circles as she quietly excused herself. She was careful to walk around the back of the sofa and not between Ann and Beatrice. She smiled to herself when neither aunt nor niece made a conversational pause to bid her good night, and that smile was still lingering when she reached her bedroom.

  * * *

  Quill turned up the collar of his coat. Tonight the
wind seemed strong enough to tunnel through the mountain. It would not, of course, but as it came roaring through the crevice under his feet, he thought it was capable of lifting the ramshackle footbridge off its moorings. It was an unsettling thought, and he picked up his pace to reach solid ground.

  George Kittredge was not at home. Quill had already stopped there with a basket of warm crullers for the entire Kittredge clan. Beatrice had given him the idea when she mentioned her activities the day before. Ramsey had been unusually quiet at dinner that night and merely pushed his food around his plate while Beatrice held court with her news about the men and their families. Quill could not tell if Ramsey was uninterested or if he was on the cusp of not feeling well. Ann broached the subject of his health at one point, but Ramsey dismissed her concerns. After that, no more was said.

  Quill approached the entrance to the tunnel where the dynamite was stored. This was George Kittredge’s domain. He could often be found within a few yards of the entrance, speaking to one or more of his crew. It was typical for him to be leaning over a survey map of the mountain and the mines, pointing out where the charges would be placed for the next blast. He was meticulous, and Quill had seen firsthand that he was respected not only for the breadth of his knowledge but also for his willingness to share in the difficult and dangerous tasks.

  That meant, Quill supposed, that Kittredge was deep inside the tunnel where storage for the dynamite had been carved out of the rock. Because of the nitroglycerin’s sensitivity to freezing temperatures, underground storage was a necessity in the mountains. There was no one at the entrance, which was not the general practice. Several lanterns were hanging on pegs driven into the mountainside for the purpose of lighting the way. Quill took one down and held it out as he stepped inside the timbered adit.