and torn clothing. Clay tried not to look at the gaping wound, concentrating instead on the blood-splattered face.
“Know him?” he asked Essex.
Essex nodded. “Name’s Sam Grady. He’s a shoulder hitter.”
“One of Hopkins’s men?”
“Runs with them sometimes. Mostly he’s an independent operator.”
“Pretty smart of Wes. He hires this fellow to kill us, then figures he can deny any involvement.”
With his knife, Clay cleared the jam in the Henry repeater and tossed the weapon back to Essex, then he retrieved his scattered ammunition purchases. Miraculously, the bottle of rye had not broken when it fell.
“You taken up drinking as a hobby?” Essex asked as Clay picked it up.
“No,” Clay said, “it’s a present for someone.” Then he added, “We better get back. The jail’s wide open with both of us gone.”
Clay and Essex left the Triangle and walked down Tucson Street. It was cloudy now, with gusts of wind. The temperature was falling. They passed the hotel where Hopkins’s men were congregated, watching the approaching storm. Wes and Lee were with them. Wes was smoking a cheroot; he smiled as Clay and Essex came up. Lee just stared.
Wes said, “Heard shooting at the end of the Triangle, Marshal. You have some trouble?”
“You know damn well I did,” Clay replied. “You broke your word to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play stupid, Wes, it doesn’t become you. Don’t deny that you know Sam Grady. Don’t deny you hired him to kill me. It was only a miracle he didn’t succeed.”
Wes gestured with the cheroot. “Sure, I know Grady, but I swear to you, I didn’t hire him to kill you. Nor did anyone who works for me.”
He seemed to be telling the truth. Clay said, “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”
Wes was all innocence. “It must have been a group of concerned citizens.”
Lee Hopkins and some of Wes’s men laughed. Wes went on, “Face it, Chandler—you’re licked. Quit being stubborn and let Vance go.”
“Not a chance, Wes.”
Wes shrugged. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning, at nine twenty-seven.”
Clay and Essex kept walking. Essex said, “Looks like we got the whole town against us now.”
“You’re welcome to back out, if you want,” Clay told him.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Essex said.
“Yes, I would.”
“Well, it ain’t gonna happen. We’re in this together— partner.”
16
It was dusk when Clay and Essex returned to the marshal’s office. The wind had picked up, blowing paper and empty cans along the street. To the west, the storm clouds towered high above the town, like some malevolent, amorphous beast.
Inside, Clay laid the freshly purchased ammunition on his desk. Then he went to the cells, where he handed the bottle of rye to Vance. “What’s this?” the young outlaw asked.
“A present,” Clay told him. Essex looked on, puzzled.
Vance was suspicious. “It ain’t poisoned or nothin’, is it?”
“It better not be. It cost me two dollars and twenty-five cents.”
Vance uncorked the bottle and drank—first a sip, then a long pull. “Ah, that’s good,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He drank again and sighed with relief, like a terminally ill man who at the last moment receives life-saving medicine. He held the bottle toward Clay. “Care for a snort, Marshal?”
“No, thanks,” Clay replied. “I ain’t much of a drinker.”
Vance didn’t offer the bottle to Essex.
Clay moved to the broken front window to view the approaching storm. Sheet lightning flickered across the turbid black sky. Thunder rumbled more loudly. People were taking cover, but Wes Hopkins’s men held their ground, watching the jail.
In his cell Vance was happily slugging down the rye. “How ’bout a game of cards?” he called to Clay.
“Sorry. I don’t gamble much, either.”
“Damn,” said Vance. “Regular bluenose, ain’t you?” He took another drink and began
“Know him?” he asked Essex.
Essex nodded. “Name’s Sam Grady. He’s a shoulder hitter.”
“One of Hopkins’s men?”
“Runs with them sometimes. Mostly he’s an independent operator.”
“Pretty smart of Wes. He hires this fellow to kill us, then figures he can deny any involvement.”
With his knife, Clay cleared the jam in the Henry repeater and tossed the weapon back to Essex, then he retrieved his scattered ammunition purchases. Miraculously, the bottle of rye had not broken when it fell.
“You taken up drinking as a hobby?” Essex asked as Clay picked it up.
“No,” Clay said, “it’s a present for someone.” Then he added, “We better get back. The jail’s wide open with both of us gone.”
Clay and Essex left the Triangle and walked down Tucson Street. It was cloudy now, with gusts of wind. The temperature was falling. They passed the hotel where Hopkins’s men were congregated, watching the approaching storm. Wes and Lee were with them. Wes was smoking a cheroot; he smiled as Clay and Essex came up. Lee just stared.
Wes said, “Heard shooting at the end of the Triangle, Marshal. You have some trouble?”
“You know damn well I did,” Clay replied. “You broke your word to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play stupid, Wes, it doesn’t become you. Don’t deny that you know Sam Grady. Don’t deny you hired him to kill me. It was only a miracle he didn’t succeed.”
Wes gestured with the cheroot. “Sure, I know Grady, but I swear to you, I didn’t hire him to kill you. Nor did anyone who works for me.”
He seemed to be telling the truth. Clay said, “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”
Wes was all innocence. “It must have been a group of concerned citizens.”
Lee Hopkins and some of Wes’s men laughed. Wes went on, “Face it, Chandler—you’re licked. Quit being stubborn and let Vance go.”
“Not a chance, Wes.”
Wes shrugged. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning, at nine twenty-seven.”
Clay and Essex kept walking. Essex said, “Looks like we got the whole town against us now.”
“You’re welcome to back out, if you want,” Clay told him.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Essex said.
“Yes, I would.”
“Well, it ain’t gonna happen. We’re in this together— partner.”
16
It was dusk when Clay and Essex returned to the marshal’s office. The wind had picked up, blowing paper and empty cans along the street. To the west, the storm clouds towered high above the town, like some malevolent, amorphous beast.
Inside, Clay laid the freshly purchased ammunition on his desk. Then he went to the cells, where he handed the bottle of rye to Vance. “What’s this?” the young outlaw asked.
“A present,” Clay told him. Essex looked on, puzzled.
Vance was suspicious. “It ain’t poisoned or nothin’, is it?”
“It better not be. It cost me two dollars and twenty-five cents.”
Vance uncorked the bottle and drank—first a sip, then a long pull. “Ah, that’s good,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He drank again and sighed with relief, like a terminally ill man who at the last moment receives life-saving medicine. He held the bottle toward Clay. “Care for a snort, Marshal?”
“No, thanks,” Clay replied. “I ain’t much of a drinker.”
Vance didn’t offer the bottle to Essex.
Clay moved to the broken front window to view the approaching storm. Sheet lightning flickered across the turbid black sky. Thunder rumbled more loudly. People were taking cover, but Wes Hopkins’s men held their ground, watching the jail.
In his cell Vance was happily slugging down the rye. “How ’bout a game of cards?” he called to Clay.
“Sorry. I don’t gamble much, either.”
“Damn,” said Vance. “Regular bluenose, ain’t you?” He took another drink and began
Similar Books
