Crow Bait

Sixty-four

Ardmore, Oklahoma, one month later

As Lancaster rode Crow Bait into Ardmore, he thought that he and the horse were finally together, in body and in mind. His memory had returned completely, his injuries were healed, he had returned everything he’d borrowed to Mal in Laughlin, but in the end he had not been able to give up the horse. He had his own rig—saddle, saddlebags, horse, and holster—and even Crow Bait’s bones weren’t sticking out quite as much as they had been.

Ardmore was small, hardly more than a stopover between Oklahoma City and Fort Worth. But that was okay, because Lancaster only meant to stop over.

Since the night Roger Simon had successfully disarmed his teenage daughter, Lancaster had devoted his time to tracking Gerry Beck for Wells Fargo. He’d managed to convince Simon he had nothing to do with his wife’s death. Simon had then tried to hire Lancaster to kill Sweet, but with no success. And Lancaster had tried to convince him not to hire anyone else, either.

“Men like Sweet usually get what’s coming to them, Mr. Simon,” he’d said.

He didn’t know if Simon believed him, but it didn’t matter. He was done with the whole deal. His concern became collecting that other four thousand dollars from Wells Fargo.

He reined in Crow Bait in front of the saloon, dismounted, and tied him off there.

“Jesus,” an old man said from the boardwalk, “looks like he’s on his last legs.”

“His legs are just fine,” Lancaster said. “Don’t you worry about it.”

He had long ago overcome the urge to shoot anybody who criticized the horse. None of them knew what they were talking about, anyway.

He mounted the boardwalk and entered the saloon. He looked around, noticed a few of the other tables were taken. He collected a beer from the bar and walked to a table near the back of the room.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

Gerry Beck looked up at him, frowning. “Lancaster? What the hell are you doin’ here?”

“Right now I’m just looking for someplace to sit and drink my beer.”

“Well, find someplace else to do it.”

“Naw,” Lancaster said, sitting down, “I’ll do it here.”

Beck sat back and stared at him.

“What the hell—” he said.

“It’s been a while, Gerry.”

“Yeah,” Beck said, “and if I remember right, you and me were never friends, so get lost.”

“I can’t,” Lancaster said. “I promised Wells Fargo I’d bring you in.”

“Bounty hunting now?” Beck asked.

“Not exactly.”

“Well, what, exactly?”

“I just sort of found myself in a situation where I had to take the job.”

“The job of bringin’ me in?”

Lancaster nodded.

“Well, it ain’t gonna be easy,” Beck told him. “I hope they paid you enough.”

“Don’t get paid until the job is done,” Lancaster said.

“Well, then,” Beck said with a steely grin, “I guess you ain’t gettin’ paid, are you.”

“Oh, I’ll get paid,” he said, pushing half his beer away. “So, how many men you got in here backing you up, Gerry?”

“What?”

“I know your style, Gerry,” Lancaster said. “You don’t go anywhere or do anything without someone to back you up. Let’s see.”

Lancaster looked around the room. There were five other men there, four sitting at tables, two of them looking back at him.

“My guess is these two, one to my left, one to my right. But I also know you don’t pay well, so they won’t be very good.”

“Good enough to get you before you get me,” Beck said, “or to keep you busy while I get you.”

“No,” Lancaster said. “I think I’ll have to get you first, and then them. Only once you’re dead, they may not be so anxious to skin their irons, will they?”

Beck stared at Lancaster, trying to make up his mind. But Lancaster had already made up his.

“Sorry,” he said, drawing his gun and standing up.

Beck tried to react, but he was too slow. Lancaster shot him in the chest, then overturned the table and dropped down behind it.

The other two men stood, drawing their guns, while everyone else in the saloon hit the floor.

They fired, the bullets taking chunks out of the overturned table.

Lancaster rolled the table one way; then he rolled the other. Not being the smartest men Beck could have hired, they kept firing at the table. Lancaster fired two well-placed shots and suddenly it was quiet.

He walked over to where Beck lay dead and said, “Should have hired better help, Gerry.”