Showdown

Chapter Four

Next morning, after a quick and early breakfast at The Friendly Café, Prine rode out to the Neville spread where Cassie and Richard Neville lived and oversaw their beef empire. An idea had come to him, a plan really. Maybe making the acquaintance of a rich woman—and a damned fine-looking one at that—wasn't out of the question at all.

He tugged his horse into a copse of birches about a quarter mile from the entrance to the ranch. Even from here, he could see the house. Hard to miss. It was built of native stone and wood, with three long wings off the central house. It reminded Prine more of an institutional building than a home. It was compelling, but coldly so. Even the shade trees around it had been planted with military precision, so that you were more impressed by the landscaping than the trees themselves.

Prine had brought his field glasses this morning. He had no trouble spotting the man who rode past him and pulled his horse into a copse of jackpines not far from Prine.

This man wore a derby and a nice suit and looked like a businessman. But as soon as he pulled his railroad watch out, checking the time, and then the small notebook from his back pocket, Prine realized that the man was working the same thing Karl Tolan was.

Twenty minutes later, Cassie appeared in his fringed buggy, heading for town. She was the prettiest sight on a morning of pretty sights.

The man gave her a ten-minute head start and then directed his horse out from behind the jackpines and started back to town himself. Prine, in turn, gave the man the same amount of head start and then he, too, took off to town.

Prine did his work. He had a court appearance, he had some possible minor rustling he checked out, and he had some paperwork to catch up on.

He spent the last hour of the day going through three stacks of old Wanted posters. Some of them were long out of date. Those he pitched. A few of the posters made him smile. The descriptions of the wanted men sounded like dime novels. "Maybe the fiercest man to draw breath since Billy the Kid." Since the man was described as fifty-three years old with one blind eye and a bum leg, Prine had his doubts.

He came upon a poster for Karl Tolan just before quitting time.

He was wanted on two charges of fraud. Several posters later, Prine found the man he'd seen following Cassie Neville this morning. Ted Rooney. Same charges as the Tolan character. Fraud. Not too difficult how the division of labor went with these two. Tolan the brawn, Rooney the brains. He was surprised their legal charges weren't more severe. But all that meant was that they hadn't been caught for other and more serious crimes.

He was already getting a sense of what they were likely up to. He was surprised, in fact, that it hadn't been tried before.

He folded the posters neatly and put them in his back pocket.

That night, he sat alone at a table in a saloon, drinking slow beers and sketching out quick ideas of how the thing would actually come off.

Kidnapping had become one of the staple crimes in the New West, as the editorial writers now liked to call their frontier states. There was risk involved, of course, but from the criminal's point of view, the odds were in their favor.

You take a kid and make damned sure he or she is treated well in your custody, then send a note to the robber baron or would-be robber baron detailing just how much money you want and where you want it placed. You say that if these things are done right, the kid will be dropped off at so-and-so a place at such-and-such a time.

Now, for sure the local law will want to try and grab you, but in most cases the parents will say no, let's pay them. They look at you like these vile wild animals capable of anything. You try and cheat on them, they know damned well you'll kill their child. You think they want to be responsible for you killing their child?

That's where this kind of operation really falls down. Doing something to the kid—that is, killing, accidentally or on purpose, him or her. If the kid gets returned sound of mind and limb, they'll come after you, but only with measured zeal. You kill the kid, they'll spend every cent they have hiring bounty hunters and assassins to hunt you down. Mexico? Canada? No matter. Plenty of lean and hungry bounty hunters and assassins there, too. If you want to live on this continent, they're going to find you. One New York millionaire sent a pair of killers to France to find the murderers of his small daughter. The avengers did as they were told. They castrated the murderers, poured oil on the open wounds, and then set them on fire.

All the same rules would apply to twenty-two-year-old young women, too. Keep her safe. Return her in good fettle. And, in this case, resist the temptation to rape her. They won't come after you quite as hard for rape as they will for murder. But they'll still come after you.

Karl Tolan didn't necessarily look bright enough to know all these things—subtle wasn't a word that came to mind when you looked upon the angry, busted visage of Karl Tolan—but his partner Rooney gave the impression of being bright and competent.

Prine had three beers in all. He went home and slept well, feeling rested and ready when the rooster announced the day.

Karl Tolan said, "I just want to get it over with."

Rooney said, "That's your trouble, Karl, you always just want to get it over with." He smiled. "I sure hope you're not like that with the ladies. They appreciate a man who takes his time."

The Skillet was a café next to the railroad roundhouse. They usually met there a couple times a day.

Tolan frowned. Always with the little digs, Rooney. If Rooney wasn't insulting him about his looks, his clothes, his body odor, his lack of education, he was reminding him that Tolan wouldn't ever make a dime without Rooney to guide him.

"I take my time, my women got no complaints," Tolan said.

"That one you gave a black eye had a few complaints, as I recall," Rooney said with a wink in his voice. "What'd you use on her, a club?"

"She called me a name."

"What name?"

"You know. A dumb bastard. Bitch."

"You went a little overboard, my friend. She could've preferred charges. And if she'd done that, Sheriff Daly would've taken a real serious interest in you. And then he might have been able to figure out what we were doing here."

"You would've hit her, too, Mac."

"No, I wouldn't've, Karl. I know how to control myself. Like that time near Cheyenne when you went all crazy on me. If I hadn't kept myself under control, you would've gotten us both hanged." Rooney had paid the woman two hundred dollars not to turn Karl in. Karl had never even said thank you.

Six kidnappings in three years. Each successful. But the fourth one, the nine-year-old boy in the closet of the tiny house they were renting, a deputy came to the door and Karl grabbed his rifle and was about to start pumping bullets through the wood.

Thank God Rooney had been smart enough and fast enough to prevent their undoing. He grabbed the barrel of the gun and yanked the rifle from Karl. Then he whispered for Karl to go over and sit down and shut up. Karl could see how pissed Rooney was. He decided he'd better do exactly as Mac said. He went over and sat down. Mac answered the door. The boyish deputies had some questions about their next door neighbors' son. A couple people on the block said the kid was a regular hellion. Had Rooney found that to be the case? No, sir, I haven't. Few times I've seen him, he's been very polite and well-behaved. Well, thank you, sir, appreciate your time.

Nice little palaver with a hayseed deputy. Harmless as all hell.

Where dumb frantic Karl would've been blasting the shit out of the deputy through the door for no good reason at all.

"I'd like to get out of this town. Place spooks me. Why can't we do it tomorrow?" Tolan said.

"We can do it tomorrow. We can do it anytime we want. But there's one problem."

"What's that?"

Rooney gave him his best arrogant smile. "Think real hard, Karl. I think you can figure it out for yourself."

Prine counted six cockroaches and numerous rat droppings, and found evidence of lice. This was when he'd been in Tolan's room for less than two minutes.

The room was less than the size of a jail cell. The bedclothes on the cot had so many different colors of stains on them, it resembled a Navajo rug. The air was rancid with the perpetual odors of chamber pot, cigarettes, vomit, assorted illnesses, and terrible food. But how could you gag down food in a room that smelled like this? Eating next to a latrine would be easier.

There was no bureau, no closet. Tolan's earthly goods were all packed into a grimy carpetbag, which Prine dumped out on the cot.

Two shirts, one pair of trousers, three pairs of gray socks that had once been white, long johns that not even bleach could help, a comb, a jacket, a cap, a hand mirror, a Bowie knife, and six photographs of buxom naked ladies flaunting their privates.

Not a whole hell of a lot of help.

Prine was in the room for less than four minutes. He went down the same back-end fire escape he'd used to come up.

Cassie Neville said, "It's very nice to meet you, Deputy."

She gave a little curtsy that was cute as all hell. She was cute as all hell. Refined yet not formal at all. A girly girl who'd nonetheless probably been something of a tomboy when she'd been growing up. Today she wore a white blouse, a dark riding skirt, and a smile that could break a thousand hearts from half a mile away.

The church basement where the poor and the unemployed came for food and medicine had been painted white to give it a clean, open feeling. The doors were left open to let sunshine beam down the steps. And the other women who helped Cassie were as resolutely cheerful as she was.

Prine wanted her to remember him when she got herself kidnapped. After all, he was going to be her savior. Her hero. There would be a sizable reward offered for her return. And that sizable reward would be plenty for a man to head to California and find a place for himself in the sun and the ocean.

Prine said, "This is sure a nice thing you do. This setup for poor people, I mean."

She smiled. "They're poor in money, perhaps, Mr. Prine. But not poor in spirit. Some of the nicest, most decent people I've ever met I met right here in this church basement. Isn't that right, Effie?"

Her assistant, another daughter of wealth, nodded enthusiastic agreement. "I just wish some of my rich friends had the spirit of these people. You never hear them complain about anything."

The portrait she painted was sentimental and untrue, of course. Poor people complained all the time. As did everybody else, no matter where they stood on the social ladder. Though he was generally optimistic about things, his years as a lawman had taught Prine that when you came right down to it, life wasn't easy for anybody. There was always dire surprise, unexpected illness, family or friends in some kind of trouble, and fear that whatever you possessed—whether it was a lot or a little—would be snatched from you by the dark and comic gods who sometimes seemed in control of this vale of tears. Money solved many problems, but not all of them.

Prine scanned the basement. Against one wall were racks of clothes. Against another, stacks and stacks of canned food. Against a third wall were things for the home, everything from washboards to butter churns. Everything but the canned goods were used, but some of it looked as if it had been used only slightly.

There was a collection box. FOR THE POOR, it read. Prine took several greenbacks from his pocket and dropped them in the box.

"That's very generous of you," she said. "We really appreciate it."

"I'll try and give you a little something on a regular basis."

She reached across the front counter and touched his arm. The gesture was as intimate as a kiss. Just something about it. Just something about her warm brown eyes as she did it. "Do you enjoy piano music, Mr. Prine?"

"Very much."

"I should say classical piano music."

"The times I've heard it, I've enjoyed it very much. Not that I know much about it."

"I don't know much about it myself. But there's this neighbor of ours—a Mrs. Drummond, her husband is one of the Denver Drummonds—and she was trained musically in the East at two very good schools. She's playing at our house tonight for invited guests. Would you enjoy something like that?"

"I'd enjoy that very much."

"Why don't you stop out around seven? Would that be all right?"

Prine had been scrupulous about not fixing his gaze upon the hypnotic swell of her breasts or the beautifully proportioned curve of her hips. But just for a heady moment, his glance fell to them. And when he looked up, he found her smiling at him in that secret way of females who appreciate being admired if the admiration is discreet and courteous.

A group of Mexican women and children clattered down the steps, ending the perfect moment of romance and proper lust Prine was feeling.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Suarez," Cassie said to the woman who reached the basement floor first.

"Well, I'd best get back to work," Prine said.

"I think you'll enjoy yourself tonight, Mr. Prine." Prine smiled. "I know I will."

Every other day, Lucy gathered up all the day-old bread in a basket and took it over to the church basement, where it was given free to the poor.

Lately, on most such trips, she had to argue herself out of walking past the sheriff's office. Seeing Tom Prine was exquisite agony. She loved him too much to simply accept him as another person.

Today she was stern with herself. More than half the time, she ended up walking past the sheriff's office and then slowing down in case Tom just happened to be coming out the door.

She'd never managed to see him on one of these furtive trips.

Today, she avoided anxiety and embarrassment by walking along the river. It was a longer route, but the day was pretty and she wouldn't have to worry about Tom.

But even on this route there was a surprise for her. A handsome—almost pretty—young man sat on a stool before an easel painting the river scene he saw before him—a crude barge and a couple of rowboats. The far shore is what would give the painting its romance. White birches and an old icehouse sat there, suggesting a gentler time when life wasn't as fast as it was now.

When he saw her, he jumped up so quickly he nearly knocked over the easel. He wore, as usual, a high-collared white shirt and tight black trousers and a gray vest. His dark curly hair lent him the air he wanted—that of an artist. His name was David Hearn, and he had been to London and Paris and Berlin before returning to his hometown of Claybank. He hadn't returned by choice. He'd never been a strong man, and a bout with consumption had left him even weaker. And it was probably just as well for him to come home. It was obvious to everybody but the blind that he didn't have much artistic talent.

Even by local standards, his paintings lacked any kind of originality or even spirit. They simply recorded, with no inspiration whatsoever, what he chose to paint. His family had money and supported him in his illusions about someday being a great painter.

"You're as beautiful as an apparition, Lucy, you really are."

She laughed. "And you're as corny as a bad actor."

He rushed over to her and kissed her on the cheek. "I count it a good day when I'm able to tell you that I love you. In person, I mean. Not in one of my little drawings."

He mailed her drawings two or three times a week. With sentimental poems attached. Every once in a while they'd be funny poems. She preferred those.

"So I think you should reconsider and marry me. Think of the children we'd have. So smart and good-looking and talented—"

Merry as he was, she was well aware of the underlying sadness in his eyes and words. He really did love her—had loved her since they'd shared a one-room schoolhouse—and she sensed that he would always love her.

She was crushing him just as Tom Prine was crushing her. And like Tom, she was careful to neither encourage nor hurt David unduly.

"David—"

"There's a choir at the church tonight. You like choir music, I know you do."

"Yes, but—"

"But what? Don't tell me about Tom. I know you think he's being nice to you, but he's going on with his life."

She'd never heard malice in David's voice before. It chilled her. She sensed now that he knew something—something she would find terrible. He'd never had any power over her, but he had some now.

"You mean he's seeing somebody?"

David put his hand to his head. "Oh, God, Lucy, forgive me. I shouldn't have brought it up. I'm so sorry."

But she was angry and not willing to give in to his sudden remorse. "You started to tell me something, David. Now you'd better damned well finish it."

He'd done serious damage to their relationship, and he knew it. He looked pale, sick, even more so than usual. "God, why did I say that?"

"I'm in a hurry, David. I have to drop this bread off at the church basement and then get right back to work."

He seemed to notice the basket of bread for the first time. He laughed sadly. "That's funny."

"What is?"

"You going to the church basement."

"Why is that funny?"

"Because that's what I was going to tell you. My mother had me drop some old clothes off there a while ago and—" He hesitated. "Damn, Lucy, I shouldn't have said anything."

"Well, you'd better say it now."

He sighed. His dramatics irritated her. "While I was there, I heard Cassie Neville invite Tom out to her house tonight. A piano recital."

"And he accepted?"

He nodded silently.

She said nothing, just began walking again toward the church.

"Lucy, Lucy, listen—" he called after her. But she paid no attention.

Her mind was filled with small dramas of how it would be when she faced Cassie, so beautiful, so elegant, so wealthy Cassie. She couldn't blame Tom for being attracted to her. At least he had good taste.

She imagined her and Cassie in an argument. Lucy declaring her love for Tom. Cassie declaring her love for Tom. The customers shocked and embarrassed at the two young women carrying on this way in public.

But when she got there, the basement was crowded. She set the basket of bread on the far counter and left. Cassie was so occupied checking people out that she didn't even notice Lucy.

Midafternoon, Rooney and Tolan rode out to the deserted farmhouse where they planned to keep Cassie Neville. The place was ideal because it had a trapdoor that led to a root cellar.

As they rode, a strange melancholy came over Rooney.

Here he was, perfectly capable of killing Tolan—which he planned to do as soon as they got the ransom money—but at the same time he was also capable of knowing that in some stupid way he'd miss him. Tolan was like having a pet, a big shabby dog that you couldn't train very well but who, if you applied enough pressure, would do your bidding more often than not. Brains and brawn, as the saying went, that was the two of them.

Too much brawn, as these things went. Tolan became more and more mercurial as the years went on. Rooney suspected that all the drunken brawls he'd been in had caused some permanent damage to Tolan's senses. He was too much of a risk these days. Rooney needed somebody younger, smarter, steadier as a partner.

But still and all, he would miss old Tolan. There was no doubt about that.

As they rode out to the farmhouse, Tolan kept glancing at his partner Rooney. The man always seemed to wear that ironic, superior smile. No matter what Tolan did or said, Rooney managed to convey his superiority nearly every time.

This was one road that had run out for Tolan.

There would be enough cash in this kidnapping to set him up for a good long time. One of his prison friends had a little shack down in the bayous of Louisiana and between screwing colored girls and fishing all day, the life there seemed unmatched by any other place on earth. And with the stash of greenbacks Tolan would be bringing along, he'd have money for the rest of his life—if, that is, he kept it hidden from his prison friend, who, when you faced facts, you had to admit would kill your mother for a dollar. Tolan'd have to hide his stash real, real good down there or his prison friend would kill him for it. Or maybe—it was nice to think so—all that screwing of colored girls and all that fishing had changed his prison friend. Maybe he was now a trustworthy fella. But then Tolan had never known a trustworthy fella. Or trustworthy gal, for that matter.

Tolan found himself hypnotically gazing upon Rooney's neck. He wanted there to be a lot of pain and panic and dread and total terror. Cutting a man's throat was about the best way Tolan could think of. His fingers ached for that time to arrive.

Sheriff Wyn Daly said, "You noticed anything different about Tom these last few days?"

Deputy Bob Carlyle finished up with some forms he'd been filling out on his desk and looked up.

"Prine?" He considered Prine a moment. "Yeah, I guess I sort of have."

"I had to tell him three times to ride out and see the Washburn widow about somebody tearin' down that fence of hers. That isn't like him. Then he had a couple of mysterious disappearances."

Carlyle grinned. "Mysterious disappearances? Now, that sounds serious."

Every once in a while, Daly would come up with a phrase straight from a stage melodrama. Carlyle and Prine liked to ride him about it.

"You know what I mean. He'd be gone three, four hours and when he'd come back he wouldn't have any good explanation for where he'd been."

"That doesn't sound like Prine."

"No, it doesn't. That's why I'm wondering if something's wrong with him. In his life, I mean."

Carlyle dropped his pen on the desk, sat back, and locked his hands behind his head. "I'm not bein' funny when I say this—he don't have enough of a life for somethin' to be wrong. Far as I know, he doesn't have a woman or any kin. Told me his folks died some time ago."

"That's what he told me, too."

"He was seein' that Lucy over at the café, but I think she scared him off. Always talkin' about marriage and such."

Daly stuck his unlit briar in his mouth. "He seem to be havin' a hard time with anything he's workin' on?"

"Not that he's mentioned to me. I meant what I said the other day. He's a damned good deputy. A hell of a lot better with people than I am, for one thing. And he keeps that desk of his organized twenty-four hours a day. Not like this piece of shit." Carlyle's desk was a paper swamp of forms, letters, legal documents, and arrest sheets he wrote out every time he brought somebody in.

"Maybe there's a gal he hasn't told us about," Daly said.

"Could be."

"Or maybe he's just not feelin' well."

"There's somethin' goin' around, that's for sure. Two of my little granddaughters got sore throats."

Daly glanced back at his own desk. It wasn't exactly a monument to orderliness either.

Prine came in an hour later carrying a package from the general store. He set it over in the corner of the office and sat down at his desk.

Both Daly and Carlyle were busy doing paperwork.

Prine opened the middle drawer of his desk, where he kept work that he had yet to complete. When he looked over at the other two, he realized they were watching him. Carefully. He wondered what the hell was going on.

"You get to Liddy Washburn yet?" Daly said.

"Thought I'd do that soon as I finish up with these two forms. I've got to get them over to the post office."

"Damned forms," Carlyle said. "I'd like to burn every one of them."

"You must've been pretty busy this afternoon, not getting around to Liddy yet," Daly said.

"Yeah, I was busy," Prine said. And then he turned back to his work before Daly could ask anything else.

Prine finished up his two forms, stuck them in appropriate envelopes, slapped stamps on them, and then said, "Well, I'll head out to Washburn's place now."

Daly smiled. "I knew he wouldn't do it. Didn't you, Bob?"

"No, to tell you the truth. I figured he would do it."

"You two ever going to tell me what the hell you're talking about?"

Washburn winked at Carlyle. "Listen to this, will you. Like he don't know what we're talkin' about."

"I really don't." Prine felt the way he had when he was a little kid and his older brothers kept the ball from him, throwing it back and forth over his head so he couldn't catch it.

"The sack," Daly said. "Carlyle here wrote me a note while you were busy working on your forms. He said you'd tell us what was in the sack before you left."

Prine felt his cheeks heat up. "Hell, can't I have any personal business?"

"Sure, you can, son. We're just trying to figure out why you're acting the way you are the last few days," Daly said.

"And just how would that be, Sheriff? I'm acting the way I usually do."

"Not really," Carlyle said. "You're just—different is all."

"We worry about you, Tom. We like you. We want to make sure that everything is all right."

"And why wouldn't everything be all right?" Prine said.

"We don't know," Carlyle said. "That's what we hope you'd tell us."

"Well, if there is anything wrong, the answer sure isn't in that bag over there."

"Why don't you let us judge that for ourselves?" Daly said, smiling. He obviously sensed he was making Prine nervous, which meant that there was something revealing in the bag, after all.

Prine went over and picked up the sack and said, "You're so eager to get me out to the Washburn place, I'd better get going."

Carlyle laughed. "Boy, that must be somethin' in that sack."

"Something," Daly said, "mighty special. Just look at him blush."

Prine shook his head. "You're like two little kids. Little devils."

"We got him now, Sheriff."

"I think you're right. I think we got him real good."

Prine scoffed and then tossed the bag so that it landed on the sheriff's desk. "There. Go ahead and look. Look till your eyes fall out."

But Daly wasn't done teasing. "You know, Bob, I almost don't want to open it."

"Now, why would that be, Sheriff?"

"Well, when a fella builds somethin' up as much as Prine here did—well, you're just bound to be disappointed when you finally see what it is."

"You could be right about that, Sheriff," Carlyle said, going along with the sly tone.

"You idiots," Prine said.

He walked to Daly's desk, grabbed the sack, shoved his hand inside, and brought forth a handsome, expensive black western shirt with the kind of white piping they wear in Wild West shows. About as fancy as a feller could get in a burg like Claybank.

"You got matchin' silver pistols to go with this shirt?" Daly said.

"Very funny," Prine said. "Now, if you're finally satisfied, I'll take my shirt and ride on out to the Washburn place."

"Be sure and wear your shirt," Carlyle said. "I hear those widow women get awful lonely. And she sees you in that shirt, she's liable to come runnin' out to greet you bare naked."

Daly smirked. "She's got a nice set on her, nobody could argue with that."

Prine decided to have a little fun on his terms. He said, "I'm more worried what Cassie Neville thinks of me than the widow Washburn."

"Cassie Neville? You spendin' time with her?" Carlyle said. "Oh, bullshit."

"Afraid it's not," Prine said.

"You serious, Tom?"

"Invited me out to her place tonight. Some kind of violin recital. Some girl who studied music back east."

"Well, I'll be damned," Carlyle said. "He ain't woofin'."

"Cassie Neville?" Daly said. "No offense, Tom, but I thought she . . ."

"Well, she apparently changed her mind," Prine said. "At least for a night."

There was no doubting the pleasure in his voice. Not only had Cassie Neville actually invited him to her mansion, Prine had also had the extreme fun of seeing Daly and Carlyle stammer and stutter and try to make some sense of how—even if he was young, strong, and nice-looking—a deputy got himself an invite to such an event.

"Well, gentlemen, I guess I'd better get out to the Washburn place."

He turned when he got to the door, his sack under his arm, and gave them the biggest grin he could summon. "And I sure wouldn't want to hold my new friend Cassie up, either."

Both men gaped. Neither said a single word.