Matt laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny?”
“All three of those men tried to kill me.”
“And all three of them are dead, which means their testimony can no longer be challenged,” Marcus said.
“So, as you can see, your assertion that Poke Terrell is trying to kill you would never be sustained in a court.”
“Are you actually saying that I can’t prove in court that Terrell is trying to kill me?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying,” Kincaid replied. “You can bring charges if you want to, but it will go nowhere. You have no collaborative testimony.”
Matt laughed out loud.
“What is it?” Marcus asked. “What do you find so funny?”
“Kincaid, you don’t understand, do you?” Matt asked.
“What is it I don’t understand?”
“I don’t need any collaborative testimony. I don’t have to prove it in court.”
“Then you are right, I don’t understand. Why don’t you have to prove it in court?”
“Because I only have to prove to me. In this case I am the court, I am the judge, I am the jury, and when the time comes, I will be the executioner.”
“Oh, my,” Marcus replied, obviously unnerved by Matt’s declaration. “If you don’t mind, I would like to give you a word of advice, Mr. Jensen.”
“By all means, feel free to do so,” Matt invited.
“I, uh, would be careful about making threats toward Poke if I were you. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would take such threats easily.”
“I’m not making threats, Kincaid,” Matt said. “I’m simply stating fact.”
“Oh, what is that I smell?” Marcus asked, breaking off the conversation. “It smells divine.”
“I told Frederica to have Maria prepare a pot roast for lunch,” Kitty said. “You are welcome to stay.”
“Why, thank you, Kitty. I just believe I will accept your kind invitation,” Marcus said.
Because the roast beef was too large for two people, or even three, considering the unexpected arrival of Marcus Kincaid, Kitty invited Tyrone Canfield to dine with them.
“Oh, Matt, I’ve got those numbers for you,” Tyrone said as they were eating, “I meant to give them to you as soon as I came in, but this meal is so good that it plumb slipped my mind.”
“What numbers are you talking about, Tyrone?” Marcus asked.
Tyrone looked over at Marcus, but didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced back toward Kitty.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I seem to have stepped into something that isn’t any of my business.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I reckon that’s about it,” Tyrone said. “I figure if Mrs. Wellington wants you to know, she’ll tell you.”
“I don’t mind telling you,” Kitty said. “He’s talking about horses, Marcus. The horses we’ll be shipping to Chicago next week.”
“That’s the contract you were telling me about earlier?” Marcus asked. “The army contract?”
“Yes. Matt will going into town tomorrow to arrange for railroad cars.”
“Twenty horses per car,” Matt said.
“You can get a lot more than that in a car,” Kincaid said. “Heck, when I ship cattle, I can get fifty to a car.”
“I’m not shipping cattle,” Kitty said, resolutely. “I’m shipping purebred horses, and if you put any more than twenty in a single car the chances are likely that some might be hurt. In fact, they might be hurt so badly that you would have to put them down.”
“Even so, you should be able to at least double the number per car,” Kincaid said. “I’m just looking out for you, Kitty. The cars are going to cost you at least one hundred dollars per car.”
“I figure it’s going to take a minimum of twenty-five cars,” Kitty said. “That would be with twenty head per car. Now, suppose I doubled the number of horses in each car, and suppose a minimum of two horses per car are hurt. In fact, I would say that the number is too low. I could wind up with a many as three or four, or even five horses hurt, per car. I could be looking at four thousand dollars in losses. On the other hand, if I go along with the idea of limiting it to just twenty horses per car, it will cost me no more than twenty-five hundred dollars in railroad fees, which in the long run could be much cheaper. Also, we will more than likely transfer every horse without injury, and despite the money consideration, there is something to be said for the welfare of the horses.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Marcus said. He lifted his wineglass in toast. “To my beautiful stepmother and all her horses.”
“I’m not your stepmother,” Kitty said, speaking the words in the flat monotone that suggested she had discussed this very subject with him dozens of times before now.
“Very well, then,” Kincaid said, lifting his glass a second time. “To your horses.”
The others lifted their glasses to the toast.
“What time are you going in tomorrow?” Kincaid asked, conversationally.
“I’m going to help Tyrone and Prew select the horses that will be shipped, then put them in a separate field before I start into town. I’d say about mid-morning. Why do you ask?”
“I have some business in town tomorrow as well,” Kincaid said. “Perhaps you would like to have lunch with me.”
“Maybe I will,” Matt agreed.
“Good, I shall look forward to it,” Kincaid said. Pushing the plate away, he stood up. “Kitty, I must be going back into town,” he said. “I know it is poor manners to leave immediately after having eaten, but I really must get back, and you can’t blame me for staying through lunch. It was delicious.”
“You are welcome anytime, Marcus,” Kitty said.
“I don’t like that man,” Matt said after Marcus Kincaid left.
“I feel sorry for him,” Kitty said. “He was so certain that he would inherit everything, and then I came along. I’m sure it was quite a blow to him when Tommy left Coventry to me.”
“Mrs. Wellington, I don’t mean to be talkin’ out of turn,” Tyrone said. “I mean, bein’ as this is sort of family and all. But I’ve known Marcus Kincaid a lot longer than you. I’ve known him since he was a sprout. Sir Thomas had a heart that was just too big, so he either couldn’t see it, or wouldn’t see it, but the fac’ is, even as a boy Marcus Kincaid wasn’t no good. He wasn’t no good then, and he ain’t no good now.”
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning
Cooter climbed up onto a rock from which he could see for nearly two miles back across the desert. A small rise hid everything beyond that point.
“See anything?” Mole asked.
“Nothin’ but sand and rock,” Cooter answered.
Mole, a short, hairy man with gray eyes and a pug nose, took the last swallow from a whiskey bottle, then tossed it against a nearby rock. The bottle broke into two pieces.
“Damn, I shouldn’t of broke that,” Mole said. “I wasn’t thinkin’, I guess. I could of got myself a penny for it back in town.”
“A penny,” Cooter snorted. “A penny ain’t no money. Not compared to what we’re goin’ to be gettin’ for this job.”
“Yeah, well, if you remember, we tried to kill this feller once before and it didn’t work out all that well,”
Mole said. “What happened is Logan got hisself kilt. That’s what happened.”
“That’s ’cause we didn’t know who we was messin’ with then. Logan didn’t tell us nothin’ about him, so we wasn’t ready for him when he snuck up on us like he done.”
“I don’t intend to let ’im sneak up on us this time,” Mole said. “You might not of seen nothin’ yet, but he’s close. I know it.”
“How do you know it?” Cooter asked.
“’Cause I can feel it in my gut, that’s how I know it. He is out there, and he’s close.”
Cooter climbed down from the rock and walked over to his horse. He slipped his rifle out of the saddle holster.