“Where the hell are you getting all this information?”
“I’ve come to an arrangement with one of his household servants.”
“More money!”
“Well, of course, I’ve got to pay the bloody man, Martin, but, in the long run, it will get us out from under. We only need one hit and you know the opportunities which are passed up here.”
“You’ve still got this hit-man laid on?”
“Naturally, I’d be a fool if I didn’t prepare for every contingency however remote.”
Adam Wenstone had a sick feeling of horror inside him. Why had he not failed to see, realized sooner? He was not going to stand aside and watch a gun fight. He was going to be a participant, he and his host, were going to be the target when the shooting started. A man called Mex — reputedly
Godawful fast — going to make him his target.
His host was not happy either. He had a weary resignation concerning the future. If he came out of this alive, he was away. He’d join a wagon train to far away or just ride out— He’d go so far that no one had ever heard of Limpy and come in to challenge him with a gun. It was not from choice, he had been born here. His folks had died here when some sickness had swept the town some nine years ago.
Adam knew that his host meant it, once the man made a decision, he stuck to it although it hurt to leave his home.
Sundown, opposite the saloon, the setting sun throwing long black shadows across the road but giving advantage to neither man.
Adam admitted to himself that he was terrified. There was nothing he could do. He was like a fish in a bowl, swirling round and round in a desperate effort to escape and there was no escape. He accused himself also. He had been quite happy to lean back and observe before the implications hit him.
The bullets, if they came first and accurately, would hit their body, a body belonging to himself and his host.
There were no obvious spectators on the street, they were there but too experienced to show themselves. Men could miss, or agonizingly hit, let fly in a fury Then there was the death shot — Adam would call it a reflex. Old Ma Spinney had died like that years ago, a shot from a dying man as he fell.
The Mex, when he came to meet them, was tall and sallow ^te was a man who liked killing and took some pride in his appearance so that people would always recognize him and give him respect.
Adam never knew who shouted “Draw!” but he felt his host go for it with bewildering speed.
The Mex was faster.
Faster but less accurate.
It felt as if a red-hot poker had been slapped against Limpy’s head but his own guns had already jerked in his hands.
The Mex jerked as if he had been heavily punched.
He took three uncertain steps, then he crumpled into an untidy heap. There were two large holes, almost side by side, in the center of his chest.
The conspirators had not taken the four-day wait easily. Martin needed constant resort to the bottle to keep his nerves under control.
Argyle, on the other hand, was outwardly more assured than ever. “I repeat, man, there is no mistaking the pointers, they fit in like the others all along the line.”
Martin nodded almost from habit. Why couldn’t he dismiss the uneasy feeling that Argyle was talking just to convince himself and that he, too, was harboring inner doubts.
He handed Martin a spare pair of binoculars. “Get a good view from up here on the balcony, see the parade as it crosses the sports fields reaches the main hall. Hello, there’s the boss’s car — ah, it looks as if he’s dumped that Pilgrim Father costume he usually wears. Good God! Look at that! Didn’t I say, didn’t I tell you!”
There was some confusion at the main gate also and the security man was becoming aggressive. “You can’t bring that in here.”
“Why not? I’ve an authority here signed by Mr. Wenstone himself.”
“Not for a damn great truck. What’s in it, anyway?”
“Well printed on the side is the word HORSES — you can read I assume?”
The security man went through his list and colored slightly. “I’m sorry, friend, I really am, but a horse — for the boss — good God!”
“So strange?”
“Hell, yes. If you handed Mr. Wenstone a horse, he’d look for a starter button. I’ve worked for him for years and my old man before me.”
“Perhaps he just wants to lead it.”
“Ah. You’re probably right, he might just manage that to head the parade to the conference area.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
Up on the balcony Argyle said: “There, there, I told you! Complete change, can you imagine the old Wenstone going through a charade like that? There’s even a bloody horse carrier thing there, but the Boss doesn’t know one end of a horse from the other.”
There was trouble in the horsebox, too. Bulmer the chief groom — mainly an executive position — was having personal troubles.
“What’s the trouble with that damn mare, Selby?”
“Jesse doesn’t like bands, sir, I did mention it at the time. We should have brought, Mabel, nothing troubles her.”
“Are you questioning my judgment, Selby? Who the hell do you think you are? If she won’t move, give her a touch of the whip to help her along.”
“Some trouble here?” A man walked up the ramp and into the transit.
“Get out of here, you.” Bulmer loved throwing his weight around and lost his temper easily.
“I’ve enough trouble on my hands without some idiot prancing in here dressed up as a stage cowboy You’d like me to call security, perhaps?””
The other nodded expressionlessly. “Yes — yes, I’d rather like that. I pay his wages.”
Bulmer opened his mouth to retort but no sound carne. He was not too insensitive to realize that this man had authority
Wenstone turned to Selby. “I gather from some of the conversation that the mare is nervous.”
“Yes, sir, Jesse doesn’t like bands, sir, the drums and that.”
“Poor old lady. Here, give her to me.”
He took the bridle and began to talk to her. They could not hear what he said and the soft words he used were beyond them anyway His hands stroked her head and neck, pulled gently at her ears. “Come on, girl, come on.”
They saw him lead the animal down the ramp and onto the ground.
They saw him put his foot into the stirrup and swing himself easily into the saddle.
Up on the balcony Argyle had a fixed leer of utter disbelief. “He can’t ride.” It no longer comforted him that Wenstone had changed.
Despite the change the man appeared, even at this distance, to have gained additional control.
Webster, a junior executive, joined them on the balcony He carried one of the new, digital binoculars. “What do you mean, the Boss can’t ride? I do a bit of riding myself and look at the way he sits the saddle. He’s good, let me tell you; been riding since a kid, no doubt.”
He leaned forward, pointing. “The Old West is one of my personal hobbies and that fancy dress of his is spot on, take it from me. The guns too are exactly placed for a quick draw. Obviously someone who knows his business has advised him on detail.”
Argyle said nothing he had a sick feeling inside that somehow the whole business had gone sour.
Martin, for his part, was near to tears and the bottle now failed to assure him.
Turning away from the parade below, he almost collided with yet another who had joined the group. “Get out of my damned way!”
“Sorry, I can’t do that. I want you and Mr. Argyle together. Mr. Wenstone wants you in his office in half an hour.”