He poured himself a brandy, nodding his appreciation as he savored its musky, fruity aroma and taste.
The earth and its pleasures are for the living, not the dead.
It dawned on Vestal then, as it had many times in the past, that the dead are quiet. They hear nothing and spread no tales.
He lit a cigar, one of Park’s slim Havanas.
The hands had to die, of course.
They knew too much. All of them had culled Apaches, and alive could point fingers, tell tales.
Vestal nodded and aloud he said, “You’re in a better place now, boys.”
And that made him laugh. He splashed more brandy into his glass.
Later, he packed a single carpetbag. He could buy clothes in the latest style in Boston or wherever. He laid his holstered Colt at the bottom of the bag. He wouldn’t need it now. Later perhaps, but for the moment he wished to project an image of the rich, successful gentleman.
With that in mind, he went to his room and laid out his best go-to-prayer-meeting suit, white shirt, new elastic-sided boots, and then, his crowning glory, a cream-colored bowler hat, made in England of the finest felt.
He’d never worn these clothes before, but had bought them as part of his long-range plans.
Vestal looked in the mirror and admired the outrageously handsome man who stared back at him. Yellow hair cascaded in waves to his shoulders, his eyes were of the clearest blue, and his mustache was full, flowing, and magnificent.
That last would make the hearts of many a Boston belle flutter, he knew.
Perhaps he’d marry one, for her money of course. And then . . . well, he still had his gun.
Women were such useful but wonderfully disposable commodities.
As he had done with Lee, Vestal decided to leave the bodies where they lay. By the time anyone came out this way, he’d be long gone.
But now the silent dead bored him.
He lit another cigar, poured more brandy, and stepped outside into the cool of the evening.
The stars looked so close, Vestal believed he could reach out and grab a handful, then scatter them on the ground and let them burn out until only cinders were left.
Somewhere in the gloom the coyotes were calling close and a night bird—
Suddenly Vestal was alert.
He had never heard a bird call like that on the Southwell range.
There it was again, a soft warble. A short spell of quiet; then it was repeated.
Instinctively he reached for his gun. No! He’d left it in the carpetbag.
The Apaches came at him in a rush.
Chapter 46
To Cage Clayton’s joy, Emma agreed to meet him on the hotel porch after she finished work. At the appointed time, she showed up on the arm of Nook Kelly, who arrived grim-faced and silent.
“I’m meeting Angus McLean this evening,” Clayton said. He looked at Emma. “He wanted you to be here.”
The girl smiled, but it was a wan effort. “Cage, I can’t talk you into taking his job. That’s a decision only you can make for yourself.”
“I took the job,” Clayton said. “Ninety a month, and another ten after a year.” Now he plunged in again. “We can live on that.”
Emma made no answer, and Clayton said, “Can’t we?”
She rushed into his arms. “Of course we can! Oh, Cage, this is wonderful news.”
Kelly stuck out his hand. “Congratulations. You’ll do a terrific job.”
Clayton shook hands, but his eyes never left Kelly’s.
“He’s still alive, you know,” he said. “Despite what you told Emma, Lissome Terry is in Bighorn Point.”
He watched the lawman struggle with the lie that hovered on the tip of his tongue, but in the end the truth clenched out of him.
“Yes, he . . . probably is.”
Emma swung her head. “But, Nook, you said that Terry—”
“Was dead? I told you that because I thought you might be able to convince Cage it was the truth.”
He looked at Clayton. “Enjoy the new job, Cage. Leave Terry to me.”
“He’ll get tired of waiting, of looking over his shoulder,” Clayton said. “And eventually he’ll come after me.”
“If he does that, I’ll be ready.”
Clayton shook his head. “No, I’ll be ready. This is my fight, not yours.”
“I’m the law in this town and that makes it my fight.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I can’t bear to hear you two squabbling over which of you gets to kill a man,” Emma said. “Can’t you forget about Terry, let his own guilty conscience make him suffer?”
“I don’t think he has one of those,” Clayton said.
Emma stared at Clayton. “Cage, do you want to marry me?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then forget that terrible man. Think about us.”
Kelly smiled. “Sounds like good advice.”
“It is good advice,” Clayton said, “and I’ll take it—until the time comes.”
“Terry is dead,” Emma said, “dead to us.”
Clayton nodded, glad he had no need to add words to the gesture.
Angus McLean arrived an hour before dark. He dismissed Moses Anderson with a stern warning that he should change his robbing ways “instanter,” heed the teachings of the Church of Scotland, and make sure he visited Edinburgh Town at his earliest convenience.
Moses smiled, bobbed his head, and promised to do all of the above.
“Aye, weel, I hope ye do,” McLean said. He found his steel purse, opened it wide so it gaped like the jaws of a shark, and extracted some coins.
“Here, a wee bonus to ye for your help,” he said. “Don’t spend it on whiskey and scarlet women, mind.”
He thought about that; then, “Weel, the whiskey is all right, but stay away from the painted Jezebels.”
“Praise the Lord,” Moses said, grinning.
“You’re learning,” McLean said. “Now be off with ye, and damn ye for a thieving Hindoo.”
The Scotsman watched Moses leave, then turned to Kelly and said, “A lad o’ parts, that one. He’ll go far and make his mark or my name’s not Angus McLean.” He looked at Emma. “And this is the lassie who’ll be taking care of my ranch house and all the outbuildings pertaining thereto.”
A thought occurred to him. “Oh, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn. Has your intended told you he’s my new manager?”
“He has,” Emma said, “and I want to thank you for such a wonderful opportunity.” She glanced at Clayton. “And so does Cage.”
McLean held up a hand. “No need for thanks, lassie. Your man is a robber, but I think he’ll do well.”
He smiled. “Here, Miss Southwell is still at the ranch. You should go out there and talk to her. She can show you the workings of the stove and where the washtub is kept and the scrubbers and buckets for the floor. Women stuff like that.”
Kelly smiled. “I doubt that Lee Southwell has scrubbed a floor in her life.”
“Aye, you may be right. She’s a bonnie lassie and no mistake but not a housewife. Still, I wish it was her accompanying me to Boston and not her partner.”
“Partner?” Kelly said, surprised.
“Mr. Vestal. He’s a braw-looking lad, but not my cup o’ tea, if you take my meaning. But he’s Mrs. Southwell’s partner in the ranch and I had to deal with him.”
“Vestal is going with you to Boston?” Kelly said.
“Aye, we leave on the noon stage tomorrow.”
“Did you talk to Lee?”
“No, I didn’t see her when I stopped by the hoose earlier today. Mr. Vestal says she’s staying on at the ranch for a week or so to get her affairs in order. Her being a widow woman, I suppose that’s understandable.”
Kelly turned to Clayton, his expression asking a question.