Rosa's Land: Western Justice - book 1 (28 page)

“You’re a dead man!” Henry Beecher’s eyes seemed to glow in the darkness.

“That’s the one that killed Alvin Darrow, Henry,” one of his men said. “He’s plenty fast.”

Beecher shook his head and smiled. “He’s smart. He sees he’s outgunned. Isn’t that so, Riordan?”

Riordan drew his gun in a flash of movement, and it was pointed right at Beecher’s face. “You make one move or one of your men makes a move, and I’ll kill you, Beecher. And then I’ll take some more with me.”

“You can’t bluff me.”

“Go for your gun, Henry. See if I’m bluffing.”

Beecher’s eyes opened, and he saw the expression on Riordan’s face and the gun pointed at him. The muzzle was entirely steady.

One of his men yelled, “He’s bluffing!”

“No, he’s not bluffing!” Henry exclaimed. “He means it. He’d die, but so would some of us. Not worth it.”

Riordan smiled. “That’s smart, Henry. Now you get on a horse.”

“You’re not arresting me.”

“No, I’m not, but you’re my free pass to get out of here with my prisoner. You go with me until we’re clear of the town, and then you can come back.”

Beecher grinned sourly. “I’m supposed to trust you?”

“It’s that or some of us are dead. I give you my word, you’ll be the first. I give you my word also you can come back as soon as I’m clear with my prisoner.”

“Don’t do it, Henry,” one of the men said. “He’s lying.”

Henry studied Riordan and finally said, “I think he’s got us.” He advanced, got on one of the horses, and said, “You boys wait here.”

Riordan kept his eye on the men watching him and was aware that other men had come out of the saloon and were staring at him. He put himself on the far side of Beecher and Pye and said, “Let’s go.”

As they left town, Riordan was careful to keep his two prisoners between him and the men on the sidewalk. He felt the muscles of his back tighten as he rode out of town, expecting a bullet. None came.

They reached the town limit, and he said, “Spur those horses.” They rode at a fast gallop and rode for five minutes. “This is good enough.” They all pulled up, and Riordan said, “You can go back now, Henry.”

Henry turned and stared at Riordan as if he were viewing an alien species. “You know I can’t live with this, Riordan. I have to pay you back or I’ll be laughed out of the Territory.”

“You take your shot, Henry. I’ve got nothing against you, but if you come after me, better make sure you do a good job of it.”

Beecher suddenly laughed when he saw that he was out of danger. “All right, Marshal, I’ll be seeing you.”

Riordan watched him go.

Pye said, “He’ll kill you. I hope he does.”

“I expect he’ll try. Now, we got a hard ride. Let’s go.”

Henry rode back and found his crew milling around.

“Let’s go get him,” Hack Wilson said. “There’s plenty of us to get one man.”

“No, that would be too easy.” Henry was silent for a time. Finally he smiled evilly and said, “I’ve got to think of a very special ending for Marshal Riordan. Something that will hurt him worse than a bullet …”

The ranch seemed to come alive as Riordan rode in with his prisoner. He dismounted, and they all gathered around him, Ringo keeping an eye on the prisoner.

Hannah was one of them. She came and put her hand out. “You’re safe,” she whispered.

“For a while, Hannah.”

“How’d you do it, Riordan?” Frank asked. “Nobody ever got one of the wild bunch like this.”

“Well, I had a little help from Henry the Fox,” Riordan said. They demanded to know his story, and he said, “It wasn’t all that much. Ringo, you and Ned put Pye here under guard.”

They went inside, and Frank said, “I don’t know what you did, but if you made a fool out of Henry, he won’t forget.”

“That’s what he told me, but he can’t kill me but once, can he?”

“Don’t say that!” Rosa said sharply. “You must be hungry. I’ve got some stew and beans on the stove. Sit down. The rest of you leave.”

Rosa fixed him a meal, beans and a tender chunk of beef and fresh biscuits. She watched him as he ate. She sat down across from him and said, “I’ve said some hard things, but you did what I asked. You brought in the killer.” She put out her hand, and he took it. She stared at him with a strange look in her eyes. “No man has ever kept his word to me or did what he promised. I guess I can always remember you as being one that did, Riordan.”

Riordan was aware of the warmth and the strength of her hand. “You know, as I was bringing Pye back, I was thinking about you.”

She stared at him. “What about me?”

“Well, there was a touchy situation, and the thought came to me that if they killed me, I would never see you again, and it made me sad.”

Suddenly she smiled, and her face relaxed. She put her other hand down and held his prisoner. “You have your moments, Riordan.”

C
aleb Riordan sat in his favorite easy chair, staring across the room. His eyes were fixed on an ormolu clock. He was not studying that object but was merely giving deep thought to his son Faye.

It was a hot day. The windows were open, allowing a slight breeze to come in and stir the flowers that Eileen had set in the window. From far off came the sound of servants laughing as they trimmed the yard and worked in the flower beds.

None of this entered into Caleb’s thinking, and finally he shook his shoulders together in a gesture of helplessness and looked over to where Eileen was sitting on a divan, knitting. “Eileen,” he said, “Faye never writes to me.” He had not intended to say this, but it had been on his mind for some time now. When Eileen looked up at him, he said defensively, “It seems like he could write his father once in a while.”

Eileen smiled slightly and ceased knitting. She studied Caleb and finally said simply, “You two were never close, Caleb.”

Caleb gave her a sharp look and shook his head. “No, we weren’t.”

“None of us were really close to Faye,” Max said. He was wearing a pair of blue trousers, highly polished shoes, and a snow-white shirt. “I should think he would be considerate enough to write to us, though.”

Leo looked up from the book he was reading. “Well, Max, I’m not really expecting a letter from him. I didn’t pay much attention to him while he was here, and I suppose he thinks I haven’t changed.”

“He may be sick or hurt,” Caleb said. “Surely he’d write if he were.” He suddenly straightened up in his chair and passed his hand over his thick hair in a gesture of despair. Then he said, “Eileen, he writes to you.”

“Yes, he does. He tells me a great many details of his work there.”

“Well, why don’t you read the letters to me?” Caleb complained.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested, dear.”

Shaking his head, Caleb growled, “He’s wasting his time out there playing cowboy.”

“I don’t think so,” Eileen said calmly. “I believe he’s doing something he thinks needs to be done.”

“But he can never make any money out there riding around on a horse. He’s never done anything a man should do at his age.”

“That’s right. He never makes any money,” Leo said.

“And he could, too. He could come to work at the factory.”

The men waited, but Eileen went back to her knitting.

Finally Caleb got up and left the room, his back stiff with displeasure.

The carriage stopped, and Caleb and his two sons got out and started up toward the steps that led to the wide front porch. Caleb had put in a long day at the factory and was surprised when he saw a distinguished-looking man leaving the house. He was tall, well dressed, and had a pair of sharp black eyes.

“Who is that, Father?” Leo asked.

“Never saw him before.”

As they passed, the man nodded pleasantly and said, “Good afternoon.”

“Hello,” Caleb said. He wanted to ask the man who he was, but that seemed somewhat rude. He turned and watched him go into a landau carriage, and as the man rode away, Caleb shook his head. “I don’t like strange men coming to the house.”

They went inside, and Eileen met them with a smile. She kissed Caleb on the cheek, having to reach up and pull his head down, and said, “Did you have a good day, dear?”

“It was all right.” Caleb waited for Eileen to say something about the visitor, but she simply began chatting about what she had been doing. Finally Caleb could not refrain from saying, “We met a fellow coming out of the house. I didn’t know him.”

“Oh, that was Mr. Samuel Steinbaum.”

The men all waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. Finally Caleb said, “I don’t believe I know him. What was he doing here? Is he selling something?”

“Not at all. I asked him to come. You go along and wash up. We’ll have dinner early tonight.”

“But why did you ask him if he isn’t selling anything?”

“He’s the director of the Mellon Museum of Art.”

“Well, why did he come here?”

“Why, I invited him.”

Leo said, “That’s unusual, Mother. You don’t usually invite people that we don’t know.”

“I’ve exchanged letters with him several times, so I thought I’d invite him and we could talk.” She laughed and said, “Are you jealous, Caleb?”

“Don’t be foolish! I would like to know what he was doing here, though.”

Eileen shrugged her shoulders and said, “It concerns Faye’s work.”

“What work?” Leo demanded.

“Why, his painting, dear. I asked him to come and give me his opinion of Faye’s paintings.”

All three men stared at her, and it was Caleb who finally demanded, “Well, what did he say?”

“They couldn’t be worth much,” Leo shrugged.

Eileen pulled a slip of paper from her bodice. “Here’s his offer on the paintings that he looked at.”

Caleb stared at the paper fixedly. He did not speak. His mind seemed to be moving rather slowly. “The first one says, ‘Woman With Small Girl—four hundred dollars.’” Looking up, he blinked with surprise and said, “I remember that painting. If I remember right, Faye painted that in two days.”

“That’s right. Not many young men make four hundred dollars in two days, do they, dear?”

“Let me see that list,” Max said. The two brothers flanked their father and read down the list. They named off the paintings that they remembered and finally looked at the figure at the bottom, the total offer.

“Why, this adds up to five thousand dollars!” Leo declared.

“Yes, that’s good, isn’t it? Mr. Steinbaum wants to have a one-man show of Faye’s work. He’ll handle it all for a fee of ten percent.”

“You think people will buy the kinds of paintings Faye does?” Max asked dubiously.

“Well, Mr. Steinbaum says painting in Faye’s style by artists with not half his talent are selling very well.”

All three men were speechless. Finally Max said, “Two hundred dollars for one day’s work? Why, that’s more than I make.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Eileen smiled. “Mr. Steinbaum thinks Faye has a brilliant future. He wants to act as his agent.”

Caleb could not take his eyes off the list. He ran up and down it with a steady gaze, trying to find something wrong with it.

He was interrupted when Eileen said, “I need some money, dear.”