This Gun for Hire (4 page)

“You ain’t right. In the head, I mean. Even for a whore, you ain’t right.”

She declined to comment, asking instead, “Where did you and Chick leave Mrs. Fry?”

“Behind Sweeney’s. We bumped into her when we was leaving the saloon. Since we was coming here anyway on account of what we heard inside, Chick decided we should escort her around back and hear what she had to say for herself. Chick’s the one who knocked her around. I told him to pull his punches. You gotta know, I made him stop. We left her alive on account of that.”

“All right,” she said, believing about half of what he told her. “Take off your gun belt—carefully—put it on the floor and kick it under the bed.”

“Aw, Jeez. Don’t make me give it up, I—” He stopped. “I know. You’ll shoot if I don’t.”

“No,” she said, surprising him. Her eyes darted to the wardrobe, where Quill McKenna was finally stepping out. “But I’m fairly certain he will.”

Amos turned his neck so sharply that vertebrae cracked. Wide-eyed, he put a hand to his nape and massaged the crick while he stared at the gun aimed squarely at his chest. “That looks like Whit’s gun.”

“It should,” said Quill. “It
is
his gun.” He shook off the ruffled petticoat clinging rather comically to his shoulders, caught it before it reached the floor, and tossed it toward the chair. It spread open, fluttering like angel wings, and mostly covered the scarlet corset when it dropped. He intercepted Katie’s amused glance and gave her a much less amused one in exchange.

“I have you to thank for smelling like attar of roses,” he told her. “Droopy Ribbon must wash everything she owns in the stuff.”

“You could have hidden under the bed.”

“You could have shown more caution opening the door. You did when I was doing the knocking.”

“I had reason to be suspicious then.”

“I wasn’t carrying.”

“I didn’t need your help. Still don’t.”

“And I didn’t want to give it just now. Still don’t.”

“So why . . .”

“Leg cramp.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Quill sneezed. “That, and I don’t like the smell of roses.”

Amos listened to this exchange, eyes darting back and forth, fascinated in spite of himself. He carefully released the gun strap, and his hand curled around the butt of the Remington. He drew the gun out slowly.

The barrel just cleared his tooled leather holster when they both shot
him.

Joe Pepper arrived at Mrs. Fry’s establishment soon after he learned shots were fired. He was out of breath when he reached the house, and taking the stairs two at a time further pained him. He had passed his fifty-second year a few months back and soon after he heard creaking in his left knee and spotted gray threads in his dark hair to match the ones sprouting in his mustache. His wife had commented on his thickening waistline and started denying him dessert, and although he complained, he saw the sense in it when the first thing he had to do upon confronting the scene in the bedroom was remove a handkerchief from his vest and mop his sweat-beaded brow.

Crumpling the damp handkerchief in his fist, he asked, “What in the name of all that’s holy happened here?” He made a second survey of the scene. When he was done, he had the cause of it all full in his sights and his stare did not waver. “Miss Nash,” he said, pleasant but with a slight edge. “I thought we agreed that when you came to Falls Hollow, you would drop by my office. Nothing more than a courtesy call, just to keep me informed.”

“Hello, Joe,” she said. “Do you really want to fuss about
a courtesy call, or can we manage the business at hand first and share tidbits later?”

Sighing heavily, he stuffed the handkerchief back into his vest without folding it. It made a small bulge under his tin star, which he did not bother to correct as he considered anything that raised his profile as sheriff to be a good thing, especially in present company. “Business, then. Mine first.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the only other man standing in the room but put his question to Miss Nash. “Who is he?”

Quill started to take a step forward but stopped when Joe Pepper made a move for his gun. Quill fell back into place and showed his hands, palms out.

“That’s right,” Joe said. “You be real easy about coming at me. There’s facts to be established, starting with who you are.”

“Careful, Joe,” she said. “When I asked him that, he answered all queer-like. Something about the nature of his existence. I wanted to shoot him right there, but I squelched the impulse. I only mention it so you won’t hesitate when you are struck by the same urge.” She paused, glanced at Quill, then offered Joe her most sincere assurance. “And you will be.”

Quill let her smug smile pass. “Quill McKenna.” He lowered his hands when the sheriff nodded. “Just passing through.”

“Huh. Maybe you do not comprehend the concept. Passing through suggests that you keep on moving.”

“I thought exactly the same thing,” she said, pointing to herself, then to Joe, and then back to her. “Like minds, Joe. You and me. Did you ever think it could happen?”

“Not in this lifetime,” said Joe. “Start explaining. And keep it—” He broke off, turning toward the open door in response to whispering and shuffling in the hallway. He stepped out of the room and looked pointedly at the three whores jockeying for a position where they could hear everything. Even as he stood there blocking their view, they tried craning their necks and standing on tiptoes to see over his
shoulders. “Has someone gone to Sweeney’s like I said when I came in? Yes? No?” When they all nodded, he said, “Good. Wait downstairs. Mrs. Fry will need tending when she’s brought back. If Doc Maine does not accompany her, fetch him. Otherwise, don’t go anywhere, and consider the house closed for the night. Do you understand?” There was grumbling but no mutiny. He watched them until they started down the stairs, and then he backed into the room and closed the door.

Joe was still shaking his head when he turned. His lips curved downward at the corners. He pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, rubbed it while he closed his eyes. After a moment, he said, “Sweeney stopped me. He found Mrs. Fry out back of his saloon and took her inside. He had already fetched Doc Maine for her, and she was being tended when Sweeney pulled me in. She had trouble talking, what with her jaw being broken and her mouth all swolled up, but between her and Sweeney, I could understand enough to learn it was Chick Tatters and Amos Bennett who laid hands on her.”

He pointed to the man lying facedown between Quill and Katie. There was blood on the floor, a small pool near the man’s right thigh, and another at his left shoulder. Two wounds, neither of them fatal, although given the man’s repetitive and annoying moaning, Joe found himself wishing one of the shots had finished him off.

“Amos?” he asked. “Did you shoot him, Katherine?”

Before she could answer, Quill said, “I knew you were not a Katie. Katherine. That suits.”

Joe chuckled. “Like a hair shirt suits. I only call her Katherine or Miss Nash when I want to raise her hackles. Fair is fair since I am sincerely peeved. She prefers Calico.” He grinned toothily at her. “Isn’t that so . . . Katherine?”

Quill turned sharply toward her. “Calico Nash? You are Calico Nash?”

She gave Joe Pepper a withering look. “See? This is your fault. He said it did not matter if I was a whore, but this seems to matter.”

The sheriff shrugged. “He would have come to it sooner or later.”

“Calico Nash,” Quill repeated under his breath. “I always imagined you would be—”

She grimaced. “A man?”

“No. Taller. Amazon warrior tall.”

Calico stared narrow-eyed at Quill while she held out a hand to the sheriff. “Give me your gun. Mine’s spent and the urge is back.”

Now Joe Pepper laughed outright, and he admitted to himself that it felt good. Still, to be safe, he kept his gun holstered and waved at Calico to put her hand down. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“We both shot him,” she said. “Shoulder’s mine. Mr. McKenna put his bullet in Amos’s thigh.” Hearing his name, Amos Bennett emitted a pitiful moan. Calico pressed the toe of her shoe close to the wound in his leg. “Will you stop that? It is unbecoming. You are not going to bleed to death.” She permitted him a short grunt when she toed him a little harder, but after that he was quiet and she removed her foot. “It was sorely tempting to kill him, Joe, after what he told us happened to Mrs. Fry, but you can see that it was more or less an eye for an eye.”

“More or less,” Joe said dryly, his eyes swiveling to Quill.

“Is that your story, Mr. McKenna?”

“I was concerned about Mrs. Fry, but I shot him because he was attempting to draw on Miss Nash.”

Calico snapped at him. “You want to raise my hackles, too? Call me Miss Nash again and see what happens.” Beneath her skirt, her toe started to tap. “Here’s how it is, Joe. Mrs. Fry hired me to remove Nick Whitfield as a threat to her girls. He is the one snoring on the bed, but you probably know that. He used his belt to beat Daria Cole within an inch of her life.”

“I do know about Nick Whitfield. I know about Miss Cole, too.”

“Mrs. Fry said you did. She also said you told her you could not do anything.”

Joe Pepper shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Whit was already gone by the time I got wind of what happened. I could not spare a deputy at the time, and as you might imagine, there were no volunteers among Mrs. Fry’s regular customers to go after him.”

“Couldn’t spare a deputy?” she asked. “What about you? Or didn’t you think a whore was worth the effort?”

Joe’s chin came up and he gave her an eyeful of admonishment. “Careful, Calico. I still hold the keys to the jail.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “We were dealing with an outfit of rustlers from over Shelton way, stopping trains by pulling up tracks and taking cattle directly from the cars. But I don’t suppose Mrs. Fry mentioned that.”

“She did. She thought Daria should be your priority.”

“Because Daria Cole makes money for her. Let me tell you something, Calico, the way Mrs. Fry looks at her whores is not so different than a rancher looks at his cattle.”

“And ranchers vote.”

“Yes, they do. It’s just the way things are. Now, if you want to change it, maybe you should carry a placard that reads ‘Votes for Women’ instead of a gun. Are we done?”

Calico was not mollified in the least, but she agreed to end it with a curt nod.

Joe continued, “I never told Mrs. Fry I wouldn’t do anything about what happened to Daria. I told her she would have to be patient.” He held up his hand when Calico would have interrupted him. “I will admit that I could have been more diplomatic. I couldn’t hear myself think for her screaming at me, the harridan. I stood it as long as I could and then I escorted her to the door. I spoke to Doc Maine later and learned for myself about the extent of Miss Cole’s injuries, and then I went to speak to Miss Cole herself. She was against me pursuing Whitfield. She hardly had any flesh on her back, but
she
was the one not in favor of bringing him in.”

“She was afraid.”

“Yes. Afraid he would blame
her
, come after
her
, beat
her
.”

“Mrs. Fry told me Daria left town.”

“That’s right. When she was well enough to travel, she took off. I don’t think she told anyone where she was going, or if she did, no one’s saying, which is just as well to my way of thinking. You see, Calico, Mrs. Fry hired you to remove Nick Whitfield as a threat to her future earnings, not to right the wrong that was done to Daria Cole.”

“I know that, Joe. I am not naïve. I also know there is no righting that wrong, but avenging it appealed to me. That is why I took the job.”

Joe Pepper was quiet for a long time as he judged Calico’s expression against the sincerity of her motives. “All right,” he said, satisfied with what he observed. “What’s the rest? And don’t leave him out.” He pointed to Quill in the event Calico had doubts about whom he meant.

Calico touched the side of her head. “Do you mind? I want to take this wig off. It is giving me a headache.”

Joe shrugged. “Fine. I figured it was part and parcel of your foray into whoredom.”

“Whoredom, Joe? You are reading too many dime novels.”

“Probably.”

Calico sat down at the vanity and began plucking pins from under the ebony wig. She intercepted Quill McKenna’s frozen stare and heard the sheriff’s deep chuckle. She caught Joe’s eye in the mirror. “I guess he didn’t know.” She lifted the wig, tossed it on top of the vanity, and removed the thin white cap that held her own hair in place. She shook out her hair, raked it with her fingers, and then pulled it forward over her right shoulder and began to plait it.

“It’s red,” Quill said. “You’re a redhead.”

Calico said to Joe, “He and I established earlier that not much gets past him, but I suppose he felt the need to prove it to you.”

That made Joe’s grin deepen. He almost felt a little sorry for Quill McKenna. The man still had not made a full recovery. “Close your mouth, Mr. McKenna. There’s no telling what you’ll trap there. Besides, with Calico it’s mostly better to go along with what comes along.”

Quill nodded slowly. “I suppose.” She was a
redhead
. Here was the final proof that she was genuinely outside his usual tastes. The fact that she was carrying a pocket pistol did not set him back on his heels as much as discovering she was a redhead. And not just any shade of red. Not a shade that might be mistaken for auburn, nor one that might highlight a chestnut. No, her hair was Irish red. Bright. Coppery. The flame atop a candle taper.

He watched her open a pot of cream, dip a fingertip inside, and swipe it across the edge of her brow. She used a scrap of linen to remove the black and reveal eyebrows every bit as vivid as her hair. When she batted her eyelashes at his reflection, he knew what was coming. She wiped away the black there also and fluttered them again. A shade darker than her hair, Quill saw, but still unmistakably ginger. She chose a new cloth, dabbed cream on her forehead, cheeks, lips, and chin, and removed the last vestiges of rouge and powder.

“Freckles,” he said under his breath. “Of course there would be freckles.”

“What’s that?” she asked, swiveling on the stool to face him. “You have to speak up.”

“Nothing.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Joe Pepper was manfully trying to suppress laughter. He gave the sheriff a sour look. “It was nothing.”

Joe distracted himself by going over to Amos and hunkering down beside him. “Don’t start caterwauling again. I’m going to have a look at your shoulder and leg.” He probed both wounds. He was not as gentle as he would have been with an innocent. “Well, you’re lucky, Amos. You have hardly more than a graze on your thigh. That bullet’s lodged around here somewhere. It’s Calico’s slug that’s buried in your shoulder, but since that came from her peashooter, it didn’t do much in the way of damage. Doc might not even want to take it out.”

“
I
want it out,” Amos whined.

“You’re not going to get weepy, are you? I hear some commotion downstairs. That’s probably the doctor now with
Mrs. Fry. We’ll get him up here directly. In the meantime, you are sprawled on the floor like a cheap rug. One of us is bound to trip over you. How about you get yourself to that corner by the window where you will be out of the way?”

“It hurts to move.”

“It will hurt worse if Mr. McKenna moves you. I would do it, but my knee aches something fierce and it’s making me cranky. There is no telling how badly I would hurt you. Now get.”

Amos pushed himself onto all fours, listing heavily to the side of his uninjured shoulder, and half crawled, half dragged himself to the corner. He sat up, drew his good leg toward his chest, and dipped his forehead to his knee.

“Good,” said Joe. “Stay there. You have no friends in this room that can help you.” Joe put out a hand for Quill to help him to his feet. His knee popped as he rose. “Thank you, Mr. McKenna.”

“Quill.”

“Thank you, Quill.” Joe moved to the opposite side of the bed so he could get a better look at Whit and Chick Tatters. They were a sorry sight. “I am still waiting, Calico.”

“Well, Mrs. Fry knew that Whit was partial to a particular kind of girl. Daria told her about a photograph that he showed her. He was real taken with the girl in it—who it turns out might be his sister—and said he wanted Daria to be more like her. Dark hair, shy smile, slim. Daria could not be any of those things, and when he had enough of what she
could
offer, he took his strap to her.”