Touched by Angels (28 page)

Billy was looking at the pipe rack.

“
I shot him through the gut. Not deliberately. Thought I was aimin’ for his heart. It would have been a mercy. I don’t hold with hangin’ no matter what a man is guilty of, since I saw it done once. Stead of his heart though, the slug hit him ’bout three inches to the side of his belly button, here!” He reached out and prodded Billy’s stomach. “I sat there for hours, listen to his groanin’ and beggin’ as he called out for his mumma and the Good Lord. Had to put my hands over my ears. Couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t work up enough guts to put him out of his misery. Thought I might get Jesus when he finally crawled behind some bushes to die, but I never did. Boy, I was a coward! Mounted up m’horse and left him. Plagued me ever since.”

He saw the boy’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he gulped. “
Did
he die?”

“
Must have. Don’t know what the state o’ play with medicine is now, but back then, if you were gut shot, you died.” He leaned forward and added, “And,
let me tell you, in great pain. When you shoot a man, it ain’t pretty and Jesus won’t love you for it. You ’member that.”

The lecture had painted a stark picture, but done little to quash his thirst for revenge. If anything, it had strengthened it.

Quint was quietly optimistic as he listened hard
.

There had been no noises coming from anywhere below for more than half an hour. The snag was, that had no way of seeing down there to be sure. There were tiny holes in the ceiling, but although within eight feet of him, he risked making creaking noises if he tried to get to them.

He could see
his surroundings reasonably well because of the hole he had been looking through, and several others, but going back through that trap would be a one-way trip.

If they
had
rumbled him, and were waiting with their guns drawn, the game would be up. He could only hope that arrogant sergeant was as stupid as he sounded. Then he thought of all that wealth slipping ever further away, and groaned with longing.

It was now or go without, he thought, as he wondered where they were headed.

The longer he le
ft it, the harder it would be to locate them, though they were still hopefully hampered by that stripy suitcase that he would see for miles. He drew his gun, and eased the trap up a couple of inches, whilst pointing the muzzle through the crack.

The room seemed empty.

He raised the trap all the way, and eased it down onto the rafters.

Then he listened hard for a minute or so, before lowering himself through.
Then, hanging from the wooden lip either side, he saw that he would have to drop the last foot, and that it would make a bang he had no way of muffling.

He gritted his teeth and let go.

The bang seemed out of all proportion to the force, and Quint ran around to the other side of the bed, shaking, while two doors down,
Billy gazed at a revolver that looked brand new, in spite of the fact Sullivan had assured him it was more than twenty years old.

***

It was of polished chromed steel, yet the grip was as black as night.

He spent some time looking at that alone, not sure what it was made of.

“
Heartwood ebony,” Sam told him. “One of only three ever made.”

Billy spun it round
and grinned as he thumbed back the hammer, revelling in the delicious sounding, well oiled clicks.

“
The very gun I killed that man with, in ninety-two,” Sam told him. “It’s not been fired since.” He watched disillusioned, as the boy held it out straight, drawing a bead on one of the pipes in the rack.

Ebony. A black wood for a black heart.

***

Quint was determined too, as he looked at an open copy of the
New York Sun
that lay on the floor, next to the bed.

Several minutes had passed, and he was almost sure he was alone.

A portion of the advertisements page had been torn out, though enough of it remained to tell him who it promoted. It was the Western Trading Company, a place from where he had procured supplies himself, over the years.

Knowing her plan now, l
ocating her was going to be easier than he thought.

He grinned
, knowing she was intending to draw him out, by leaving a trail a mile wide, with the loot as bait. He admired her thinking, but the pity for her was, she would be luring him to the sort of place where he felt most at home. He laughed out loud, knowing they didn’t stand a chance.

Lil, however, was not at all amused as she was presented with a revolver
with mother of pearl grips, which had to be one of the smallest in the world.

She and Robert were outside, on the shooting range, where a dozen large tin cans stood atop a shot splintered log, ten yards away. Either side, as if on guard, were life-sized targets, depicting men holding revolvers at the hip.

A table before her carried about forty different handguns, from revolvers to semi-automatic pistols, in varying calibres, sizes and finishes. She had been told that all of them were loaded and ready for firing.

“
This is a lady’s weapon,” said George Brady, the balding, combed-over proprietor, as he held it delicately between finger and thumb. “You can keep it in your purse, or handbag, discreetly, and if you are threatened, you can…”

Ignoring him, she reached out and picked up a revolver that was about five times the size, and a look of horror spread across his face.

“
Ma’am, that’s a Colt service revolver. It kicks like a mare. It’s not really a lady’s…”

“
I need it to stop a man, not a mouse
.”

She thumbed back the hammer, aimed and pulled the trigger. There was a bang like the Day of Judgement and the can was blown into pieces.

He shook his head in amazement, as the fragments fell about them, making tinkling noises.

***

Less than t
wo hours after she had left, Jack Quint was listening to what George Brady had to say, not sure whether he believed him, though he didn’t think he’d dare lie.

Brady
had just closed up shop when a shot rang out, blowing another of the tin cans to pieces.

When he saw Quint step out from behind one of the man-shaped targets, with the gun now pointed at him, he lost control of his bowels, thinking he was about to die.

He just wanted information about that English woman and kid, thank God, so when he told him how she had fired six shots
and
demolished five cans from ten paces though, Quint was sceptical.

He snatched his gun from its holster, shoved it under his chin and began pushing him backwards until he fetched up against the wall with the map.

He thumbed the hammer back
and pressed even harder, making his eyes water.

“
You’re lyin’, I know the dame. She’s never fired a gun in her life.”

“
But… she, she did… honest. Some people, even dames, are born…”

“
Phew, you stink. Shit your pants?”

“
Yeah…
I…”

His combed-
over hair had fallen into his eyes.

H
is hands waving about at his sides, as if he was trying to work up the guts to lash out.

“
Don’t, or you’ll be dead before you can blink, and if you don’t start truthin’ too, like right now, there’ll be more than just shit oozin’ out of you.”

“
But…
but I am. It’s like she was a natural. Honest, sure as I’m standin’ here. Please, would I lie to you?”

Terrified, and with the pressure on his larynx, his voice had become a high-pitched yammer.

Quint lowered the gun
and released the pressure from his throat.

He slid down the wall, coughing and spluttering, both hands massaging his neck.

“
Where’d she go?”

“
I don’t know.”

The gun was back,
this time on the end of his nose.

Seeing two barrels through crossed eyes, Brady gasped, with visions of his brains coming out the back of his skull, “She was looking at the map, said she was going to Holly Springs to meet somebody.”

***

Quint’s eyes flicked to the side, as he took the gun away from Brady’s nose. He grinned, seeing the town marked, and knew that with the skull and crossed bones printed by it, she was luring him there for a very good reason.

It was deserted,
and had been for more than fifty years, since a well had poisoned all but a few with cholera, and then driven them out.

He shoved Brady into
the map and said, “I’m going to take a few things.” He looked at him earnestly.

Brady laughed as if in nervous recognition that it looked as though he would live. He trailed behind Quint, rubbing his hands together, as though sucking up to his favourite customer.

Quint took a new gun belt, this one hand stitched, with loops for fifty bullets, which he filled, before slipping it around his waist. He threw his jacket to the floor and replaced it with a cream coloured duster that hung almost to his ankles.

He grabbed a handful of cigars
and dropped them in his shirt pocket, before walking over to the till.

“
Open it.”

Brady gulped
and Quint saw beads of sweat across his upper lip. Quint lowered his hand, with deliberate slowness, to his gun.

“
I said…
”

“
OK, OK.”

Brady
held his trembling hands up in defeat, pressed one of the large brass keys and the drawer shot out.

Without a trace of expression, Quint took every note he could see. He folded them in half and the wad disappeared into one of his pockets. Quint looked at the sick-looking man in front of him, winked, and lit a cigar before going back the way he had come.

***

Sam and Billy watched, from where they had been concealed the whole time, after following
Quint when he had left the hotel.

Billy muttered, “What a stinkin’, low down…”

“
Save your breath. It’s them that gets even, that wins. Anyway I know this guy Brady, and there’s none more deservin’. He’d take his grandma’s last cent if she wasn’t lookin’. Come on. At least we know where he’s headed.”

By now it was almost dark.
They ducked down and made their way along the splintered wall that formed the back of the range.

As Billy and Sam
were following Quint to the railway station, Lil Smith stood in a motionless train, with Robert, after pulling the emergency cord, with assorted luggage around her, where it had tumbled from overhead racks.

She had been sitting in the cramped, smoky compartment for three hours, with men darting lecherous peeks
, and their frumpy wives nudging them, glaring daggers.

Amid the light tan of her face, her eyes shone like coals.

She heard one of the women, a particularly portly one, mutter, “Brazen hussy!” before kicking her small, sweating husband on the ankle.

Sometimes the giggling faces of children appeared over the backs of the seats in front, before disappearing as quickly.

Other passengers were muttering among themselves, because Holly Springs was a place that nobody ever talked about.

“
What’s your trouble, ma’am?”
the ticket inspector asked.

“
I need to get off. I’m expecting to meet somebody here
.”

Her accent brought more odd looks.

He
was about to warn her of the five-dollar fine, but then his eyes wandered down to her pistol belt and thought better of it.

“
You’ll die if you stay.”

“
I’ll die if I don’t. But at least here, a man will die with me.”

Without another word, she lifted the suitcase and disembarked, feeling the chill of the coming night.

Then, as she held Robert’s hand, and her other hand settled on her gun, she watched as the train trundled off.

***

Eighteen hours later, on another train, Quint grinned to himself, not knowing Sam
uel Sullivan and Billy Tweed were sitting in another compartment, waiting for the train to stop.

Sam, who had left Sylvester in the care of his sister, was smoking another of his pipes, a bone one that had turned buttery yellow over the years.

Billy, who had been telling him exactly how he thought it best to tackle Quint when they got there, felt as though he’d been slapped in the face, when Sam cut him short by saying, “I want you to stay on the train, go back the way you came, and wait for me.”