Turnback Creek (Widowmaker) (5 page)

M
olly had made a perfect pot roast, surrounded by all kinds of vegetables. She also announced that there was a pie in the oven for dessert.

During the dinner conversation, Locke learned that Molly’s father, Arthur Shillstone, had started the family in the mining business and that George Crowell had worked for him for many years. When her father died, Molly took over the business.

“That was five years ago,” she said. “This mine has been my most successful to date. That’s why I can’t afford to have my people walk out on me. I’ve got everything invested in this mine.”

She seemed so sincere Locke wondered why she had been so willing to depend on Cooper—even if all she was depending on him to do was bring in someone like Locke.

He suddenly realized that not only Molly Shillstone’s but, apparently, her father’s life’s work depended almost solely on him. He was going to have to make sure that Cooper stayed sober—and he also had to find out just how much ex-Marshal Dale Cooper had left.

After dinner, Molly served up slices of huckleberry pie and cups of coffee. Following that, the men repaired to the front porch, where George Crowell produced cigars, which Locke and Cooper accepted.

“I wanted to go with you, you know,” Crowell finally said.

“That’s what Molly said,” Locke answered.

“You can come,” Cooper said.

“She doesn’t want me to.”

“He’d be in too much danger, Dale,” Locke said. “He doesn’t handle a gun well.”

“I don’t handle a handgun at all,” Crowell said, “but I can use a rifle pretty—”

“That’s okay, George,” Locke said. “Coop and I can handle it.”

“We don’t really have any idea how many men hit the first payroll,” Crowell said.

“Did the sheriff ride out there to have a look?” Locke asked.

“He did.”

“Well, then, we need to talk to him,” Locke said, looking at Cooper. “See what he was able to figure out.”

“That’s right,” Cooper said. “We’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Locke noticed that the hand Cooper was holding the cigar with was trembling.

“Maybe we should be getting along,” he said. “We’re going to have an early day tomorrow, getting ready for Fri-day.” That was the day the payroll was supposed to be arriving at the railhead.

“You can’t leave yet,” Molly said, coming out the door behind them. “I haven’t had my cigar yet.”

She walked over to Crowell, who took out another cigar, snipped the end for her, and held a match to it while she got it going to her satisfaction.

“How long have you smoked cigars?” Locke asked. He assumed she was trying to shock them.

“I used to light them for my father all the time,” she said. “And I mean that I would snip the ends, put it in my mouth, and get it going for him. I always liked the taste.” She drew on the cigar and exhaled the smoke in a blue cloud. “I have one every so often now.”

“I see.”

She smiled. “You thought I was doing it for shock value?”

“Well …”

“I don’t do anything for shock value, Mr. Locke-may I call you John?”

“Why not?”

“With me, John,” she said, “what you see is what I am. I don’t know any other way to act.”

“Then we have that in common, Molly,” Locke said. “I’m very much the same way.”

Locke finally grabbed Cooper and headed back to the hotel.

“Why don’t we stop in the saloon—” Cooper started.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Coop.”

“Just one drink before turning in, John,” Cooper said.

“I keep earlier hours these days, anyway.”

“Dale,” Locke said, “a lot of people’s lives and livelihoods are riding on this—not to mention ours. I don’t want to take any unnecessary chances, do you?”

“I suppose not.”

“That glass of brandy you had tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s consider that your last drink for a while.”

“What?” Cooper asked. “That wasn’t even a decent drink.”

“Look,” Locke said, grabbing his friend’s arm and stopping both their progress. “I saw your hand shaking tonight just holding that cigar. How’s it going to be when you have to hold a gun?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Well, I want to find out for sure,” Locke said. “You and I are going to do some target shooting in the morning, so you better get yourself a good night’s sleep.”

“John—”

“If you can’t hit what you aim at tomorrow, Dale,” Locke said, “I’m out. You got that?”

“We’re getting five hundred doll—”

“I’m not doing this for the money, Coop,” Locke said.

“I’m doing it out of friendship—but I’m not getting killed for friendship, understand?”

“All right,” Cooper said. “I understand. I’ll go back to my room and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow you’ll see I’m as good with a gun as I ever was. Better than you, if you remember.”

“I remember,” Locke said, and they continued on to the hotel.

O
nce they were in their hotel rooms, Locke had a look out his window. He hadn’t seen anyone, but he had the feeling all day that someone was watching them. Word had probably gotten out that they were going to escort the payroll up to the mine, just the two of them. If they had more time, Locke would have considered bringing someone else in, somebody about whose ability with a gun he had no doubt. Tomorrow would tell just how much he was going to be able to depend on Dale Cooper.

Locke couldn’t see anyone from his window, but all the doorways across from the hotel were dark. He was considering whether or not to go to the nearest saloon. His one-beer-a-day limit had been reached already, and some brandy had already been added to that, but he wasn’t ready to turn in. Maybe he’d even pick up some useful information.

He successfully talked himself into leaving the hotel and walking over to the Three Aces Saloon.

When he walked into the Three Aces, the place was in full swing. Music came from a corner piano, poker and faro were being played all around him, and in another part of the room, a roulette wheel was spinning. Even above the din, he could hear the ball bouncing around.

He walked to the bar, elbowed his way in, and ordered a beer. The bartender from that afternoon, Al, was not working. A man standing next to him turned to look at him, apparently didn’t like what he saw, and looked away, giving Locke as much room at the bar as he could.

Locke turned to face the room, holding his beer mug in his hand. Three girls were working the room, all tired-looking but attractive. He wasn’t interested in women at the moment, though. He was checking to see if anyone was interested in him.

Throughout his life, John Locke was a man who either drew stares or caused men to avert their eyes. At the moment, no one seemed to be looking at him, but on the way to the saloon from his hotel, he’d still had the sensation of being watched—not necessarily followed but definitely watched.

As he worked on his beer, the batwing doors swung inward, and Sheriff Hammet entered. He stopped just inside the door, looked around, spotted Locke, and came walking over. “Mr. Locke,” he said.

“Sheriff.”

The sheriff reached past Locke and accepted a cold beer from the bartender. “I’ve been hearing interesting things about you and the marshal,” Hammet said.

“Have you?” Locke asked. “Like what?”

“Like you’re working for Molly Shillstone,” Hammet said. “Gonna deliver her payroll day after tomorrow.”

“We’re going to try.”

“You and Marshal Cooper, right?” the lawman asked. “Just the, uh, two of you?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a brave man.”

“Why’s that?”

“Takin’ all that money up the mountain with only a drunk to watch your back?”

“I’d rather have Dale Cooper watching my back than any man alive,” Locke said coldly.

Hammet backed off. “Hey, no offense meant,” he said.

“Offense taken.”

“Let me buy you another beer to make up for it.”

“I’m still working on this one.”

“I was just goin’ by what I saw,” the lawman said. “Your Marshal Cooper has been here for some time. I didn’t know who he was, but he really didn’t lift his head up off the table very often.”

“I know a way you can make it up.”

“How?”

“Tell me about the first payroll being hit.”

“Not much to tell,” the sheriff said with a shrug. “Molly sent two of her own up there, and they were ambushed.”

“Back shot?”

“One of ’em, yeah,” Hammet said.

“Any sign up there?”

“I ain’t much for reading sign on rocks,” the lawman said, “but near as I can figure, there was two of ’em.”

“Nobody came forward with any information?” Locke asked. “Nobody was flashing money, maybe gambling beyond their means?”

“I’m just a humble mining-town lawman, Mr. Locke,” Hammet said. “I ain’t no detective. All I can say is, somebody hit that payroll and got away with it. Nothin’ I can do about it.”

“And I guess you’ll say the same thing if this second one is hit, too,” Locke commented.

“I’m afraid so.”

“So, Cooper and I are on our own.”

“And getting paid for the privilege, as I understand it—probably more than I make in a year,” Hammet said. “I ain’t about to go up that mountain with a bunch of money and risk my life for my salary.”

“I can’t blame you for that,” Locke said.

“Nice of you to say.”

Sheriff Hammet finished his beer and set the empty mug back on the bar top.

“I wish you both luck,” he said, “and I hope I won’t be cartin’ both your bodies down the mountain.”

Locke didn’t comment, but he had the same hope.

A
fter Locke and Cooper left Molly Shillstone’s house, she and George Crowell sat together on the porch. Molly knew George was waiting for her to invite him to stay overnight. He always waited for that invitation, and it never came—and never would. She often wondered why he didn’t know that. He was older than she and not the least bit attractive. In addition, he was weak. He had attached himself to her father for years, and now he was doing the same thing to her. If and when she found herself a real man, someone who would marry her and be at least as strong as she was, George Crowell would be out of a job. For now, he had his uses—but warming her bed was not one of them.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Molly?”

“Hmm? Do what, George?”

“Entrust all this gold to these two men,” he said. “What do we know about them?”

“Well, quite a bit, actually,” she said, “They do both have rather big reputations.”

“Yes, as gunmen.”

“Marshal Cooper’s is more as a lawman than a gun-man,” Molly pointed out. “Mr. Locke, as I understand it, has more of a reputation as a gunman. The Widowmaker, they call him. Or is that what they call his gun?”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “Cooper is more of a drunk right now than anything else.”

“He had one glass of brandy tonight, that I saw,” Molly said. “Not exactly what you’d expect from a drunk, George.”

“Molly, his hands were shaking out here on the porch.”

“I trust Mr. Locke’s judgment,” she said. “If he deems the marshal fit to go up the mountain with, that’s good enough for me. Why would he risk his life with a drunk?”

Crowell turned in his chair to face her. “Molly, why would you put so much faith in a stranger?”

“I have a good feeling about him.”

“You’re attracted to him,” Crowell accused.

She didn’t answer.

“That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

“George,” she said, “I think it’s time we said good night.”

Crowell lived in a small shack near the mining office. Molly had never been inside and did not intend ever to be.

“Molly—”

“Good night, George.” She said it without looking at him. Slowly, he got up from his chair, stepped off the porch, and left.

Molly closed her eyes for a moment, imagining that John Locke had been watching, waiting for George to leave so he could come back, come to her bed. Locke was the kind of man she’d been waiting for all her life, despite the fact that he was much older than she was. She wondered what kind of woman he’d been waiting for.

Hoke Benson watched from across the room while John Locke and the sheriff had a conversation. There were enough men sitting between him and the bar that he felt certain Locke would not be able to see him. He just wanted to take some time to observe the man. Hoke was still trying to decide if they should hit the payroll at the train, between Turnback Creek and the train, or on the mountain. He was also waiting to hear from the other men he’d “invited” to participate in the robbery to get back to him. Word had gotten out that it was John Locke who was taking the money up the mountain. There weren’t a lot of men who wanted to go up against the Widowmaker, but Hoke felt sure that in the end, the money would overcome their fear. Besides, wherever they did it, they were going to ambush Locke and Cooper, so the two old legends would never know what hit them.

The lawman left, and Locke stayed for a few moments before also leaving. Eli and Bailey were playing faro, but Hoke left them alone. He didn’t feel there was any need to follow Locke back to his hotel. They had all day tomorrow to keep an eye on the man.

Locke watched the lawman leave, then finished his own beer and set the empty mug on the bar.

“’Nother one?” the bartender asked.

Locke was tempted. In two days’ time, he was going to put his life on the line for five hundred dollars. That was a lot of money to Dale Cooper—a lot more than it was to Locke. In all Cooper’s years as a lawman, he had probably never made that much money in one year. He certainly had not seen that much at one time during the past ten years. But it wasn’t enough to John Locke to risk his life for.

Now, his friendship with Dale Cooper, that was something worth risking his life for, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be nervous about it. A lot would depend on how Cooper performed with his gun tomorrow—a new gun in a shaky hand, at that.

The bartender was still waiting for a reply.

“No,” Locke finally said. “No more, thanks.”

After riding Cooper all day about his drinking, the last thing Locke could do was get drunk himself. And it would be an easy thing to do—a far too easy thing to do—to have another beer, and then another, and then just keep going and going …

Locke stiffened, straightened up from the bar, and forced himself to walk out the front door and go back to his hotel room for the night. Even in his room, and in his bed, that next beer was still calling to him.