Working the Lode (27 page)

“All right,” he drawled. “I’ll trade you for Miss Narrimore. Are you open to trade?”

He noted that Brannagh appeared thoughtful for a brief second then took a surly attitude again. “Trade for what? Those two worthless greasers? I’ll gladly take the burden of those cussed devils off your hands, but it’s not worth handing over Miss Narrimore! Not until I get a signed contract from the Colorado River delivered to me in person by this lady’s fiancé, or Elder Pickett himself!”

Cormack had to reach into his saddlebag, and as expected, this caused the three brigands to stiffen and take fighting stances. However, when they saw that Cormack revealed not a weapon but a giant gold nugget, all three weakened a little in awe. Brannagh even lowered his pistol from Mercy’s breast, and if Cormack could just distract him a tad more…

Cormack yelled, “This one item. These here gentlemen forgot to mention to you. During another raid, they obtained this thirty-pound gold nugget, twenty-two carats, barely any quartz.” He hefted the large rock. It seemed to glow with a life all of its own, lighting up the park where the men stood coiled up with bunched muscles like jaguars. Cormack saw he had gained Brannagh’s acute attention, and he was now confident of success, even when Brannagh shouted, “How do I know that isn’t a rock painted a gold color? Throw it over here.”

Cormack sneered. “What kind of a blockhead do you take me for?” He waved the boulder at Three-Fingered Jack. “Jack! Is this real gold? Tell the man.”

“Why,
si
,” Jack stammered. “I was too afraid to have it assayed, but I’ve laid my eyes on many a—”

“No!”

All weapons were now leveled at a spot near the pine grove. Zelnora raced across the field at full chisel, like a blur in her sudden determination.

Bear’s ass!
Was she cracked? Now Brannagh would have them both, Mercy and Zelnora!

“Take me, Ward!” Zelnora was shouting, arms flailing bonelessly, no weapon in sight. “Cormack, don’t give him the gold! Let Mercy go, Ward! Take me!”

Cormack could tickle Brannagh’s hump ribs right slick, since he was scarcely looking his direction at the moment. Then one of the other lackeys would raise the hair of one of the women, and so on. Cormack had seen this happen before, like a deck of cards flying through the air, one toppling after the other. There would be no one left standing on the field after such a bloodbath.

And just as Zelnora requested, Brannagh shoved Mercy toward Cormack then wrapped a rapacious arm about Zelnora’s torso. Cormack grabbed Mercy, and he knew Brannagh had not forgotten about the giant lump of gold for long. His entire body hummed with a surge of unspent energy, and he gripped Mercy with unnecessary force.

A pistol’s report came from the pines. The nameless thug by the shanty door was thrown in his tracks, gone under almost comically with flung arms and an odd scowl as though scorned in love. Brannagh didn’t appear to notice, too enthralled with the lovely package he held in his arms—Cormack’s woman, and Brannagh drooled upon her greedily.

* * * *

“You just killed Holterman!” Erskine hissed at Joaquin.

The alleged Holterman lay limply against the shack, his neck crunched at an impossible angle. Nutting, the dodo whose worthless life Cormack had once saved, turned yellow when he saw his fellow empire-builder fall and attempted to go like sixty back inside the shanty, but Brannagh stayed him by the arm.

Joaquin frowned. “Who cares? Your woman is safe with Cormack now, and that loco Brannagh would never harm Señorita Zelnora.”

“How do you know that? I mean, what’s his objective here? He wants to be King of California, right?”

Was Erskine waiting for an answer? What a time to banter politely! “Yes, yes, King of California!”

“Okay, then! Sure, Zelnora is pretty and intelligent, but what would he value more? He wants those Colorado River people back, or their money and cattle, at least! And that giant nugget, if he can get it! And leave all of us in the dust missing our topknots.”

Joaquin cocked his hammer, one eye closed, the better to aim. “You’re right,” he breathed, and squeezed off a shot that nearly blew off that thankless Nutting’s head.

The gore must have been a sight for poor Miss Zelnora, for she wrenched free from Brannagh. Smart enough not to go flailing across the meadow as an easy target for the businessman, she vanished into the darkness of the shanty. When Brannagh pivoted away from Cormack, the mountain man’s Colt’s spoke just as a report of what sounded like a small caliber pepperbox lit up the inside of the cabin. In what was probably an unusual occurrence, for a mountaineer seldom pulled the trigger without sending the bullet to the mark, Brannagh was not rubbed out cold. A splash of crimson appeared on his shoulder before he, too, dove into the shanty.

“Zel shot whoever was inside that cabin,” Erskine noted, while Joaquin made an instant decision to step into the meadow and reveal himself.

“Brannagh!” he bawled, walking toward the cabin. “Trade me for the woman! I heard they are shouting for my head in a glass jar. ‘Bring me the head of Joaquin Valenzuela,’ they are clamoring. Think how praised you will be, bringing in my head! You will become alcalde of San Francisco. I just killed two more men, two more than the previous two hundred. Think how honored you will be to display my body at a necktie party!”

Behind him, Joaquin heard Erskine sprint through the knee-high dried grass, flashing across the meadow to reunite with his beloved—probably not wishing to be on the receiving end of a fresh volley of fire.

Cormack sent Erskine and Mercy galloping off on his mount, presumably with the enormous nugget in the saddlebag, and Joaquin’s two cowardly former comrades took this opportunity to do the same. The muzzle of Brannagh’s rifle poked through the tiny cabin window, but all was silent inside. The two remaining gunmen walked sideways, angling toward each other.

“Joaquin, don’t be a potatohead!” Cormack said. “We can get her back unharmed. You go round the back of the cabin while I distract him with some highfalutin jawing. Go, go!”

Zelnora had shot William Clyde Tuggle! Why, they had come around the Horn together from New York, and she had just shot him through the throat! No one had expected her to have a weapon, as she had concealed her little pocket pistol so well. Zelnora knew that Tuggle, as a henchman for Brannagh, would have done the same to her given a chance.

Brannagh ducked inside the cabin. He didn’t appear to give a rat’s ass about Tuggle, but he batted her pistol from her grip before grabbing Tuggle’s rifle out of his crow-like fingers and scrabbling to the small window. The little pistol went sashaying harmlessly underneath, of all things, the disgusting chamber pot they had apparently provided Mercy with.

“You stay put, you heartless slut!” he yelled at her, now leveling two weapons out the front of the shanty. “I’ve had enough trouble out of you. You’ve been nothing but trouble since I agreed to let you onto that ship in the first place! Now I’m stuck with you, and I have no use for you. Origin Pickett doesn’t care about some divorced slut—it’s Mercy Narrimore they gave a hang about. Listen here. You’re gonna walk to that door nice and easy and tell that fur-wearing brute that we’re staying put here, I’m gonna be humping you every hour on the hour until he charges over those mountains and brings those pioneers back.”

That was to be expected, and Zelnora said, “All right. That’s fine, Ward. I’m certain they’re already on their way, having heard that you took Mercy prisoner in the first place. Bowmaker can ride fast, and I’m certain he can catch them. What’s all that shouting?”

Out front, Joaquin yammered away, shouting at the cabin. “Trade me for the woman!” he was saying.

Oh, no! Not that!

“Heh,” cackled Brannagh. “How noble of that murderous bandit. I’ll just pick him off from here, then I can bring in his head and be a hero. How does that sound, Sister Sparks?”

A bright flash and puff of smoke cracked from Brannagh’s rifle, and Zelnora crawled to the door, able to see under the sulphurous, gray smoke cloud. Against the warmth of the tawny autumn field, Cormack had raced to Joaquin’s side, propping up the limp torso to check his wound, then sending Brannagh the most lethal and hateful look she’d ever seen from those crystalline eyes. His nostrils only flared like that when acutely excited, but she certainly did not expect his next step.

Rising slowly with hands above his head to display his revolver—the other hand held the giant nugget, which had been hidden in the grass!—Cormack shouted, “All right, Brannagh. You win, you’ve got the head of Joaquin Valenzuela. I just ask one thing. Trade me for Zelnora. I can tell you where I câched all my other gold. Think about it. Valenzuela’s head. A lump of solid gold big enough to build your entire empire. And my whole fortune of gold. I’ll even deed you that San Francisco lot. Just let Zelnora go. She’s useless to you. Just think. You’ll be a hero for bringing in Valenzuela’s head, and a rich hero to boot.”

Brannagh finally spoke, still not showing even the tip of his snout around the edge of the window. “Is Miss Sparks really worth all that, Bowmaker?”

Cormack shrugged lightly, making what she knew to be an attempt at a careless face. “You’re a businessman, Brannagh. You evaluate the deal. Miss Sparks for all of that. It should be obvious which the better deal is.”

Finally, Zelnora cried out. “No, Cormack, don’t. I’ll be fine here, Brannagh won’t hurt me, you just go get those pioneers.”

Evenly, as though purchasing eggs or a jar of pickles, Cormack grinned a bit and said, “You let me be the judge of that, Miss.”

“Shut up!” Brannagh hissed at her. He yelled out the window now, “All right. Just drop your piece before you come forward, and we got a deal.” He looked at Zelnora. “Did he drop it? Aw, hell’s bells, why should I trust you?”

“He dropped it,” she told Brannagh.

Cormack slowly allowed the revolver to slither from his fingers, and it fell into the grass with a dull thud. With hands held high, Cormack started cautiously walking toward the cabin. Only then did Brannagh dare to peek through the window, and saw that Zelnora told the truth. Now he grabbed her, yanking her to her feet in the doorway, and pressed the pistol muzzle to her rib cage.

“All right, Bowmaker,” Brannagh growled. “Toss that nugget over here, just right through this door. Throw it at my head, and your girl’s a goner.”

She must have been so fatigued and nearly prostrate with terror, but it suddenly struck Zelnora as humorous—“a goner.” As though he were a sheriff confronting—well, confronting a terribly deadly outlaw, which he was. Yet Cormack could toss the nugget, and Brannagh could still hold her captive. She had absolutely cracked from the events of the past few days!

Without taking his eyes from Brannagh, Cormack rolled the nugget as though playing tenpins, and it zigzagged past Zelnora’s feet. Brannagh stepped forward with his prisoner, and she squirmed to test the extent of his slimy betrayal. Would he let her go? He was definitely distracted by the hunk of ore.

“Let her go,” Cormack suggested mildly, one eyebrow arched, stepping closer yet.

She felt Brannagh’s hesitation. He held all the cards, after all. He was the only one who had a pistol.

He shoved her so suddenly she stumbled forward a bit. Cormack did not catch her, and when she twirled around, she saw why. In a flash, everything happened at once. Cormack turned his back to Brannagh and stomped on the top of Brannagh’s boot at the same time he jammed a powerful elbow into the missionary’s Adam’s apple with an audible crack of neck bones. A nauseating oomph of air was expelled from the windpipe as Cormack wrenched the pistol from his hand and Zelnora swept down to grab the nugget. Cormack leaped back to allow the businessman to fall facedown in the grass, sombrero flying, and with a rage Zelnora had not known was present in her gut, she smashed the back of the skull with the huge rock.

She drew back and breathed, prepared to land another blow, but Cormack stayed her hand. His calm, steady fingers were reassuring against her shaking arm—that nugget was suddenly unbelievably heavy—and they both stared unblinking as Cormack stuck out a boot and flipped Brannagh over. Blood trickled from his gaping mouth. He breathed no more.