Outlaw in Paradise

  Jesse shouldered him out of the way, swearing softly in a steady, wondering stream. Without thinking, he lifted his hand toward the big chestnut horse in the next stall, and the animal threw up her head and screamed, half rearing until the rope on her halter caught and held, jerking her back to the ground. "Easy, easy," Jesse soothed her, "you're all right now, big girl, easy there, nobody's gonna hurt you," and so on in a low murmur, until the chestnut's ears went up and her breathing slowed. "Who did it?" Jesse asked Nestor, grazing with his fingertips the bloody, foam-flecked corners of the mare's mouth. Then he saw the raw, blood-crusted gouges on her flanks, and started in swearing again.

  Nestor hesitated, but only for a second. "It's Lyndon Cherney's horse. He got 'er in San Francisco back around Easter time. Paid a thousand dollars for 'er, I heard. She's a blood horse, s'pose to have Arab in her."

  "Who's Lyndon Cherney?"

  Nestor flinched at his tone, but answered promptly. "Vice president of the Mercantile Bank. Important fella. Town father."

  "He did this?" The mare's gory sides and the blood around her tender mouth had been caused by a vicious rider, not an incompetent one. He smoothed his hand down the animal's fluttering shoulder, trying to soothe the nervousness out of her, get rid of the wild look in her white-rimmed eyes.

  "He ain't much of a horseman," Nestor hedged. He bit off a new chaw, fixing Jesse with a doubtful eye. "Thing is," he said, standing up straighter, as if he'd come to a decision. "Thing is, he's mean. Broke the horse he had before this one. White and gray gelding, a real beauty. Claimed he didn't run right for him and broke 'im down. Ended up selling him for nothing to the meat man. Damn shame, but he weren't any good by then. Peckerhead done broke 'im down. And if this one ain't headed that way, I don't know horseflesh."

  "Where is he?"

  "Cherney?" Nestor backed up a step. He gave Jesse a quick up-and-down, and came to another decision. This one brought a glitter to his faded blue eyes. "He'd be up at the bank by now. Done had his morning ride and changed into his banker clothes. Reckon he's up there countin' his money."

  "Not for much longer," Jesse said, and his dead man's voice not only didn't scare Nestor this time, it made him downright gleeful.

  "Give 'im hell," he called as Jesse strode off down the dusty length of the stable toward the doorway. "Give 'im one for me! Shoot 'is balls off, one at a time! Tell 'im to—"

  "You take care of that horse," Jesse cut him off, glancing back over his shoulder.

  "Yes, sir!" It was hard to be sure in the half-light, but it looked like Nestor saluted.

  The sun had shone all morning, but clouds from the west were blowing in and fat drops of water had begun to thud in the street, setting off little dust explosions. Women put up their parasols and men jammed on their hats; people who had been strolling before started to run. Jesse knew where the bank was because he'd passed it riding in yesterday. A yellow brick building with a stone portico, it occupied one of the four comers in the middle of town, where Noble Fir Street crossed Main. The rain started in earnest, so he jogged toward the sidewalk, heading for shelter under the awning of Baker's Canvas & Tents, Hunting & Trail Outfitters. He barely noticed the three men loitering in front of the store until one of them pushed off the clapboard wall and slouched to the middle of the boardwalk. Jesse took one look at him, and knew. Shit. It had to happen—it always did—but he'd been hoping it wouldn't happen for a while yet.

  "Hey, Mr. Gault, how you doing?"

  Jesse called them jokers, these punks who had to make an impression on him, one way or the other, or die trying. This one was slight and bandy-legged, sandy-haired and mean-faced. He tongued a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, and Jesse thought, A toothpick—now, why didn't I think of that? He could see that it gave a man that mean, careless look he was always after, plus you didn't have to roll it, light it, or smoke it. Well, too late now. Gault smoked thin black cigarettes, and everybody knew it.

  "Come on, Warren," one of the joker's sidekicks muttered, backing up, flashing a weak, apologetic grin.

  "Shut up, Clyde." The one called Warren never took his eyes off Jesse. "So, Mr. Gault, you like our little town? Nice quiet place, real peaceable. That's how we like it."

  Jesse whispered, "I didn't catch your name, friend."

  "Maybe that's because I didn't throw it."

  The third man snickered, and Jesse slowly swiveled his head in his direction. Their eyes locked. The man's face, swarthy before, lost all color.

  "Warren, let's go," the second man, Clyde, said again.

  Warren ignored him. "I hear you're pretty fast with a gun, Mr. Gault."

  Jesse said nothing. He was thinking how sick he was of that opening line—"I heard you're pretty fast with a gun," or some blockheaded variation of it. Behind and in front of him, people were either scurrying away or gathering in fascination.

  "Some say I'm pretty fast, too," Warren pressed on, undaunted. "Real fast."

  Jesse unfurled his evilest smile, like he'd just been handed some nasty, disgusting present he'd wanted all his life. "That's good," he whispered. "I'm mighty glad to hear that. Because I haven't met a man with a fast gun in eleven days, Warren. That much time goes by, I get to feeling itchy. Off kilter, you know what I mean?"

  Warren slowly lifted his right hand to pull his jacket away and uncover his gun. From the butt, it looked like a double-action .41. Small—built for little hands—but fast and deadly accurate. People who hadn't gotten out of the way by now dove for cover.

  Jesse showed his teeth. "That's a pretty little popgun you got there. You want to step out in the street and show me how it works?" His heart was racing; all his energy, every cell, was concentrated on keeping his good eye focused and unblinking on Warren the joker's sharp, ratty features. Sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades; he was glad for the mustache that hid the sweat on his upper lip.

  Then Warren swallowed—Jesse saw his throat contract, his jaw muscles clamp. The mean smile faltered and the beady eyes darted away.

  This was when he always let them off, gave them some graceful out, while his own insides quaked with relief. But this two-bit joker irritated him. He wasn't only a punk, he was a coward to boot.

  "I asked you a question," Jesse whispered, taking a deliberate step toward him, then another. "You want to show me how that little bitty .41 works? Or are you gonna shut your mouth and stay out of my way for the rest of your stinking life? What's it gonna be, Warren?"

  Again the third man snickered, but this time it was a mistake. Fast as a snake, Warren whirled and cold-cocked the bastard, catching him on the point of the chin and sending him crashing back against the wall.

  Watching him slide to the ground, Jesse suppressed a sympathetic groan but didn't move, except to flex his fingers over his gun handles. Facing him again, Warren's cheeks turned apple-red from frustration. Jesse braced, his mind going blank in sudden panic. The son of a bitch was going to draw!

  But then—he didn't. His ready stance stayed the same, but the light went out of his eyes. Just like that, like a vicious dog that turns tail when you run at it, Warren went from killer back to coward.

  This time Jesse didn't give him a chance to change his mind. He walked straight toward him, feinted left at the last second, and deliberately smacked him on the right shoulder as he passed. He could hear him suck in an outraged breath, but he didn't stop, didn't look back. He kept walking, moving at that slow, infuriatingly casual pace that drove men like Warren crazy, while inside his heart felt like it might punch through his chest and flip out on the sidewalk.

  He'd won again. One of these days, though, sure as shooting, Gault's luck was going to run out.

  ****

  It was cool inside the First Mercantile Bank & Trust Company. Cool and dim because of the rain, and quiet, like a high-class library. Two of the tellers were busy with customers, but the third gave Jesse a brisk nod, telling him to come forward.

  "Lyndon Cherney—is he here? I want
to see him." He said it straight out, no whispering. The encounter with Warren had jolted him; he wasn't all the way back to being Gault yet.

  The teller's face paled as recognition dawned. "And your name, sir?" he inquired, fatalistic—the way you'd ask, "Is he dead?" about a man who's been hanging from a gallows for a day and a half.

  Jesse said his name.

  The teller pivoted and skulked off, to a closed door behind a low railing that stretched across the back of the bank. A full minute later he reappeared, looking ill.

  "I'm very sorry, sir, very sorry, but Mr. Cherney is not able to see you just now. He, ah, he's in conference."

  In conference? If it was true, all the better—there could be a witness to the conversation Jesse had in mind. "Thanks," he told the teller, who smiled with relief until Jesse stepped over the little railing and strode across the marble floor, spurs jingling, to Cherney's closed door.

  "Oh! Sir? Please, Mr. Gault—"

  Jesse shoved the door open just as a man on the other side reached out to lock it. Couldn't be anyone but Cherney—he was alone in the room. Guess he'd lied about the conference.

  "Morning," Jesse said pleasantly, simultaneously backing Cherney toward his big oak desk and giving the door a savage kick that nearly shattered the frosted glass window. Slam! Cherney jumped like he'd been shot. Jesse gave him a little tap on the chest and he fell back against the desk, plump buttocks sitting on it. "You irritate me, Lyndon. I don't like slimy little bugs like you." A memory of the bloodied mare made his anger genuine, no act this time. "What I like to do is squash 'em. Step on 'em and watch 'em bleed." He grinned ghoulishly.

  Fear made the banker's light blue eyes pop behind rimless spectacles. He uttered gasping noises, mouth opening and closing, guppylike, while he shook his manicured hands in the air, as if erasing some huge, invisible mistake. "It wasn't my fault," he finally got out. "I'm telling you, it wasn't my fault."

  Jeez, thought Jesse, news travels fast in Paradise. "Not your fault? So you were just having a bad day? Decided to take it out on—"

  "I didn't have any choice!"

  Jesse swore at him, on the verge of losing his temper. This dandified little twerp was as bad as Warren. No, worse—Warren only beat up on people, not defenseless animals.

  Cherney cringed and flung up his hands again. "He started it," he said in a crying whine. "What I took was peanuts compared to him."

  "Compared to—" Who? he almost said. He bit his tongue in the nick of time. "Him? Compared to him? You really think so?"

  "I'm telling you!"

  "What are you telling me?" He eased back a little so the banker could sit up straight. He should've recognized the signs—God knew he'd seen them often enough—but in his anger he'd missed them. A lot more was going on here than met the eye.

  "I'm telling you, I didn't do anything he didn't do."

  "So what's that to me?"

  Cherney straightened his tie with a shaky hand, straightened his diamond stickpin. He had dark yellow hair the shade of a sepia photograph; whatever he put on it made it lie flat on either side of a sharp white center part. "You think I'm the only one who's been skimming? Ha! Wylie's got fake accounts all over the place. Anyway, I only stole from him," he added, shooting his cuffs with dignity. "He stole from everybody."

  Wylie. Well, well, well.

  "My God! Are you going to shoot me?"

  Jesse had absentmindedly rested his hand on one of his Colts. He fingered the butt suggestively. "I'm thinking about it."

  "I won't draw against you," Cherney blurted, stiff-lipped, starting the hand-waving thing again. "Please, I'm a banker, not a gunfighter. If you draw on me, it'll be murder."

  Jesse sneered.

  "I'll pay you. How much is Wylie giving you to kill me? I'll double it. I'll triple it. Please—what do you care? I'll open an account for you, put money in it, whatever you want."

  "And then what?"

  "Then—I'll go away!"

  "What do I tell Wylie?" He kept sneering, but added a thoughtful look.

  "Who cares? You aren't afraid of him! Tell him to go to hell."

  "Hmm." He stroked his mustache and squinted his eye, exaggerating the thoughtfulness. He kept Cherney in suspense for a minute or two longer, then growled, "What kind of money are we talking about?"

  Cherney was so relieved he collapsed, went all boneless and saggy; it was like watching a suit of clothes fall off a hanger. "Anything," he mumbled weakly; even his lips were flabby. "Twenty, twenty-five thousand. Just name it."

  "That's what you stole from the bank?"

  He nodded miserably.

  "Where'd you stash it?"

  "Accounts. It's still here, just in different names, places. Nobody's missed it."

  "I'll take a list of all those names and places."

  He hung his head. "Right."

  "So how much did you swipe from Wylie?"

  "What?"

  "Him personally, not the bank."

  He started to deny it, then gave up, shrugging. "Not much. Four or five."

  "Four or five thousand dollars?"

  "Yes."

  Payday. "Okay, here's the deal. You got a family, Lyndon?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Jesse hated exiling a family man. "Wife? Kids?"

  "No. I'm divorced."

  Figured. "All right. Soon as I walk out of here, you put four thousand dollars in an account in my name. Got that?"

  "Yes, yes," he said eagerly, "it's not a problem, I can do it in ten minutes."

  "Good, because that's all the time you've got. That gives you about nine hours of daylight to go home and pack your things. By ten o'clock tonight, you're gone."

  "I'm gone. You won't regret this, Mr.—"

  "And pack light, because you'll be on foot."

  "I'll be—what?"

  "That's the last part of the deal. Your horse stays here—I'm liberating it."

  "My horse?"

  "I want her sale papers and pedigree. Put 'em in an envelope and leave it with the bartender at Rogue's Tavern on your way out of town. And you never ride a horse again."

  He started to sputter. "But—I—but you can't—"

  "From now on you're a carriage-riding man, Lyndon. I hear of you sitting on top of anything four-legged, I come after you. Understand me? And we won't be making any deals—I'll just kill you. You getting this? Tell me you understand."

  "I—I—I—understand."

  "Good. Now let's go open an account."

  ****

  Next time, Jesse swore, burning his bottom lip on a sip of the black acid Swensen called coffee, he was going to pay attention to Cady McGill's restaurant recommendations. He belched in between fiery sips, not sure if the "sheepherder's pie" he'd just consumed was going to come back up or stay down there and poison him. "Bleh," he said for the second time to Ham, his new best friend, who rolled his eyes and giggled at him.

  "C'mon, Mr. Gault, show 'em to me, please?"

  "No."

  "Please?"

  "No."

  "Please?"

  "No."

  "Jus' one? C'mon, jus' show me one. I won't even touch it, I won't do nothin' but look. Okay? Show me one?"

  Jesse swore a long, soft stream of mild expletives while Ham grinned at him, tickled. Not only had he lost all fear of Gault, now he liked to tease Gault, play little verbal jokes on him, cornball riddles and puns that Jesse pretended to walk into blindly. They always sent the kid into gales of laughter.

  "All right, but only so you'll shut up."

  "Hot damn!"

  "And if you tell anybody—"

  "I won't." He squirmed closer on the bench they were sitting on, half hidden from the other diners at Swensen's Good Eats & Drinks by the tall back of the booth. His handsome pixie face screwed up in thought. "How come?"

  "How come what?"

  "How come I cain't tell anybody?"

  "Because it's a secret."

  "Oh." That made it even better. By the tim
e Jesse reluctantly reached for one of his Colts, Ham was squirming with anticipation.

  "This is the Peacemaker," he told him, placing the gun, butt first, on his two small, flat palms. "That's the Mexican eagle emblem on the grip. Real ivory. Pretty, isn't it? Single-action .45. The best gun Colt ever made."

  "Wow." Awe wasn't a strong enough word for the look on his face; the kid was dumbstruck. "Oh, oh, wow," he kept saying, holding the heavy gun like a priest holding a chalice. "Wow."

  "Open it up. Flick that little latch with your thumb."

  The cartridge cylinder swung out, and Ham spun it around, carefully checking all six empty chambers. "I like that noise," he said, and Jesse grunted in agreement. That clipped, metallic chink of revolving chambers was a satisfying sound. "Khhew, khhew!" Ham pointed the Colt at the empty wall across the way and pretended to sight and shoot. "Khhew!"

  "Get him?"

  "Right between the eyes."

  "Good shootin'."

  "Wish I could draw. You teach me to draw, Mr. Gault?" He laid the side of the revolver against his thigh, jerked it up, and blasted at the wall. The gun, which was longer than his forearm, made him look even punier. When he blew imaginary smoke across the top of the muzzle, Jesse laughed out loud.

  "Who would you draw on?" he asked, slouching down in the booth, folding his arms.

  "Bad guys."

  "Like who?"

  "Bank robbers and cattle rustlers. And men who call my daddy a name. Men who give Miss Cady Up."

  Jesse nodded thoughtfully. "So you'd just kill 'em?"

  "After we done fought fair an' square. Or..." He sighted at the wall again. "Maybe I just wound 'em. Khhew! Shoot at they hand or they leg."

  "That might be better."

  " 'Cause then they be scared o' me an' quit doin' bad things."

  "There you go. And that way you'd never have..."

  A whirl of powder-blue skirts, fluttering hands, and flashing dark eyes diverted him. Cady came at him like a small, compact tornado, taking a bead on the object in the path of her concentrated fury. Jesse was the object.