Die by the Gun Read online

CHAPTER 3

  Hiram Flowers spun the tip of his knife a few more times, bored the hole in the pinewood, and finished carving himself a spinner to make a new horsehair lariat. His old lariat had worn out during the last trail drive. At the memory of that drive the prior year, he looked up and saw his boss’s widow come out onto the ranch house porch and begin sweeping.

  She had hired help for that. A maid. But Mercedes Sullivan preferred to keep her hand in running the house, the ranch, everything about the Circle Arrow. A tiny smile curled Flowers’s chapped lips as the fiery redhead bent to flick away a bit of debris stuck between the porch boards. The sight of her made his heart race a little faster, and it wasn’t just from how her perky rear end poked up into the air or the gentle sway under her blouse. He knew those emerald eyes of hers were bright and clear and hid none of her razor-sharp intelligence. She was a handsome woman, and a capable one when it came to business.

  She was also his boss.

  Flowers forced himself to pull his eyes away from her trim figure and mesmerizing ways. Her husband had been his best friend, no matter that Flowers had worked for Ezekiel Sullivan for more than fifteen years. He had struck up an immediate friendship with the man because of who he was, not just because of his wife.

  Zeke had been his boss then. Mercedes was his boss now that the fever had taken Zeke six months back.

  He muttered that over and over. Boss, boss, boss.

  “You say somethin’, Mister Flowers?”

  He turned to Howard “Messy” Messerschmidt, a drover hired away from an adjoining ranch. Jake Church ran that spread in a slapdash way, hardly ever turned a profit but somehow kept stumbling along, and he treated his hired hands worse than he did his steers. That made it easy to hire away the best of the drovers, men like Messerschmidt and his partner, Klaus Kleingeld, who didn’t speak much English. That didn’t bother Flowers overly. He had found some good men, hard workers and dedicated cowboys among the men from down in New Braunfels. He wished he could hire one of those German women as a cook. He’d never found a single one who couldn’t whip up a meal fit for a king.

  “I was reflecting on how lazy you and Kleingeld are. You have chores to do out in the barn.”

  “Every bit of the chores are done, Mister Flowers. We rode through the cows corralled on the south forty, looking for any trace of splenic fever. Not a trace, not even a tick bite on the lot, and those are the last of the herd to be examined.”

  “You look in on Cassidy?” Flowers saw how the cowboy’s face became a poker mask. That told him more than he wanted to know.

  “He’s still sleeping off his bender.”

  Both of them looked at the clear blue Texas sky and the sun hanging high in it. They had been up by sunrise, doing all the chores necessary to keep the ranch running and to prepare for the drive. Cassidy hadn’t stirred, other than to roll over in his bunk and snore even louder.

  “Mister Flowers!”

  He looked up at the call and saw Cletus Grant waving at him. Cletus rode toward the house with another man on horseback beside him.

  “He found a sucker,” Messerschmidt said. “Be happy about that. We need all the trail hands we can find after so many of them went south to work on the railroad.”

  “What’s a cowboy know about laying iron track?” Flowers stuck his knife in the bench beside him and stood. He ignored whatever Messy said in response. The man went on and on when he should have kept his yap shut. More important was the man riding alongside Grant.

  He sized him up fast. Wherever did Grant find such losers?

  The two men reined in, and Grant started to make the introductions. “Mister Flowers, this here’s . . .”

  Grant’s words trailed off. It was apparent he hadn’t bothered finding out the man’s name, or if he had, he’d already forgotten it. Considering his age, either was possible.

  “Dewey Mackenzie,” the young man said. “Cletus here says you need cowboys, but my experience is more with cooking.”

  “You’re a trail cook?” Flowers spat. The day was turning sourer the higher the sun got in the sky. “You don’t look like one.”

  “I worked for Sidney Jefferson of the Rolling J, down around Waco. If you want to send him a telegram, he might not answer right away. He’s mighty sickly and—”

  “Not wasting time or money on a telegram. You don’t have the look of a man willing to sit astraddle a horse all night long.”

  “I’ve ridden night herd and don’t take much to it. Like I told Cletus, my skills are elsewhere.”

  Flowers took in the youngster. The revolver tucked into his belt had the look of being used hard and often, but he wasn’t a gunfighter. Any gunslick worth his salt wore his iron on his hip. A gambler might use a shoulder rig, but having a pistol thrust into the belt like this spelled death if the hammer or cylinder caught on a vest or waistband during a quick draw. The only man he had ever heard of who carried his six-gun in a coat pocket and used it that way was a marshal out in El Paso. And he lined the pocket with leather to keep from getting the hammer tangled in cloth.

  Dewey Mackenzie was no gunman, and he wasn’t a cowboy.

  “Can’t use you. Sorry Cletus dragged you all this way for nothing.”

  “I can cook. I make the best darned biscuits any cowpoke ever ate. Keep the men happy and you get twice the work from them.”

  “He’s right about that, Mister Flowers.” Cletus shifted weight off his gimp leg and looked from one man to the other and back. “I’ll work an extra hour just for a decent meal. Remember the last drive when—”

  “Shut up, Cletus.” Flowers tried to keep his shoulders from sagging. He faced Mac and said, “We got a cook. If you can’t ride night herd as a wrangler, there’s no place on the Circle Arrow drive for you.”

  He watched a curious ripple of emotion cross the young man’s face. Mac took off his hat. The hole in the brim was fresh. There wasn’t any fraying yet from wind or rain. His long dark hair was plastered down from sweat, although the day wasn’t that hot. Something riled him, and whatever it was wouldn’t surface. He had the look of a man with harsh secrets to keep. That meant a history Flowers had no desire to learn or have catch up with either the young man or anyone else on the drive. It was hard enough getting across West Texas and up into New Mexico Territory along the Goodnight-Loving Trail without keeping a close eye on your back trail.

  “I can ride herd. I’m not too good, and I’d rather go as cook. I am good at that.”

  “Sorry.” Flowers glared at Cletus Grant. The man had expected a finder’s fee for another rider.

  “But, sir, I—” Mac’s words were drowned out by three quick gunshots, followed by a loud whoop like an Indian on the warpath coming after a scalp.

  Flowers saw he was wrong about the boy not being handy with his revolver. He had it out and cocked in the blink of an eye, the muzzle pointed up at the bunkhouse roof. Slower to turn, Flowers only touched the butt of his six-gun and didn’t throw down when he saw Cassidy teetering on the edge of the roof, buck naked with a gun in one hand and a bottle in the other.

  “I’m a ring-tailed, rootin’ tootin’ son of a bitch from Pecos, and I kin take any man on this godforsaken ranch.” Cassidy raised his six-gun again. The motion unbalanced him and caused his feet to slip from under him. He sat hard, then slid down the shingled roof. He landed awkwardly, sprawled in the dirt, and didn’t move.

  He hadn’t killed himself, though. His breath still wheezed and bubbled in his throat.

  Cletus cringed at the inelegant sight of Cassidy’s bare butt and muttered, “I ain’t pulling the splinters from his cracker ass.”

  “Messerschmidt, get this drunken fool back into the bunkhouse and sober him up,” Flowers ordered. “I don’t care if you have to pour ten gallons of coffee down his throat. I want him sober before sundown.”

  “Can’t see how that’s possible, Mister Flowers. He’s never sober. I declare, he’s got whiskey instead of blood flowing through his veins.”

&nbs
p; Flowers glared. Messerschmidt kicked the pistol from Cassidy’s unsteady hand, caught his wrist, and pulled the man to his feet. As the drunk toppled forward, he got a shoulder into Cassidy’s belly and hoisted him like a sack of grain. A quick kick of his heel opened the door. He made no effort to keep from banging Cassidy’s head against the frame as he carried him into the bunkhouse. In his drunken condition, the man never noticed.

  “That’s our cook,” Cletus said. “Mister Flowers, you can’t depend on Cassidy. No, wait, I’m wrong. That’s exactly how you’ll see him along the trail since he’ll have the liquor supply under lock and key.”

  “Hush up. And you,” Flowers said, spinning on Mac, “clear out.”

  He closed his eyes when a soft voice from the direction of the ranch house summoned him. Resolute, he left his problems with the men and went to see what Mercedes Sullivan had to say. Every step closer to the porch—where she stood with arms crossed over her breasts, foot tapping, and an expression just this side of a hellfire and brimstone sermon—convinced him climbing a gallows to be hanged was easier.

  Disappointing Mercedes was worse for him than a noose around his neck.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Flowers said, stopping at the foot of the steps leading to the porch. From here he looked up at her.

  “That’s enough ruckus from Cassidy. He’s drunk again, isn’t he? I won’t stand for that. No man who works for the Circle Arrow can be as soused as he is right now.”

  “I need him, Miz Sullivan. He’s our cook.”

  “I heard about the trouble you had with him on the last drive. Zeke said he got into the cooking stores constantly and was seldom sober. If you hadn’t stopped him, my husband would have sent Cassidy packing.”

  “It’s not good to be on the trail and fire men, especially the cook. I can ride scout, and Messerschmidt is as good with the herd as any man I’ve seen.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “And Cletus Grant can soothe any horse in the remuda.” She relaxed a little, her arms dropping. She sat down on the top step and pointed to a spot beside her. She pointed more emphatically when he hesitated to sit beside her. Flowers sighed and lowered himself stiffly to the plank step, being careful not to sit inappropriately close to her.

  “It’s a long drive,” he said. “If we go all the way to Denver with this herd, I’ll need seasoned men, and plenty of ’em.”

  “Hiram, you have to fire Cassidy.”

  “I—”

  “I know he’s your nephew, and it would break your sister’s heart for her youngest to get fired. Do you want me to do your job for you? I will no longer permit a man to be that drunk and remain in my employ.”

  Flowers began, “Your work with the temperance league is—”

  “That has nothing to do with firing Cassidy. He’s a poor worker, plain and simple, and I have heard the men grumbling about his cooking. Whether he does a poor job because he’s drunk—or not drunk enough—doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Flowers sighed heavily again. “I’ll send him back to his ma.”

  “Hiram, trust me. She knows what a wastrel he is. Now. When do we hit the trail?”

  “I’ll be ready at dawn in two days.”

  “Good. That’ll give me time to get my gear together. Have one of the men see that Majestic is ready then.”

  “Majestic? But that’s your horse. I don’t need to take your horse. We’ve got fifty head for the remuda, and what’d you ride here?”

  She looked at him, redheaded, beautiful, and absolutely determined as she said, “You misunderstand me, Hiram. I want my horse ready because I’m riding along with you on this drive.”

  Flowers opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. No words came out. He stared at her, and all he could see were the high cheekbones, fair skin, and that flowing, long red hair. She might have been an Irish elf she was so pretty.

  “Zeke always went with the herd. Since he’s gone, it’s my duty as owner.”

  “You can’t!” He blurted out the denial. The shock on her face that he would speak to her that way turned to stubbornness he knew couldn’t be changed. She was downright mulish when she set her mind to something. “Miz Sullivan, it’s dangerous on the trail. Hard going every inch of the way. It’s not like running the ranch and having a nice soft bed at night.”

  “You think so little of me, Hiram? I’m tough enough. I need to go along to get the best deal I can. You’re not much of a haggler.”

  “Never had to be, not with Mister Sullivan along. I swear, I never saw a man better able to squeeze an extra dime out of a cattle buyer.”

  He realized as soon as he said it that he had played right into her hands.

  “Since you lack the experience, it will be good for you to see me use my feminine wiles to accomplish the same ends that Zeke achieved.” She sounded smug, satisfied, as if she had practiced that line to recite for him. He refused to be convinced.

  “Ma’am, all you have to do is bat those long eyelashes of yours and hearts melt.”

  “Like yours?” Her expression became unreadable. The words were light and joshing, but Flowers heard something else there he dared not believe.

  “I won’t be a party to you going. I’ll quit. I’ll take half the men with me, too.”

  “You’d leave me your nephew and no one else?” Anger rose now, turning her milky cheeks rosy. Her lips thinned to a line, and her green eyes flashed like warning beacons. Flowers had to tread carefully, or she might fire him and try to lead the drive by herself.

  “I’ll get rid of Cassidy. I promise you that. But I’ll need a cook.”

  “And for me to stay at home, tallying accounts and minding the home fires?”

  “Yes, ma’am, exactly.” Flowers almost sagged in relief. He had convinced her to stay. The trail was no place for a lady like her. Then she drove another knife into his gut and twisted it around.

  “I will remain behind on one condition. Desmond rides with you.”

  “Your son?” Flowers swallowed hard. It was almost better if he took Cassidy. He could deal with a drunk.

  “His father’s death hit him hard. It’s time for him to snap out of the funk he’s been in since the funeral and learn how to run a ranch. Watching you with the herd on the trail will stand him in good stead.”

  “Desmond?” The name came out in a croak. “He’s not even here. He went back to town.”

  “I wondered where he had gotten off to. Fetch him. Get him outfitted and teach him what he needs to know. Otherwise, I must go along with you.”

  “I think I know where to find him,” Flowers said, his voice hardening. “There’s a special place in Fort Worth where he ends up after . . . after spending time there,” he finished lamely. He didn’t have the gumption to tell Mercedes Sullivan her son frequented whorehouses and raised such holy hell that many had banished him. Being banned from a brothel in Hell’s Half Acre took a special amount of hell-raising.

  “Then it’s all settled. Thank you, Hiram.” She bent over and lightly kissed his stubbled cheek.

  “Ma’am, not where the men can see.” He blushed under his weather-beaten hide.

  “So I should kiss you when the men can’t see?” Her joking tone had returned.

  “I better go right away if I want to get back before midnight.” He climbed to his feet and almost ran from the ranch house. Damn the woman! She got under his skin so quick.

  He poked his head into the bunkhouse. Messerschmidt had pinned Cassidy to the floor, his knees on the drunken man’s shoulders. He tried to pour a cup of coffee into the gaping mouth. Only a few drops made it in.

  “Cassidy, you’re fired,” Flowers said. “Get your gear out of here by the time I get back from Fort Worth. Tell your ma you’re a drunken, no account, lazy weasel. If you can’t remember, I’ll tell her myself.”

  Cassidy choked and sputtered on the little bit of coffee that had gone down his throat, then stared up at Flowers in drunken befuddlement and said, “But Uncle Hiram, you can’t f
ire me. You pr-promised my ma.”

  “Out. Now.” He motioned for Messerschmidt to get off the man. “Messy, I want you to tell your partner to get the horses ready. Dawn, day after tomorrow. We’re hitting the trail.”

  “Yippee!” Messerschmidt took off his hat and waved it around his head. “We don’t like it here on the ranch. We’re cowboys meant to be on the trail.”

  Flowers left, grumbling. He saddled his horse and galloped after Cletus and that whippersnapper he’d found in town. When he overtook them, he drew to a halt and stared hard at Mackenzie.

  “You weren’t lying about being able to cook?”

  “No, sir, I was not,” Mackenzie said. He showed no sign of lying. He either believed his own lies or could serve as chuckwagon cook.

  “You’re hired, but I swear, if you poison my crew, I’ll hog-tie you and drag you the entire way to Santa Fe behind the ugliest, meanest longhorn in the herd.”

  “I won’t disappoint you, Mister Flowers.” Mackenzie grinned from ear to ear.

  “There’s one chore you got to do before getting all the grub together for the drive.”

  “Mister Flowers, you can’t ask him to—” Cletus Grant clamped his mouth shut when he saw how resolute Flowers was.

  “Both of you will fetch back Desmond.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Mackenzie, looking from Flowers to Cletus and not getting an answer from either.

  “You’re coming with us, aren’t you, Mister Flowers?” Cletus was all choked up. Flowers smiled wickedly.

  “You two will drag him out of that whorehouse by his heels, and I will be in a saloon drinking my fill of whiskey to shore up my resolve to face him.”

  Hiram Flowers liked the sound of that plan, but he knew he would go with Grant and the newly hired cook. It was his job as trail boss. More than that, Mercedes had asked him to bring her wastrel son back to the ranch, and whatever she wanted, he did. Anything.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mac shifted uneasily in the saddle. The signpost he’d just ridden past said Fort Worth was only three miles away. He had hightailed it from town and thought escape from the gang of bounty hunters was possible. Tempting fate by riding back so soon gave him the fantods.