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  “Maybe you’re thinking about wiping out Open Sky with it, huh?”

  “No, but it’s an idea.”

  “A bad idea. I’m sorry I said it.” Sam Flintlock shook his shaggy head like a coon dog with a bug in its ear. “Damn it,” he said. “What is that?”

  “What is what?” McPhee said.

  “Something on the back of my neck like a cold breath . . .”

  Then he knew it for what it was.

  Out there in the darkness something or someone watched him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Hamp Collins felt sorry for himself.

  He’d hoped to have had a shot at Sam Flintlock by now, drop him with a bullet to the belly then let his knife take it from there. But he hadn’t reckoned on a damned summer thunderstorm.

  Huddled under the thin cover of the pines, he studied the cabin. It looked snug and dry behind the chain-mail fall of the rain and Collins believed he smelled coffee and frying bacon.

  Damn. He could smell coffee.

  Flintlock was still tormenting him, belittling him like he’d done in the middle of the street in Open Sky. And in front of everybody! That made Collins’s blood boil.

  He rose to his feet, his Winchester in hand. Now was the time to interrupt the tattooed man’s cozy little dinner party. Let’s see how Mr. High and Mighty Flintlock enjoyed seeing his balls floating in a bowl.

  For a moment Collins hesitated and ran through a plan in his head. He was a slow-thinking man and he laid it out in his mind . . .

  Step by step.

  One: Kick the door in.

  Two: Shoot Flintlock first. Hit hard enough to put him down but not too hard. He’d have to live for two or three hours while the knife did its work.

  Three: Kill McPhee.

  Four: Time to geld Flintlock, slice by slice. Do it slowly and tease him, torture him, let him know what terrible thing was happening to him.

  Five: Piss on Flintlock’s dead body, do a happy dance and then get some coffee.

  Collins held up his hand. Five fingers. Five steps. He wouldn’t forget. It was a good plan. A crackerjack strategy that he knew would work.

  But then happy Hamp Collins got his throat cut and it spoiled everything.

  The cut was as thin as a whisper, but deep.

  Hamp Collins thought it strange that initially he felt little pain.

  But then blood filled his mouth, his breathing choked off and he realized what had happened to him. Luckily for Hamp he was already dying at this point and knew only a few fleeting moments of terror.

  O’Hara held him fast and hissed a vision of hell into the gunman’s ear.

  Hamp tried to scream, but mercifully when the breed let go of him and his body slumped to the ground, he was already dead, his wide, terrified eyes staring into a fiery eternity.

  His long black hair plastered to his head and shoulders in tight ringlets, O’Hara stripped Collins of his rifle, gun belt and knife. Then he scalped the dead man and hung the dripping trophy on a pine branch so that the soul of this enemy would not come back to haunt him.

  He used Collins’s own knife to cut off the gunman’s head and then dragged the body deeper into the trees.

  After he collected Collins’s horse, O’Hara mounted his own paint and rode close to the cabin but remained hidden in darkness. As thunder roared and lightning lit up the land around him the breed chanted his war song, his voice rising and falling in the complex Pawnee cadence.

  When the song was over, O’Hara stood in the stirrups and yelled, “Flintlock!”

  A few moments passed . . .

  The cabin suddenly went dark and the door creaked open.

  “Who’s there?” Sam Flintlock called into the teeming rain.

  “Flintlock! From now on do your damned job!” O’Hara yelled a war cry and kicked his horse into a gallop. As he rode past the cabin door he threw something at Flintlock’s feet that bounced once in the mud then rolled.

  Taken by surprise Flintlock took a step back into the cabin. He caught an ephemeral glimpse of a rider on a paint horse . . . then only rain-lashed darkness.

  “Who was that?” McPhee said.

  “I think it was that crazy breed, O’Hara. He threw something.”

  Flintlock stepped into the downpour and pushed a round object with the toe of his boot.

  Illuminated by a flicker of lightning, Collins’s stark, staring upturned face glared at him.

  It was unexpected and Flintlock instinctively jerked away.

  “What is it?” McPhee said. His voice sounded scared, an octave too high.

  “Hamp Collins’s head,” Flintlock said. “And it’s been scalped.”

  From somewhere out in the torn night, Sam Flintlock heard someone’s derisive laugh.

  O’Hara or old Barnabas?

  He couldn’t tell.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When Clifton Wraith rode up to the cabin at Bobcat Ridge the thunderstorm was yesterday’s memory and the morning sun shone bright in the cloudless blue bowl of the sky.

  The Pinkerton was in time to watch Flintlock and McPhee throw the last shovels of dirt on two graves, side by side in open ground at the edge of a line of pines.

  Flintlock leaned on his long-handled shovel and looked up at the rider. “To what do we owe this honor, Cliff?”

  Wraith stared at the graves, then, “You been killing folks, Sammy?”

  “Nope. Your man O’Hara killed one and Frank Constable left us t’other as a welcome to my home gift, I suppose.”

  Flintlock smiled. “You ain’t catching my drift, huh?”

  “O’Hara killing somebody doesn’t come as a surprise. Who was it? Do you know?”

  “Sure I know. It was Hamp Collins, the feller I had some cross words with back in town. I reckon he followed us out here and O’Hara done for him.”

  “That was your job, Sam,” Wraith said, his tone mildly accusing.

  “Yeah, O’Hara already made that pretty clear.”

  “The other?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Coffee?”

  “It’s on the bile.”

  “I’m a bearer of bad news, Sam.”

  “Just the kind of visitor I need first thing in the morning,” Flintlock said. “Light and set.”

  After Wraith settled himself with coffee at his elbow and a cigar going, he said, “Describe the dead man you found.”

  “Ol’ Hamp or t’other?” Flintlock said.

  “Frank Constable’s dead man. I know who Collins was.”

  “I can’t. I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman.”

  “The body was completely incinerated,” Jamie McPhee said.

  Wraith stared hard at the young man and he seemed about to say something but abruptly changed his mind. To Flintlock he said, “You’re thinking what I’m thinking, Sam. An accident with Frank’s infernal machine.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that, but it could be,” Flintlock said. “Why didn’t he bury the body?”

  “Maybe it happened in winter when the ground was hard,” Wraith said. “Frank hasn’t been back here in months.”

  The Pinkerton’s eyes moved back to McPhee. “You been around the Circle-O recently?” he said.

  “Brendan O’Rourke’s place? No, I haven’t.”

  “Steve McCord said he saw you in the area right after the ranch cook was shot. He says you were riding fast and carrying a Winchester.”

  McPhee’s face didn’t register shock, only an odd dejection as though yet another heavy load had been laid on him. “That’s a lie,” he said.

  “I know it’s a lie,” Wraith said. “The story is you begged the cook for grub, he refused and then you laid off a ways and plugged him out of hard feelings, like.”

  “I wasn’t even near the ranch.”

  “I know, but that’s the way everybody has it figured.”

  “Can’t you tell them that Steve McCord is lying?” McPhee said.

  “It’s his word against yours, and y
ou aren’t exactly popular in these parts.”

  Wraith raised his cup and stared at McPhee over the steaming rim. “The word is out that you’re to be shot on sight. Trace McCord says you’re a mad dog, and it seems Sheriff Lithgow agrees with him.”

  Wraith shifted his attention to Flintlock. “Sammy, you’ve got your work cut out for you,” he said.

  “I’ve got a job to do and I’ll do it,” Flintlock said.

  “We’ve both got a job to do, Sam,” Wraith said. “But if it comes down to gunplay, you’re better equipped than I am.”

  Flintlock read the other man’s eyes. “What have you heard, Cliff?”

  “Gossip. That’s all. Probably not a word of truth to it.”

  “Tell it.”

  Wraith drew on his cigar until the tip glowed bright red, then he said, “I get around, Sam. I talk to folks, listen to what they have to say, poke my nose into all the dark corners. It’s the way of the Pinkerton.”

  “And you heard what?”

  “It’s hearsay, Sam. The small-town rumor mill working overtime.”

  Flintlock banged the table with his fist. “Damn it, Cliff.”

  “All right. I heard that somebody has sent for Beau Hunt.”

  “Another lie?” Flintlock said.

  “A couple of placer miners were talking at the bar and swear they saw him in Tuskahoma down in the Choctaw nation. A man like the Beau is easy to spot.”

  It took Flintlock a few moments to recover from that. When he finally did, his eyes were unbelieving. “Beau Hunt comes dear,” he said. “He doesn’t live with Indians and he doesn’t sell his gun to rubes.”

  “He might, if the dollars are enough. And there’s money talk around town,” Wraith said. “I mean big-money talk.”

  “Spill it.”

  “The rumor is that a couple of railroad companies are battling it out in Washington to get the right to lay rails north of here with a depot in Open Sky.”

  “And that means?”

  “Think, man. It means the Circle-O and McCord cow pastures will be worth a fortune when the railroad goes through.”

  “If any of this is true, my money is on Trace McCord as the one hiring Beau Hunt. It would make sense if McCord plans a range war to take over the Circle-O,” McPhee said.

  “From what I’ve seen of Trace McCord he’s the kind of man who’d figure he can handle the shooting end himself,” Wraith said. “Why would he need an expensive, big-name draw fighter?”

  “Then who does?” McPhee said.

  “Old Brendan O’Rourke,” Wraith said. “He doesn’t have the guns to go up against McCord and he knows it. Beau could tip the balance.”

  “Maybe the cook was the first victim of a range war or maybe he wasn’t,” Flintlock said. “But my gut instinct is that you’ve heard some wild talk. How many rundown, hick towns built depots for rails that never arrived? I’d guess I’ve been in a dozen.”

  “Well, wild talk is all it could be,” Wraith said.

  “Sam, you ever met Beau Hunt?”

  “Yeah, a few times. We’ve always touched hats and stepped around each other in the street.”

  “Is Beau as fast with a gun as they say, huh?”

  “The best there is,” Flintlock said. “He hasn’t killed many, but the ones he has were all named men. That’s why the price for his services start at ten thousand and go up from there.”

  McPhee, at an impressionable age, whistled between his teeth.

  “Yeah, you should whistle,” Flintlock said. “Beau buys his suits and linen in Rome and New York, smokes cigars made in Turkey and maintains an account at a London gunsmith. Every round he shoots is made by experts. Add beautiful women, French champagne, fine restaurants, the best horseflesh money can buy plus a professional gambler’s uncanny luck and you got Beau Hunt as ever was.”

  Flintlock’s mouth tightened under his ragged mustache. “He watches your eyes, so if you meet him in a gunfight don’t blink. That’s all the time Beau Hunt needs on the draw and shoot.”

  Wraith thought that through. “Ah well, railroads, range wars, draw fighters, after all is said and done maybe it’s all just idle gossip,” he said finally.

  “Idle talk enough to scare the hell out of me,” Flintlock said. “Even a rumor of Beau Hunt on the prod is a thing to keep a man staring at the ceiling o’ nights.”

  “Well, it’s settled one thing, Sam,” Wraith said. “You and Jamie will leave the territory today and flap your chaps all the way to Texas. If I learn anything further about the murders, I’ll be in touch.”

  “No, Mr. Wraith, I’m not running,” McPhee said.

  The Pinkerton was taken aback. “Did you hear what I said, young man? The order is out to shoot you on sight.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” McPhee said. “Why should I run?”

  Flintlock, as surprised as Wraith, said, “State your intentions, McPhee.”

  “My intention is to stay right here in the Oklahoma Territory until I clear my name. I didn’t murder Polly and I didn’t shoot the ranch cook and one day the truth will come out.”

  “If you live that long,” the Pinkerton said.

  “I will not flee to Texas, Mr. Wraith. I’m an innocent man and I plan to prove it.”

  The Pinkerton gave Flintlock a despairing glance. “Sam, talk some sense into him. He’s gone loco.”

  Flintlock shook his head. “Man doesn’t want to run, then that’s his right. He’s not a stubborn child I can spank on the butt and throw on a horse.”

  “Jamie, by this time I know more about Polly Mallory than most men in Open Sky. She was only as good as she had to be and she was stringing along a number of men, including you.”

  McPhee opened his mouth to speak, but the Pinkerton talked over him. “Dr. Thorne says she was three months pregnant when she was murdered. Did you know that?”

  “Doctors can be wrong,” McPhee said, but he sounded uncertain.

  “Polly asked Nancy Pocket if she could be with child, and Nancy, being a whore and experienced in those matters, told her she was.”

  “Did Polly name the father?” Flintlock said.

  “No. Nancy asked her but she refused.”

  “True or not, it makes no difference,” McPhee said. “I’m not running, now or ever.”

  Wraith sighed deeply and said, “I give you and Sam about a week to live. No longer than that. I don’t know yet who is, but somebody with a lot of influence in Open Sky wants you both dead.”

  “Trace McCord, at a guess,” Flintlock said.

  “He’s a possibility.”

  “No matter, Cliff,” Flintlock said. “I took a man’s money to guard McPhee and that’s what I’ll do.”

  His rugged, sun-browned face was suddenly grim, and, not for the first time, Wraith saw the deadly resolve of the gunfighter in him. Flintlock’s next words confirmed that impression.

  “Cliff, you let it be known in Open Sky that if a hanging posse comes after Jamie McPhee I’ll pile their dead high.”

  “You would do that, wouldn’t you?” Wraith said.

  “Bet the farm on it,” Flintlock said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sam Flintlock spent a couple of uneasy days at the cabin and he never strayed far from his rifle.

  Jamie McPhee’s determination to remain close to Open Sky and clear his name didn’t waver but he was as tense and troubled as Flintlock.

  On the morning of the third day, Flintlock saddled his buckskin. “Stay close to the cabin, McPhee,” he said. “I’m heading out to scout around.”

  “You think we’re in danger?” the young man said.

  “I know we’re in danger,” Flintlock said. “The question is, how close is it?”

  “Take care, Sam,” McPhee said. “Remember that shoot on sight warning.”

  “I surely will,” Flintlock said.

  Thirty minutes later Flintlock rode west of Dripping Vat Mountain, a low peak set down in the middle of forests of broadleaf trees, mainly oa
ks, with some scattered juniper and piñon. The land around him was vast and empty, echoing silence, and, as far as his eyes were good, Flintlock saw no movement.

  He swung west and followed the south bank of a creek through treed, rolling hill country and got a good view of the entire sweep of Bobcat Ridge and saw no human activity or rising dust. The day was hot and arcs of sweat showed in the armpits of Flintlock’s buckskin shirt and stained his back. He saw nothing, heard nothing, only the insects making their small sounds in the grass.

  He headed south again and fetched through a shallow valley, following a dim game trail that wound between piñon and extensive stands of sagebrush and bunchgrass. The valley gradually opened up into an area of open ground where old Barnabas sat on the seat of a ruined wagon and played catch with a browned skull. Any other man would have been startled by the sight of a ghost but Flintlock was used to it.

  “Lookee, Sam,” Barnabas said. He held the skull out for inspection. “Tomahawk wound right there. It scattered his brains, all right.”

  “Who was he?” Flintlock said, drawing rein.

  “How the hell should I know? But he was a sodjer fer sure.”

  “Hell of a place to die,” Flintlock said.

  “Anywhere is a hell of a place to die.” Barnabas studied the skull for a few moments then tossed it away. “I got advice for you, Sam,” he said, wiping his hands with a yellow cavalry bandanna.

  “I’m always willing to listen, Barnabas.”

  “You listen but don’t act on my wise counsel, Sam. That’s why you’re an idiot.”

  “I’m listening now.”

  “Well, here’s how it goes. I was talking to”—Barnabas quickly glanced around him—“you-know-who, and he says the best thing you can do is put a bullet in the McPhee kid, then hightail it for Louisiana and find your ma. Of course you-know-who says you should torture McPhee first, pull out his fingernails, stuff like that, but then he’s a tad that way inclined toward folks.”

  Flintlock said nothing. His horse tossed its head, the bit chiming.

  “Well?” Barnabas said.

  “Well maybe it’s time you stopped listening to advice, Barnabas, especially from Old Scratch.”