Chapter 10
The front room was an office with a little waiting area. A lamp on the desk cast the place in weird shadows.
A hallway led farther back, where brighter lights burned. Low voices murmured back there.
Conn pulled his Remington and walked slowly down the hall.
He saw a man in boots stretched out on a couch but couldn’t see his face because it was blocked by the gray-haired doctor standing beside the couch.
Conn knew he was the doctor because he was still wearing his pajamas.
The one lying there had helped murder Cole.
Conn stepped into the room. A floorboard creaked underfoot.
The doctor turned in his direction with an annoyed expression. “He’s awake. He has a broken nose, but a broken nose won’t kill you. Now, if you don’t mind, please remove him so I can go back to sleep.”
“I’m not one of them,” Conn said.
The doctor looked confused. “You’re not?”
“No.”
“Who’s that?” the man on the couch said and sat up with a groan. His face was a mess, all right, the nose badly broken and both eyes swollen half-shut and already turning black. He squinted at Conn. “Who are you?”
Conn just looked at him.
Then the man’s eyes stretched wide open. He sat bolt upright and scooted back against the wall. One hand went to the gun on his hip.
“You draw that thing, you’re dead,” Conn said.
The man lifted his hands. He was blubbering with terror now. “I’m real sorry, mister. I’m sorry we messed with you.”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Daniels. Tripp Daniels. Look, I didn’t mean no harm. You already busted my nose, mister. I deserved it. I really did. But I reckon that squares us, don’t it? You can put that shooting iron away.”
“Who are your friends?”
“My friends?”
“Who brought you here?”
“I got no idea, sir. I didn’t know nothing until just a minute ago.”
“One has a beard and a big hat and a long coat. The other one’s tall and skinny with two, tied-down guns.”
“Sounds like Bo and Arthur.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Not much to tell. Couple of good old boys. They’d give you the shirt off their back.”
“Right. Who’s faster?”
“Sir?”
“Who’s faster with a gun.”
“Arthur.”
“The skinny one?”
“Yes, sir. They say he’s like greased lightning. Bo’s no slouch, either, but he’s more of a rifleman than a pistolero. Look, mister, like I said, I’m real sorry we rode in there and gave you a hard time.”
“Give me all the names.”
“Sir?”
“I want the name of every man who rode in there tonight.”
“I don’t even know all their names, mister.”
Conn started to lift the Remington.
“Hold on now, I’ll tell you what I know. There’s Henry.”
“The leader?”
“Yeah, I guess. It was his idea, anyway.”
“Short, scarred face?”
“That’s Henry.”
“Is Henry his first name or his last?”
“It’s his first. Henry Toole.”
“And the others?”
“Well, I told you about Bo and Arthur. Then there’s Duncan and Rafe and one they call Dog. He’s about half an idiot, just pure mean is all.”
“Keep going.”
“There’s Jesse Turpin. Quiet, seems like a nice enough fella.”
Conn gritted his teeth. This Tripp Daniels was describing his bloodthirsty gang like they were members of the church choir.
“Toby rode with us,” he paused for a second, his mouth hanging open. “Oh yeah, and Blake. I don’t know his first name. Ben, maybe?”
Conn told him to describe the men.
Tripp described each of them, mildly at first, then in more detailed fashion at Conn’s coaxing.
Conn took it all in, memorizing the details along with the names.
“There, I told you everything. I wasn’t gonna do nothing to your wife.
Honest. Henry told me to go fetch her, so that’s what I was fixing to do.
Nothing else. You don’t cross Henry. He used to be a prizefighter.
One of the best. And he’s not afraid to use them fists of his.
Tell you the truth, I think he likes it. ”
“What was he going to do with her?”
Tripp squirmed. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Look at her, I guess.”
“And?”
“I don’t know, mister. Quit looking at me that way. I didn’t do no harm. Sure, I hit you with my pistol, but did I shoot you? No. I told you everything you wanted to know, and you already busted my nose. In my book, that makes us even.”
“Even?” Conn chuckled darkly. “No. Not by a stretch. You see, I’m not the man who punched you.”
“Yeah you are. I remember your face. The scar and everything. You’re Sullivan.”
“Yes, my name’s Sullivan. Conn Sullivan. The man you killed was Cole Sullivan. My brother. My twin brother.”
Tripp’s eyes bulged again. “Killed? I didn’t kill nobody.”
“Why did you men ride out there?”
“Just to have a little fun.”
The flames in Conn leapt a little higher. “A little fun, huh?”
“Yeah, Henry wanted to get another look at the woman.”
“A look? That’s it?”
“I can’t speak for Henry, mister. You’re gonna have to talk to him.”
“I plan to. But you don’t really expect me to believe that eleven of you rode out there just to look at a woman, do you?”
“Look, we was sitting around after supper, pork and beans, and we got to talking, and Henry riled everybody up, talking about how pretty she was and about the money.”
“What about the money?”
“Your brother had some gold. Look, mister, the last I saw your brother, he was alive. I mean it. Henry told me to go inside, and I tried, and your brother knocked me out cold. Busted my nose, you see what he done to my face.”
“The man you killed read the Bible every day and did his best to live by it.”
For some reason, this bought the lump back into Conn’s throat. He swallowed it down with effort like a peach pit.
“I’m awful sorry for what they did.”
“Do you read the Bible, Tripp?”
“No, sir. I never been what you might call a reader.”
“In the Bible,” Conn said, “you got the New Testament, that’s when Jesus comes, and then you got the Old Testament. That’s everything that happened before Jesus.”
The man’s eyes brightened. “I’ll change my ways, Mr. Sullivan. I’ll start reading that Bible.”
“The man you killed, he was like the New Testament.”
Tripp just looked at him, stupid and confused.
“He was a forgiving man, merciful. I, on the other hand,” Conn said, “am mentioned in the Old Testament. Moses talked of me.”
“He did?”
Conn nodded. “You know what Moses called me?”
The man shook his head. “But I’ll start reading the Bible every day and—”
“Do you know what the man called me?” Conn said again.
The doctor, who was leaning back with fear in his eyes, said, “He called you the avenger of blood.”
“Yes,” Conn said. “I am the avenger of blood. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.”
Tripp hunched down into himself and shook his head, and Conn could see what was going to happen.
Tripp spoke like a spirit-broken child after a well-deserved whupping. “Like I said, Mr. Sullivan, you let me go, and I’ll read that Bible every day—”
And then he went for it. Tripp grabbed the butt of his revolver and started to pull it from his holster, and Conn shot him right through the broken nose.
One down, Conn thought, his ears ringing, ten to go.
The doctor staggered backward with shock. “You killed him.”
Conn nodded. “And now I’m going to cross the street and kill the men who brought him here.”
The doctor gave his head a shake, seeming to recover from his shock and the impossibly loud noise. “Perhaps it would be better to leave them to Marshal Andrews. He’s a good man. And I’ll vouch for you. These men are the roughest sort, and I’m sorry to hear they—”
“Thanks for the offer, Doc, but I’m taking care of this myself,” Conn said, opening the Remington’s wheel and replacing the spent cartridge. “Right now. Just gotta stop by my horse and get the right tool for the job.”
“Good luck, son.”
“Thank you, Doc.” He nodded toward the dead man. “You can keep his gun. That should pay for the hole in the wall.”
The doctor nodded, looking very pale, and Conn walked back outside, where the boy regarded him with wide eyes.
“I heard shooting,” the kid said. “Did you kill him?”
“I did. Any sign of those other men?”
The boy shook his head. “These men, they done you wrong, huh?”
“That’s right. They killed my brother tonight.” Conn holstered his Remington and stepped to his horse, and pulled the double-barreled, ten-gauge H&R coach gun from its short boot. Then he reached in his pocket, pulled out another dollar, and handed it to the kid. “Thanks for keeping an eye.”
“Anytime, mister.”
Conn started across the street toward the saloon, where the fiddle had been replaced by a manic piano. The stomping and laughter persisted.
Overtop the saloon’s single step, its red sign swayed back and forth in the wind, winking in the gloom.
“Good luck, mister,” the boy called after him. “I hope you kill them.”
“I will, son. I will kill them all.”