Shadow of a dead man, p.27
Shadow of a Dead Man, page 27
Glyneen could hear him breathing as a sort of grunting and groaning, animal-like.
Suddenly, he whipped his head around to gaze back over his right shoulder.
Squelching another gasp, Glyneen jerked her head back behind the wall of the saloon, stretching her lips back from her teeth in dread. Oh God—had he seen her?
Her heart beat faster as she pressed her head and back and shoulders back against the wall.
“Hmm,” she heard him say. “Hmm . . .”
A floorboard groaned, a spur rang, and a boot thudded.
Oh God—he was moving toward her!
For a second, her blood froze. She couldn’t move. Then she somehow got herself farther back into the shadows and hunkered down low against the wall behind her. She sat down and drew her knees up to her chest, trying to make herself as small as she could.
Four more raking, jingling steps, then Flagg’s shadow angled across the alley mouth. Glyneen glanced to her left and drew a short, quick breath when she saw him standing there at the corner of the Silver Slipper, facing her. She couldn’t see anything more than his black silhouette, but he was staring toward her. It was so dark in the alley that she doubted he could see her.
No, he wasn’t staring toward her. His chin was lifted and turned slightly away from her. He was gazing upward—at the top of the staircase rising to Doc Albright’s door. She could see the pale bandage over his nose now.
Glyneen’s insides recoiled.
He was wondering if she was up there still helping Doc Albright. He was wondering if she’d be coming down the stairs soon, dropping into the shadow-filled alley where he could attack her.
She knew that was what the man was thinking as surely as she herself was sitting there, frozen in terror, her blood having turned to ice in her veins.
She heard his animal-like, raking breaths, smelled his whiskey stench mingling with the smoke from his cigarette. She was so sick to her stomach that she worried she might vomit and give her presence away. But then he turned his head sharply left, staring up the street to the east. Then, after another ten or fifteen seconds or so of pondering, he stepped down off the boardwalk and tramped east along the street.
His foot thuds and spur jingles dwindled gradually.
Glyneen heaved herself to her feet. She was so stiff with lingering fear that she could barely walk, but she strode to the mouth of the alley in time to see Flagg turn the corner and head north up Third Avenue.
Fear refreshed itself inside her. This time, she didn’t fear so much for herself as for Miss Bonner. Didn’t Sheila live on the north end of Third Avenue?
Was Flagg heading toward her house?
Oh no.
Glyneen drew a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. It didn’t work. Her knees felt like oak knots. Finally, she managed to stumble forward and then to walk east along the main street. She felt strong, invisible hands trying to hold her back.
She bulled through them and headed after Flagg, hoping that she might somehow be able to arrive at Miss Bonner’s house ahead of Flagg, in time to warn Sheila that the mad marshal of Hallelujah Junction would be calling on her tonight.
CHAPTER 34
Sheila stared into the steam rising from her teacup.
On the table to the right of the cup sat a plate of food—fried chicken with potatoes covered in milk gravy and canned beans from Verna Godfrey’s garden.
Verna had left the meal on the warming rack for Sheila, who had not yet eaten more than a few bites since she’d set it there a full half hour ago, after she’d arrived home late from the bank. She nearly always worked late, but for the past few days she’d been working even later than usual to help keep her mind off that over which she had no control—namely, what was happening with Johnny and Cordobés in the northwestern mountains. She hadn’t seen the dark-eyed Mexican killer in town since Johnny had left, so he’d gone after Johnny, all right.
El Cuchillo was hunting Johnny, like a mountain lion coldly, doggedly stalking its prey . . .
Despite her trying to distract herself, the thoughts were always there—lurking in the back of her mind like shadows shunted by the light of a weak lamp. Nagging, cloying, worrisome . . .
Nearly a week had passed since Johnny had left. The trip took roughly six days, depending on the weather and if any owlhoots were haunting the trail. Those six days were nearly up. If all had gone as planned, Johnny should be riding down out of the mountains by late in the day tomorrow.
If all had gone as planned, and Cordobés was dead...
What if it was the other way around? What if instead of Johnny riding down out of the mountains with El Cuchillo tied belly-down across his saddle, it was ...
“No,” Sheila said aloud, shaking her head and lifting her teacup to her lips. “Stop it, now. All you can do is wait. And hope.”
She sipped the tepid tea and set the cup down on the table.
Across from her, a guttural meow rose.
That would be the half-wild cat that had come with the house. Sheila’s father had taken in the cat when he’d found it prowling around the yard one winter, so skinny that its ribs had shone through its charcoal-colored fur. Her father had never given the cat a name but only called it Cat, so Sheila had stuck with tradition.
“What’s the matter, Cat?” she asked. “Do you need to go outside?”
In good weather, Cat stayed inside most of the day and stalked the town by night, meowing to come inside very early in the morning for his milk and whatever leftovers Sheila had saved from her previous evening’s meal. It being colder now, and him being a very spoiled, plump cat, indeed, Cat had cut his time outdoors in half.
Plump as a baby pig, he sat on the chair across the table from Sheila, on the old buckskin blanket her father had provided for Cat’s comfort. He’d been curled into a tight ball, enjoying the warmth from the range, when Sheila had sat down to her meal, but now she saw that he was sitting up, staring at the outside door to Sheila’s left. His hair was lifted, both ears pricked.
Again, he gave that mewling groan that cats gave when they were troubled and which always placed a cold hand on the back of Sheila’s neck.
She frowned at the door, peering outside through the upper sashed glass panel.
“What is it, Cat?”
Cat sat erect on the chair, staring at the door.
“Is someone out there?”
Apprehension poked at Sheila’s nerves. But it was probably only a raccoon or maybe a coyote prowling around the neighborhood trash piles.
A low strangling sound made its way up from Cat’s throat. What he sensed must still be out there . . .
Sheila rose from her chair. She removed the lamp from the hook hanging over the table and moved to the door. She opened the door, stepped out onto the small wooden stoop, held the lamp high, and looked around.
“Hello?” she called. “Is anyone out there?”
She moved the lamp slowly from left to right, pushing the darkness back to reveal the shadow-limned shrubs, stacked firewood, overturned wheelbarrow, the privy to the left, and the woodshed to the right. Beyond stood a murky black hedge.
A shadow moved on Sheila’s right. She swung her head toward it with a startled gasp. The owl gave its raucous screech as it winged into the air over Tobias Miller’s house to the south.
Probably hunting Miller’s chickens. Sheila hoped the man, a widower who’d taken to drink, hadn’t forgotten to close his coop up tight for the night.
She let out a relieved sigh then stepped back inside. Returning the lamp to its hook over the table, she said, “Just an owl, Cat. No monsters on the prowl tonight.” She left the door standing half-open, in case Cat wanted to go outside. But Cat sat on the floor just in front of it, staring out with the same apprehensive expression as before.
“Do you want out?” Sheila asked. “Just remember the owl’s out there.” She knew Cat could elude the owl, however. He was savvy, Cat was. Few cats lived past their first or second years if they weren’t savvy to all the predators that haunted this savage country. That went for humans, too.
A sudden knock sounded from the other end of the house, causing Sheila to give an almost violent start.
“Whoa!” She closed the door and pressed her back to it, frowning with foreboding. “Who could that be at this late hour?”
The knock came again, followed by a muffled female voice: “Miss Bonner?” Rap-rap. “Miss Bonner? Sheila, it’s Glyneen MacFarland!”
Sheila hurried through the kitchen and into the parlor. Only one lamp was lit, on a table near Sheila’s father’s old oak rocking chair, so she stumbled over a pair of her own riding boots before she got to the door. Cursing under her breath, she opened the door to see Miss MacFarland standing on the porch in silhouette. She was bundled up against the cold, complete with heavy coat and knit cap, and she was holding a double-barreled shotgun in her hands.
“Glyneen, what on earth . . . ?”
Glyneen grabbed Sheila’s right arm with her right hand, keeping her voice low. “Are you all right?”
“Am I . . . ? Yes, of course, I’m—”
“He’s not here?”
“Who?”
“Flagg.”
Sheila studied her for a moment, her own fear building again as she reflected on Cat’s behavior only a minute ago. “Why do you ask?”
“I saw him headed this way. I hurried home and grabbed Hazel here”—she held up the shotgun in her knit-mittened hands—“and hurried over.”
Sheila stepped back quickly, drawing the door wider. “Come in.” When Glyneen stood before her, looking around the parlor, Sheila said, “You’re sure he was headed this way?”
“He was headed up your street. He’s drunk. I saw him stagger out of the Silver Slipper. He’s got trouble on his brain, if I can read his mind. And I think I can. He’s simpler than a McGuffey’s.”
“You can say that again.”
Again, Cat made a low mewling sound in the kitchen.
“What was that?” Glyneen asked.
“My cat. He’s been acting strangely and staring at the back door.”
“He’s out there, then,” Glyneen said, fatefully. “Let him show his head and I’ll give him a couple loads of buckshot! I’m right handy with this thing!”
“Let me check the back door,” Sheila said. “I don’t think I locked it.”
Glyneen grabbed her arm. “Let me go first, then.” She raised the shotgun again.
Sheila nodded.
Glyneen followed the trail of guttering lamplight into the kitchen and to the back door. She was nearly to the door when it started to open.
Sheila stopped in her tracks, slapping a hand to her mouth, stifling a scream.
Glyneen saw the door open at the same time Sheila did and lunged toward it, ramming it shut with the butt of her shotgun.
“Ow, dammit!” a man cried. “My nose!”
Glyneen had just reached for the locking bar when the door exploded inward, glass raining from the upper pane. She screamed as she flew back onto the table. Jonah Flagg entered the kitchen, raging through gritted teeth, the bandage over his nose spotted red.
“You’re gonna pay for that, you wicked little catamount!” He looked at Sheila, who was scrambling along the table to grab the shotgun that Glyneen had dropped on the floor. “You’re both gonna pay big!”
Sheila picked up the shotgun and began to raise it. Flagg grabbed it just as she got a hammer clicked back and drew back one of the hammers. The rifle was angled upward toward Flagg’s head when it discharged, the thundering blast rocketing brutally around the small kitchen, instantly filling the room with the smell of powder smoke.
Flagg screamed as he jerked the rifle out of Sheila’s hands and tossed it out the open door behind him. He screamed again as, bending forward, he clamped a hand over the right side of his head, over the bandage that covered that ear, which Glyneen had kissed with a bullet only a few days ago. Blood oozed up between his gloved fingers.
This time that ear had been more than kissed.
Flagg screamed again, his glassy, red-rimmed eyes finding Sheila. She stood frozen in terror while Glyneen scrambled off the table, knocking Sheila’s supper to the floor. Flagg stumbled toward Sheila, raising his hands like a monster from a child’s nightmare, intending to wrap his hands around her neck and strangle the life out of her.
He’d taken only two steps before Glyneen grabbed the teakettle from atop the range and, lunging toward Flagg with a bellowing wail of unbridled anger, smashed the kettle against the right side of the marshal’s head. Flagg stumbled sideways, screaming yet again, shriller this time, and now clutching the opposite side of his head from his shredded ear.
He fell sideways into the kitchen’s shadowy corner, knocking pickle jars and airtight tins from their shelves. As he struggled to right himself, bellowing curses, he fumbled his right hand toward the Colt revolver housed in his thonged-down holster.
“Come on!” Glyneen cried, grabbing Sheila’s arm.
Sheila was still somewhat in shock, her legs stiff, her knees unwilling to bend. She stared in horror as Flagg pushed himself off the wall, amidst the jars and cans raining around him, some of the jars shattering on the floor, and snaked the big revolver from its holster. “You whores! You’ll both pay for that one!”
“Come on!” Glyneen screamed again and, tugging on Sheila’s arm, began running toward the parlor.
Stiffly, haltingly, tripping over her supper plate, Sheila ran with Glyneen tugging on her arm. As they gained the kitchen doorway, Flagg wailed again. The wail was accompanied by the crashing blast of his Colt. Both women screamed as the bullet whapped loudly into the doorframe, peppering their cheeks with wood slivers.
They cleared the doorway and turned sharply to the right. After two panicked, lunging strides, hearing Flagg wailing and triggering his pistol again behind her, Sheila found herself on the stairs at the rear of the parlor.
“Come on!” Glyneen cried, tugging on Sheila’s arm. “Hurry!”
Sheila’s heart leaped when Flagg triggered another shot. The bullet caromed over her and Glyneen and thumped into the wall at the top of the stairs. Both women screamed again then wheeled to their left and ran down the hall and into the room at the far end—her father’s old bedroom, which she now used as her own.
Earlier, Sheila had lit a lamp on the dresser, turning the wick down low. As she followed Glyneen through the half-open door, she slammed the door behind her and twisted the key, locking it.
A gun blast sounded in the hall.
The bullet tore through the door, making a ragged-edged hole and tearing out a six-inch strip of wood. Sheila flung herself to one side as Flagg, yelling insanely in the hall, triggered another round, another. . . another . . . and another . . . until there were four holes in the door.
Flagg’s boots thudded loudly in the hall as he approached the door, shouting, “Witches! You’re both gonna die!”
There was a loud wham! as he kicked the door, which lurched in its frame.
“You’re gonna die, witches!”
Pressing her back to the wall beside Sheila, Glyneen said, “Is there a gun in here?”
Another wham! sounded as Flagg kicked the door again.
“Yes!” Sheila ran to the dresser, opened the top drawer.
“You’re gonna die, witches!” Wham!
Sheila shoved aside several pantalets and stockings and pulled out her father’s big, silver-chased, pearl-gripped horse pistol. She showed it to Glyneen, still pressing her back to the wall beside the door. “My father kept this for protection. He called it a Russian. I don’t know if he ever fired it. I know I haven’t.”
Again, Flagg kicked the door. Wham!
“Is it loaded?” Glyneen asked, her eyes wide and round with terror.
“I don’t know!”
“Let me see!”
Wham!
Glyneen grabbed the pistol and, like an old gun-hand, tripped a latch on top. The barrel dropped as the gun broke open to reveal all six chambers filled with brass.
“Yes!”
She snapped the pistol closed and hurried over to stand in front of the door, raising the heavy pistol in both hands, aiming it at the bullet-pocked upper panel.
Wham! The door was splintering around the lock. One more kick and it would spring open and Flagg would be on them.
Glyneen stretched her lips back from her teeth as she ratcheted back the Russian’s hammer. She waited for the next kick and the sudden opening of the door.
Standing by the open door of the dresser, heavy with terror, Sheila waited, too.
But another kick did not come.
Glyneen shifted her grip on the gun, frowning at the door.
When still another kick did not come, she and Sheila shared a puzzled glance.
They looked at the door.
In the hall there was only silence.
Then there was a thud. Not as loud as before. It didn’t sound like a kick. It sounded like a body falling against the door. There was a high, almost inaudible gurgling sound just on the other side.
Sheila and Glyneen shared another befuddled glance.
Had Flagg collapsed against the door?
They waited nearly a minute then Glyneen stepped forward. When she held the aimed revolver a couple of feet from the door, standing at an angle to the side it would open from, she glanced at Sheila and nervously licked her lips. “Open it.”
Sheila moved stiffly forward. She glanced at Glyneen standing to her left. Glyneen nodded.
Sheila twisted the key in the lock and slowly opened the door. There was a weight pressing on it from the other side. When it was three feet open, Flagg felt into her open arms, and she collapsed beneath the marshal’s dead weight to the floor.
Groaning beneath the marshal’s slack body atop her own, Sheila stared up in horror as another male figure stepped into the room.
