“Nope. I’ve not been back to Hamilton in five years.”

  Saul frowned, suggesting he’d heard the concern in his tone, but he said nothing and they continued in silence to the farm. As they rode through the gates, Saul’s shoulders became bowed and he slowed down, so Jarrett directed an encouraging wink at him and in return Saul smiled wanly.

  Brett was already standing outside with a hand to his brow, having clearly noticed them approaching from some distance. His expression was as dour as it had been when he’d given Jarrett his mission.

  “You found him quickly,” Brett said when they’d drawn up.

  “Saul was in the first place I looked,” Jarrett said. “He fetched up in Russell Gulch, and you’ll be pleased to hear he was working hard.”

  “I’m surprised he knows how to.”

  Saul lowered his head even farther and clambered down from his horse. Then he slouched toward the glowering Brett. When Saul reached Brett he met his eye for a moment and then hurried on toward the house.

  Brett turned and, almost as an afterthought, he clipped the back of his head with the flat of his hand. Saul stumbled and went to his knees. Brett, having unleashed his anger, muttered an oath and stood over him with his fists raised.

  “That’s enough,” Jarrett said. “Saul’s sorry for what he did and you hitting him won’t make him any sorrier.”

  “Be quiet,” Brett said. “You’re not his father.”

  “I’m not.”

  The deliberate manner in which Jarrett had intoned his response made Brett sneer at him, as if he’d understood some of its implications. With Brett’s attention no longer on him, Saul took advantage of the distraction and scurried into the house. Brett ignored him and withdrew a handful of bills from his pocket.

  “You’ve got no reason to be on my land now. Take your money and go.”

  Jarrett resisted the urge to offer Brett some advice on how he should treat Saul, as he reckoned anything he said would only make life worse for the young man. He moved his horse on and reached down for the money. He counted it and then sighed.

  “We agreed on fifty dollars. You’ve only given me twenty.”

  “It seems to me you didn’t have to look for long. Saul was only in Russell Gulch.”

  “We agreed on fifty dollars and that’s all I’d have asked for whether he was in the first place I looked or the hundredth.”

  “Except he was in first, which means I could have gotten anyone to find him. That’s only worth twenty dollars. Take it and be thankful.”

  Jarrett pocketed the money. “I’m obliged for the part payment. I’ll leave when I have the rest.”

  “Then you’ll have a long wait.” Brett chuckled. “You see, I haven’t got fifty dollars.”

  Jarrett weighed up the merits of arguing, but Brett’s smirk suggested his last comment had been truthful. He shook his head.

  “How you could be the father of that hard-working, decent young man, I’ll never know.”

  He waited until Brett’s eyes flared in anger, and then turned his horse away. At the gate he stopped, but Brett had now disappeared from view. Jarrett wished Saul well and hoped he’d take his advice about leaving at a time of his choosing and after planning his escape properly. Then he moved on to town.

  Three hours later Jarrett was standing at the bar in the Hard Knocks saloon with a whiskey glass in hand. The liquor was still failing to raise his spirits when a small and wiry man wearing pebble-glasses bustled into the saloon. He spoke with a couple of men until one of them pointed at Jarrett.

  “Would I be right in thinking you used to be Jarrett Wade?” the man asked when he joined him at the bar.

  “I still am the last time I looked,” Jarrett said, leaning over his glass.

  The man uttered a nervous cough. “Perhaps I didn’t phrase my question well. I meant did you once use to be the bounty hunter Jarrett Wade?”

  “Yup.”

  “That would explain why you tracked down Saul Cox so efficiently and, so I have gathered, you brought him back in good time and in good health.”

  Jarrett took a sip of his whiskey. “You gather plenty.”

  “Of that you are most correct.” The man held out his hand, but Jarrett ignored it. The man coughed again. “I should introduce myself properly. I’m Ascott Beadley and I’m a lawyer with the renowned firm of—”

  “If you’ve got work for me, I’d be obliged if you’d explain yourself quicker. If you haven’t, I’d be obliged if you’d go away and let me enjoy my drink in peace.”

  “I do have work for you, but I would prefer it if we could talk in private.” Ascott offered a fragile smile. “You can finish your drink first, if you like.”

  “I’m obliged.” Jarrett knocked back his whiskey.

  Ten minutes later he was sitting in Ascott’s office. With a jaundiced eye, Jarrett observed the officious little man go about his business, which involved rooting around in his safe and then moving paper around his desk without achieving any discernible change in the order there. When he had arranged everything to his liking, Ascott regarded him over the top of his pebble-glasses.

  “I wish you to deliver an important document to Lambert Stevenson.”

  Ascott picked up an old parchment from his desk. It was covered in text and it had a seal at the bottom.

  Jarrett shrugged. “I met him once, but I can’t remember when. My memory isn’t what it used to be. I presume you know where Lambert is.”

  “I do,” Ascott said, giving an irritated grunt as if to suggest he’d had his speech worked out in the same meticulous manner as he’d laid out his documents and Jarrett had distracted him. “The content and intent of the document are not important for you to know. All you do need to know is that you must deliver it into Lambert’s hands and nobody else’s.”

  “I need to know one other thing.” Jarrett smiled. “How much do I get paid?”

  “Lambert will pay you fifty dollars on receipt of the document.” Ascott returned the smile. “I’m aware of your recent experience with Brett Cox and I hope you’ll be pleased to hear that in addition I’ll pay you fifty dollars on acceptance of this duty.”

  Jarrett nodded, so Ascott busied himself with folding the parchment and placing it in a slim metal case. Then, using a candle, he dripped sealing-wax over the clasp, and then blew on the seal until it had set.

  When he was satisfied that the case had been sealed securely, he held it out. Jarrett found that the case was small enough to slip into an inside pocket of his jacket. The payment went in another inside pocket, and Jarrett awaited any farther instructions, but by the time Ascott had made him sign for the document and for the money in several places he was eager to move on.

  “Where is Lambert Stevenson?” he asked, getting to his feet.

  “He currently resides in Hamilton.”

  Jarrett had been nodding while moving to the door so he could avoid Ascott waylaying him with any more irrelevant duties, but the answer made him pause.

  “I haven’t been there for many years,” he said, his tone as low as it had been earlier when he’d spoken briefly to Saul about his previous visit to this town.

  Ascott narrowed his eyes, clearly noting Jarrett’s concern.

  “I hope you have no problem with returning there.”

  “I guess I don’t.” Jarrett patted the bulge in his pocket. “After all, I’ve signed for the money.”

  Chapter Three

  Jarrett was two miles out of Independence when he drew his horse to a halt. His route would take him past Brett Cox’s farm and for several minutes he gazed thoughtfully at the house. Then, with a sigh, he veered toward it.

  Like yesterday, Brett was outside. Unlike yesterday he scurried inside and by the time Jarrett reached the gate he had emerged with a rifle in hand.

  “I told you yesterday, I don’t have fifty dollars,” Brett shouted. “I paid you everything I had.”

  Jarrett rode on and dismounted outside the house.

  “Then you’ll be pleased to hear I don’t want the rest of my money.”

  “So what do you want?”

  Jarrett rubbed his jaw, as if considering, and then offered Brett a placating smile, which made him lower the rifle a mite.

  “The way I see it, you agreed to pay me money for a service. Now you’ve gone back on our deal. So I reckon I should go back on our deal, too.”

  Brett furrowed his brow. “How can you do that?”

  “That’s simple.” Jarrett turned to the house and raised his voice. “Saul, get out here now. It’s time to leave.”

  “Leave?” Brett spluttered. “You’re not taking my son away.”

  “It seems only fair. You wouldn’t pay me when I’d found him, so I’ll help him disappear again.”

  Brett stepped back in shock, his grinding jaw suggesting he was weighing up whether to call Jarrett’s bluff or not, but Jarrett didn’t care what he decided as he wasn’t bluffing. Brett still hadn’t found a suitable retort when Saul came out of the house.

  He had a bulging bag over a shoulder, with clothes poking out of the top, but he had his head lowered as he gave Brett a wide berth. Any residual doubts Jarrett had about coming here fled when Saul raised his head, revealing a livid bruise on his cheek and a split lip that was still bloody.

  “You’re going nowhere, boy,” Brett said.

  “You’re the one who’s going nowhere,” Saul said. “I’ve got plenty of places to go.”

  Brett snarled in anger and turned away from confronting Jarrett. He swung the rifle around and raised the stock. Then he advanced on Saul, but when he moved to hit Saul Jarrett hurried on and grabbed the rifle, stopping it a foot from Saul’s head.

  The two men strained for supremacy, neither man getting the upper hand until Saul moved in and kicked Brett’s shin. As Brett was concentrating on rebuffing Jarrett the blow took him by surprise, and he stumbled.

  Jarrett helped Brett on his way with a shove to the shoulder, making his opponent fall on his back. The rifle had stayed in Jarrett’s hand: now he hurled it aside. The moment the weapon hit the dust Brett kicked off from the ground.

  Head down, he charged Jarrett, forcing Jarrett to step back quickly. He couldn’t avoid Brett’s manic charge and Brett’s shoulders slammed into his hips, toppling him backward. Both men went down with Brett on top, pressing down on him.

  Brett’s breath was sour and his eyes were wild, but the fall had knocked the wind out of Jarrett’s chest and he struggled to free himself. Red-faced, Brett put both hands to Jarrett’s throat and pressed down.

  Jarrett grabbed Brett’s wrists and tugged. At first Brett did not yield to his firm grip, but then, as Jarrett’s lungs began demanding air Brett flinched and slackened his hands. Seizing his chance, Jarrett put all his strength into a wild buck of his hips, knocking Brett aside.

  Then he squirmed his way clear of Brett’s body and, on hands on knees, he scrambled away. When he gained his feet, it became clear that it was not he who had made Brett relent. Saul had gathered up the discarded rifle, and he had aimed it at Brett’s chest.

  “You won’t shoot your father,” Brett snarled.

  “I wouldn’t, but you’re not my father,” Saul said.

  Brett advanced on Saul, forcing Jarrett to draw his six-shooter.

  “That’s far enough,” he said.

  Brett turned his head. As he now had two guns aimed at him, he sneered, but he did stop.

  “So the two of you have joined forces to rob me, have you?”

  “I’m not robbing you, but I am keeping the twenty dollars for my trouble.”

  Brett shrugged, as if he’d not been referring to the payment, but as he made no further attempt to confront them, Jarrett caught Saul’s eye. Saul nodded and hurried away to the barn. When Saul returned he had collected his horse and had disposed of the rifle.

  He mounted up and moved on. Jarrett reckoned he had the right idea in extracting themselves from this situation quickly, but he kept his gun on Brett until Saul was through the gate.

  “This isn’t over,” Brett said as Jarrett walked to his horse sideways, so as to keep him in sight.

  “It is,” Jarrett said. “It was always going to end this way. When you hired me, you just delayed the inevitable by a few months. Take my advice and—”

  “I’ve had enough of your advice. Your advice made Saul leave.”

  Jarrett didn’t reckon he could achieve anything by trying to talk sense into Brett, so he said nothing as he mounted up. Then, before he moved on, he limited himself to shaking a finger at Brett, warning him not to follow them.

  By the time he’d reached the gate, Saul was slowing down to let him catch up with him, but behind him Brett was emerging from the barn. He’d already found his rifle.

  “Did you find anything interesting?” Deputy Hill asked when Marshal Ernest Montague returned to the law office after searching Denby Grinnell’s house.

  Ernest threw the box of interesting finds on to his desk with a clatter.

  “I found some money and a few trinkets,” he said.

  Hill gestured at Denby’s body, which was lying beneath a blanket in the corner of the office.

  “So Denby was guilty, after all.”

  “It’s looking more likely.” Ernest held out a hand. “I’ll know that for sure when I’ve read his signed confession.”

  “What signed confession?”

  “The confession you extracted from our prisoner while I was collecting evidence.”

  Hill laughed, but when Ernest’s expression grew stern, he shrugged and headed over to Denby’s body. He removed the blanket and dragged the body to his desk beside which, after some maneuvering, he deposited it on a chair.

  The body started to slip to the floor, so Hill looped an arm over the back of the chair and wedged the legs between the chair and the side of the desk. Then he stood back to appraise the effect.

  Aside from the head lolling to the side so that the ear rested on a shoulder, Denby’s body did look like a prisoner who’d been brought in for questioning. So he walked around to the other side of the desk and collected some papers.

  “So, Denby, do you want to confess to all of your heinous crimes?” he asked.

  Hill waited for a few moments, and then turned to Ernest, who gave an encouraging nod. So he began writing. With that matter in hand, Ernest searched through the items he’d acquired.

  There was little of value, but, thankfully by the time he’d finished searching, news of his return must have spread as the hotel owner Lambert Stevenson arrived with Doc Cavanaugh in tow.

  “The doctor tells me you’re now sure Denby robbed my hotel,” Lambert said.

  “I sure am,” Ernest said.

  “I’m not pleased that this trivial matter ended so violently. Denby only. . . .” Lambert trailed off when he noticed Denby’s body. His mouth fell open in horror as he turned to Cavanaugh, who nodded. “But he’s dead!”

  “I agree that Denby’s enjoyed better days.”

  Cavanaugh walked across the office to examine the body. A gasp of disgust escaped his lips.

  “Denby may have been a thief, but he deserves more dignity than being propped up in a chair like that,” Cavanaugh said.

  “He’ll get to lie down later, but only after Hill’s finished questioning him. If he’s not cooperative, we may have to rough him up.”

  Hill waved his half-written statement at Cavanaugh.

  “With any luck he might confess to a few more unexplained crimes, too,” he said.

  Cavanaugh shook his head sadly and Lambert tipped back his hat before he turned to Ernest.

  “This is . . . is. . . .” Lambert waved his arms as he struggled to find the right words to express his anger, so Ernest smiled.

  “An outrage? An insult? Or is it my duty to apprehend and deal with men like Denby?”

  “Your duty doesn’t call for this.” Lambert sighed and stood back to regard Ernest. “These days you seem to take delight in treating everyone with contempt.”

  “I treat outlaws with contempt. I treat the victims of their crimes with dignity.” Ernest gestured at the box. “So look in here and you might find a few items that went missing.”

  “Only money was stolen, and I’m not even sure about that. The patrons in the rooms that got broken into were vague about what they’d lost.”

  “We both know what they hoped to gain out of the situation, but take whatever you reckon will keep them quiet.” Ernest winked. “That deathly pallor Denby’s got right now makes me think he’s got no further use for any of it.”

  Lambert winced and the two men faced each other until, with a grunt, Lambert picked up the bills and coins. As he counted through them, Ernest licked his lips, pleased to have won this small victory in getting the hotel owner to accept the money. When he’d finished, Lambert took thirty dollars, leaving about twenty dollars along with the trinkets.

  “This should smooth over any problems,” he said. Without meeting Ernest’s eye he turned to the door.

  “I’m pleased to have been of service,” Ernest called after him.

  Lambert stopped for a moment. Then he walked to the door. Ernest, smiling, turned to Cavanaugh, who took his time in speaking.

  “What’s happened to you, Ernest?” he said with a low tone. “Lambert was right. When we all worked at the stockyard, you used to treat people fairly.”

  “You know what happened to me,” Ernest said, matching the doctor’s low tone. “Back in those days I did treat everyone well, but then Orlando Pyle came along and I lost their respect.”

  “We all lost plenty during those raids, but York Stevenson kept faith in you. He reckoned you were the right man for this job, and back then I agreed with him.”

  “And now?”

  Cavanaugh sighed. “We’re old friends, Ernest, and I reckon we’ve known each other for long enough for me to tell you the truth. You’ve associated with the wrong people for so long you no longer know what’s right anymore. Stop shooting up little men like Denby while treading carefully around men like Gerald Gough.”

 

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