“I’m willing to try, but I don’t reckon there’s any way I’m going to be able to stand up,” Jarrett said.

  “I wouldn’t advise it either.”

  Cavanaugh gnawed his lip as he put his mind to the problem. Then, brightening, he scurried away. Jarrett’s flash of anger was fading away and he was wondering how he could lie back down on the bed without hurting himself when Cavanaugh returned.

  He was pushing a chair on wheels that creaked with every turn of the wheels. He left it in front of Jarrett and stood back to let him admire it.

  Jarrett managed a begrudging nod. “Provided you don’t expect me to sneak up on Hill quietly and take him by surprise in that contraption, I reckon that’ll let me move.”

  Cavanaugh stood behind him. He slipped a hand under Jarrett’s left armpit and encouraged him to put his right arm around his neck. Then they strained. The first attempt failed to move him.

  The second effort made them both go sprawling on the bed, and while Jarrett was still cursing under his breath as the fall jolted his left arm, Cavanaugh rocked them both forward. Jarrett tipped over and then twisted his hips.

  More by luck than judgment, he landed in the chair with such speed that the chair tipped over. Cavanaugh hurried around to the other side and jammed his feet against the wheels, staying its progress.

  Amid much creaking, and cursing from both of the men, the chair settled back down on both wheels, leaving Jarrett perched on the edge of its seat. Cavanaugh moved around to the front and pushed Jarrett farther into the chair.

  “That went well,” Jarrett grunted.

  “It’s progress,” Cavanaugh said. “Now try moving.”

  Jarrett lowered his right hand to the wheel and shoved. He didn’t move. He sighed, rolled his shoulders and then strained harder. This time he rolled backward for a few inches while the chair emitted a whining creak.

  The moment he stopped straining, it rolled back to where it’d been before. Cavanaugh moved in to help, but Jarrett shooed him away. Despite the discomfort in getting here and the unpromisingly immobile feel of the chair, he reckoned he was better off sitting here than lying in the bed.

  He slipped a hand under his right knee and moved the leg so that it was aimed directly forward. Then he repeated the operation with the other leg. This new posture let him settle deeper into the chair.

  This time when he put a hand to the wheel he rolled backward for a half-turn of the wheel before he had to rest and flex his arm. He slumped back in the chair, his sudden burst of elation fading.

  “I can move, but I don’t reckon I’ll be chasing after my would-be killers.”

  “You don’t need to do no chasing,” Cavanaugh said as, with excellent timing, the outside door opened.

  Cavanaugh hurried over to the table beside Jarrett’s bed and returned with his gun, which he dropped on to Jarrett’s lap. He turned on the spot and then settled for wheeling Jarrett to the wall behind the door.

  Jarrett was too weak to object and he sat slumped in the chair without the energy to even keep his head up. Cavanaugh stood over him.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Jarrett said. “You need to worry about getting all those bullets out of Deputy Hill.”

  Cavanaugh drew an intake of breath, suggesting his concern that Jarrett’s show of bravado achieved the opposite effect to the one he’d intended, but he adopted a loud tone as he headed out of the surgery.

  “You’re back quickly, Deputy Hill,” he declared.

  “I’ve got no leads and Jarrett’s trail isn’t getting any warmer.”

  “These two bottles should sure keep me and my patients warm, Deputy Hill.”

  Jarrett winced, noting that despite talking loudly, Cavanaugh’s comments sounded nervous.

  “Talk first. Then you get the bottles.”

  “Come through to my surgery, Deputy Hill, and I’ll explain.”

  Cavanaugh moved on and Jarrett could imagine Hill frowning and wondering why the doctor was repeatedly mentioning his name. Strangely, the effect Cavanaugh had probably hoped to achieve worked.

  Jarrett raised his head, his anger at Cavanaugh’s lack of subtlety overcoming his numerous pains. He picked up the gun and, with his elbow resting on the side of the chair he aimed at a spot a few feet in from the door.

  He was behind the door and Cavanaugh ignored him as he came in. Hill didn’t follow him in immediately, making Jarrett grit his teeth as his gun hand began to tremble.

  “I can see you had a patient,” Hill said from the doorway. “Who was he?”

  “He didn’t give a name and I didn’t ask for one, Deputy Hill, but he left this.”

  Cavanaugh moved over to the bed, and this time Hill came in.

  “What are you nervous about?”

  Cavanaugh turned around with a benign smile on his face, but he made the mistake of glancing at Jarrett, which made Hill flinch and then turn. His gaze was high up and it took him a moment to lower his head to set eyes on Jarrett.

  “Remember me?” Jarrett said. “You shot me to hell.”

  “Who are—?”

  Hill didn’t get to finish his question before Jarrett fired. Hill was standing only four feet away and Jarrett had aimed at the center of his chest, but the slug only winged his arm. The blow made Hill jerk backward.

  Heartened by the memory of this man joining the other gunmen in repeatedly wounding him, Jarrett gathered enough strength to blast Hill low in the chest, making him double over. A final shot through the top of his hat downed him. Then Jarrett flopped back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  “How did you find him?” Ernest asked.

  “I heard shooting behind the Wild Horse and went to investigate,” Doc Cavanaugh said. “Hill was lying here. I’m sorry, but there was nothing I could do for him.”

  “I can see that.”

  Ernest stood over his deputy’s body, not sure what he should feel. Hill had helped him dispense a kind of justice in Hamilton for the last five years, and their methods were sure to have annoyed many.

  He had always presumed that, unless he kept his wits about him, this fate awaited him. Having his deputy receive it first made him wonder what mistake Hill had made.

  “At least this gives you a reason to take on Gerald now,” Cavanaugh said.

  “It doesn’t. Gerald wouldn’t be behind this.”

  Cavanaugh snorted. “Gerald’s tendrils have entwined their way into all the dirtiest cracks in Hamilton. I know you and he have an understanding, but without Hill around you’re free to follow your instincts. Those instincts should tell you Gerald killed Lambert and now he’s moved on to Deputy Hill.”

  Ernest smiled at Cavanaugh benignly. “Those instincts tell me not to jump to conclusions, as you’re doing.”

  “I’m not. Lambert would have been even more successful without Gerald around.” Cavanaugh noticed Ernest’s skeptical expression. “Quentin Stone is Gerald’s man in the Stevenson empire. If you won’t question Gerald, question Quentin.”

  Ernest frowned. He knew Cavanaugh was right, but the fact that he’d never acted on that knowledge made him feel ashamed.

  “Quentin is a little man, and I’m starting to think this is all connected to the biggest man of them all in Hamilton, York Stevenson.”

  Cavanaugh stepped back with shock. “Hamilton is prosperous only because of men like York. When we all worked at the stockyard, I doctored to him, and doctors get to know what makes a man tick. York is a decent man.”

  “So they all say.” Ernest patted Cavanaugh’s back. “Now, leave me to do the investigating and I’ll leave you to do the doctoring.”

  “I’ll do that, but don’t forget what I told you before: remember who your friends are and you’re sure to do the right thing.”

  Ernest conceded the doctor’s point with a smile and then directed him to fetch the undertaker while he examined the scene. By the time the two men returned he had found nothing of interest.

  He headed back to the law office in a somber mood. That mood didn’t lighten when he’d been at his desk for an hour and had started work on another bottle of confiscated whiskey. After York had threatened him Ernest had been sure that York knew more about his brother’s death than he’d let on, but he struggled to make a connection between York and Hill.

  Worse, he had become used to having Hill around to share ideas with, even if they had been rarely about the crimes they were supposed to be investigating. That thought led him to think that, as they had been investigating Lambert’s death properly, Hill might have stumbled across an answer and had paid the price.

  Ernest put the bottle away and walked over to the window. The stockyards were visible from everywhere in town. Although the Wild Horse blocked most of his view of York’s yard, the largest and the first to be built here, he had a clear view of the cabin from where York presided over his domain in Tyrone’s absence.

  Cavanaugh had urged the marshal to follow his instincts and the doctor was convinced that that would lead him to Gerald. Ernest didn’t agree. Quentin may be Gerald’s man in the Stevenson empire, but Quentin wasn’t averse to selling information to whoever paid him.

  More importantly, Ernest reckoned that events during Hamilton’s early days governed what was happening now. Once, when this town had been nothing more than a huddle of clapboard buildings and the railroad had been just a dream, Tyrone Hendrick had opened the first stockyard.

  He had trusted the running of the yard to three men: Ernest, and the Stevenson brothers York and Lambert. There had been others around who were still in town like Gerald, Doc Cavanaugh and, until recently, the now deceased Cornelius Hill, but these three had been in the positions of power.

  In their various ways, they had all vied for Tyrone’s attention. Ernest had dealt with the workers. He had resolved their disputes and later he had protected the yard’s growing riches from anyone who might want to take them.

  York was a former rancher, so the cattleman had devoted himself to the logistics of the operation. Lambert had been Tyrone’s deputy. He was as astute a businessman as Tyrone was and he had immersed himself in every aspect of the business.

  Tyrone having no kin, he had made it obvious that he’d pass on the ownership of the stockyard to a business associate. Everyone had assumed that that man would be Lambert, yet he never appeared pleased at the prospect of having that honor bestowed upon him.

  Lambert would have been successful no matter what he’d turned his hand to, and he didn’t view inheriting the stockyard as being an important goal. It had appeared that nothing could stop the yard’s success.

  Then the trouble started. Orlando Pyle and his bandit gang had preyed on the stockyard and Ernest couldn’t stop them, no matter how many guns he hired. With every raid Ernest’s reputation diminished in Tyrone’s eyes, and he was on the verge of being replaced when he had a spot of luck.

  Jarrett Wade ended Orlando’s reign of terror and although Tyrone was delighted, it initiated a change. The prolonged disruption had destroyed the ageing Tyrone’s enthusiasm and he announced that he’d retire to live his last days enjoying the fruits of his labors.

  He had to choose a successor from a security man with a tarnished reputation, a cattleman with little business acumen and a businessman with an impeccable record. Ernest hadn’t expected to be chosen and York had also assumed he wouldn’t be picked, but Tyrone had decided he wanted a cattleman to preside at the head of his empire.

  He left York in charge, although he made it clear that he hadn’t decided yet who would inherit. York judged that he was being tested, and in the months after his appointment he operated a ruthless regime that tested everyone’s patience.

  Before long Ernest and Lambert both left the yard. New stockyards were being built and Hamilton was growing. As Gerald was prospering by providing basic entertainment for the workforce, Lambert judged he could make his fortune, too.

  He built hotels and saloons and he prospered. Ernest became Hamilton’s first town marshal. Whether he had prospered was open to debate. Now, five years on, Lambert had been killed, presumably to stop him inheriting the stockyard, and Hill had perhaps worked some of this out, and he had been killed.

  York had given the marshal an ultimatum to find Lambert’s killer, but Ernest reckoned this could be a distraction to stop him thinking about who had the most to gain from Lambert’s demise. He did not need to ponder on the fact that if his theory was right, he might also be viewed as someone who could inherit the yard and so could be the next to be killed.

  He stepped outside and, without a clear plan in mind, he walked down the main drag until he fetched up at Ma Hubbard’s. Saul was sitting by the window with a bored expression that changed to a hopeful smile when Ernest arrived. Ernest wasn’t used to anyone being pleased to meet him and he sloped inside uncertainly.

  “Have you remembered something that might help me?” Saul asked.

  Ernest had tried to avoid thinking about Saul’s mother and about what that implied.

  “I haven’t. I’ve been busy and I’m about to get even busier, but I’ve been thinking that your mother was a good friend. I owe her plenty. You seem a sensible young man, so I thought I could offer you a job.”

  Saul raised an eyebrow. “As your deputy?”

  “That would be a dangerous position for one so young, but I could do with someone to keep the office tidy, take queries when I’m not there and so forth.”

  Saul frowned. “I’m my own man and I’ll take no favors—”

  “I hear what you’re saying, but sitting staring out of the window and looking bored in the law office while getting paid has got to be better than sitting here looking bored.”

  “You make a good point. When can I start?”

  “You already have.”

  Ernest turned to the door and Saul scurried after him. As they walked back down the main drag Saul sighed several times, clearly wondering whether to question him. Ernest was pleased that he didn’t. At the office he explained Saul’s duties, and then turned to leave.

  “That all doesn’t seem too difficult,” Saul called after him. “Maybe when I’ve proved myself, you might want me to do more and be your deputy.”

  Ernest stopped in the doorway and turned to York’s cabin, high up in the stockyard.

  “You’re your own man,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to do that.”

  Chapter Nine

  “How are you feeling today?” Cavanaugh asked, standing beside Jarrett’s bed.

  “I’m no different to yesterday,” Jarrett said with pained and narrowed eyes. “I feel like I got shot to pieces and you put me back together again.”

  “Which is what I did.” Cavanaugh smiled. “Except I’m sure you feel better than Deputy Hill does.”

  Jarrett nodded and moved to raise himself on to his good elbow. To his delight, unlike yesterday, he completed the movement without too much difficulty.

  “Has anyone asked any questions about him?”

  “I left the body behind the Wild Horse saloon and then fetched Marshal Montague. Ernest asked plenty of questions, but I told him a story that he believed.” Cavanaugh smiled. “Nobody suspects you’re even here, never mind that you killed him.”

  “Except Hill’s fellow would-be killers will suspect plenty and they’re sure to come looking for me before long.”

  “I know, and that’s why you have to act quickly.”

  Jarrett winced. “I was afraid you’d say that, but unless you can entice the other gunmen here for me to kill, I can’t see me being able to do anything.”

  Cavanaugh moved away and returned with the wheeled chair.

  “You have an opportunity now, and it’s too good to miss.”

  Jarrett eyed the chair with irritation. “Is this opportunity the only chance I’ll get?”

  “No, I’ll have to—”

  “Then I’ll miss it.” Jarrett flopped back down on the bed. “Revenge can wait until I can move.”

  “I’ve made the chair quieter.” Cavanaugh pushed the chair back and forth, producing a series of squeaks that didn’t sound much quieter than they had done yesterday.

  “I don’t care. I need to rest.”

  Cavanaugh took his shoulder and dragged him up to a sitting position.

  “Lying there is the worst way of getting yourself fit again.”

  Jarrett registered Cavanaugh’s firm gaze that suggested the doctor wouldn’t relent until Jarrett did his bidding. He sighed and held out a hand. Cavanaugh moved the chair closer. With greater ease and skill than yesterday, Jarrett managed to swing off the bed and into the chair. He shuffled back into the position he’d found most comfortable yesterday, but he still sat slumped.

  “Who next?” he asked.

  “Gerald Gough, the owner of the Wild Horse saloon. It’s beside the surgery.”

  “I remember Gerald from the last time I was here. I had a few drinks in his saloon, and he was a sociable and popular man. He didn’t seem the sort of man who’d shoot me up.”

  “Any man is that sort of man if someone is standing between him and owning the largest stockyard in Hamilton.”

  Jarrett nodded. “Who was the third man at the shack that night?”

  Cavanaugh winked. “Only when you’ve taken care of Gerald.”

  Jarrett felt too sore and weak to argue the point, especially when he had to conserve his strength for the task ahead.

  “How will I take advantage of this opportunity?” he asked when Cavanaugh had handed over his gun.

  “I see Gerald on the first Monday of every month. Nobody else knows I see him, so nobody will be around. This time I’ll have company.”

  “What do you see him about?”

  Cavanaugh winked. “As you said, Gerald is a sociable and popular man.”

  Cavanaugh waited until Jarrett nodded his understanding. Then he collected his black bag. He dropped it on Jarrett’s lap on top of the gun. Then he turned the chair to the back door and wheeled him on.

  Cavanaugh moved Jarrett with greater ease than Jarrett was able to move himself, so by the time they’d reached the back door some of Jarrett’s misgivings had receded. He propped his splinted left arm against the bag while he kept Cavanaugh’s bag from moving with his right hand.

 

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