Obviously the waiter was quite talented artistically, because the sketches he’d made, passed around in the seedier areas of the city, finally led to one of the culprits, who had been persuaded to volunteer a full confession. But even before that had happened, Henry Curruthers had already come under suspicion.
Damian hadn’t wanted to believe Curruthers was involved. He had been his father’s accountant for more than ten years. He was an unassuming little man in his mid-forties who’d never married. He lived with and supported an elderly aunt on the east side of town. He never missed a day of work. He was always either in the office or at one of the Rutledge warehouses taking inventories. And like all the other employees, he’d been at the funeral, had seemed to be genuinely grieving over Damian Senior’s passing.
But one of the detectives had requested permission to examine the company books, and the books had shown serious discrepancies. When Henry was questioned, the detective wasn’t satisfied with the little man’s answers.
It still wasn’t conclusive evidence, even when Henry disappeared from the city with no trace. But then the sketches paid off.
The two men Henry had hired hadn’t known his name, but they described him perfectly, from his thick-lensed glasses to his receding brown hair to the single mole on his left cheek and his owlish blue eyes. It was Henry Curruthers, without a doubt. And he’d hired those two men, for a mere fifty dollars, to kill his employer before it was discovered that he’d embezzled money from the company.
For fifty dollars. Damian still couldn’t believe that anyone could hold life so cheaply. It had taken one of the detectives to point out that what was a pittance to one man could be a fortune to another.
It was Henry who had insisted on having the murder look like a suicide. He’d even supplied the forged suicide note. He must have counted on Damian’s grief keeping him from going over the books until enough time had passed that the discrepancies in them would be so well hidden that they would never come to light.
Henry Curruthers was the murderer, those two men merely his puppets. And he would have gotten away with it if Damian hadn’t been so dogged in his search for answers. Yet so far, he had gotten away with it. He had disappeared, gone into hiding. It had taken three months to finally track him down in Fort Worth, only to have him disappear again before he could be apprehended.
Damian had become fed up with the waiting, feeling useless while others did the work. He couldn’t stand it that Curruthers was out there somewhere, still enjoying his freedom. He had been spotted in Fort Worth, Texas. Like many other men wanted by the law, he’d gone West, to take advantage of the vastness out there to lose himself. But Damian would find him. He didn’t know the first thing about tracking a man down, yet he would find him. And he had a badge to make it legal when he killed him.
It paid to have powerful friends, and his father had known quite a few. Damian had been able to pull strings to get an appointment as a U.S. deputy, for the sole purpose of dealing with Curruthers. The file he had been given along with the badge was extensive, listing known criminals in Texas and other Western states and territories, as well as their aliases. Curruthers’s name had been added to the list.
“You fellas going to come on in and have some of this coffee, or you just going to lay out there on your bellies till the sun rises?”
Damian’s eyes flew open. Kid wasn’t talking to him, he was sure; in fact, he then heard a chuckle from a distance. He sat up slowly and could vaguely make out the shadows of two men just now standing up, dusting off their clothes, at least twenty feet away.
Damian glanced next at his host to see his reaction to these visitors. Kid was fully dressed, wearing the same clothes as the night before, with a few extra wrinkles from having slept in them. His hat was dangling halfway down his back from a string around his neck, showing that his black hair wasn’t just straggly, it was matted, filthy, actually looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in months—if ever.
He was hunkered down by the fire he’d restarted, seemingly relaxed, though his expression was inscrutable. It was impossible to tell if he was wary of these new visitors, glad to have more company, or indifferent. It gave Damian pause.
And how the devil he’d known that they were out there, Damian couldn’t imagine. The light from the fire barely reached ten feet away, the outer perimeters of the camp in full shadow, the sun still a good thirty minutes from rising. Damian had had to squint just to see the strangers’ shadows, and that with them standing, yet the boy had somehow spotted them with those golden, catlike eyes.
He had to wonder, too, why the two men had been more or less hiding as they watched the camp, particularly after Kid had made such a to-do last night about it being customary to give a camp warning before approaching it. Apparently Damian wasn’t the only ignorant one.
The two men were approaching the fire now. As they became more visible, he noticed the taller man was smiling in a friendly way. The other one was still whacking his crumpled-up hat against his legs and scattering dust. How anyone could treat a hat like that…
The hatless one stopped in his tracks when he noticed Damian. His eyes widened as if he’d seen a ghost, and in fact, he said to his friend, “I thought you said he was dead. He sure don’t look dead to me.”
There was a loud groan from the friend. “You gotta be the biggest-mouthed jackass I ever had the misfortune to ride with, Billybob.”
He’d drawn his weapon as he spoke, pointing it at Damian. Billybob fumbled a bit for his own weapon, but finally got it out and aimed it at Kid, who was slowly standing up, his arms stretched out to his sides to show they’d have no trouble from him. And still without expression. No fear. That alone was beginning to annoy Damian. He was obviously meeting up with the men who’d apparently robbed the stage, yet Kid seemed totally unconcerned.
Billybob merely complained, “You got no call to cuss at me, Vince, when it were your fault he surprised me like he just did. Next time you say a fella’s dead, make sure they’s dead.”
“Shuddup, Billybob. You’re just putting your foot in deeper.”
Billybob actually looked down at the ground to see what he’d put his foot in. His friend, noting where he was looking, rolled his eyes, then nudged the smaller man to remind him where he should be looking, which was at the camp, or rather, at its two occupants. And his smile returned as his eyes lit on Damian.
“Well, now,” he said agreeably. “We might as well get down to business, seeing as how Billybob’s let the cat out of the bag. We already know you ain’t got nothing left of interest, mister, but what about you, kid?”
For a moment, Damian thought they were already acquainted with the boy, calling him kid like that. But then he realized that the word just referred to the boy’s youth. Like he’d said, he was so young, people naturally called him kid for lack of a known name.
“Of interest?” Kid said, appearing thoughtful over the question. “I got hot coffee and a bowl of flapjack dough ready for the skillet, if that’s what you mean.”
That reply produced a chuckle from Vince. “Matter of fact, that does interest me, but you must have something in them pockets as well—”
“Well, there’s this—”
There was no question this time: Kid had drawn that gun with lightning speed, when not a second earlier, his hands had been out at his sides. And he didn’t just draw it, he fired it, whether accurately or not was a matter of intention. If his intention had been to kill Vince, then he was far off the mark. But if he’d meant to disarm him, then he had a damn good aim, because his bullet pinged against Vince’s weapon, causing him to yelp and drop it. Aside from a stinging hand, he appeared unhurt.
But that stinging hand was causing him to cuss and howl a blue streak. His friend was staring at Vince openmouthed and boggle-eyed, which made it quite simple for Kid to saunter over to him and stick the nozzle of his gun in his side.
A dense fellow, Billybob was—fortunately. If he’d been watching Kid as he should have b
een, there would likely have been an exchange of gunfire, and Damian could easily have been shot in the barrage, sitting there between them as he was.
He quickly corrected the sitting part, getting to his feet as soon as his amazement subsided a bit. He still couldn’t quite credit it as he watched Kid take Billybob’s weapon out of his lax hand and pick up the one on the ground. He’d disarmed them both, easily and without bloodshed—and still his face was inscrutable. He looked so indifferent about the whole affair, he could have just come back from relieving himself in the bushes, rather than relieving two stage robbers of their weapons.
He tossed one of the guns back toward Damian; the other he stuck in his belt. He was motioning with the one still in his hand as he said, “Sit down and put your hands behind your head. And don’t give me no trouble. Taking you in dead would be easier, not to mention quicker, than taking you in alive. Now I don’t mind harder, but not when I already got excess baggage, so don’t tempt me on the easy route.”
Damian didn’t hear all of that, at least not about the excess baggage, since Kid had politely lowered his voice before mentioning him. Besides, he was debating whether or not to pick up the weapon that had slid across the ground to end up against his bare foot.
He was not familiar with handguns. In fact, he’d never had occasion to ever hold one before. In New York, they just weren’t useful or necessary. Rifles, on the other hand, he was quite familiar with, from marksmanship competitions in his college days as well as hunting expeditions in the country with his father.
He supposed he couldn’t just leave the gun on the ground, though, not with the two men still relatively free to make an effort to retrieve it, but the lad was addressing that point next, saying over his shoulder, “Find something in that bag of yours, Mr. Rutledge, to tie them up with. An old shirt ought to do nicely, after you rip it up some.”
Damian almost snorted. He didn’t own any old shirts. The very idea—but then he heard Kid add, “You won’t be taking that bag along with you anyways. No room for it with just one horse.”
He was glad, then, that he hadn’t snorted. Damian hadn’t considered how they would be getting to a town from here, but obviously the kid had already figured out the inconvenience of two riding on a single horse, and how little room that would leave for extras.
After rummaging in his bag, Damian came forward with a shirt in one hand, the gun in the other. Kid gave him a long-suffering look, until it finally dawned on Damian that he was to do the ripping and tying himself. Logical, he supposed, since they’d already seen what the boy could do with a weapon and so would be less likely to try anything with him guarding them, whereas Damian would no doubt be as clumsy with his gun as Billybob had been.
Vince got vocal again when the restraints were being put on his friend, demanding belligerently, “And just where do you think you’re taking us, kid?”
“To the Coffeyville sheriff.”
“Now that’d be a pure waste of your time and ours, since we ain’t done nothing wrong.”
“I got an eyewitness here who’ll likely disagree with that.”
“You got nothing, kid. He was out cold.”
“I got your confession, too.”
“What confession?” Vince said, then turned to his friend with a warning look. “Did you confess to something?”
Billybob blushed, but played along. “Now what would I do a fool thing like that for?”
Kid merely shrugged at that point, but then said, “Don’t make no nevermind. A sheriff won’t have too much trouble sorting it out and deciding for himself what you did—or didn’t do. Stage robbery or plain robbery, I’ll warrant he’s got posters on you two stashed somewhere in his office for me to collect on, and if not…well, I’ll just consider this my good deed for the month.”
If Damian had been paying attention, he might have noticed that the robber named Vince panicked at the mention of Wanted posters. He also should have realized that Vince was the more dangerous of the two, and started the binding on him first, rather than on Billybob. But in all fairness, he hadn’t been expecting any more trouble from either of them. So he was taken by surprise again when Vince made a springing dive for Kid’s legs and caught them. They both went down, Kid flat on his back, Vince crawling up his legs to get to the gun. But before they started grappling over the weapon, Damian hauled Vince up and was about to plant a fist in his face when they both heard the trigger hammer click. Both froze.
Vince found his voice first as he glared at Kid, who was already back on his feet and aiming his gun straight at Vince’s head. “You ain’t gonna kill me.”
“I’m not?”
That was all Kid said. It was his expression, or total lack of one, that had Vince backing down with a low grumble. You simply couldn’t tell what the kid was thinking or feeling, couldn’t tell if he was a cold-blooded killer or just a scared young boy who hid his fear remarkably well.
Damian, on the other hand, couldn’t manage to conceal his anger. There had been just one too many surprises for him that morning, not to mention the threat of harm to him and his young savior. He was very strong, and his fist connected with Vince’s nose. Vince didn’t even see it coming, and was out cold before he hit the ground again.
Damian was immediately contrite. He hadn’t resorted to physical violence since he’d been fifteen. That had been when his broken-nose count, on other boys, had reached seven, and he’d received one of the worst blistering lectures his father had ever delivered—about his large size and the unfair advantage he had over other boys his age, who all tended to be much smaller than he was. And his size hadn’t evened out with others when he reached manhood. At six foot three inches, he was still taller and bigger than most men.
Kid eased his guilt by saying, “Nicely done, Mr. Rutledge. Now if you’ll finish up there, I’ll have these flapjacks ready in a few minutes so we can eat and be on our way.”
Just like that, said so calmly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had disturbed the morning. The boy must have nerves of steel, or none at all. But Damian nodded and did as had been suggested.
Chapter 6
Kid had hunkered down by the fire again and was concentrating on dropping some very thin dough into a skillet, flipping it, then sliding it onto the single plate before he repeated the process again. At least Damian assumed he was concentrating on his cooking.
He’d reholstered his gun, but then, it had already been established how fast that could be brought into action if necessary. And those catlike eyes, more golden than brown, which Damian had first thought, seemed to see things that normal eyes didn’t. There was no doubt that this kid was an impressive fellow. Damian was starting to believe Kid had caught five outlaws.
Damian took advantage of Vince’s unconscious state to bind his wrists behind him extra tight. He then left him on his side. The man’s nose was still bleeding and that position at least let it drain. Billybob remained silent, watching Damian warily.
With the robbers immobilized, Damian took a moment to retrieve the coat he’d removed and folded so neatly last night, as well as his shoes. It was when he was about to stick his feet into them that he realized Kid had been unobtrusively keeping his eye on more than his cooking.
He called out, “You really ought to shake those a bit before you put them on. You never know what might consider them a real fine bed for the night.”
Damian, quite naturally, dropped the shoes as if they had snakes coming out of them. Billybob started snickering and got Damian’s first glare. The boy managed to hide his grin before Damian’s eyes swung to him, so all he saw was his usual bland expression. And he simply couldn’t help being hesitant about picking his shoes up again, did so by their very tips, and shook them violently before he brought them to the fire to try and peer inside them as well.
Kid said, “I’d say they’re safe to wear now.”
Damian glanced down at the boy suspiciously. “You weren’t pulling my leg, were you?”
“’
Fraid not. Don’t know if they’ve got scorpions in these parts or not, but in some areas—”
“You needn’t elaborate.”
Damian scowled and stomped off to fetch his bag and a fresh pair of stockings. He hadn’t planned to be walking around the camp this morning in his stocking feet. But then, getting robbed again, or having it attempted, hadn’t been planned for either.
And he soon found that he should have left the dirty socks on. Removing them disturbed several of his blisters to the bleeding point. And getting his shoes back on after that was pure hell.
As he limped back to the fire, he seriously hoped that Kid’s one- or two-day estimate to Coffeyville was closer to the one-day mark. If he never saw another campfire, it would be too soon.
Reaching the fire, he was handed the plate stacked full of flapjacks and a jar of honey with the remark, “My butter went rancid yesterday, so that honey will have to do you. And it kind of spoiled my appetite, having to dish out violence so early in the morn, so you go ahead and finish that, Mr. Rutledge. I’ll gnaw on some jerky later if I need to.”
Damian spared a glance toward Vince and Billybob. “We’re not feeding the other guests?”
“Hell, no. If they had wanted breakfast, they should have kept their guns holstered.”
The disgust in his tone and expression was the first emotion Kid had shown that day. At least he felt something. Just damned sparing of sharing any of his feelings, apparently.
He stood up then, wiping his hands on the seat of his pants, and approached Billybob. “You got horses hidden hereabouts?”
“A ways up the river.”
With a curt nod, Kid headed off in that direction.
Damian turned to keep an eye on the robbers while he ate his breakfast. He didn’t think Billybob would try anything with Vince still unconscious, but he wasn’t going to be surprised again either.
He was thinking about the extra horses and the possibility of being able to keep his traveling bag because of them, rather than leaving it behind, when Kid returned with the two mounts. Both were about the sorriest-looking horses Damian had ever seen: One was limping, the other nearly so. But still, it was a surprise to see the boy head straight for Vince and give a hard kick to his backside. Not that it would hurt all that much, coming from moccasined feet, but...