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CHAPTER 16

      WATSON SPENT the rest of the day thinking about Nugent's visit. It was dusk when he finally locked up the store and headed over to the Rose.

      The place was busy, but when Gaines saw Watson come in, he grabbed a bottle of good brandy from behind the bar and they went upstairs together. Gaines' quarters took up almost half the space above the saloon. Down a short hall from his door, the rest of the second floor was cut up into four tiny cribs for the whores to use.

      The room they sat in was luxurious with red velvet drapes tied back, white lace curtains and polished mahogany furniture, and a table with an embroidered cloth on it. There was wallpaper on the walls, and a printed color picture of a castle. Gaines lit a lamp and the glass jewels hanging from the edges of the shade caught its light and colored it and sent it flickering across the room.

      They sat before the window where they could see the comings and goings in the road below until it grew too dark. The sky, which had been a sad gray most of the day, had brightened at dusk, and for a few minutes the clouds grew red in long horizontal streamers. Then the darkness came and with it a sudden thick snowfall.

      Watson sipped the brandy from a belled glass, smoked a cigarette. "No chit-chat, old friend. I'll tell you what I really come for. Nugent came over this morning and told me that his pigeon Purdy's a gunman, who was hired to kill him by Weitnaur, Hopper and our pal Amhearst."

      Gaines, who had been thinking about one of the whores, became suddenly alert. "How'd Frank find out?"

      "Purdy tried to make a better deal with him."

      Gaines nodded. "And I'll bet Frank took it. What's he going to do about it — pay Purdy to get those three?"

      "Not exactly. Frank thinks they'll make short work of Purdy now that he's sold them out. So who do you think he wants to have go after them?"

      Gaines swallowed the rest of his brandy and stared glumly out the window. "Now let me guess. He wants you and me to get kilt trying to kill our old pals. Isn't that just like Frank?"

      "Hell, I say we do it," Watson said. "Let's go after them, drill 'em good, and then when we go report to Frank that our job is done, and we'll finish him off too. Remember, the way this thing's set up, the ones that are left get what the others leave behind."

      "Pretty good idea," Gaines said. His big melon head was split by a grin. "Now, how do you propose we go about this enterprise?"

      "Tonight you go up to Hopper's place and kill him. I'll go get Amhearst at the same time."

      Gaines drained his glass and reached for the bottle. "To tell you the truth, I never liked any of 'em anyway."

      Nugent stood in the darkness of his front porch and listened for the sound of snow crunching underfoot or a twig snapping, or a man breathing. The temperature had already dropped below zero, and although he was dressed warmly, the cold seeped into his bones. And now it was snowing again, harder than ever.

      The day had shaped up pretty bad, and it didn't look like it was getting any better. It bothered him that Purdy hadn't waited. He had hoped to use Purdy as a bodyguard until the others had shot it out. Then when Purdy had finished off the survivors, he'd kill him, too — and then just close it down. He'd go get Weitnaur and all the money — not just the money Weitnaur was keeping for him in the trunk, but all of it — and go someplace else to live the life of a real gentlemen, forever after.

      But by now he should have heard something. Hopper and Amhearst should have already come after him, or Watson and Gaines should have killed them and come up to tell him about it.

      As the cold crept up his backbone, he felt another kind of cold. It seemed to him that Watson looked at him oddly before he left. Was it possible that his oldest associate and friend was thinking of disposing of him, too?

      The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that was exactly what he planned to do. The Society of Sidewinders was about sting itself to death.

      The door opened behind him, and he whirled around, his finger on the shotgun's trigger. It was Luna, dressed in a heavy wolf's fur coat. "So here's where you are," she said softly. "You better come inside before you freeze."

      He grunted, pleased that she cared about him.

      "You think they'll come up tonight?"

      "Maybe," he said. He didn't question that she knew what was going on, and the growing certainty that he was everybody's target unnerved him. "I'm going to Che'en Po's place for a little while," he said. "Don't you go getting trigger happy and get me by mistake when I come back."

      He walked down the porch and around back of the house, sliding a little in the snow. Taking the footpath the Chinese cook used, he half-walked and half slid through the trees, the shotgun at the ready. He listened for anyone who might be out there, but his were the only sounds he heard. Finally he smelled woodsmoke and saw the lights from Chen'en's dugout.

      He rapped on the door, which opened about an inch.

      "It's me, dammit. Open up!"

      The door opened wide, but it wasn't Che'en that opened it. It was his wife. Che'en stood in the middle of the room with a rifle leveled at Nugent, but when he saw who it was, he quickly put the gun down. He said something in Chinese to his wife and daughter and they fled into the back room where the family slept, closing the door.

      "Welcome to my house, Mr. Nugent. Would you like some tea?" the Chinese asked in almost unaccented English.

      "Tea would be fine," Nugent said, easing himself onto a stool at the table. The Chinese took pinches of tea and put them in cups and filled the cups with hot water from a kettle on the stove. Then he handed one to Nugent who smelled its aroma and cradled its warmth in his hands.

      "I've always been fair to you, haven't I?" Nugent asked.

      Che'en nodded, his eyes wary.

      "You help me, I help you. Isn't that how it's always been?"

      "Yes, that is so."

      "Some people want to kill me, Che'en." Nugent sighed and shook his head. "My own friends — Amhearst and Hopper and maybe Watson, and most likely Gaines."

      The Chinese shook his head in amazement. "Is that true?"

      "Yes, it is." Nugent wondered how much of Che'en's surprise was real, and decided it didn't matter. "I'm gonna need some help, Che'en. Maybe ten, twelve men I can trust. I thought maybe you could find me some Chinamen."

      "Tong?"

      Nugent thought back about the riots they had in Denver the preceding year, when an angry mob of whites had strung up a Chinese. Then from nowhere had come a group of well-armed Chinese who routed the whites. "Whatever you say, so long as they're good with guns."

      Che'en nodded. "Tong."

      The tea tasted good to Nugent. He respected the Chinese. Their civilization was so old, and they were such damned good laborers on the railroad, and now they were getting into business for themselves, doing the things white men wouldn't do. He had heard that some of them were even doing a little prospecting for gold and had made some claims, although he hadn't yet taken over any himself.

      "It will cost you a lot of money, Mr. Nugent," Che'en Po said at last.

      "You know I'm good for it."

      Che'en nodded. " I will leave for Denver tonight . . . but — they will want to see the money."

      Nugent took out a wallet with his initials on it and counted out six one hundred dollar bills on the table. "This will get you started. Take one of my horses and ride hard."

      Then Nugent drank down the tea without taking the cup from his lips, and set it cup down. He wrapped his heavy coat around himself and went to the door. He looked back at Che'en. "But hurry! If you bring me back good men, there will be an extra hundred in it for you." He closed the door behind him and went back up the path toward the big house, feeling considerably better.

      With a look of excitement — eagerness, Che'en picked up the money. He glanced at the closed door and nodded, and his wife came in silently. Wordlessly, they exchanged a look of understanding, and Che'en strode out into the darkness.

      On the way back to the house, Nugent went into the horsebarn where a lamp burned. Clay was asleep on a pallet of straw. Nugent kicked him and the young man sat up, blinking.

      "Clay, you got your gun?"

      Clay pulled it out from under the heavy blankets and waved it in Nugent's direction.

      "Don't point it at me, Clay," Nugent said gently. "In a few minutes Che'en Po is going to come in here and take one of my horses. Let him have it — I want him to take it somewhere for me. So don't shoot him. Do you understand me?

      Clay nodded.

      "It's all right, understand?"

      "Yes."

      "But if anybody else, especially Mr. Amhearst, or Mr. Hopper, or Mr. Purdy — the man whose horse you moved out back — if any of them comes in here, you shoot them, understand?"

      "Yes," Clay answered.

      Then Nugent went up into the house.

      There was a knock on Amhearst's door. He had been lying in his bed dozing, and he knew the knock meant trouble. He picked up his Colt that was lying on the floor beside him. Then got out of bed, wearing only his winter drawers, and moved quietly across the cold floor to the window. He looked out and saw it was snowing again. A man was standing about ten feet away from the house with what could have been a shotgun pointed at the door. In the darkness he couldn't tell who it was, but Amhearst had a lot of enemies and wasn't one to take chances.

      There was a broom leaning against the wall, so he picked it up and jiggled the lock so the door opened slightly. As it swung inward, there was a roar and bright orange flash, and buckshot ripped through the door, right where Amhearst would have been standing.

      Amhearst didn't move or make a sound. The figure stepped close to the door, pushed it wide, and stepped in, to make sure he hadn't missed.

      "Boo!" Amhearst said, and shot him dead.

      After he lit the lamp, he saw that the man he had killed was Watson. Amhearst looked down at him and said, "Good riddance. I never gave a damn about you anyway."

      Then he put on his boots, got his rifle, and stepped outside and walked around in the snow for a few minutes to see if Watson's buddy, Gaines, was around, ready to take him on now that Watson had failed. The chill was like a knife through his winter underwear and he began shivering. When he went back inside he stayed clear of the window as he got dressed, and rolled a cigarette and sat down to think.

      He wondered whether he should go tell Hopper about the attack. Then he decided that it was probably too late, Gaines was probably already over there. Besides, it didn't matter much to him if Hopper won or lost. He'd get to Hopper later.

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