Maggie O'Bannen 1 Page 6

  His gaze dropped to the knife. Hers followed. She was holding it in a white-knuckle grip, wielding it like a weapon she intended to use. Shocked and ashamed, she slid it back into the top of her boot.

  ‘Thanks for the advice, Doc. I’ll leave at first light.’ She struggled to control the quiver in her voice. ‘You—neither of you will need to worry about me again.’

  ‘Good lord, woman, that’s not what I was saying,’ Doc said, with characteristic exasperation.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Doc.’ She felt oddly calm. ‘I learned to live with Mad Dog Frank O’Bannen. How hard could it be to return to the bosom of my loving family?’

  Thirteen

  Braddock and Harris didn’t go far. Once clear of the main part of the town, they sought refuge in an abandoned hut with mud walls. A single room remained inside, its roof sunken in one corner but somehow managing to keep the elements at bay. Several rats scurried out when the two men entered.

  ‘Stinks,’ Braddock remarked, ‘but it’ll do for a few hours.’

  Milt built a small fire in the corner and placed a dented and blackened coffee pot in the flames while his partner poked around in the rubbish. Braddock hated rats. As a child his mother had punished him by shutting him under the floor in the kitchen. The memory of rats crawling over his face and genitals still made him shiver.

  When he was sure none of the rodents remained, he sat down close to the fire, his .45 resting across his thigh. Milt handed him a mug and poured hot coffee in to it.

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’ Milt asked, dropping down cross-legged beside him. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t forget that face. It was the Simpkins kid, older of course, but it was him sure as I live and breathe. I would have put a bullet in his head if my horse hadn’t pulled to one side.’

  Milt winced as he sipped the strong brew. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t the blonde with him that spoiled your aim?’

  Braddock grinned. After twenty years as partners, Milt knew him too well. He was certainly the only man who could speak to him like that and get away with it.

  ‘Maybe,’ he conceded, digging in his saddlebags. ‘Then again, I’ve waited a long time to catch up with that lanky piece of shit. Let’s call the woman interest earned.’

  They laughed.

  ‘Did you take any money out of these bags?’ Braddock asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well, I’d say we’ve been robbed then. It feels light by about three maybe four-hundred dollars.’

  ‘What?’ Milt almost spilled his coffee. ‘Let me see.’

  Braddock grinned at his friend’s reaction. Most times you’d have to shake Milt to check he was awake but not now. Not where money was at stake. He grabbed the saddlebags from Braddock and dug inside, pulled out the notes and quickly thumbed through them.

  ‘Son-of-a-bitch. Who the hell do you think took that?’

  ‘My bet would be that sly little red head. I thought she was a bit quiet while I was playing with her friend. Thieving little bitch.’

  ‘So, when are we going to settle the score?’ Milt asked.

  Braddock shrugged. The money didn’t bother him the way it did Milt. There was always money to be had and the girl wasn’t likely to be going anywhere. He yawned. After the euphoria faded, carving on a woman always made him sleepy. He shuffled backwards until his shoulders touched the wall.

  ‘Wake me in a couple of hours. I want to be fresh when I cut out John Simpkins heart.’

  ~*~

  As the first grey light of dawn appeared over the hills, Braddock and Harris tied their horses behind the saloon and climbed the outside stairs up to the first floor. Milt led the way, pressing his ear to each of the doors along the hallway. Halfway along, he nodded to his partner. Braddock didn’t doubt his friend’s sixth sense. He stepped forward and turned the knob without hesitation. It opened with a click. They waited but nothing stirred.

  The red head was alone, sprawled across the bed with the blankets wrapped around her naked limbs. Even when a board squeaked under Braddock’s foot, she didn’t wake. He was on top of her, one big hand pressed over her mouth, the other around her throat before she realized.

  Her eyes opened wide, but she didn’t move.

  ‘You took something that belongs to me, didn’t you?’ he whispered.

  She managed to nod.

  ‘Where is it?’

  She tried to speak. He released his hand just enough to make out her words.

  ‘Bart’s got it.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In his office downstairs, behind the bar.’

  Braddock tightened his grip on her throat and pulled his hand away from her mouth.

  ‘You take care of him, Milt. I’ll be along directly.’

  Milt rolled his eyes and ducked out.

  The red head clawed at Braddock’s hand as she struggled for breath. He reached inside his pants and grabbed his manhood in a firm grip. In the emerging light of dawn, he watched as her eyes started to bulge from their sockets. He pressed harder feeling his excitement build as beneath his fingers he felt the delicate bones of her neck breaking under the pressure. At last, she stopped struggling, her eyes turning glassy, her tongue lolling in a slack mouth. He thrust her aside, grabbed the blanket and rolled over next to her, breathing hard as he climaxed.

  Quickly, he cleaned himself up then threw the soiled blanket over her ugly face. As he got up to leave, he noticed the triangle of hair between her legs and cussed.

  ‘You should have told me you were a natural blonde,’ he said sounding almost regretful. ‘I might have gone easier on you. Then again …’

  ~*~

  Downstairs, the office door was open and Braddock could see Bart Weston backed up against the paper-strewn desk. His knuckles shone white where he gripped the battered edge and his sweaty skin matched the sheen of his hair.

  ‘Need any help, Milt?’ Braddock asked conversationally as he leaned against the doorjamb.

  ‘No.’ Milt held up a wad of money. ‘It turns out Mr. Weston was just looking after our money for us. He handed it over with interest added.’

  Bart cleared his throat. ‘I don’t want any more trouble. Just take the money and go.’

  Braddock stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Did you ask him about the doc yet?’

  ‘Th-the doc?’ Bart stammered. ‘What’s he got to do with anything?’

  Milt stepped in and rammed the muzzle of his .45 up under Bart’s chin. ‘Tell us his name.’

  ‘John Simpkins.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘In his thirties, I guess.’

  ‘Do you know where he hails from?’ Braddock chipped in.

  Bart shook his head. ‘He never talks about himself, not to me at any rate. He just showed up one day and set up shop. Sue-Anne might—’ He bit into his lip as he realized his error.

  ‘Is she still alive?’ Braddock asked.

  ‘N-no.’ Bart seemed to straighten, to gain fortitude. ‘You should leave. Folks are pretty riled up about what you did. If they find you here they’re likely to lynch you.’

  With only one thing on his mind, the warning hardly registered with Braddock. ‘The doc, does he live alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who’s the girl I saw with him?’

  Bart took a moment to think. ‘I don’t know. I never saw her before today but she’s crazy, I know that much.’

  ‘How so?’

  Bart’s next words came quick and tight, as though it pained him to speak them. ‘She pulled a knife on me. I thought she was going to kill me.’

  Braddock drew his big Bowie. Lamplight glinted off the honed blade. ‘A knife like this?’ he asked, stepping in close and forcing Milt to relinquish his position.

  Bart almost climbed on the desk and might have done if Braddock’s boot hadn’t come down hard on his bare toes, pinning him to the spot.

  His voice sounded weak and thin when he spoke. ‘Small,’ he said. ‘
Like you’d carry in your boot maybe.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Braddock mused. ‘Did you catch her name?’

  ‘Maggie. I think he called her Maggie.’

  Braddock used the knife to scratch the stubble on his chin as he tried to recall if Walt had mentioned Frank’s wife by name. He remembered him calling her slut and whore but nothing more. Maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t. Women’s names never really interested Braddock.

  He spoke to Milt without taking his eyes away from Bart. ‘Do you remember if Walt said what Frank’s wife was called?’

  ‘Pretty sure that was it,’ Milt confirmed.

  Braddock shifted the knife to Bart’s cheek, running the tip down from his eye to his mouth. It left a pink mark on the pallid skin without drawing blood.

  ‘Is she a blonde?’

  Bart nodded, eyes like saucers as he watched the blade twist and turn. Sweat trickled from his forehead and ran in rivulets down his face. His eyelashes fluttered as Braddock caught a droplet on the tip of the knife. Suddenly, the big man stepped back, the movement almost carrying Bart with him as the smaller man lost his support.

  Braddock enjoyed the look of panic as the barkeep saw the knife draw back, but there was nothing his victim could do about it. Braddock shoved the knife into his gut, hard and fast, slicing through skin and muscle with ease. He twisted it once and Bart convulsed against him. He pushed him away, pulling the knife clear and wiping it on the dying man’s grubby white shirt.

  Behind him Milt was heading for the door. ‘Jesu—’

  He never finished his oath. A shotgun blast sounded like a canon and Milt’s head exploded, blood and pulp showering his partner. Braddock felt the bite of buckshot tear in to his cheek and ear. He grabbed the corpse before it fell, ducking behind it, using it as a shield against a second blast.

  ‘Murdering son-of-a-bitch,’ the shooter shouted. ‘This is for Sue-Anne.’

  Braddock felt the sting of shot from the second blast in his arm and shoulder but, even in death, Milt protected him from serious injury. He threw the mangled body aside and drew his .45, thumbing back the hammer as it came up from its holster. He moved and fired in a single action and the man in the long nightshirt and bed cap folded to his knees and fell face down with a thud.

  Above him he heard running footsteps and men’s voices growing louder as they spilled from their rooms. He guessed there were two of them, putting the odds in his favor unless one of them had another shotgun. Twice in this little town he had found himself staring down twin barrels. He was superstitious enough to believe that a third time he might not be so lucky.

  He watched the men appear on the stairs but he couldn’t see what they were carrying. After a glance in Milt’s direction, he threw himself against the window, crashing in to the alley in a spray of glass and splintered wood. He landed hard on his shoulder, felt it give under the impact, and cussed.

  He heard shouting, belligerent voices reaching him clearly from the office. He fired a couple of quick shots through the smashed window and ran to the back of the saloon. One-handed, he managed to haul himself on to his horse. Barely in the saddle, he gave the animal a vicious kick, sheer force of will keeping him on its back as it broke into a panicked gallop.

  ‘You’ll pay for this, you bastards,’ he promised as he cleared the town limits and headed for the hills.

  Fourteen

  It seemed as though Maggie had barely closed her eyes before Rick was whispering her name and shaking her awake. Coming out of a nightmare where Walt was holding her down, she tried to fight him off.

  ‘It’s me, Rick,’ he said, holding up his arms to fend off her attack.

  She regained her wits in an instant. Without him saying another word, she knew there was something wrong from the worry etched into the taut lines of his face.

  He didn’t leave her guessing. ‘Braddock and Harris snuck back in to town before dawn. Flo’s dead. One of the locals caught a bullet. Bart Weston’s in a bad way. Doc’s gone over to the saloon to see what he can do.’

  She gripped his arm as he tried to walk away. ‘Where are Braddock and Harris now?’

  ‘One’s dead. One got away.’

  She noticed he had strapped on his gun. ‘Are we going over there?’

  Rick nodded and pressed something cold and hard in to her hand. It was Frank’s Schofield.

  ‘I loaded an extra round under the hammer,’ he said. ‘Don’t be afraid to use it, if you need to.’

  She shoved it in her pocket and followed him.

  The street outside the saloon was alive with activity. Men stood talking in small groups, some gesticulating wildly, others glancing furtively along the street. She noticed a couple of women, standing in a doorway. Their pale faces stared back at her with reddened eyes.

  Doc didn’t look up when Maggie and Rick crowded in to Bart Weston’s office. Maggie knew just by looking at Bart’s bleeding torso, the pool of blood spreading around him like a cape, that there was no hope. Kneeling on the floor beside the barkeep, his black bag unopened beside him, Doc had his ear pressed close to the dying man’s mouth, listening as he breathed his last words.

  Maggie’s gaze shied away out of respect, her eyes drawn to the gory mess splattered around the walls and over the furniture. On the floor, she noticed a long red stain like something had been dragged. She followed it with her eyes, out into the barroom to a man’s boots poking out from beneath a grey blanket that covered the profile of a body. Beside it, she noticed another.

  A sudden gust blew in through the busted window where already a man was hammering planks over the gaping hole.

  She shivered. ‘Why didn’t he just give them the money and send them on their way?’ she mumbled.

  Doc got to his feet, his expression pinched as he turned to face them. ‘It seems he tried to but that’s not all Braddock and Harris wanted.’

  He pushed past them and went to the bar where he set up three glasses and filled each with a full measure of whiskey. He pushed one toward Rick, the other toward Maggie then drank his own down in a single gulp.

  ‘Medicinal,’ he said.

  ‘What else did they want?’ Rick asked.

  ‘They asked a lot of questions about me.’ Doc hovered the neck of the bottle over his glass for a moment then set it aside without pouring another drink. ‘And about you, Maggie.’

  There was inevitability about it, but it still tied her stomach in a tight knot. She leaned against the bar for support, gripping its edge with her one good hand.

  ‘The good news is that Milt Harris is dead and Charlie Baker is fairly certain Braddock’s injured,’ Doc said too loudly and with too much gusto. ‘He won’t get far.’

  ‘What do you mean, he won’t get far?’ Maggie asked. ‘Was it a mortal wound?’

  ‘Sadly not. A few of the men are mounting a posse and going after him.’

  Rick had been fiddling with his glass but now he pushed it away, spilling its contents across the scarred oak top.

  ‘I’ll go with them. Even if he’s wounded, they’ll need all the men they can get against a maniac like Braddock.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ Doc advised. ‘You’re injured yourself.’

  ‘Noted, Doc, but I’m going.’ Rick’s eyes glassed over. ‘After what he did to Sue-Anne ...’

  The three of them stood in silence for a few seconds as they each grappled with their own thoughts.

  ‘You’re right,’ Doc conceded, picking up Rick’s glass and draining the contents. ‘A man like that needs to be stopped but, even wounded, he’s likely to be trouble.’

  ‘Are you coming along then, Doc?’ Rick asked.

  With a heavy scowl, Doc nodded.

  Maggie stared at each of them in turn. It was hard to believe that in the space of a day, two men who had been ready to run were now preparing to ride out and meet trouble head on. It made her proud. It also scared the hell out of her.

  ‘What if he makes it back to town?’ she asked.

  T
he two men exchanged nervous glances.

  ‘Then he’ll have Maggie O’Bannen to deal with.’ Rick winked at Doc. ‘And God help him.’

  Fifteen

  Peering through a narrow gap between door and frame, the old woman shook her head vigorously. ‘No, sir, we haven’t seen anybody pass this way since yesterday.’

  ‘Well, Martha, keep your doors locked. Braddock is a cold-blooded murderer.’ The small grey-haired man in the derby hat and town suit twisted in the saddle and looked around the yard where not a living thing stirred, not even hungry chickens. ‘Where’s your boy at?’

  She seemed to flinch at the question. ‘Leo? H-he rode over to … er … Flitwick this morning,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect him back un-until tomorrow.’

  Floyd’s gaze wandered toward the corral where a sandy colored mare stood placidly looking over the rail.

  ‘How’s he getting there?’ he asked.

  Martha’s eyes widened, her mouth moving a couple of times before any words came out. ‘Jud Parsons stopped by with his wagon. He went with him. Now, I’ve answered your questions, I think you should leave and let me get on with my chores.’

  Floyd felt uneasy but Martha often had that effect on people. A virtual recluse since her husband had died, she was notoriously inhospitable to neighbors and, whilst her behavior might have seemed unusual in anyone else, Floyd couldn’t find a reason to delay the posse any longer.

  ‘I’ll leave one of the men here with you, what with you being alone and so far out of town.’ Floyd neck-reined his horse and held up his hand, ready to summon one of the waiting posse members forward.

  ‘No!’ Martha snapped. ‘I’ll be fine, Floyd. I’ve got Bart’s old shotgun. If that Braddock feller comes within ten paces of this place I’ll let him have both barrels.’

  Floyd smiled and signaled anyway. ‘I’m sure you will, Martha, but—’

  ‘No buts, Floyd,’ she snapped. ‘If he’s as dangerous as you say then you’ll need every man you’ve got with you. Besides, you said it looked like he had already been this way and ridden on. With you on his trail, he’s not likely to come back.’ Her loose grey hair fell across her face as she shook her head. ‘No, you go on now. I’ve got chores need doing. I’ll be fine. Good luck to you.’