A Wolf in the Fold

Some of the gore caught Festus Blish in the face and Festus instinctively jerked away. It slowed his draw. My Remington cleared leather before his revolver. I shot him in the chest and he started to melt, but I was already spinning toward the last rustler.

Pettigrew was on his feet. He favored a cross-draw and he was pretty slick at it, too, but in his haste he snagged his long-barreled Whitney on the table. I shot him between the eyes, then crouched to finish off those that needed finishing, but they were all down and would stay down this side of evermore.

Folks say I’m a cold-blooded cuss, but with all the body parts and brains and whatnot lying about, I needed a drink as much as the next man. I leaned against the jamb, took out my flask, and treated myself to a healthy swig. The coffin varnish burned clear down to my toes.

I smacked my lips in satisfaction at a job well done. Of course, it doesn’t do to put the cart before the horse, and I had a lot of work left to do before I could collect. There’s another gent in the same business who likes to put rocks under the heads of those he kills, but me, I take their ears. That way I’ve got proof, yet I don’t have to tote the bodies all over creation. I shucked my boot knife and set to work, and soon my pouch bulged with eight ears.

I didn’t bury the deceased. Hell, why should I? It wasn’t likely anyone would pay their shack a visit before all the flesh rotted from their bones, so I let them be. That, and I’m as lazy as the next man.

Brisco was where I had left him. The roan knew better than to run off. The last time he pulled that stunt, I staked him out under the hot sun for three days without water. Nothing like a powerful thirst to teach a horse to mind its betters.

I headed for the Tyler spread. I admit I was feeling pretty good. Soon my nest egg would grow. But once again I was mixing my carts and my horses. Until you have the money in hand, never spend it in your head.

Judging by the North Star, midnight came and went by the time I drew rein in front of the main house. I was bone tired after a week on the stalk, so I wasn’t as alert as I should be. Which explains why the click of the hammer took me unawares. Naturally, I hiked my hands and said, “Hold on, hoss. Your boss is expecting me.”

I reckoned it was one of the hands. But no, it was the big sugar himself, Bryce Tyler, who strode out of the shadows into the moonlight, a level Winchester at his hip. “Am I, now?” he said with a grin.

I relaxed and started to lower my hands.

“Keep reaching for the sky,” Tyler said.

“What is this?” I was mighty confused.

“Is it done?”

“Of course it’s done,” I snapped, annoyed by his treatment. “And I’m here to collect the rest of my fee.”

“Five hundred in advance and five hundred after,” Tyler quoted our agreement, his bald pate bobbing. “Did you bring them?”

I started to reach under my vest for the pouch but thought better of the notion. “The ears? Yes.”

“Are you sure you’re not part Apache?”

“Whatever gave you that notion?”

“How else can you do the things you do? What does this make? Twenty-nine? And you without ever so much as a scratch.”

I couldn’t decide if he was serious or poking fun.

“Then there’s this business with the ears. What kind of depraved human being mutilates folks like that? What sort of man are you, Lucius Stark? How is it you’re so fond of killing?”

Forgetting myself, I shrugged. “It’s a job. I do what I have to. Now, suppose I give you the ears and you give me the rest of the money I’m due, and we part company and go our separate ways?”

That was how it should be. When we first met, we shook hands, sealing our word. Nine times out of ten those who hire me prove trustworthy. But there is always that tenth time, that tenth hombre, who thinks that giving his word to a Regulator is not really giving his word at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tyler said.

I swore.

“Now, now. Let’s keep a civil tongue. Five hundred is more than enough for four measly rustlers.”

“We agreed to a thousand.”

“Yes, we did, but that was before I sat down and talked it over with my wife.”

There it was. He had come right out and admitted it. “We also agreed no one else was to know you hired me. It was one of the conditions I set. Remember?”

Tyler took another step, the Winchester’s muzzle pointed at my head. “Conditions change. I didn’t feel right not telling her. She has as much of a stake in this ranch as I do.”

“You gave your word,” I reminded him. I always reminded them. Not that it ever did any good.

“Don’t lecture me, assassin,” Tyler spat. “Just take the five hundred and go. Take the ears, too, because I sure as hell don’t want them.”

By then I was good and mad. If there is anything I hate worse than a no-account who goes back on his word, I have yet to come across it. “What about your missus?”

The question caused him to blink. “What about her?”