A Wolf in the Fold

His laugh was more akin to a bark. “I’m glad she failed. Her mistake is my gain. If she had shot you in the head, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

I forked a piece of bacon into my mouth. It was thick with fat and dripping with juice, exactly how I liked it.

“May I ask you a question?” Phil ventured.

Absorbed in the bacon, I grunted.

“How will you do it? Kill her, I mean? Will it be quick and painless or will she suffer? Were it me, I would stake her out like the Comanches do and skin her alive.”

“Your own mother?” I said. And to think, he had the gall to call me coldhearted! Talk about a kettle calling a pot black.

“What difference does that make? You’ve killed women, haven’t you? Mother said you had. That’s why she sought you out in particular. She said that only someone as ruthless as you were reputed to be could kill someone as nice as Hannah Butcher, or as sweet as her daughters, Sissy and Daisy.”

Suddenly I lost my appetite. I considered jamming the fork into one of his eyes but stuck with my original notion.

“I could never murder anyone but my mother,” Phil blathered on. “I hate her that much.”

“I try to keep my personal feelings out of my work,” I said. Although, since the attack on the cabin, that wasn’t true.

“How much longer will you keep at it? Your work, I mean?”

“None of your business,” I growled. I was tired of playacting, tired of toying with him like a cat toyed with a mouse.

Alarm furrowed Phil’s features. “Why are you mad? Is it something I said? If so, I apologize.”

“I don’t know what gave you that idea.” I stood and walked to the stove. The water in the pot was beginning to bubble. Another minute or two and it would be hot enough.

“Good. We should be friends, the two of us. We are partners, after all, in the sense that we are plotting a crime together.”

I touched the pot handles. They were wood, not metal, and posed no problem.

Phil did not know when to shut up. “I wish I could see her face when you do it. Would you let me? I would be willing to pay extra for the privilege. A hundred dollars, just to see her face. No! Make it a thousand!” He laughed viciously. “Won’t she be surprised? I daresay it will be the shock of her life.”

“Death usually is,” I said. The water was boiling nicely.

“What an exciting life you must live. Vastly more exciting than being a nursemaid to a bunch of cows.”

“It has been kind of exciting around here of late,” I mentioned as I lifted the pot a few inches.

“Hasn’t it, though? It will almost be a shame to have everything back to normal. Maybe then those Texas Rangers will stop snooping around. They worry me. Do they worry you?”

I walked toward the table holding the pot in front of me. Some sloshed over the rim and nearly splashed my hand.

“What are you doing? I thought you wanted soup.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” I set the pot on the floor near his chair. Placing my hands on my hips, I bent down to give the impression I was peering into the water.

“What in the world are you doing?” Phil leaned toward the pot. “What do you see in there?”

“Boiled Tanner,” I said. In a twinkling I had the Remington out and struck him over the head. He crumpled, but I caught him before he fell flat. He was dazed but not out. Sliding a leg under his chest to hold him steady, I shoved the Remington into my holster to free both hands. Then I moved behind him, let him slump to his knees, gripped both his wrists, and bent his arms as far back as they would go.

The pain revived him. “That hurts!” he shrieked. “What are you doing? We had an arrangement.”

I started to force his face toward the pot.

“Wait! No! You can’t!” Phil struggled, but I had a knee between his shoulder blades, and the leverage. “What about the money? Kill me and you won’t get it!”

“You offered me a thousand to watch your mother die,” I said. “I’m giving up a lot of money to see you do the same.”

Phil bucked and twisted but could not break my grip. “Why?” he wailed. “In God’s name, tell me why!”

I told the truth for once. “This is for Daisy.”

His screams filled the kitchen. They filled the house. They went on for a long, long time.

Chapter 22

At three in the morning Whiskey Flats was a cemetery. Only a few windows glowed and they were in houses at the outskirts. The saloon, the stores, the livery, the restaurant had all long since closed.

I came in from the north, riding the mare and leading Brisco. I had switched back and forth to keep them fresh.

The hunted had become the hunter. I was searching for the Texas Rangers. They were a thorn that needed clipping. Worse, they were bound to try harder to find me once news of Phil Tanner’s fate reached town.