Only after lowering the glasses did he reach into his pocket for a cigar. Striking a Lucifer, he lit the stogie, puffed, and studied them across the hundred yards separating them.
His voice carried on the still air: “Why don’t you all ride in? Keep your hands on your weapons if you’d like. While you might be tempted to shoot me and take what you’re owed, it would preclude further, and potentially more lucrative, opportunities.”
“He saying what I think he is?” Danny asked.
“Yep.” Billy urged Locomotive forward, crossing the intervening distance before shoving the Sharps back into its scabbard. He did, however, keep the horse between him and the man as he dismounted and tied off the reins on the porch support.
The man with the cigar stepped forward, offering his hand. “George Nichols. You must be the one calling himself the Meadowlark.”
“Reckon so. And it don’t need go no further than that.”
“On that we are agreed.” He glanced at Danny. “Actually, Mr. Goodman, my expectations are exceeded. I’ve been appraised by my agents in the sheriff’s office that they haven’t a clue as to the reason behind Barney Jessup’s unfortunate demise. Remarkable as it may seem, they are even considering an act of suicide as the most likely explanation of Barney’s exuvitated existence.”
“Says the sheriff leans toward the idea that Jessup killed hisself,” Billy translated.
The man who called himself Nichols fastened his thoughtful night-brown eyes on Billy’s. “That was your idea?”
“Killin’s easy, Mr. Nichols. It’s just hunting men, after all. But if’n they’s kilt crude, sooner or later, someone’s gonna come a-hunting you. Leave ’em a different way to think? Maybe accident? Maybe a fire? Or like here, suicide? Then it ain’t vendetta.”
“And where’d you learn that?”
Billy chewed his lip, squinted up at Nichols, and said, “Some of the men what kilt my maw and raped my sister. Said they’d have been smarter to have left Maw and Sis burned in the house. If’n I’d a come home and found both dead and burned in the house like a couple of them coyotes suggested, I wouldn’t have hunted them bastards down and kilt every one of ’em. Smart killers cover their tracks.”
Nichols seemed to come to a decision. “Come on inside. We need to pursue this conversation over a bottle of whiskey and a plate of Maria Luisa’s chili and beans. Hope you like peppers.”
With a sidelong glance at Danny, Billy led the way, stopping at the door. Hand on his pistol he took in the little room with its kiva fireplace, single table, bed, and trastero.
He took a seat, back to the wall, as Nichols dished out steaming red chili from a pot perched near the fire. Only when he’d dished for them all, did he sit.
“Now, here’s the thing,” he began, filling his spoon. “The job was remarkably handled.” He tested the chili by sipping loudly. Chewing, he waggled the spoon at Danny. “The approach, however, is not your forte, Mr. Goodman.”
“My what?”
“Your strong point,” Billy muttered. “You want to make a point here, Mr. Nichols?”
“Danny Goodman can no more sell himself as a front man for mining investments than I can pass myself off as a tinware drummer.” The spoon waggled again. “The approach was so clumsy I figured the two of you would be caught, strung up, and hung for murder before Jessup’s body was cold.”
“Why are we having this palaver?” Danny demanded hotly.
Billy reached out, grabbing Danny’s arm as he stood to leave. Tightening a viselike grip, he dragged Danny back down to his seat. “I suspect we’re having it ’cause Mr. Nichols, here, is right.”
“But I—”
“Shut your hole, Danny.” He turned to Nichols. “Go on.”
Nichols fixed on Goodman. “Do not take this as offensive. Your idea was correct, your thinking sound. A professional front is indeed necessary as a means of deflecting suspicion. Your vulnerability is that despite your intentions, your proclivities present you as what you are: an Arkansas hick with no formal training in mining or geology.”
Danny roared, “Now, just a damn—”
Billy put all of his strength into his grip, seeing Danny wince.
“We had us a front man,” Billy said softly. “Turns out he took the money, then he gave the law all the particulars on us so’s he could fetch the reward, too. We didn’t take well to the betrayal.”
Nichols’s lips quirked as he shoveled another spoonful of chili into his mouth. He seemed to savor the taste, then added, “Gamblers have a proper term for your late and lamented front man’s game. They call it penny ante.” He reached into his coat pocket, removed an envelope, and laid it before Billy.
Gesturing for Danny not to move, Billy pulled it over, opened it, and quickly counted, only to hand the envelope to Danny and say, “We took the job for fifty. There’s a thousand dollars in there.”
“Tell me a cardinal don’t shit,” Danny said in awe after he’d counted.
Nichols calmly continued eating his chili. “If I ever start offering you fifty-dollar jobs, it’s because you’re no longer working like the kind of professionals the Jessup job seemed to indicate. While I am not at liberty to impart particulars, I would like to employ your services again in the near future. As long as the work continues to be performed satisfactorily, we shall continue to maintain our relationship.”
“Sounds good to us,” Billy agreed. “But I reckon we need some things made clear.”
“Indeed we do, Mr. Meadowlark.” Nichols wiped his lips with a handkerchief. “Here are the ground rules: you never refer to yourself as the Meadowlark on a job, but leave a feather behind. You work for no one but me. No freelancing for penny-ante killings to make pocket change. You go where I send you, take your time, and kill the target in the most nonconfrontational manner. And, unlike tonight’s
