The rye—or whatever it was—warmed his belly, reminding him he ought to think about eating. His last meal had been beans and sowbelly at a roadhouse in Golden Gulch that morning.
The time passed slowly, Billy sitting in the back, nursing his drink, his coat thrown wide. He’d eased the thong off the Remington’s hammer, just in case George had either caught a whiff of why Billy’d come, or even had a change of heart about their relationship.
It must have been a little before two when the back door opened and George Nichols slipped in wearing a slouch hat and an oiled canvas slicker. To look at him, he might not have been anything but a local miner. Unless one noticed his polished boots.
“How do, George?” Billy asked, his right hand easing the Remington out beneath the table.
“Mr. Hancock,” George said, tipping the brim of his hat with a lazy finger. He walked to the bar, calling, “Whiskey, Mooney.”
Mooney poured and asked, “You know a Win Parmelee, Mr. Nichols?”
“Not to my knowledge. Should I?”
“He’s asking around about that gambler friend of yours as runs the games up at Aggie’s. Just an impression, mind you, but you might want to keep an eye on Parmelee. To my reckoning, he’s trouble.”
“I’ll have some of my people ask around, Mooney. Thanks.”
“We’ll give you your privacy, Mr. Nichols.” Mooney told the others, “You boys, let’s go down here by the front door so’s we don’t bother Mr. Nichols.”
Cup in hand, George walked back, pulled out the opposite chair, and seated himself. He sipped at the drink, made a face, and said softly, “So, what brings you here, Billy?”
Billy eased the pistol back into its holster, then reached for his coat pocket. He slipped a piece of paper across the table. “Ripped that out of the Rocky Mountain News. As you might imagine, having just traveled down from South Pass City, Danny and I were somewhat out of sorts to read this.”
Nichols pulled the torn sheaf of newsprint his way, glanced at it, and nodded, not even bothering to read it.
Barely above a whisper, Billy told him, “Headline says, ‘South Pass City Speculator Murdered.’ Then it goes on to say that Harold Jones was gunned down outside Atlantic City by an unknown party. Local sources suspect the paid assassin known as the ‘Meadowlark.’”
“It does indeed say that.”
“Why’d you tell them about me, George?”
Nichols made sure the barkeep and his clients were out of hearing. Voice low, he asked, “You left the feather, didn’t you?”
“Sure. But someone had to give them the name.”
“Billy, there’s times that a threat has no value unless it has a name. A dangerous name. Time’s come for the Meadowlark to gain a little notoriety. Sometimes, just leveling the threat is as powerful as the killing itself.”
Billy felt his heart slow, the deadly hollow emptying his gut. His fingers danced lightly on the Remington’s grip. “You start advertising my killings, they’re gonna start putting the facts together. Lookin’ to see who’s profited by the killin’ … and it’s gonna lead right to you. The Meadowlark’s a tool, just like a single jack, and you’re the one a-swinging it.”
“Way ahead of you, Billy.” George leaned back, tilting his head so he could peer out from beneath the low brim. “Got Meadowlark stories planted in California, Nevada, and Arizona. Places you’ve never been. Unsolved murders of prominent folks whose holdings I never had anything to do with. So, who’s behind the Meadowlark? Some interest from the Comstock? Or Sacramento? You lay false trails to cover your tracks, just like I do mine.”
“Wish you’d talked to me first.”
“I would have loved to, had I known where you might have been on any given day or even in which territory.” Nichols chuckled. “If anything, speculation about the Meadowlark will work to your advantage. Facile minds will soon attribute any unsolved murder to his name.”
“What’s facile?”
“Easy and simple. Even the garroting of a drunk in an alley in Cheyenne or Salt Lake will be blamed on the mysterious Meadowlark. People will latch onto it like wildfire; it will bring notoriety to their otherwise squalid little communities.”
Billy took a deep breath and another sip of the whiskey. The thing about having money was that a person got used to good stuff. This was real piss in a cup.
“Other than discovering that nice new feather in your cap, if I may make a pun,” Nichols asked, “how are you and Danny doing?”
“Got no complaints. It’s been like you said, George. We get back to Denver, or wire a transfer, and the money’s always been there. Sometimes it don’t make no sense why we’re killin’ someone, but we assume you got yer reasons.”
“Oh, yes.” George leaned forward. “You or Danny ever decide you want to quit? Want to go back to being plain old Billy Hancock? I’ve got a separate account set aside for you. Enough you can buy a nice farm in Arkansas, New Mexico, or California. Hell, go back East if you want and be a high roller.”
“Why would you do that?”
George studied him thoughtfully. “You’re not a stupid man, Billy. Neither am I. I’d be willing to bet you were ready to shoot me when I walked in here, which is why you didn’t stand up and offer to shake hands. No, you had your pistol hid out under the table in case it was a double-cross.”
“Maybe.”
“So we’re sort of like the scorpion and the tarantula dancing around each other. Both deadly. And how do we keep from killing each other? The best way is to be honest and fair. Do you know how much faith I put in the virtue of loyalty?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“Loyalty for loyalty’s sake isn’t worth spit in the street.” Nichols raised a cautionary finger. “But financial interest? That’s where the daisies flourish. Each time you’ve removed an obstacle, I’ve made a pile of
