Билл Пронзини - The Bags of Tricks Affair

The smaller man had climbed onto the platform, was picking up one of the rocket shells. Before he answered he began inserting the missile into the cannon’s muzzle. “Loading the mortar, as you can plainly see.”

“There is time enough for that.”

“I’d rather have done with it now.”

Saxe said to Quincannon, sounding irritated again, “Insolent fellow. I may have to hire a new assistant. Now if you’ll excuse me, sir, there is more work to be done inside. We’ll talk again later, eh?”

“Oh, yes. We’ll have much to say to each other, I’m sure.”

The confidence trickster turned away. Rollins, who had finished loading the mortar, leaned over to take Cora Lee’s hand and help her onto the platform. Then he dropped down beside Quincannon, favored him with a curt head bow, and followed Saxe into the shack. The door shut firmly behind him.

Quincannon retraced his steps past the platform, where Cora Lee was now soaking the tip of a long firebrand in kerosene. Under a locust tree, while he fed tobacco into his briar, he saw Aram Kasabian, Mayor Parnell, and Tom Boxhardt approaching. O. H. Goodland was not with them, nor was he anywhere else in the vicinity.

The three men drew Quincannon aside, out of earshot of the other townsfolk. “We saw you talking to those two,” the banker said, fanning his red face with a pudgy hand, “and wondered why.”

“A testing of the waters, you might say.”

“I’m not sure I—”

“There isn’t a speck of worry in Saxe, though I detected some in Rollins. They know that they have played out their string here and they’re planning to skip town tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure enough.” Quincannon explained to Kasabian and Purcell about the railroad timetable he’d found in Saxe’s room, and his inference that the trio intended to slip out of the hotel after midnight, quickly hitch and load the dougherty wagon, and head for Bainsville.

“We’ll be ready for ’em,” Boxhardt vowed. “How many extra men you figure I ought to deputize, Mr. Quincannon?”

“Your regular deputy ought to be enough.”

“You’ll be there, too?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“We can wait and watch here in the trees.”

“Yes, and I suggest the three of us make our way here one at a time, carefully, between nine and ten to set up our vigil.”

“That’s what we’ll do, then.”

“The only possible fly in the ointment is Mr. Goodland. Where is he now, do any of you know?”

“He was in his room a few minutes ago,” Parnell said. “I stopped by to have a word with him.”

“Sober?”

“More or less, but surly and pacing like a cat. I warned him to stay away from the Cloud Cracker, but it won’t surprise me if he takes it in his head to come out here tonight—”

Boxhardt said thinly, “Already has. Look.”

Quincannon and the other two men turned. O. H. Goodland was striding purposefully toward the shack from the opposite direction. Even at a distance he appeared grim visaged and hard eyed. His hands were empty, but he wore his cowhide coat buttoned at the waist; it was impossible to tell if he was armed or not.

Quincannon growled “Thunderation!” under his breath and then called out Goodland’s name. The wheat farmer took no notice. He was at the shack’s door now, and he beat on it once with a closed fist. It opened immediately. And immediately he pushed his way inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Oh Lord,” Kasabian moaned, “if he’s come here to do something foolish—”

“Good citizens of Delford! Cover your ears and cast your eyes to the heavens! Your parched land will soon be drenched in a life-giving downpour, the time is close at hand now!”

These words came from Cora Lee Johnson atop the platform. They quieted the crowd and brought all eyes her way, momentarily froze Quincannon and the other three men in place. She had put a match to the firebrand, he saw, and now stood with it poised and flaming over the mortar’s fuse vent.

Boxhardt said in an awed voice, “By grab, the woman’s fixin’ to fire that thing all by herself—”

He broke off as Cora Lee lit the fuse, then dropped the firebrand, raised her skirts, and scurried down off the platform in unladylike haste.

In the next instant there was a tremendous concussive whump! The slingshot cannon bucked, the platform shuddered, and the chemical rocket Rollins had inserted earlier hurtled skyward with an earsplitting whistle. After several hundred feet the missile arced, then burst with a flash that unleashed streams of colored smoke.

Quincannon saw this at the edge of his vision; he was moving by then, his attention on the shack’s closed door. It remained closed until he had gained the far end of the platform and then it popped open to reveal Mortimer Rollins. The mustached trickster stepped out, yanked the door shut behind him; when he spied Quincannon’s little group he began gesticulating wildly. His handsome face was a sweat-sheened mask of distress.

“Marshal Boxhardt! Mayor!” he shouted. “Come quickly!” On the last word he spun on his heel, lunged back to the door. By the time Quincannon and the others rushed up behind him, he had the knob in both hands and was rattling it frantically. “Locked — Goodland’s locked it!”

“What the devil happened?” Boxhardt demanded.

“He made threats, drew his pistol and ordered me to leave...” Rollins punished the door again. “Leonide! Are you all right?”

From inside a muffled voice cried in terror, “No, Goodland, no, don’t shoot! Don’t kill me!”

Quincannon and the marshal roughly pushed past Rollins, in close to the door. Several other men, including Kasabian and Parnell, formed a crowded half circle behind them.

Another cry came from within. “Please, spare my life!”

Seconds later there was the report of a pistol.

Quincannon’s reaction was immediate. He hurled his weight against the door, with sufficient force to send it crashing inward. He was off balance as he burst inside; staggered and righted himself just in time to avoid tripping over O. H. Goodland, who was huddled on one knee on the uneven plank floor. Between the wheat farmer and the rainmaking apparatus at the far wall, Leopold Saxe lay supine in a twisted, motionless sprawl. The front of his ruffled shirt was splotched with blood.

Goodland appeared to be hurt; pain contorted his face and his left hand cradled the back of his head. Held limply in his right hand was a Colt New Pocket revolver. Quincannon yanked the weapon free of the farmer’s unresisting grasp.

On one knee beside Saxe, Rollins said heavily, “He’s dead. Shot through the heart.”

The door under the boiler stood open to reveal the pulsing flames within. With the shack’s single window closed and sealed, the heat in the room was stifling. Quincannon breathed shallowly through his mouth as he scanned the dim confines. The only light came from the fire and from a single coal-oil lamp, but his sharp eyes picked out the glint of something on the floor near one of the earthenware crocks. He sidestepped Goodland and the dead man, bent to scoop up the small object — and almost dropped it because it was hot to the touch.

A wailing voice rose from outside: “Let me through, oh please let me through!”

The knot of men clogging the doorway parted to permit Cora Lee Johnson to enter. When she saw Saxe she flung herself down beside him, just as Lily Dumont had beside the corpse of Jack O’Diamonds in Grass Valley; caught up one of his hands and hugged it to her bosom, sobbing.

Quincannon glanced at the object he’d found. It was a spent cartridge shell. He drew out his handkerchief, wrapped the casing in it, held it loosely until it was cool enough to slip into his coat pocket.