Clive Cussler - The Assassin

“A wildcat,” said Bell, showing it to Hatfield. A standard factory-made Savage .303 brass case had been reshaped to accommodate customized powder and bullet loads for greater range and impact.

“Man’s loading his own,” said Hatfield.

“I’d expect that for his accuracy,” said Bell. A great marksman, which the assassin surely was, would use the so-called wildcat in conjunction with a finely machined chamber and a custom-made barrel. “But I’m surprised he didn’t scoop it up before he ran. It’s a heck of a telltale.”

“Maybe he knew he missed,” said Hatfield. “Got rattled.”

“Maybe… Odd, though. The .303 is made for the Savage 99.”

“Fine weapon. Though a mite light.”

“I wonder why he uses such a light gun. That 1903 Springfield would be more accurate.”

“But heavier.”

“His kill in Kansas was nearly seven hundred yards.”

“A man looks like a flyspeck at that range.”

“That’s why I assumed a Springfield.”

“Do you suppose he’s a little feller?” Hatfield wondered.

“Too small to hold a more accurate heavy gun? Might explain why he has to improve the Savage cartridge. Probably smithed his rifle to a farewell, too.” Bell pocketed the cartridge. “O.K. Let’s see where he went.”

Hatfield had been raised by Comanche Indians and was an expert tracker. Prowling the tar roof, he spotted a minute imprint of the corner of a bootheel, and found it repeated several yards into an alley. Step-by-step, mark by barely decipherable mark, in crusted mud, oil-soaked earth, and dried manure, they followed the sniper’s escape route down alleys and over a railroad track and into a stable’s corral, where they lost the trail in hoofprints.

“Mounted up here and rode off.”

The stable hands were vaqueros too old and lame to quit their jobs to get rich in the oil fields. Walt Hatfield addressed them in Spanish and translated for Bell. Two men had left quickly on horses they had boarded in the stable and had ordered saddled up an hour earlier.

“ Two men?”

“One big, one little.”

“Were they carrying rifles?”

“No guns.”

Humble’s hotels were jam-packed, and the rooming houses were stifling, but Texas Walt had rustled up clean rooms above a stable. They sluiced off the dust of the long, hot day in horse troughs and headed back to the Toppling Derrick where, earlier, Bell had tipped generously to guarantee a table for supper.

They passed the fairground on the way. The suffragist rally had dispersed, and a crowd of the oil field hands camping there was carousing under tarpaulins that sheltered a board-on-barrels saloon. Off to one side, Bell spotted a familiar-looking wall tent pitched beside a buckboard wagon. A black iron pot was suspended over a cook fire.

“Walt, you may be dining alone.”

Drawing near the tent, he heard her typewriter clattering. He knocked on the post. She kept typing like a Gatling gun. But the canvas flew open and out stepped a slim young woman with short, wispy chestnut hair, bright eyes, and a brighter smile. Her voice rang.

“If you’re not Isaac Bell, my sister’s famed descriptive powers have deserted her.”

She thrust out her hand.

“Nellie Matters. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Bell swept his hat off his head, took her delicate fingers in his, and stepped close. When he had seen Nellie through binoculars, he had thought of her features as less fine than her sister’s. But with only inches between them, her resemblance to Edna was stronger. She had the same gray-green eyes, the same silken hair, the same beautiful nose. All that seemed magnified were her expressive eyebrows and fuller lips.

“I was hoping you would return to earth,” he said.

“Only briefly.”

The typing stopped. Edna called, “Invite him to supper.”

“Does he like varmint stew?”

“It’s not varmint stew. It’s jackrabbit.”

“I love jackrabbit,” said Bell. “One of you must be quite a shot.”

Nellie laughed. “Not exactly. Edna blasted them with her .410. We’ll be cracking teeth on buckshot.”

Edna emerged from the tent, and Bell’s first thought was that Nellie was gorgeous, an utterly beautiful woman, but there was something about Edna — her stillness and her steady gaze — that blocked the breath in his throat.

She said, “We’ll chew carefully. How are you, Mr. Bell?”

“Happy to see you. What brings you to Humble?”

“Same thing that brought you, I’d imagine. C. C. Gustafson.”

“Are you reporting for the Derrick ?”

She did not answer directly, saying instead that C. C. Gustafson was a good friend and an important source for her research.

Nellie asked whether he was investigating the shooting.

“Mr. Gustafson doesn’t remember much.”

Edna said, “His memory is returning. He told me that the day before he was shot he had heard that Big Pete Straub arrived on the train.”

Nellie laughed. “Mr. Bell, you really ought to hire my sister to assist in your investigation.”

Bell kept to himself that Gustafson had already told him that and said, “I reckon Edna’s too busy — and far too expensive — but what a nice coincidence you find yourselves here together.”

“We often travel together,” said Nellie. “Particularly to places like this where a woman’s better off not alone.” A nod indicated the tarpaulin saloon, where the men were getting loud. “Two women are somewhat more formidable than one girl on her own, don’t you think?”

“Just ask those jackrabbits.”

“Will you stay to supper?”

“Let me run and find some wine.”

“In Humble? Good luck.”

Bell grinned. “What do you prefer with jackrabbit?”

Edna grinned. “A chilled Riesling, wouldn’t you say, Nellie?”

Nellie tossed Isaac Bell a second challenge. “On a hot night with a jackrabbit and a handsome gentleman, I’m in a mood for champagne!”

“I’ll be right back,” said Bell.

“Where are you going?” they chorused after him. “Houston?”

“New Orleans!” Bell called over his shoulder and kept going.

“Don’t be late.”

Bell went straight to the Toppling Derrick and asked Walt Hatfield, “Which did you say was the highest-class sporting house in town?”

“Things didn’t work out with the lady reporter?”

“I asked you a question.”

“Easy does it, old son. Just joshin’ you. The French Quarter was the one I mentioned. Around the corner and over a couple of streets.”

Bell found the French Quarter’s kitchen door down an alley and slipped the cook two twenty-dollar gold pieces. He returned to Edna’s tent with a whiskey keg under his arm. The barrelhead had been removed. The sisters peered in.

“Ice? Where did you get ice?”

Bell said, “Forgive me, Edna, but Riesling proved impossible. Will you settle for a Chablis?”

Edna said, “I am devastated. But I’ll settle for Chablis. Just this once.”

“What about me?” Nellie cried. “Where’s my champagne?”

“Moët & Chandon?”

“Are you serious?”

Bell pulled dripping bottles from the ice.

Nellie said, “Edna, one of us should grab this fellow before he gets away. You are quite the provider, Mr. Bell.”

“Here’s my suggestion,” said Bell. “First we share champagne and save the Chablis for the jackrabbit.”

“But we have no champagne glasses.”

“Tin cups will do,” said Edna.

“No need,” called a familiar voice, and around the tent strode Archie Abbott with four champagne flutes in his hand.

“Where in blazes did you come from?” asked Bell.