Clive Cussler - The Assassin

“Train from Houston,” said Archie, smiling at the ladies. “In the nick of time. Saw you lugging a barrel of ice, put two and two together, and quickly got glasses. Miss Hock, lovely to see you again. And you, Miss Matters, of course, are the famous flying orator.”

He bowed over Nellie’s hand. “What a treat to observe you without getting a crick in my neck.”

“Will you join us for supper, Mr. Abbott?”

Bell said, “Don’t you have an appointment with a witness, Mr. Abbott?”

“Not on an empty stomach.”

“That would be too cruel,” said Nellie. “You must let him have a bite first, Mr. Bell.”

“Rabbit first,” said Edna. “Witness later.”

The champagne lasted until night was falling and it was nearly dark.

“If you boys will open the Chablis, Nellie and I will ladle out the rabbit.”

The sisters gathered around the fire. Bell got to work on the wine bottle.

“Two lovelies!” Archie said in a low voice. “Count ’em, two. Beautiful, intelligent, charming, accomplished, and single. An abundance of riches.”

“Hands off,” said Bell. “I haven’t made my mind up yet.”

“Fear not, Ma-ma is vetting prospective fiancées.”

The Abbotts of New York had lost their money back in the Panic of ’93. Archie was supposedly on a hunt to replenish the treasury, but Bell doubted it would happen. He was more likely to fall in love, and money would be the last thing on his mind.

“Funny,” said Archie, “how they keep turning up wherever you’re investigating.”

“Intelligent,” said Bell. “As you said.”

“Come and get it!” cried Nellie.

“Don’t mind if we do,” bawled a loud voice at the edge of the firelight.

Six or seven drunk cowhands and oil workers had wandered over from the board-on-barrels saloon.

“You mean the food or the gals?” yelled a rangy rigger.

“Both!” howled a cowboy.

Isaac Bell and Archie Abbott stood up.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Archie. “Go away.”

“Make me.”

Archie took a lightning step forward and threw an even faster left hook. The rigger tumbled backward into his friends. When they pounced at Archie, Bell was ready with a hard right that dropped the cowboy and a left cross for a burly roustabout.

The four drunks still standing were quickly joined by four more.

The two detectives stood shoulder to shoulder. Archie muttered, “Any more and I’m pulling a gun.”

“Too many folks around for gunplay,” said Bell.

“Bloody hell, you’re right about that.”

Nellie Matters laughed. “Go away! Our hearts are spoken for.”

If Nellie’s joke was designed to defang the mob, thought Bell, it had the opposite effect. She seemed oblivious to the danger. But Edna, Bell noticed, was coolly eyeing the tent flaps behind which was propped her shotgun.

He said, “Let’s take ’em, Archie.”

Archie said, “You’re on.”

The trick was to prevent being mobbed by a concerted rush.

The Van Dorns used their long reach and prize ring footwork to keep them at bay, darting in, dropping three more men with powerhouse punches, and backing lightly away. It looked as if five or six still standing were reconsidering their future when an enormous oil hand easily as big as Big Pete Straub lumbered up.

“Who wants it first?”

“Start with me,” said Isaac Bell, flashing forward, faking a left jab, and throwing a roundhouse right that flung the oil hand flat on his back. But as hard as he hit the ground, it seemed to have no effect. The giant shook his head like a dray horse annoyed by a fly, sprang to his feet, and charged. Bell took his measure, spotted his fists rise, which exposed his solar plexus, and lined up a straight left that would take advantage of the momentum.

Suddenly the man clutched his chest.

He lurched at Bell as if shoved from behind by a mighty force. The burst of unnatural speed caught Bell unaware. Before the tall detective could throw a punch or sidestep the charge, the giant slammed into him.

Three hundred pounds’ deadweight drove Isaac Bell to the ground.

Hot liquid splashed his face.

Rabbit stew, he thought in a crazy tenth of a second ended by a rifle shot. He heard a second shot. Lead whistled. A muzzle flash lit the night, and the sniper’s third shot clanged off Edna’s cook pot.

“Down!” he yelled.

Archie swept Nellie and Edna off their feet. Bell levered out from under the giant. The man did not try to hold him but flopped over with his chest spouting a fountain of heart blood that glittered in the firelight.

The dying brawler had jumped into the path of a bullet meant for Bell.

Take off your shoe,” said the assassin.

Big Pete Straub glared down the rifle barrel aimed at his head and weighed his chances of wrapping his mitts around the neck of this man who had played him for a sucker. Not good.

Slowly, he unlaced his boot, biding his time, gathering his enormous frame for an overwhelming rush, figuring to take a bullet or even two before he crushed the life out of him.

“And your sock.”

Straub tugged off a dirty sock and reached for his other boot. Bare feet? Why?

“Leave it on. One’s enough.”

“What in—”

“Put your hands behind your back. Lay down on them. All your weight. Close your eyes. Tight! Squeeze ’em tight!”

“Is this because I missed? I would have hit Bell if you let me use my own gun.”

“I knew you would miss.”

“Then why—”

“Open your mouth.”

“What—”

The assassin shoved the rifle between Big Pete’s teeth and touched the muzzle to the roof of his mouth. Big Pete felt it tickle the sensitive membrane.

“Ah don’t envy Humble’s sheriff,” drawled Texas Walt Hatfield.

Texas Walt and Archie Abbott and Isaac Bell were wolfing down the Toppling Derrick’s blue plate special breakfast of fried fatback and eggs.

“Ah mean every time the man turns around, someone’s shot, and whoever does the shooting gets clean away. Dumb luck last night, only one dead with all that lead flying, and thankfully none of the ladies. Good luck for you, though, Isaac.”

“Look out!”

A flicker of motion in the corner of Isaac Bell’s eye exploded into a rock shattering the window. Bell shoved Archie. The rock missed Abbott’s aristocratic nose by a half inch and broke the coffee cup Texas Walt was lifting to his lips.

The drunk who had thrown the rock — a middle-aged, unshaven cowhand in tattered shirt and bibless overalls, and one boot peeling off its sole — stood swaying in the middle of Main Street. His truculent expression froze in astonishment when three tall Van Dorn detectives boiled out the swinging doors with guns drawn. Isaac Bell covered the sidewalk to their left with his automatic pistol. Archie Abbott guarded their right with a city slicker’s snub-nosed revolver in one hand and a blackjack in the other.

Texas Walt stalked into the street and leveled two long-barrel Smith & Wessons at the rock thrower’s face. His voice was cold, his eyes colder. “You want to explain why you ruined my breakfast?”

The drunk trembled. “Looks like I bit off more than I can chew.”

“What in Sam Hill are you talking about?”

“Did you read the note?”

“Note? What note?”

“This note,” said Isaac Bell, who had picked up the rock on his way out the door. He slid a throwing knife from his boot, cut the twine that tied a sheet of paper around the rock, spread the paper, and read it.

“Who gave you this?”

“Feller with five bucks.”

“What did he look like?”