Elmore Leonard - Escape from Five Shadows

“The stable?” Pryde asked.

“What’d you think?” Renda said. “That’s your permanent Sunday job.”

Inside the stable, Lizann watched Pryde pick up a broom and walk down to the far end. She heard Renda say to Bowen, “Saddle up my chestnut.”

As he moved to Renda’s stall, Lizann said, “Ask him to saddle mine, too.”

Renda glanced at her. “You like to be waited on, don’t you?”

“No more than you do,” Lizann answered.

Renda shrugged, looking at Bowen then. “Do what she says.”

Now-Lizann thought.

“Frank,” she said, turning to leave the stable. “Have him bring it over to me…I’ve forgotten something.”

She walked out, not waiting to hear Renda’s answer, then took her time crossing the yard, glancing indifferently from the convicts to the guard at the main gate. She entered her adobe, leaving the door open, then hurried into the bedroom. From the top drawer of the dresser, she took the.25-caliber Colt revolver and returned with it to the front room. As she did, looking out through the open door and across the wide expanse of yard, she saw Renda ride out of the stable toward the gate. A few minutes later Bowen came out leading her sorrel.

Lizann smiled and she was thinking: Frank, if you knew how easy you were making it.

She remained back out of the doorway, now holding the revolver at her side, hidden in the folds of her full riding skirt. Bowen approached the ramada, then halted at the edge of the shade. He could not yet see her, but he called out, “Here’s your horse.”

Lizann answered, “Come inside.”

Bowen hesitated. He glanced toward the barracks, then let the reins fall and entered the adobe. He nodded, seeing Lizann. “You worked that good.”

“Thank you.” Lizann smiled momentarily. “Where is Frank going?”

“He didn’t say.”

“He made it very easy for us.”

“I can still get caught in here. Brazil’s about.”

Lizann moved toward him. “I heard a man was killed the other day and I thought it was you. I was almost sure it was.”

“If it was,” Bowen said, “you’d have to break in a new man.”

Lizann hesitated. “I’m never quite sure what you’re going to say.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

She moved closer to him and put her hand on his arm. “I was thinking of you, Corey. Not just a man who’s willing to help me.”

Bowen said nothing.

Lizann’s eyebrows raised. “What happened to our beautiful friendship?”

“It’s as beautiful as it ever was.”

“Do you still want to help me?”

“If it means helping myself.”

Lizann gazed up at him, studying his face. “You seem farther away, Corey. Do you feel I’m not acting like a lady?”

“I haven’t been picturing you as one.”

She dropped her eyes. “I was, once. Before I was brought here.”

Come on, Bowen thought. Get to the point.

“It isn’t just Renda and having to live here like a prisoner-which is more than any woman should be asked to bear. It’s also my husband.”

“We’ve been over your husband before.”

“I thought you were more understanding.”

“I’m trying to understand one thing-why you brought me in here.”

Her eyes lowered again. “If you really knew what kind of a man my husband is…The way he treats me-”

“Look,” Bowen said patiently. “I’m convinced. Let’s get to the point.”

She looked at him calmly now, without pretense. “You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”

“It wouldn’t matter one way or the other,” Bowen said. “Do you have something, or don’t you?”

Lizann’s hand came out of the folds of her skirt and she pressed the barrel of the revolver against Bowen’s belt buckle. “I have this,” she said and caught the momentary surprise in Bowen’s eyes as he saw the revolver. “Will it help?”

Bowen nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “It’ll help.”

“Then it’s yours,” Lizann said. “On one condition.”

Bowen’s hand went to the revolver. The short barrel remained pressed against him and he could feel her finger on the trigger. “What’s the condition?”

“How you escape from here is your business,” Lizann said. “You can have the gun and use it however you like. That will be no concern of mine. I’m not asking you to take me with you.”

“What’s the condition?” Bowen asked again.

“That you kill my husband first,” Lizann said calmly.

The second letter from Lyall Martz, the Hatch & Hodges attorney, arrived on the Saturday afternoon stage. It came unexpectedly, for Karla had written to him only the day after talking to Bowen, Tuesday, and there had not been time for her letter even to reach Prescott, much less receive an answer already.

Her father watched her. “Well, go ahead and read it.”

“I’m afraid to,” Karla said.

“You’re not going to change what’s inside by staring at the envelope.”

“It’s bad news,” Karla said tonelessly. “Either he’s decided not to work on it or else he’s run up against a stone wall.”

“Sis, that’s some gift you have-being able to read letters without opening them.”

She glanced at her father. “It has to be one or the other. Mr. Martz hasn’t even received my letter yet. He couldn’t have been working on it-he needed the information he asked for first.”

“Then,” Demery said, “he couldn’t have run into a stone wall…not yet.”

Karla nodded dejectedly. “He’s decided he can’t spare the time. That must be it.”

“Sis, if you don’t hurry up and read it, I’ll have to.”

“I will,” Karla said.

Demery watched her finger work open the envelope, take out the letter and unfold the pages bearing Lyall Martz’s large, down-slanting scrawl. He watched her-a frown, a somber tight-lipped expression on her face, now biting her lower lip lightly, thoughtfully, now her lips parting and not biting them, her eyes opening, opening wide, glancing up, but only for part of a moment, concentrating on the letter again, and her mouth began to form a smile. She looked up again and the smile was in her eyes: a moist, glistening smile that struck John Demery as the most genuinely happy smile he had ever seen in his life.

“Bad news?”

Karla’s lips moved, but no sound came from them.

“Are you going to read it to me,” Demery said, “or do I have to guess.”

She stared at him, still smiling, and handed him the letter. “Read it out loud.”

“This must be some letter,” Demery said. He began to read:

Dear Karla,

As soon as I accepted this “spare-time job” as you call it, I had to admit to a weakening of the will. I am afraid my giving in has touched off a complete breakdown of my mental faculties, for now I must admit to even a weakening in the intellect department. (Don’t tell your father that, though he wouldn’t understand it anyway.)

Demery looked up, but before he could speak Karla said, “Go on, read.”

After I wrote to you [Demery continued] outlining the information I needed, it occurred to me: how is Karla going to get information from a man locked up in a convict camp? That could be difficult even for Karla. Then I realized that all I need do was talk to McLaughlin myself. He was at the trial and, of course, he saw the bill of sale. Which I did.

Mac stated that the handwriting on the bill of sale was clearly an imitation of his own, and a fairly good one, especially the signature. My reasoning then eliminated both your friend Bowen and the other one, Manring, as the forger. It is possible that they know how to write but highly improbable they write well enough to copy the ornate signature Mclaughlin has been practicing for fifty years.