Ed Gorman - Showdown

He didn't knock. He burst in.

Neville, behind his desk, looked up. He was startled for perhaps two seconds. Then he was enraged.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Duncan?"

"Shut the hell up," Duncan said.

He slammed the door hard enough to make a few of the paintings on the walls dance a little. Then he took the telegram from inside his suit jacket and pitched it onto Neville's desk.

"I asked you what the hell you thought you were doing?" Neville said, not even looking at the telegram.

"And I told you to shut up. And I'm still telling you to shut up. And read that telegram."

Neville had to say something before he read the telegram, of course. His kind always have the last word.

"You're going to regret coming in this way, unannounced. You seem to think you've got some sort of upper hand now, but you don't. And I don't give a damn what that telegram says."

Duncan slid his Peacemaker out from inside his coat.

"Read it, Richard. Now."

"That's just one more thing you're going to regret, Duncan. Pulling a gun on me. You must be losing your mind."

"Read it. Now."

Neville finally picked up the telegram. Unfolded it angrily. Laid it flat upon his desk and scanned it.

Wasn't a long telegram. Didn't take much reading, much time.

"Sonofabitch," Neville said when he finished reading it.

"Those lawyers of yours better know how to save our lives, Richard, or I'm going to cooperate with the law."

Neville, curiously, spoke softly now, almost gently. "We've had our differences, Aaron. But I've always liked you."

"Sure, Richard. You don't like anybody but yourself."

"Will you listen to me? You can't stand there with that ridiculous gun of yours—I'm sorry, Aaron, you just don't look that threatening with a gun in your hand—and tell me that we didn't have same good times when we started hanging around together a couple of years ago. That trip to New Orleans? That trip to St. Louis? Those mulatto girls we found in Cheyenne that time?"

But Duncan wasn't caught up in Neville's attempt at nostalgia.

"We didn't kill people then. The men who died in those fires we had set—"

"It was an accident, Aaron. An accident. It's almost as if you want to feel guilty about those men." Duncan held up his free hand.

"All that matters now is that we figure out how to deal with the insurance company and Prine, Richard. You're supposed to be the smart one here. What the hell are we going to do?"

"I'll tell you one thing we're not going to do," Neville said. 'We're not going to start running around in circles and looking like we've got something to hide. You understand that, Aaron?"

Duncan's resolve had been waning. Going up against Neville was just too difficult. He wasn't afraid of the telegram, he wasn't afraid of Duncan's gun. He was a man naturally given to controlling all situations. And this situation was no different.

"Now, will you put that stupid damned gun down here on the desk, Aaron?"

"You really have an idea?" Duncan knew how desperate, childlike, he sounded.

"I really have an idea, but I'm not saying anything else until that Peacemaker of yours is right here on my desk."

Duncan looked and felt defeated. All his life he'd been a secondary figure. Even at the mattress plant. The foreman ran the place day to day. What the hell did Duncan know about mattresses? And the accountant ran everything else. What the hell did Duncan know about running books?

"You're never going to amount to anything," Duncan's father had managed to say virtually every day of Duncan's boyhood. Not good at sports, not good at carpentry or riding horses or baseball—the things his father and his older brothers were all good at. And then to feel so damned sorry for himself. A dozen times a day, Duncan took stock of himself and felt this burden of self-disgust. Men—and women—were right to find him repellent, laughable, weak. He was all those things.

Now he was about to turn over his weapon. He'd come out here in such a fine rage. He was going to take control. He was going to figure out how to deal with the telegram. He was going to show Neville that Aaron Duncan was every bit his equal.

His jaw muscles bunched and unbunched. They were like a tumor just beneath his skin. He leaned forward, set the weapon down on the clean desktop, and pushed it over to Neville.

Where Duncan was indecisive, fearful, confused by it all, Richard Neville was purposeful, unafraid, and single-minded. He knew exactly what he needed and wanted to do, and he did it.

He picked up the Peacemaker and shot Aaron Duncan twice in the chest.

Chapter Twenty-five

"You realize I've just destroyed my husband," Ellie Duncan said as she walked him back to his horse. She'd sobered up some. Probably too much, given everything she'd told Prine over the past half hour. She'd probably need to start drinking again when she realized all the implications of her confession.

"I'm sorry, Ellie."

"I'm scared for him. I don't love him anymore. But I'm scared for him. All the things you hear about prison life—"

She began to cry. "I don't know what I'll tell our children. If they ever find out that I betrayed their father . . ."

He took her gently to him, brushing her hair with his big hand, letting her dampen his shirt with her warm tears.

He headed back to town, riding fast.

Ididn't cause her death. Neville did. He paid Tolan and Rooney to kill her. They would've killed her even if I hadn't tried to take advantage of the situation. But, shit, it's never going to be the same for me. I saw that I'm no more honest than half the people I arrest. Maybe a lot of people would've tried the same thing I did. Maybe most of us are a lot closer to being dishonest than we know. I sure as hell am. And that's going to stay with me the rest of my life.

When Carlos came in and saw Duncan's body on the floor, Richard Neville stopped what he was doing at his wall safe and said, "You opened the front door for him, didn't you?"

"Yessir."

"You saw how angry he was, didn't you?"

"Yessir."

"I didn't have any choice. He had a gun."

Carlos seemed confused, obviously realizing that the Peacemaker on the desk did not belong to his employer.

"That was the gun you used?"

"Yes."

"But it's—"

"It's his gun. And this is where you have to listen very carefully, Carlos. Do you understand?"

"Yessir."

"I grabbed his gun from him and started walking back to my desk. Do you understand so far, Carlos?"

"Yessir."

"But just as I turned my back, he reached inside his coat. I only caught a glimpse of that—but then I heard you shout, 'He's got a gun!'"

"I see, sir. A lie."

"Dammit, it's not a lie. It's exactly what happened."

"Yessir."

"But I'm going to need a little corroboration."

"Corroboration, sir?"

"Yes, Carlos. Corroboration. It means somebody swearing that that's what happened. Somebody vouching for me. You understand?"

"Now I do. Yessir."

"You'd heard us arguing—Duncan and I—and you rushed in to see if everything was all right. You saw me wrestle the gun from him. And when I got it and started back to my desk, you saw him—from the back—reach into his jacket and start to pull something out. That's when you shouted that he had a gun. Now, can you remember all that?"

"Yessir."

Carlos raised his gaze to the open wall safe.

"I'm going on an overnight trip. Some extremely important business. You ride into town and tell Sheriff Daly what happened out here. And tell him I'll be back sometime tomorrow."

"But shouldn't you be here, Mr. Neville? A dead man—it will not look so good if you're not here."

Neville could feel himself swell with rage. He was not used to his servants arguing with him. But anger would only irritate Carlos more.