The Killing Machine Read Free

respect. Or don’t you care how many of us died down there, Noah?”
    I stood up. “I’ll be there at sundown, David.”

Chapter 2
    W henever I needed to pick up a couple freelance helpers, the first place I checked was the local stage line. They generally steered me to shotgun riders who worked part-time or had the day off. Given all the bank and stagecoach gangs working this part of Montana Territory, the shotgun men had to be good. And not be afraid of a little violence if necessary.
    The Northeast Stage Line had a full house in back. Four coaches, everything from one of the new Concord models to an Abbott & Downing mudwagon to a pair of newly restored Deadwood stages that could carry eighteen passengers.
    There had been some bad accidents with stagecoaches lately, the coach owners saying they were due to bad roads and acts of nature, the editorial writers saying they were due to drunk drivers and overworked horses. They were probably both right. Every coach in this lot had a small sign stuck on its doors: A RECORD OF SAFETY .
    A man in a flat-crowned black hat, blue shirt, black trousers, and a small badge on the flap pocketof his shirt was talking to a youngster who was giving a muddy Concord a soapy wash with a bucket of water.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said.
    The deputy took a photograph of me with his eyes and filed it away for future reference. That’s a common trait in well-trained lawmen. He had a blandly handsome face and hard, dark eyes that made snap assessments of every human who walked or ran or crawled in front of their lenses. He didn’t dislike me, his gaze revealed, but only because he didn’t think I was worth bothering with.
    â€œMorning,” he said, “help you?”
    â€œI’m actually looking for the boss.”
    He put forth a hand that was even harder than his eyes. “Frank Clarion. I’m a day deputy in town here.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Clarion. Can you point me to the boss?”
    â€œRight over there. And he’s not only the boss, he’s the owner.”
    â€œTib Mason,” the boy chimed in, wiping sweat from his face with the sleeve of his black-and-white-checkered shirt. “That’s his name. He’s my uncle. Same as the marshal’s Mr. Clarion’s uncle.”
    Now, I’m not one of those people who believe that it’s necessarily a bad thing to hire your kin. I’ve known any number of father-son, uncle-nephew, cousin-cousin lawmen partnerships that work out just fine, even though most folks are automatically suspicious of them, suspecting nepotism and nothing more.
    But Clarion’s bland face tightened some when the kid mentioned that the marshal was Clarion’s uncle.He tried to make a joke of it. “Thanks for pointing that out, Merle.”
    Merle’s bright-blue eyes dulled. He realized then that he’d said a bad thing, and that Clarion was going to kick his ass, verbally if not physically, as soon as he got a chance.
    Having said the wrong thing many times in my own life, I tried to help the kid out a little. “I was a deputy once—and my uncle was the sheriff. Same setup as yours, Clarion. I imagine you get razzed about it sometimes as much as I did. But I did my best and got along just fine. And I’m sure that’s how it works for you.”
    The dark gaze showed me a little more charity. Maybe I wasn’t just another drifting saddlebum after all. Maybe I was a man of taste and discernment.
    â€œYeah,” he said, and for an instant there he was almost likable, “they sure do like to kid you about working for your uncle.”
    Merle looked relieved. He went back to his washing with a smile on his freckled face.
    â€œNice to meet you,” I said, and offered my hand to Clarion again.
    Tib Mason turned out to be a short, beefy man in a tall, white Stetson, working a horse inside a rope corral. I walked over and watched him finish up with the