Sussman released Kinsey’s money-filled carpet bag several inches above his desk, causing the traveling valise to drop with an impressive flump - a result of the bag’s weight with a touch of Leonard's drama for his audience. “If you wish, we can count the contents together.” The bank president’s gaze fell on Scott.
“Sir, your reputation as an honest man makes it unnecessary.” Scott’s side glance tossed an afterthought over his shoulder. “And insisting we do so would be an insult to your integrity.”
“Ah, my sentiments exactly.” Mannhiem stepped forward. “I believe we’ve taken up enough of your time -”
“Wait.” Kinsey’s raised palm halted movement in the room. “Mr. Sussman, in the event I could no longer meet Sister Rosa’s needs, would you please remove 300 dollars from the bag and set it aside until other arrangements could be made for the Virgen de Guadalupe Mission?”
“My dear child.” Leonard’s brow creased in concern. “Why would you be unable to continue your support of the mission?”
Kinsey’s frozen silence screamed the answer to Scott. Because she thinks the Financial Advisor from Melbourne will eventually put a bullet in her head. “I believe my cousin is anticipating the allure of Paris and her fiancé seeking to extend their honeymoon beyond a month.” Pause was given for a sly grin. “I can’t say I blame them.”
“Well now, agreed!” Sussman opened the valise and, like pulling a rabbit out of a top hat, extracted the appropriate amount. “This will cover the mission’s expenses for quite some time, so you needn’t worry. Paris: the City of Lights!” Leonard chuckled. “Just remember to come back home to us, won’t you?” Tapping the stack of money in his hand, a precaution was taken. “Permit me to secure the mission’s funds in our safe before saying adieu.” Sussman’s bilingual moment of worldliness painted a satisfied smile on the man’s face. “I'll be just a moment.”
“What mission?” With the click of a shut door, Godfrey’s hissing inquisition commenced. “Who’s this Sister Rosa?”
Scott’s voice lowered to counter. “Sister Rosa oversees the local mission for orphans. Let it go, Mannheim, and practice some compassion. It might get you a room next to the icehouse in Hades.”
“Very well. The young lady’s request stands.” Godfrey leaned down to whisper in Kinsey's ear. “My concern is minimal considering the market price for a pistolero’s finger is precisely 300 dollars… perhaps a few silvers more.”
Ah, ScottyGarrett, some gentlemen choose to worship money and power rather than the Good Lord. Don’t ye ever become one of those men.
I’m not one of those men, Winnie. Scott’s anger crawled up the back of his neck when viewing the inflicted damage of Mannheim’s threat reflected in Kinsey’s eyes. But I certainly know where to find one.
Casually carrying the carpetbag from bank to buggy provided a challenge. Scott discovered Sussman’s theatrics had little to do with demonstrating the currency’s weight, which in reality proved damn heavy. Truth be told, if not for Leonard’s money magic trick, Scott would have sworn the man had handed over a bag of rocks.
Ho, HO Lancer! I hear the market price for gangue is a plug nickel on the ton.
Not now, MacCallister.
By the way, old boy, Little Phil sends his regards. Divide and Rule. Good strategy, Lieutenant.
Our lives depend on it, George.
Mannheim climbed into the back of the buggy and patted the seat beside him. “Let’s escort that beauty up here, shall we?”
Scott awkwardly tossed the valise to land beside the man. “You two make a lovely couple.”
With narrowed eyes, Godfrey’s focus journeyed down the street. “What’s the girl doing? Why isn’t she moving?”
Scott viewed Kinsey at a standstill several yards from her dictated transportation. “Maybe the young lady is looking for a more amicable travel companion.”
Godfrey unholstered his pistol and goatishly rubbed the barrel against his inner thigh. “How friendly does she like it? Go collect her or should I?”
Long strides carried Scott within earshot when panic strangled Kinsey’s words. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Little one, we need to see this through.”
“The 300 dollars… Johnny.”
“Halt.” Scott’s hand settled under his cousin’s chin and tilted her head slightly upward to gain eye contact. “Have I ever lied to you?”
“No.”
“Indeed.” Gathered attention ushered in a serious commitment. “I promise by the end of this day my brother will still be in possession of his nose-picking digit.” The out-of-character description of Johnny’s index finger choked a chortle from Kinsey’s lips. “I know. I was raised in a Beacon Hill baaahn yaaahd. Now, let's have some Garrett Guts show the Melbourne Mammonist out of town.”
********
“So what are your plans, Mannheim, since you and Yarra are presently rich men? The Mississippi is always looking for one or two more pikers to float on its waters.”
Conversation. With his brain racing while the distance shortened between the travelers and Kapinski’s cabin, Scott relied on conversation to focus the mind.
“Wishing to get rid of us so soon, Lancer?”
“I believe Franklin said it best. Fish and visitors stink after three days.”
“Ah.” Mannhiem parried. “Love your enemies, for they tell you your faults.”
“Oh, allow me.” Kinsey turned with a smirk to address the vermin seated behind her. “He that lies down with dogs shall rise up with fleas.”
Scott shook his head in admiration. Touché Freckles. She’d finally quoted Ol’ Ben correctly. Better late than never.
“Bravo! Bravo!” Godfrey gave the young lady a slow, deliberate round of applause. “I believe, my dear, that your charming personality is growing on me. I think perhaps you’ll join Merritt and myself as our riverboat horizontale. Your expertise could provide us with supplemental income, so to speak, in financing our games of chance.”
With Mannheim’s slap-in-the-face statement smothering continued repartee, nature’s own wise words of crow caws and buzzing insects replaced Benjamin Franklin’s until the overgrown path’s turn-off from the main road appeared.
“Cause and effect. I’d take it slow, Lancer.” Scott felt between his shoulder blades the returning presence of Mannheim’s leveled pistol while the woods swallowed up the buggy and its passengers. “Too hard of a bump could provide an unfortunate test of the theory.”
Through the filter of low-hanging tree branches and vines, the deceased Mr. Kapinski’s sad and sagging residence came into view. Except for the angle of the sun’s rays lighting the afternoon hour, nothing had changed in the cabin’s appearance. Climbing down from the buggy, Scott briefly glanced at his surroundings before extending his arms upward to assist Kinsey.
Godfrey jumped to the ground from his backseat throne while giving a directive usually reserved for a dog. “Fetch.” His to-the-side head jerk spotlit the valise.
Knowing the carpetbag’s weight prodded Scott into casting an imaginary fishing line. “Seems to me a man should be able to carry his fortune along with his greed.”
Mannheim's Cheshire Cat grin took the taunting bait. “Very well.” Keeping the revolver aimed at his mocker, Godfrey grabbed the valise’s handle and yanked the heavy bag from the buggy, only to have it slip from his grasp and tumble to the ground.
Scott smiled. “I stand corrected.”
“Shut up!” Flustered, Mannheim holstered his gun and claimed the carpetbag with both hands. “Let’s go inside and see what entertainment Merritt and your brother can provide to stifle your annoying sarcasm.”
Setting boots to the rotting porch floorboards, Scott pushed open the closed door on its mourning hinges to discover the day’s passage of shadows now made it difficult with distinguishing objects and movement in the dimmed cabin interior.
“Hold up.” Godfrey’s breathing tattled on the carpetbag’s laboring effect. “Let the girl go in first.”
“Beauty before brains gentlemen?”
From behind, Scott placed his hands on his cousin’s shoulders. “More like no honor among thieves.” Pulling her back to remain outside and avoid an unpredictable greeting, he side-stepped into the cabin before any protests could be voiced.
Scott’s eyes, adjusting to the dusky room, found a scene much the way the travelers had left it. On the right, a slumped motionless figure wearing a bloodied pink shirt sat chin to chest with hands tied behind him while black hair brushed down over his forehead.
On the left, the profile of Doc Jenkins’ handiwork still covered much of his patient’s nose and cheekbones as the man settled forward. In his hand, a pistol targeted the room’s captive.
Godfrey and his curiosity, enticed by the lack of talking, stepped forward next to Scott. “What say you, Merritt?”
A bandaged nose and cheekbones slowly turned and sported a familiar lop-sided grin of swollen lips. “The Ol’ Switcheroo.”
Back and forth. To and fro. Over and under.
A big brother’s returned grin whispered. “Where did she go?”
Shay McLoughlin’s Three Card Monte.
The distinctive snap of Mannheim’s jawbone breaking when meeting Scott’s fist brought about two reverberating thuds - the first being a dropped carpetbag, quickly followed by the free-fall deadweight of an unconscious body.
Rubbing his knuckles, Scott cocked an eyebrow at the sprawled man at his feet. “I was right. That gave me great pleasure.”
Hidden motion creaked the open door. Revolver drawn, an obscure, ghostly figure spoke. “I guess tellin’ this sonofabitch he’s under arrest will need to wait.” Stepping into the light, Crawford’s matchstick waggled in the corner of his mouth.
Divide and Rule. A slow exhale of released tension softened Scott’s stance. “Good to see you, Val.”
“Best take this, brother.” Johnny’s fatigued inflection struggled to be heard. “Hand’s a tad shaky.” Seeing the slow slip of Yarra’s pistol from its current owner, Scott hunkered down and took possession before the weapon hit the floor.
“Didn’t need much to overtake that opium ass.” Val’s thumb jabbed toward Merritt. “Laudanum did most of the job for me. Then this one here” - The sheriff’s nod pointed out Johnny - “insisted on tradin’ places with the gent. Said it would be a nice touch you’d understand.”
Embroidered shirt. Medical gauze. The illusion worked. Scott grinned at his brother. “The Old Switcheroo.”
“I remember writin’ those lonely heart letters bein’ more entertain’.” Johnny’s trembling hand removed his bandage disguise. Revealed lacerations and bruises told the story of his last several hours.
“We need to get you to Sam.”
“My fault, Scott.”
“No words necessary.”
“The Old Man disagrees.” Murdoch, holding Kinsey at his side, filled the cabin’s doorway. “I believe a few words of explanation will be absolutely necessary.”
********
Returning its wooden paddle, Scott placed the grease bucket on the tool shed shelf as the sound of a visitor riding in set feet in motion. A squint in the bright sunlight showed Green River’s sheriff dismounting. Scott’s waved arm lassoed Crawford’s attention while the man adjusted his hat, echoed the greeting and strode toward the shed.
“Any news?”
Val methodically fished out his customary fire splinter and scrutinized its ability to outlast a conversation before poking it in the corner of his mouth. “Interestin’ greetin’. Any news? Not… how ya doin’ sheriff on this fine day? Well, Scott, thanks for askin’. I’m gettin’ by. Lumbago actin’ up a bit but other than that the good Lord has seen fit to get me through.”
Scott’s chin-dipped-grin studied the thoughtful removal of his gloves. “All right.” Gloves were then purposefully folded and tucked into his belt. “Glad you stopped in, Val. How’s Widow Patterson? Is your savoir faire still pushing her apple cart?”
Crawford’s matchstick danced across his lips. “Son, you surely have a way of gettin’ under a human bein’s skin. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Once or twice.”
“Uh huh.” A skeptical eyebrow raised at the low calculation. “Well, as a matter-of-fact I do have some news. I’m happy to say a stagecoach carryin’ Mannheim and Yarra, under the supervision of Federal Marshall Bowman, is San Francisco bound where the Aussie gents will be boardin’ alongside livestock steamin’ to Melbourne. Swine travelin’ with swine. I believe it’s called poetic justice.”
“Indeed it is.”
“Now I suppose you’re thinking what’s keepin’ them from runnin’ once they make land.”
A nod confirmed the thought had crossed Scott’s mind.
“Uh-huh. Guessed so much. I sent a wire off to that Birch fella mentioned in Yarra’s newspaper clippin’. Thought he might take an interest. My understandin’ is the constable will be on the pier as the official welcome committee when those bastards dock.” Having served its purpose, the conversation matchstick journeyed back to Crawford’s shirt pocket. “How’d it go with your pappy?”
Scott crossed his arms. “Well, it took a few attempts to explain why Murdoch Lancer is always the last to know as I dodged several God Almightys, but he finally saw my side of the tale.”
“Which would be?”
Scott’s hand rested on his friend’s shoulder. “I was simply letting Sheriff Val Crawford do his job.”