A Dangerous Man by William W. Johnstone Page B

biding his time.
    â€œI’m taking over this town between now and the spring thaw, Sullivan,” Longley said. “You catching my drift?”
    â€œIt ain’t difficult to figure out.”
    â€œThen you stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours. Can I say fairer than that?”
    â€œSure. But step on my toes and I’ll take a side.”
    â€œHell, Sullivan, there ain’t no sides. You don’t give a damn for this dung heap.”
    â€œYou’re right about that. But if another bullet is fired in my direction, I’ll come looking for you, Bill.”
    â€œFairer words was never spoke,” Longley said. “Ain’t that right, Booker? Oh, I plum forgot, you’ve been struck dumb.”
    Tate glared at Sullivan, the hate in his eyes a burning thing.
    â€œWell, live and let live, I always say.” Longley stuck out a hand. “Let’s shake on it, Tam.”
    Sullivan stared at Longley’s outstretched hand for a full second, then walked past him into the hotel.
    Tate made a strange eee, eee, eee sound in his throat. “Bill, I want to kill that man real bad.”
    Longley looked at him. “Be patient, Booker. Your time will come.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
The Fat Lady Sings
    Lashed by wind, snow, and sleet, the open overloaded wagon trundled south from Cimarron, the settlement that marked the cutoff from the old Santa Fe Trail. To the west, the wagon and two harnessed mules were dwarfed by the massive, jagged bulk of the Tooth of Time Ridge and beyond that, hidden by lowering clouds, the tall peaks of the Cimarron Mountains.
    â€œThis is gonna be another wild goose chase, Helga,” the man at the reins yelled to the fur-wrapped woman sitting in back. He’d raised his voice above the roar of the wind.
    â€œSure is,” agreed the man beside the driver. “Crow Wallace ain’t around here. He’s probably in Old Mexico by now.”
    Helga Eckstrom wailed, shook her head and set her yellow pigtails flying. “I must find my darling Crow. He needs his Helga now more than ever before.”
    â€œHell, he could even be hung by this time, Helga,” the driver said.
    She shrieked, a significant sound from the throat of a three hundred and fifty pound woman. “Don’t you dare say that, Dan Culp. I know my Crow is alive and waiting for me.”
    Culp and the man next to him exchanged glances.
    â€œWhat do you think, Jack?” Culp said. “Is it a go or are we turning back?”
    â€œDon’t whisper!” Helga screamed. “I can’t hear you when you whisper.”
    â€œWe ain’t whispering, Helga,” Culp said. “We’re planning a route.”
    â€œIt’s over there! The man in Cimarron said it’s over there!” The woman jabbed a fat forefinger at the Tooth of Time Ridge.
    â€œWe can’t go over them peaks, and the passes are blocked, damn it all, Helga,” Culp said. “We got to keep on this heading then swing west at Rayado Peak.”
    â€œThe man said it’s over there! Over there!” Helga wailed. “Over there!”
    Culp drew rein and turned in the seat, a white maelstrom of the snow cartwheeling around him. “Helga, the damned ridge rises near two and a half thousand feet straight up,” he yelled. “God Himself couldn’t get a wagon and two worn-out mules over that.”
    â€œBesides, there ain’t no towns in this wilderness south of the Turkey Mountains,” the man called Jack said.
    â€œOver there! Over there!” Helga shrilled. “It’s over there!” Her round face was bitten by cold, her cheeks like two red apples in a pink ceramic bowl. One of her pigtails had become undone and strands of her hair coiled and uncoiled in the wind like yellow snakes.
    Helga Eckstrom was twenty-six years old that winter, a schoolmarm by profession. Crow Wallace’s short visit to Cimarron a couple of months before