'People like you to be something -

preferably what they are.'

John Steinbeck

DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART

10

It was amazing how swiftly Warwick's silent presence became an integral part of the household. Within twenty four hours, no-one except Reuben Bradley thought anything of the lean, dark shadow who accompanied Nathaniel Sherman or Catherine virtually everywhere – and Bradley was mainly thinking of his own situation vis-a-vis both uncle and niece. It was probably this uncertainty which made him try to assert the privileges of his entrenched position in the household. He was particularly unwise to have chosen to do this, since rumour had already reached them of an altercation outside the Frobisher mansion in which Warwick had cut up another man who, he considered, had been making a nuisance of himself to the lady of the household. The red-headed victim had been drinking heavily around town, to the accompaniment of the story of how he got the three parallel cuts on his left cheek.

Bradley was, however, always confident of his own ability to control and direct any violence he was involved in. Besides, he was relaxed and off-guard in the familiar surroundings of the Sherman household and the poker game.

The game had lasted well into the small hours and the air was hazy with whisky and smoke. The players were, by mutual agreement, enjoying some minutes of apparent relaxation, although actually none of them were dropping their guard or losing the predatory tension which was fuelled by their desire to win. This made it doubly unfortunate when Bradley leant across the table and picked up Warwick's silver cigar-case, from which the owner had just extracted and lit one of the small, black cigars which did not smell quite like anyone else's. The temperature of the room plummeted abruptly – or seemed to. If that rattlesnake had been dropped into the middle of the table, it could not have caused a stronger desire in most of the players to retreat as far as the walls would allow them.

Not so Bradley, who said with a smirk, "You could hand them round."

"I could. I don't."

Bradley was undeterred by the freezing tones and biting edge with which the reply was delivered. "Oh come on, now, Caine," - he laid his hand, palm up, on the table, expecting the requested cigar to be placed in it - "You're new here. Learn manners from the company you're in!"

There was a swift blur of movement, a soft but sickening thud and a scream from Bradley, whose hand was now skewered to the table by a slim, razor-sharp knife.

"No-one calls me Caine unless they've earned it!" Warwick watched the man writhe for a few moments before jerking his knife free, He wiped it thoughtfully on an immaculate handkerchief and returned it to his belt. "It's Mr Warwick to you."

He stood up, his dark eyes narrowed into a challenge which none of the company felt like taking up. Then he turned to his host and said politely, "I appear to have damaged your furniture, Mr Sherman." He pushed his winnings across the table. "I trust this will be sufficient for a replacement? Good evening, gentlemen." He accorded them a slight bow, picked up his cigar-case and strolled silently out of the room.

It was a measure of Warwick's status that Bradley's protests about his behaviour got short shrift from his employer. It was precisely the kind of situation which amused Nathaniel. He had no objection to someone else taking down any of his more dangerous employees, provided it did not permanently impair their usefulness. "You asked for it. What did you expect him to do?" was his only comment. The following day, however, he ventured to raise the subject with the perpetrator, as they were lounging on the veranda at the back of the mansion, enjoying coffee and brandy after a substantial mid-day meal.

"Thank you for your contribution to the household maintenance last night, Warwick. I fear you overpaid me somewhat."

The young man appeared to think about this before he replied: "There is always a price to pay for freedom of action."

"As Rueben has discovered!" A cruel smile of enjoyment hovered briefly over the older man's lips and he saw it reflected in Caine Warwick's eyes. After savouring the moment, Nathaniel continued, "Nevertheless, I have a certain fondness for retaining the members of my household intact. I'd be grateful if you would bear this in mind, should you feel moved to further actions of a similar kind."

"In that case, it was careless of you to lose a nephew."

Nathaniel shrugged. "Matthew Sherman was a visitor – a very temporary one."

Warwick leaned forward and helped himself to another brandy. "Is that meant to be a warning?"

"Hardly. I doubt very much if you would follow in his footsteps – or perhaps I should say, in his hoof-prints."

This caused Caine Warwick to raise his eyebrows. He seemed to be thinking through the implications and then laughed and said "You're not telling me he was in league with the devil?"

"Oh, quite the contrary." Nathaniel found this mightily amusing. "He is, or rather was, a most upright and respectable young man, as you heard at the funeral."

"Upright, respectable - and stupid, if he ended up in a coffin!"

"None of which qualities are yours, Mr Warwick." Nathaniel was watching the responses of his companion closely.

"Nevertheless, you'd better tell me how he met his end – I'll take extra care to avoid it!" Warwick seemed amused, but Nathaniel sensed a challenge and a desire in the words. This man wanted to know how far he was trusted.

"The explanation is simple. He took the Devil's Leap."

"The devil he did!" Warwick was still amused. "And what exactly does this leap involve?"

"A challenge between young men. There is a place on the river, a steep drop above a waterfall. Young men hereabouts are accustomed to ride down the cliff and jump the river – proving their manhood – at least, they think is does."

Warwick looked both weary and contemptuous. "As if that would prove anything! Presumably he did not succeed?"

"His horse foundered on the far bank. He fell into the river and he was drowned."

"He was engaged to your niece. You made no attempt to stop him?"

"My dear Warwick, young men do as they please! I really cannot be my brother's, or in this case my nephew's, keeper!"

"And I suppose you shot the horse for failing too?"

"No, we sold it. It was well-bred and highly trained."

"Why waste money shooting it," Warwick agreed.

# # # # #

At dawn the next day, had there been anyone to observe, a lone horseman could have been seen approaching the precipitous drop above the river, known as the Devil's Leap. The black stallion moved towards the brink with a restive power which a swift gallop from the borders of town had done nothing to dissipate. Now, though, obedient to the iron will and skilful horsemanship of its rider, the horse paced deliberately to the very edge and halted, tossing his head with a deep snort. It might have been the stallion's comment on the potential course down the almost vertical drop and over the narrow but deep channel through which the river foamed towards the fall. Easy to see a rider and even a horse would have virtually no chance if they fell into the unforgiving water.

Cain Warwick surveyed the scene of the tragedy carefully. He did not snort, but he might just as well have done. There were indications that one or two idiots had actually ridden down the cliff-like incline, but not nearly enough to suggest it was a local pastime, however daring the youth of the town were. At the bottom, there was a shelf on the edge of the river, sufficient for a horse to halt and be turned away from jumping the water – unless it was urged on by extreme recklessness. Warwick lit a cigar and smoked it thoughtfully as he considered the scene of the tragedy and what it implied. He was willing to bet a considerable amount that, although Nathaniel Sherman's household would contain witnesses, he would never succeed in contacting anyone else who had been with Matthew Sherman when he met his tragic accident.

Late the same day, a brief note passed through the hands of Li Chen's kin in the opium house. It said only: Alamo sold. Find him and buy him back! From then on, Caine Warwick began to look for a suitable opportunity to put into action the second part of his plan.

Before this, however, he was party to an interesting discussion between his host and Bradley over the situation in Laramie. Nathaniel had not attempted to conceal from his new guest that he was engaged in business which was intended, in the end, to give him a chain of key locations across the country, using the staging companies' infrastructure. Quite what he intended to do with these bases he had not so far revealed, but he was seriously considering taking the man into his confidence. His estimate of Caine Warwick was that the man was a skilful and deadly antagonist as well as one who, both by reputation and by his actions so far, was ruthless and unscrupulous in pursuit of his own ends. The irony of this assessment would not strike him until some time later.

That day there was company dining with them at the mid-day meal and afterwards they were all sitting in the drawing room as Catherine dispensed coffee to the company. If her eyes strayed from time to time in the direction of the armchair occupied by Warwick, she was perfectly content for him to notice it. If he did, he gave no indication of the fact. The company were discussing a forthcoming horse race and various people were trying to persuade Warwick he should enter the black stallion and enliven the competition, which was mainly local.

Warwick shook his head. "I have nothing to prove. Least of all to the local population."

Just then the butler approached Nathaniel, bearing a letter on a silver tray. Nathaniel took it, read it through and turned a forbidding gaze on Bradley, who was holding forth about the excitements of the race. "I'll speak to you about this later." It was not until the guests had departed and there was no one left but those who were under Nathaniel's control that he turned once more on his employee: "I thought you said you had got rid of that ranch-hand, Harper?"

Bradley grinned. "We made sure he'd never want to hear the name Sherman again!"

"Never mind what he wanted to hear – if he was dead, he couldn't hear anyway!"

"Dead?" Bradley was beginning to look distinctly sick in the realisation that he and his boss were at cross-purposes. "Who said anything about him being dead?"

"I did, you fool! It's not enough to get rid of the other one – Harper has to go as well. But this report says your men lost track of him in Denver."

"He was heading for Texas, like a dog with his tail between his legs," Bradley protested.

Nathaniel grated his teeth. "I wanted a dead dog, not a missing one! Obviously my orders were not clear enough. You were supposed to kill Harper and make sure his death was public enough for there to be no argument about it. He's a gunman. It ought to have been simple to stage!"

Bradley's voice trembled. "He's deadly fast – everyone says so. But we sent him off on his travels without any ammunition."

"He's ammunition enough to destroy our plans on his own, even without the gun. Now get out there and find him! And make sure this time someone sufficiently competent kills him."

"He's disappeared completely!" Bradley had taken the trouble to make sure he knew this. "We'll try, Mr Sherman, but –"

Nathaniel stepped up close to him and said in low but deadly tones: "You'll do more than try. You'll succeed. Otherwise I may just have to ask Mr Warwick here to use some of his persuasion on those who fail."

Bradley shot Warwick a look which combined intense dislike and fear in equal proportions. He nodded his acquiescence to Nathaniel and left the room abruptly. The door closed behind him with what would have been a bang, had he dared.

Nathaniel allowed himself a mirthless chuckle. Then the low voice of Caine Warwick addressed him: "You take a risk in assuming my willingness to reinforce your orders."

"My dear Warwick, forgive me. It was just so tempting after the other night!"

Warwick raised the glass of brandy he held and drank a silent toast to his host. "Just as long as you remember that I make the decisions about anything I'm involved in."

"But of course. I promise I won't involve you in anything which is not to your advantage."

"I never do anything that is not guaranteed to create an advantage."

"Then you must decide whether it is to your advantage to accompany me this evening," Nathaniel smiled and, as the young man raised an enquiring eyebrow, he went on, "I'm paying a visit to the bank.

# # # # #

"It seems bank employees in St Louis keep late hours!" Warwick remarked sardonically as they made their way down a side-alley leading to the back-yard of the bank. A solitary light was glimmering fitfully in one window, suggesting a single candle was its source.

This proved to be the fact when Nathaniel tapped quietly on the back door and they were admitted by a worried looking man in the stiff, formal garb of a senior bank clerk. He was somewhat reassured to see Mr Sherman was accompanied by his beautiful niece, as well as several of the men who worked for him. This was definitely an error.

"I'm sure you know what I want, Mr Saunders," Nathaniel began without greeting as he and his party swept into the back office. "A man in your position doesn't get paid a lot, but work with me and I think I can guarantee a substantial rise in income." He seated himself at the desk without asking and folded his arms with an air of patience, for the moment taking no further part in the proceedings.

Catherine smiled at Saunders. "Think of all the pretty things you would be able to give your wife, if only the bank weren't so meagre in paying you!" She herself exemplified the use of pretty things to enhance her appearance.

Saunders shook his head in nervous denial. "Milly knows exactly what I earn. She'd want to know where the money came from."

Catherine gave a silvery laugh. "Poor Mr Saunders! Are we to conclude that you are hen-pecked?"

A look of rectitude replaced the rather foolish expression on the man's face. "Total confidence between man and wife is the foundation of marriage, Miss Catherine!" Then, hastily, as he remembered her mourning status: "I am only too sorry you have not had the chance to find that out."

"Matthew and I told each other everything." Catherine smiled until she added, with a sudden hardening of tone, "Just as I'd like you to tell me everything, Mr Saunders."

"W-w-what kind of thing?" Saunders looked like a silly chicken about to be slaughtered by a raiding fox.

"Like the schedules for deliveries of cash to the branches this bank supplies."

"S-s-s-schedules?" Saunders had gone white and was stuttering so much he could hardly speak.

"And the exact method of delivery," she continued, "Oh, and the number of armed guards. That should do for our first attempt at total confidence."

"I can't! I daren't!" He was shaking violently.

"I think you can," Catherine assured him and her uncle added from his observer's seat, "Otherwise certain gambling debts will have to be called in."

"I'll be sacked!" the man bleated in panic. "If I'm sacked, I'll never be able to pay them off!"

"What a shame. Well, if you can't be swayed by reason, I'll have to leave you to other forms of persuasion. Gentlemen …" Catherine turned with a slight bow to her uncle's men and accorded him a small curtsey. "If you need me further, I shall be in the drawing room, awaiting the announcement of dinner. Do try not to be late, it does so annoy the cook."

The clerk proved to be made of sterner stuff than his foolish behaviour and ill-advised responses suggested. Crude methods of torture did not shake his resolve or wring any information from him. After a while of attempting these tactics, Nathaniel Sherman held up his hand and activity ceased, leaving the man gasping and writhing in the chair to which he was tied.

"Mr Warwick, would you oblige us?"

The dark man, who had been lounging disinterestedly in a corner, straightened up and moved towards the clerk as lightly and silently as a wolf stalking its prey. Suddenly there was a knife in his hand, a long thin blade, with a wicked curved point. He bent over the man, seized hold of his ear, twisted it hard and let the point of the blade jab into the soft lobe. Saunders screamed.

Warwick stood back and regarded him thoughtfully as blood from the ear poured down his neck and soaked his shirt. "I was beginning to think you did not mind being hurt, Mr Saunders. However, now we know you understand pain, I'd like to ask you a question."

Saunders appeared to gather his strength to resist any further attempts to extract information from him, but Warwick just said softly, "Do you have children, Mr Saunders?"

"Why, yes." Then the full implication of this question struck him. "No!" he screamed desperately. "No! You can't! You mustn't!"

"Really?" Warwick continued to look at him without any sign of emotion as his finger ran along the edge of the blade. He jerked his head in a silent signal to the man nearest the door. It opened and they could see a young boy of about ten struggling in the hands of another of Nathaniel's henchmen.

Warwick pushed the knife back into his belt and strolled through the door. He seized the boy by the hair with one hand, clamping the other across his mouth. "Not yet, little bird. Time enough for you to sing when I'm good and ready." He jerked his head again and the man in the yard went in to join his fellows.

Through the open door, Warwick looked back at Saunders, struggling futilely against his bonds. "Sometimes, Mr Saunders, our imagination is better at persuading us than mere brute force. It only takes a very little blade, you see, in the right place. Sometimes what you hear is more terrible than what you see."

With that he kicked the door shut and leaned against it, dragging the boy back with him. "Now, little bird, are you ready to sing?" The knife glimmered in the flickering candlelight from the window. Warwick bent very close and whispered in the boy's ear, "I'm not going to touch you with this, provided you can scream me the worst scream anyone has ever heard! Are you ready?"

In the office the piercing cry of a child in agony reverberated through the listeners and even the toughest of them wondered what Warwick had done to elicit such terror. Saunders slumped in a dead faint, but, once they had brought him round, there was no further trouble about sharing confidential information. Nathaniel was well pleased with his new recruit as they made their way back to the mansion, the waiting woman and a welcome dinner.

It was not until the following day that another message was passed through Li Chen's kin. This one said: Stamina and acting contributions of the Saunders family gratefully acknowledged.

Geographical note: apologies to St Louis for tinkering with the surroundings in the service of the narrative (unless I'm psychic and the Devil's Leap actually does exist!)