Don't Close Your Eyes

Chapter 11 – The Maverick I Found

"What?" He couldn't have heard correctly. Could he?

"I said I was hired to kill you."

"Then why did you shoot Bret?" He was lucky he could talk; that was the last answer he'd expected.

"I didn't know there were two of you. I was hired to kill Maverick. He's the one I found."

Of course. Bret was visible, in San Francisco. Bart was trying to stay alive on a ranch in Carson City. My God, it really was his fault. All his fault. Bret almost died because Jason Miller shot the wrong man.

That didn't answer the question, however; but the question had changed. Who wanted him dead bad enough to hire a contract gunman?

"Who hired you?"

Miller looked at the rifle, so temptingly close in its scabbard. "Don't you know?"

'Would I be here talking to you if I did?' he thought. "Just answer the question."

"I don't know."

"What does that mean? How could you not know?"

"Gettin' hired isn't always face-to-face. Sometimes arrangements are made without knowing whose doing the buying. Like this time. Don't know who wanted you dead."

"Then how – "

"Got a letter in the mail. Then a message. Then money. That's all I know."

"Where did the letter come from?"

"Whoever wanted you dead."

This was getting him nowhere fast. "Where was it sent from?"

"Lincoln, Nebraska. But the message came from Austin. And the money came from here."

Lincoln? Austin? Kansas City? He tried desperately to figure out who could have been in all those places. "Wired here?"

"I'm gettin' tired of playing' this game, Maverick. Kill me or get outta the way."

Miller took a step towards him. Bart cocked the gun with no intention of shooting.

"Where was the money wired to, Miller?"

"Kansas State Bank. Five thousand dollars. You didn't come cheap, gambler."

Who spent that kind of money on a hired gun? And on a gambler? Who hated him that much? This man had almost killed his brother for nothing. A case of mistaken identity. And he didn't care. It was just a job gone wrong. He wasn't even worth a bullet.

"Come on. We're going to see the Marshal." Bart let the hammer back down slowly on the .45 and indicated the livery door. Miller wasn't moving.

"No. I've killed too many men. I'm not hangin' for it, so shoot me or let me pass."

"You're not leaving, Miller."

"Then I guess one of us has to kill the other one. Maybe I can get my job done this time."

The gunfighter, knowing he had no chance against a man whose gun was drawn, reached for his anyway and slid sideways while getting off a wild shot. Bart's weapon was still out and he shot back, hitting the target dead center. That quick and it was over. He'd started out wanting to kill the man, then realized he couldn't, and ultimately had to. And he still didn't know who wanted him dead.

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The Marshal of Kansas City had no quarrel with Bart's version of the events. Quite frankly he was glad to be rid of the hired gun; one less murderer to worry about. He wrote a quick report that Bart signed. It listed Jason Miller's cause of death simply as 'shot to death in gunfight.' Enough said.

Now there was only the slimmest thread of a lead. He went back to the livery and laid claim to Miller's horse, determined to find the man who'd hired the gunslinger. Kansas State Bank was at the other end of town and he'd had his fair share of walking for the day. If this wasn't a dead end then maybe there was still some trail to follow. It all depended on what information the bank had for him.

Not much, as it turned out. He went right to the bank manager and explained the wire transfer made sometime in the previous 90 days. All he could give them was the amount and the point of origin. They were able to find the date of the wired funds, but there was still no name attached to the transfer. Instead the transaction had been made to the Austin bank from a bank in Topeka. That was all the information available from the Austin bank. If Bart wanted to know anything more he'd have to contact the Topeka bank.

He went to the telegraph office to send a wire to the Topeka bank asking if they could provide any further help. He got no answer. Since patience wasn't always one of Bart's greatest virtues he packed, checked out of the hotel, reclaimed the ownerless horse at the livery and set out for the Kansas town. Riding all night got him to Topeka by morning but he was tired and saddle sore when he arrived. Since it was too early for the bank he found a hotel and a room, expecting to grab a few hours' sleep. Instead fatigue and worry overwhelmed him and he slept for most of the day. By the time he finally woke up he was too late to reach the bank and was forced to spend another night in Topeka.

With nothing to do but wait until the morning there was always his true mistress, poker. Bart found the Kansas Hawk Saloon and a poker game. And a girl named Cindy Jo who didn't want anything from him but his time and attention. She got both.

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The next morning he was at the Topeka bank as it opened. He had to go through the whole story again, omitting the reason he wanted to know who the money came from. This bank manger was a woman, and Mrs. Anderson was a lot more helpful than she had to be. The original bank transfer had come from Lincoln, Nebraska over four months ago and went to Austin, then Topeka, and had been sitting at the Topeka Bank waiting for further transfer instructions. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that the payment was hard to trace. Mrs. Anderson assured him that the Lincoln bank was the point of origin and they could tell him who'd wired the money. The only problem was he had to go there in person to get the answer.

He'd had enough of horses for a while and took the stage instead. The trip was a true test of how well his body had finally healed and he was encouraged to find that he handled the coach ride with only minor problems. Once again it was too late to check at the bank upon arrival; another hotel room and another evening spent playing poker. This time there was no Cindy Jo at the end of the night, just sleep.

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Would this really be the end of the search? Was he finally going to know who wanted him dead? And if he knew who, would he know why?

He was awake at dawn and had no reason to be. The bank wouldn't be open for hours and there wasn't that much coffee in the world, so he lay in bed and tried to retrace his steps for the last several months. When that yielded no results he went back even further and still had no answers. Had he killed anyone? No, no one but Jason Miller, and he'd been forced into that. Broken anyone's heart? Besides his own, that is? None that he could think of. Gotten caught in any of his so-called friends schemes? No, unless you counted . . . . no, that was family, not friends. Cheated anybody? Not unless they cheated him first. Made any enemies? Now there was a possibility. You just never knew who might get upset with you over poker. But to pay someone five thousand dollars to kill him? That was too big an enemy, even for him.

He was lost. He couldn't think of anyone that wanted him dead that bad. Not one person.