Call had been wondering which one of them Carter was going to charge when he finally lost his mind. To Call’s way of thinking, the danger was imminent. Berry was the likeliest target since he’d been speaking and his gun wasn’t easily drawn as it was partially covered by his jacket. But then Berry had been talking about something Laurel had told him, and that couldn’t have set well with the sheriff, so perhaps she was a better mark, especially taking into account her willowy frame.
Call drummed his fingers against his leather holster, hoping to pull Carter’s attention in his direction and remind the man of the threat of bloodshed. It didn’t work.
Carter drove forward on the balls of his feet, leading with his bent head like a charging bull. No one but Call was prepared for it, and even Call was a beat too late to stop Carter from ramming his head into Rooster’s chest. The older man toppled backward against the wall and the door, and the knob pressed hard into his rheumatic hip. He gave a pained cry and lost his grip on the Springfield as soon as Carter laid hands on it. Rooster’s hip gave way and he slid to the floor.
Carter stepped clear of Rooster’s feet and swung the butt of the rifle hard at Berry’s head. The Pinkerton detective went down to his knees and slumped to the floor. The blow’s recoil barely slowed Carter down. He swung the rifle over his head and brought the stock in hard contact with Laurel’s shoulder. The pain radiated all the waydown her arm to her fingertips. She dropped the gun she was drawing as her knees buckled.
Call ducked as the sheriff continued to wield the rifle butt above his head like a whirligig. When he missed connecting with Call, it set him slightly off balance. He staggered sideways but held fast to the rifle and brought it around again, this time narrowly missing Call’s chin when he reared back.
Call didn’t announce his intention to shoot. He didn’t shout a warning or bring attention to the Colt in his hand. He fired once. The sheriff staggered but didn’t fall or stop swinging. He came at Call again, this time aiming for the Colt. Call easily avoided the blow but it influenced his aim. Instead of catching Carter in the thigh, the bullet hit the sheriff squarely in the chest.
The momentum of the swinging rifle and the impact of the bullet pushed the sheriff off his feet. He fell back against the bed. It shook and shifted but ultimately provided Carter with a softer landing than he had given his opponents. Call appreciated the irony even if the sheriff couldn’t.
“Dead,” Call said softly. He holstered his weapon and held out a hand to Laurel. She shook out her fingers and then put her hand in his and let him help her to her feet.
“You’re sure?” she asked, looking past Call’s shoulder to the bed.
“Sure,” he said. “Rooster? You okay?”
“Bruised some. That’d be my pride I’m talking about.”
Laurel smiled because he meant her to. She left Call’s side to see to her mentor and friend. She hunkered beside him. “Can you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulders.”
Call let them struggle to their feet. It seemed important just then that they manage on their own, and when he was certain they were up and steady, he went to Berry’s side and bent over the man. Berry’s eyes were still closed, but he was breathing with a regular, if shallow, rhythm. Call cast a sideways look at Laurel.
“Is he really Pinkerton?”
Berry groaned but didn’t open his eyes. “I really am.”
“Huh. You ready to get up?”
“Maybe in a hundred years.”
“There’s no chance anyone here is kissing you, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Damn,” he said under his breath. “All right.” He put out a hand to stop Call from assisting him. “I can do this on my own.” Opening his eyes, he pushed himself into a sitting position. He remained there for more than a minute, getting his bearings and pressing a palm to the side of his head. “Damn, that hurt. Still does.”
Laurel asked, “How is your vision? Are you seeing double?”
“No. I’m good.” He got to his knees, then rose to his feet and stared at Carter’s body lying crossways on the bed. “Did you do that, Mr. Landry?”
“Call. Please. Yeah, I did that. Didn’t plan to kill him, though. He struck me and it changed my aim. I shot him in the arm first, but I’m not sure he felt it. Meant to hit him in the thigh the second time. You can see that didn’t work out.”
Berry nodded. “What did you get out of him before Miss Morrison and I got here?”
“Not as much as I would have liked. He denied everything. The closest he came to a confession was when he told all of us that Pye and Desiree were going to split the money and cut him out. You heard how he took that back.”
“Did I?” asked Berry. He touched his temple. “That blow to my head. My memory’s a little vague on that count. I remember the confession, but after that...” He shrugged. “No. Nothing’s coming to me.”
“It’s odd,” said Laurel, “but I’m not recalling what the sheriff said after his confession either.”
“Same here,” Rooster said. “Darndest thing.”
Call felt their expectant gazes settle on him. He knew what they wanted. He wanted it, too. “Huh,” he said after a while. “Maybe I got it wrong.”
Berry asked, “Do we know where the money is?”
Laurel answered. “Call and I think that Carter turned most of it over to the Hammersmiths.”
