The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [66]
The air lightened a fraction, and the crescent moons painted on the doors of the vehicles glowed as if lit from within. The Asian man stepped closer.
“Of course. We are only too happy to … oblige. Is that not the word you Western people use? But before we go, please oblige us by letting us ask a question or two.”
Davis tucked the revolver into the waist of his khakis and laughed, leaning on the railing. “It’s your nickel,” he said. “But I sure hope you’re not expecting a cup of coffee while we have our little chat.”
Davis could laugh at anything. Once, while camping, a hungry black bear had stuck its head into their tent, snuffling around for food. Davis had let out a guffaw, then slapped the bear on the nose. Stunned, the beast had wandered away. But Mitchell hadn’t laughed then, and he didn’t laugh now. There was something about these men—even without being able to see their eyes—that made them look hungry. But maybe it was just that he knew a wolf when he saw one.
Mitchell raised his rifle. “I told your kind once to pack up their tricks and never come back. I meant it.”
Despite the rifle leveled at his chest, the dark-haired man stepped closer. “You misunderstood our company representatives, Mr. Favor. Ranching is a hard business—harder than ever these days, as I know you are aware. Were you not recently forced to take out a second mortgage on your property because of low cattle prices?”
Mitchell stiffened. How the hell did they know that?
The man spread his hands. “You see, we only wished to help.”
Davis snorted, his grin gone. “You mean like you helped Onica McKay?”
When Mitchell had gone to McKay’s General Store to buy his jeans, Onica had seemed oddly quiet as she rang up the sale. It was only a few days later, talking to one of the ranch hands, that they learned she had been unable to keep up her contracted payments, and that Duratek had assumed ownership of the store. Onica was now a minimum-wage employee at the business her great-grandfather had started. That was the kind of help Duratek offered.
The man gave a heavy sigh. “No one is sadder than we are when one of our arrangements does not work out. But a contract is a contract. I am sure, as businessmen, you must understand.”
Mitchell had had enough of this. “I told you I would never sign one of your contracts. Now—”
The pale-haired man lifted a hand. “No, no, Mr. Favor. It is not a contract with you we seek. We have had a chance to check the numbers on your little operation here. Our earlier offer was made in error and has been withdrawn. It is another contract we are interested in.”
“Please tell us,” the Asian man said. “Do you know a Mr. Travis Wilder? He was, until recently, proprietor of the Mine Shaft Saloon in Castle City.”
“What do you want with Travis?” Mitchell said, then winced. A glance from Davis told him what he had already realized; he had just told these men that he indeed knew Travis.
“You see,” the dark man said, “like Ms. McKay, Mr. Wilder signed a contract with us. However, some months ago he grew delinquent in meeting his contractual obligations. Then, conveniently, the Mine Shaft burned, and Mr. Wilder disappeared.”
“Died, you mean,” Davis said. The revolver was back in his hand.
The Nordic man shrugged. “That is one explanation. I doubt it is the true one.”
“You see,” the other continued, “we have reason to believe Mr. Wilder is not dead, that he arranged the destruction of the Mine Shaft in order to evade his financial responsibilities to our corporation.”
“That’s a lie,” Mitchell spat.
All the same, the words shook him. What if it were true? After all, Travis was alive. What if Travis had signed a contract with Duratek? Was that the reason he had not said where he was calling from?
The others must have noticed his reaction.
“Do you know something, Mr. Favor?” the black-haired man asked. “If you do, you should tell us now. You see, we can easily get a summons for a deposition. I am certain you know it is a crime to lie under oath. And you seem to be a lawful man, Mr.