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It took not a minute's conversation between them before Homer Jackson realized he would have to kill his former friend before the dead eyed son of a bitch drew on him. Jackson thought something had gone wrong with him that he felt reluctance to shoot Frank before the situation became what a court of law would recognize as self defense. He must be getting old. Or it came from hanging around lawmen like Reid. Jackson had felt guilt and sorrow about putting down grievously injured horses. That's not what he felt about ridding the world of Frank Goodnight. Goodnight was a killer. Some part of the man was missing. Jackson had met guys like him, gunslingers who flourished on the frontier or in the police forces of the young United States.. During the war between the states those boys who liked nothing about farming except the slaughter of animals, discovered how much they enjoyed killing human beings. After the war they went west where they could practice their true calling. They'd kill anyone, sometimes for pay, sometimes over a card game, rarely over a woman. They didn't fall in love. They fell in lust, had to have anyone, female or male who caught their eye.
Jackson doubted that Frank's motive was really revenge for shooting William. Frank didn't care much for anyone. Years ago, it would have been no surprise to Jackson if he heard that Frank Goodnight dispatched his own brother for some real or imagined slight. There was no figuring the man but Jackson knew 'live and let live' wouldn't work in this situation. Best to stalk Goodnight, and shoot him with one of the trash guns available cheap and quiet in London. Soon.
Jackson feared for Caitlin. Frank would hurt her to hurt him. Frank that conscienceless fuck, had been looking for a reaction as he repeatedly mentioned Caitlin, and how taken Jackson was with her. Jackson deflected each comment. If Frank hurt Caitlin that would surely get back to Caitlin's father, who knew his attack dog so well. That crafty and cruel old man would put it together; he would torture Frank on the suspicion that he had hurt Caitlin. In their world it was an advantage to be a medieval son of a bitch.. Even Frank who was oddly impervious to pain, did not want to run afoul of Theodore Swift. As usual Jackson thought several steps ahead. Caitlin's father would lay out the facts and follow them. Fact one.Frank hated Homer Jackson. Fact two.Jackson was so smitten with Caitlin he was willing to risk Swift's wrath by stealing her away. Swift had to give that much to Homer Jackson, Matthew Judge, whatever the hell he was called these days. Ergo. If Caitlin were hurt it had to be Frank's doing to hurt Judge.
This day, at Leman street, as the paddy wagon disgorged the prisoners arrested at the Argentine shareholders' meeting , Homer saw Goodnight catch Reid around his neck and drag him to earth.
Goodnight snarled to the coppers to stay back or he'd snap his goddamn neck. Jackson knew that snarl. He'd seen Frank in action. The cops froze. Then Jackson announced himself, firing his .45 into the air. Goodnight favored spinal injuries The son of a bitch fed off the terror as his victim realized his body was no longer at his command. He'd done that to Dick Hobbs and to an engineer from the Argentine Line. Jackson gasped in horror and locked his face into a blank. He could not let Goodnight see what the prospect of Reid's death did to him. For someone so devoid of feeling, Frank was very good at perceiving feelings in others. He picked up all the tells; it made him a great card player; he was actually surprised, then furious if he didn't win.
To keep Goodnight from killing Reid on the spot, the police held themselves still at this not to be missed spectacle of Americans slaughtering each other. They'd arrest the survivor, then in a few days, watch him twitch at the end of a rope. Damned gunhappy savages. Americans would turn London into the OK Corral if you let 'em.
Jackson could see what would happen clearly as if it were already happening before his eyes. Goodnight would wrench Reid's neck. Reid's legs would go rubbery. His arms would fall dead limp He would feel nightmare terror as his body no longer worked, could not move, could not breathe. But Reid being Reid would be brave about it. He would not ask for mercy with whatever breath he had left. Goodnight would drop Reid to show all these coppers that their inspector was dying, no longer a power. Jackson could have wept. He was furious at himself. He had known he should kill Frank. Had he done it as soon as he realized that, Goodnight would never have touched Reid.
Goodnight was going to die anyway, either on the gallows or at the hands of coppers avenging Reid. He had to know that. Jackson could make no threat to top that.. No threat could persuade Frank to let Reid live. Jackson could, however, bribe him with the one thing that could tempt him.
"Let him go and you'll have a chance at me," Jackson said, all sweet reason. That was as good a deal as Goodnight was going to get, dying with the satisfaction that he ended Homer Jackson.
Jackson put his face into the smirky, infuriating, dropped-on-his- head too many times expression that drove cardplayers to distraction. Jackson played to the witnesses, giving 'em what they stayed to see - Americans at it again. He was showing off. That was a better cover than a poker face to conceal Jackson's frantic concern for Reid. Goodnight could read a pokerface. If he thought it would hurt Jackson to see the inspector die, Reid had only seconds to live. But Jackson's gambit worked. Frank released Reid. Jackson breathed a thank you to whichever gods oversaw gunfights and coldblooded murder.
Caitlin had the piece he'd given her. At Homer's direction she took it from her pocket, unloaded it except for one bullet and walked it to Goodnight. Didn't matter to Frank if Homer cheated and kept more than one bullet in his own revolver. One was all Frank needed. Then, Sweet Jesus, Jackson walked away giving Goodnight a shot at his back. Forget the stories you hear about gunslingers and honor. Shooting a man in the back is smart, if you mean to neutralize him. Draw on him when he's enjoying a good hand at poker, when he's hanging a picture, or in the privy. So Goodnight was perfectly fine with shooting Homer in the back but it would be more satisfying to shoot him, looking into his eyes, to outdraw him, leaving no doubt who was the better man. Oddly, both Frank and Caitlin thought it typical of Jackson to show off, pretending he was indifferent to the prospect of his own death. Jackson was ignoring Reid, but intensely aware him, and enjoying an afterwash of gratitude that he would not see Reid die at Frank's hands. Didn't matter if he bought that reprieve with his own life.
Then Jackson, rat clever, used his polished silver cigarette case to reflect weak London sunlight into Frank's eyes. Frank blinked but no matter. He had shot men in fog, and in sandstorms. Aim where you last saw your target then lead him a little. Your gun hand will know. Most of the time. Frank heard his shot clang off metal. He should have waited until Homer finished playing his game, but the lying lowlife cocksucker had faked him out.
Jackson, gun drawn, death incarnate, turned and went striding up to Frank, actually admiring the man's self possession at this moment. Frank was thinking 'come closer, just a step closer and I'll rip that gun out of your hand'.
But of course, Homer saw that and was teasing him with a possibility of escape. "You shouldn't have killed the kid.," Jackson said. He was reminding the police that they usually allowed and encouraged extrajudicial justice if one of their own was taken down. Jackson shot Frank in the forehead, much as he had killed Goodnight's brother. Dick Hobbs was avenged.
Jackson caught and held Reid's blue-eyed gaze Deep pool, those eyes. He resisted the urge to go to Reid and check the muscles of his neck, check the trachea for swelling. Had Goodnight done some damage, that Reid did not yet sense or show? Jackson wanted to say, 'I was not being a good cop, I did it because I could not see you die..' He was pretty sure Reid got it.
Then Jackson turned to Caitlin, offered her his arm and they took a turn around Whitechapel, walking off the adrenaline, letting their breathing slow, making goo goo eyes at each other as Americans will do at the most inappropriate times and places..