California Killing (2 page)

He and his beefy companion left no doubt what was meant by this, each stepping to the side, out of the line of fire should a barrage of shells crash through the stage.

"Out gents," Dayton instructed, stepping up close to the stage. He was a thin, gangling man of about thirty with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes flecked with glints of evil. His partner a youthful Mexican, came up beside him and both rested rifle muzzles on the window sills.

"All right, all right;" a man agreed nervously. "Nothing's worth getting killed for."

The left hand door of the stage opened and a short, very thin man clutching a bulky valise came out quickly, stumbled on the steps and almost sprawled into the mud. But he managed to remain upright and came to an abrupt halt as Hood's rifle prodded into his middle. He stood transfixed, his mouth working soundlessly as, he stared into the cold, unwavering bug-eyes of Hood.

"Bad trip from first to last, drummer," Hood drawled. "Just go and stand to the left."

The man, dressed in a grey business suit and matching derby already stained dark by the teeming rain, shook his head.

"Photographer," he corrected.

"What?"

The passenger stepped to the left and raised his valise. "Camera equipment, Mr. Hood. Photographer. Not a salesman."

Hood sneered and motioned with the Spencer. "Don't reckon I like 'em any better than salesmen. Back up, punk."

As the trembling photographer took up the position demanded and stared hypnotically down at the dead driver, another man emerged from the stage, slow and cautious in his movements. His right leg was stiff and it swung out to the side as he walked. He was about sixty well and expensively dressed in a pale blue suit, red vest
and bootlace tie. He carried a folded topcoat.

"All right if I put this on?" he asked evenly as the six men from the barricade moved in to form a half circle around the side of the stage.

"What's the length?" Hood demanded.

The man laid the edge of his hand against his knee. "About there."

"Nice coat," Hood said. "Ain't my style, though. Too short. Wear it if you want. Over there." He waved the rifle and the man limped across to join the photographer, who seemed grateful for the company.

"Sorry, sir," Judd called from atop the stage. "Wasn't nothin' I could do."

"It's all right, Mike," the lame man answered calmly as he shrugged into the coat, turning up the collar. He had a rough-hewn face and crinkled eyes. His grey eyebrows matched the color of his sparse hair.

A snarl erupted from Hood. "Nobody says nothin' unless I tell 'em. You, king of the goddamn castle. Get down here. Odds are the same."

Judd began to climb down, keeping his left arm raised. "Last one on the way, Senor Sam," the Mexican called as a third passenger emerged from the stage.

He was taller than any other man in the rain-washed gully, reaching a height of six feet three inches. On such a frame his near two hundred pounds looked almost spare. His face was lean with the structure and complexion of a part Mexican: at odds with the clear, light blue eyes. Framed by thick black hair hanging to the shoulders, it was a face that might be considered either handsome or ugly - but always exuding a threat of potential cruelty. He was dressed all in black, from low-heeled shoes to shallow crowned hat, his clothes old and ill cared for. By contrast, the Colt.44 in a tied-down holster on his right hip had the dull sheen of loving care. For several moments nothing was said as the third passenger stepped down from the stage and moved across to stand beside his fellow travelers. But there was an almost tangible tension in the air and the eyes of every hold-up man followed him, sensing an affinity with evil.

"Okay, let's move!" Hood barked suddenly, the words sending Judd scuttling the final few yards to stand beside Dexter. "Kilroy, get their guns. Dayton, see about the rate for the job."

As Dayton climbed into the stage, the Mexican youngster scrambled up to unfasten the baggage from the roof. Four men moved in close to the passengers and pressed rifle muzzles against their backs. The beefy man moved away from Hood's side and passed in front of the captives like a reviewing general, confiscating weapons. The half-breed and Judd turned their holstered hips towards Kilroy. Dexter unbuttoned his topcoat and jacket and offered an ivory-gripped derringer from his vest pocket: the photographer claimed he had no gun, but Kilroy frisked him quickly and expertly to make sure.

Hood watched operations closely, his bulging eyes flicking from passengers to stage and back again, like those of a predatory bird. As baggage began to thud into the sodden ground, he nodded to three men who moved forward quickly and started to open the pieces. There was a mailbag, two valises belonging to Dexter and one to the photographer. Their contents were emptied out into the mud and caked boots drove into the piles.

"Ain't nothing but threads, Sam," a man with a cast in his left eye reported angrily.

"And none too clean, neither," Hood replied with a scowl. "Drummer's holding his bag real tight."

"My equipment," the photographer exclaimed, jerking back his valise as Kilroy reached for it.

The beefy man snapped up his rifle and rested the muzzle In the V of the photographer's jacket lapels. "Blast him, Sam?" he asked laconically.

"I warned you, drummer," Hood roared.

"I'm sorry!" the photographer whined, and thrust the valise forward.

Dexter and Judd eyed the trembling man sadly. The half-breed shook his head and made a clicking noise in the back of his throat.

"Man apologized," Hood muttered, "Give him a chance. But he so much as breathes too loud, give it to him. Low down. What's in the bag?"

Kilroy sighed his disappointment and lowered the rifle. He took the valise, set it down in the mud and snapped open the clasp. The photographer looked on in melancholy resignation as rain poured into the valise. Kilroy stooped and rummaged inside.

"Nothing but junk," he reported. "Black box and some paper and some glass squares."

"Hell, this looks like a real bust!" Hood snarled in disgust and spun towards the stage. "Hey, Dayton? You sure there ain't a broad in there? Or you just keeping out of the rain?"

"Pay dirt!" Dayton exclaimed in high excitement as he emerged from the doorway and leapt to the ground. He clutched an open satchel. "Hid under the seat, Sam. Ain't nothing else in there, but I don't reckon it's needed."

Hood did not drop his scowl until he had accepted the satchel from Dayton and peered inside it. Then a broken-toothed grin spread across his features and set light to his eyes for a moment. But then this was gone and suspicion replaced it as he glared across at the passengers.

"Which one?"

"It's mine," the one with the limp said, his lips hardly moving.

"How much?"

"Fifty thousand."

This response drew whistles and hoots of delight from among the hold-up men. Hood's face remained wooden. He looked back at Dayton, whose happiness at his find had taken on a frozen quality.

"I opened it to see, Sam," he stammered: "Just to see. I didn't take nothin' out."

Hood nodded. "I went to school. I can count. I will count."

"What about the pocket money, Sam?" Kilroy asked as Hood fastened the satchel.

"Make 'em shell out," Hood instructed. "You figure anyone's holdin' back, strip him. You find anythin', blast him. Low down. Rest of you men, clear the trail. Damn rain's killin' me. I need a stage ride to dry off."

As some of the men moved to the front of the stage, Hood went to sit on the steps, clutching the satchel to his chest and grimacing as he rubbed his right thigh. Kilroy tucked his rifle into the crook of his arm, picked up one of the emptied valises and held it open in front of the photographer.

"All donations gratefully received," he said brightly.

"But not anonymously," Hood called as the photographer began to empty his pockets of money and personal effects to drop into the bag.

"Names."

"Justin Wood," the photographer murmured as Kilroy moved on to the next man.

A few crumbled bills, some loose change and a tobacco pouch went into the valise. "Mike Judd." The voice held just a hint of defiance.

"Elmer Dexter," the well-dressed man announced after depositing a fat bill-fold, a gold watch and a cigarette case in the bag.

The fourth passenger unbuttoned his shirt and delved inside to bring out a block of bills. His eyes, cold and steady, caught and held those of Kilroy as he let the money fall into the valise. "I'd like to keep my tobacco and matches," he said softly.

"Generosity's my middle name," Kilroy said as he turned away.

"Obliged."

"Name?" Hood demanded as he accepted the valise from Kilroy.

"They call me Edge."

The protruding eyes were caught and captured by Edge's stare. "Funny kind of name."

"Funny kind of world," came the easy response. "My bankroll was two and a half grand."

The cold blue eyes, narrowed to slits, flicked from Hood to Kilroy. The latter realized the inference and snapped up his rifle to the aim.

"Hold it!" Hood growled. "He's funning. Funny man with a funny name in a funny world. I like that."

"He's a barrel-load of laughs," Kilroy muttered, lowering the rifle. The four men who had been covering the passengers now moved away to help remove the cacti from the trail. Kilroy, Dayton, and the Mexican watched Hood as the thick-set little man sorted through the contents of the valise, his bug eyes alight with greed.

"Don't be a fool, Mike!"

Chapter Two

D
EXTER'S
high-pitched warning, scythed through the silence. Every man in the gully whirled to stare at Judd, in time to see him drag a long-bladed, short-handled knife from inside his left boot. For the next instant, Judd was the only man to move - bringing up his arm and throwing it forward in one smooth action, to send the knife spinning towards Hood.

But then Kilroy was galvanized into action, swinging the rifle to his shoulder, squinting along the barrel and squeezing the trigger. The crack of the shot and the clash of the bullet hitting the blade were one inseparable sound. The knife angled to the side and then down. A moment later it was buried to the hilt in the soft earth.

"Oh my!" Justin Wood exclaimed.

Kilroy swept the rifle around to cover Judd, who allowed his shoulders to fall in dejected acceptance of his fate.

"Low down, Sam?" Kilroy hissed.

"Dumb move," Edge muttered to nobody in particular.

"At least he tried," Dexter snapped in disgust.

"Give me the word, Sam," Kilroy pleaded.

Hood did not reply for several moments and the hiss of the falling rain and the rushing of the countless tiny rivulets it formed were suddenly very loud. Then:

"Bring the punk over here."

Dayton and the young Mexican moved in to flank Judd, then clasped his arms and frog-marched him across to the stage. Hood hauled himself to his feet, his ugliness awesome in his fury. Fear stiffened Judd's muscles and set a tic working in his stubbled cheek.

"Hands on the wheel," Hood ordered.

Judd moaned, resisted for a moment and. then gave way to the inevitable as his captors urged him towards the rear wheel of the stage. They held a wrist each and laid his hands, palms down, on the muddy iron rim. Hood leaned the Spencer against the steps and drew an English Tranter from under his frock coat as he halted beside Judd.

"You tried to kill me, mister," he said conversationally. Then he tossed the revolver in the air and caught it by the barrel Time seemed to stand still as he raised his arm. Then it fell with a tremendous force, smashing into the back of Judd's left hand.

Judd screamed. The blow made a splatting sound and sent a spray of blood over the side of the stage.

"I don't like that too well." As he spoke again, Hood raised the gun and brought it down, straight-armed for extra length. Judd gave a strangled gasp of agony and Dayton snarled in disgust as blood from the broken right hand splashed on to his shirt.

"Oh, my," Justin Wood whispered.

Dexter took a step forward but halted abruptly when a rifle muzzle rammed into the small of his back.

Edge sucked on his teeth.

"Over a fraction," Hood said softly as Judd screwed up his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to subdue his low moans of pain. Dayton and the Mexican tugged gently at Judd's hands, which moved limply across the wheel rim so that the fingers were splayed. The Tranter rose and fell at a furious speed, the sickening crack of each knuckle followed by a high-pitched scream. Pulsing blue veins stood out on the victim's brow and in his neck, like twisted cords against the livid flesh. Blood from torn flesh dripped to the ground to tinge a score of tiny water runs. Fragments of splintered bone rode the rushing red water.

As the final blow struck home, leaving the little finger of Judd's left hand hanging by a sinew, Wood gasped and pitched forward into unconsciousness. He was ignored as he lay still in the mud. Hood stepped back.

"Let him go," he instructed.

As the captors released him, Judd stumbled forward against the wheel and turned to lean against it, his useless hands swinging at his sides, dripping blood on to his pants. His eyes were floating in a sea of pain as he made a tacit plea for help. Hood spun the Tranter in the air, caught it by the butt and stepped up close to the injured man. Judd closed his eyes tight, resigned to the thud of a bullet.