The Killing Shot (11 page)

“What the hell is this?” McCutcheon stared at the paper, but then Peck yelled for his supper, and the giant marshal pitched the paper into the dirt.

With a groan, Reilly closed his eyes. When they opened, his heart skipped a beat. Jim Pardo had walked into the prison yard, and was bending over, picking up the paper.

Her lungs burning, Blanche Gottschalk slid down the ridge, causing a small avalanche of gravel. Behind her came curses, shouts. She dived behind a boulder resting at the bottom just as a bullet slammed over her head, splintering off the sandstone, blinding her with dust.

“Damn!” she cried.

She couldn't believe they were actually shooting at her.

“Don't shoot her, for Christ's sake!” It was the old woman, the one who dipped snuff. “Jim wants her alive, you blasted idiot!”

Thank God for that
, Blanche thought as she fiercely rubbed her eyes.

“I know that, Miz Ruby.” One of Pardo's men. “I'm just tryin' to get her to stop a-footin' it.”

A rifle roared again, kicking up a stone just an inch from her boot. Instantly, she drew up her feet, gripped her knees, and rocked back and forth.

She could see now, although tears blurred her vision. Her lungs weren't working so hard, but her heart pounded against her rib cage. She was in a valley of some kind, strewn with rocks and twisted juniper. She had no idea which way to run, but when she heard the gravel rolling down the ridge, she knew one or more of Pardo's men—maybe his damned mother—were on their way down. Blanche stopped rocking, shot to her feet, and cut a path away from her pursuers.

“Hell!” a man's voice said. “She's taken off ag'in.”

A bullet clipped a juniper branch as she ducked below it; then she turned to her right, seeking the shelter of another granite sphere. Her lungs ached. Sweat plastered her bangs across her forehead. She knew she couldn't wait, not with those men right behind her. Biting her lower lip, she churned ahead, finding a lone pine and bracing her back against it. She listened for voices, for footfalls, but heard only her heart and heaving lungs.

It was a forlorn hope. She was starting to realize this. She had no chance of escape. Even if she got away from Pardo's minions, what could she hope for? Apaches? Other bandits? A rattlesnake bite? Or the slow, torturous death in the desert, dying of thirst, baking in the sun?

“Hey, girlie!” The man's voice. She recognized it now. The one called Duke. “If you don't quit this foolishness, your ma'll pay.”

Blanche had thought about her mother when she lit out of camp. They wouldn't harm her. No, if they had any intention of molesting her mother, they would have done so long before now. Pardo had something else in mind for them.

“She'll pay dearly, kid.”

His voice sounded close. Off to her right. She wondered if she could get his rifle, a pistol. She could shoot. She didn't need that lawman, wasn't sure she even trusted him, what with him off hobnobbing with Bloody Jim Pardo, riding off to Wickenburg with The Greek. Nope, Blanche Gottschalk trusted only Blanche Gottschalk.

A twig snapped. Then nothing.

“You see her, Duke?” Another man's voice. Farther back, off to her left.

“I don't see nothin'.” Closer.

Blanche tried to still her heart. She braced herself against the pine. Waiting. She could hear him now, his heavy breathing, the chimes of his spurs, could practically picture him, not ten yards behind the tree.

“Kid?”

The voice almost caused her to jump, to cry out, it was so close. She heard his boot, felt his presence, saw the barrel of the Winchester inching its way beyond the tree. Heard Duke mutter an oath. Watched the barrel until she could see the walnut grip. Then, screaming like a wild demon, Blanche leaped, grabbing the Winchester with both hands, jerking as she dropped to the ground. The rifle roared, and Duke cried out, trying to keep his balance but being pulled downward. Blanche kicked out with her right foot, catching Duke full in the groin. His mouth fell open, tears welled in his eyes, and he gagged, releasing his hold on the rifle.

“Damn…you….”

She was scrambling to her knees, working the lever, turning and firing a shot at the charging footsteps. A second later, she was on her feet, jacking another round into the chamber, catching a glimpse of Duke's long arm reaching for her. She kicked at him, lowered the barrel, pulled the trigger.

“Jesus!” Duke yelled as the bullet slammed into the dirt inches from his face.

Another bullet thudded into the pine. She turned, cocking the Winchester, running, ducking underneath a low branch.

“She's got my repeater!” Duke cried out.

“Hell,” came a weary reply.

Her left foot twisted on a stone, sent her spilling, sent the Winchester clattering on the rocks. Blanche tried to stand, fell, grabbing the rifle, jamming the stock into the dirt, and pulling herself up. Her ankle ached. She glanced behind her, then looked ahead, saw another granite sphere. Lifting the Winchester, she limped toward it, took another quick look over her shoulder. No one. Not yet. She stepped around the rock, and a fist slugged her face.

The back of her head slammed into the rock, and she tasted blood as she slid to the ground. “Bitch,” a voice said. Rough hands ripped the rifle from her grip, and pitched the Winchester behind him.

Her lips had been split. A knot was already beginning to rise on the back of her head. She looked up to see a black wool coat disappear around the rock tower.

“I got her, you lame assholes.” A smooth hand shoved a nickel-plated Remington into a holster, and then two hands jerked her to her feet, shoved her against the granite, the forearm pressing against her throat.

“You try to run again, I'll kill you.”

She fought the forearm, couldn't breathe, but the arm pressed tighter.

“Wade.” Duke's voice. “Man, you're gonna choke her to death.”

“Easy, Wade.” Another voice. The one called Harrah. “Jim don't want her dead.”

The forearm pulled away, and Blanche dropped to her knees, breathing deeply, as if she couldn't get enough air. Blood dripped onto the ground.

“I don't give a tinker's damn what Pardo wants.”

Blanche leaned against the rock, feeling her throat with one hand, wiping her lips with the other, staring up at the three men.

“Well…” Duke started, but fell silent.

“Pardo's going to get us all killed,” Chaucer said. “You know what he plans on doing? You know why he went to Wickenburg?”

“I figure it had something to do with that dynamite man the woman and Mac read us about,” Harrah said.

“Yeah. That's exactly. Lacy told me. He's going to break Swede Iverson out of jail, and use him to rob that Army wagon train.”

“Well, that'll be a good thing,” Duke said. “We could use a good man.”

“An Army wagon train. For a bunch of Gatling guns.” Chaucer shook his head. “We'll need more than Swede Iverson to pull off a job like that. There's no money in that train, no payroll, just a bunch of firepower.”

“What's he want with Gatling guns?” Duke asked.

“Hell if I know. To start a war, rebuild his long-lost Confederacy. I'm sick of this whole thing.”

“Then why don't you leave?” Harrah asked.

“Don't push me, Harrah. I might just do that. And take Lacy with me.”

Duke cleared his throat. “Now, you best watch it, Wade. Lacy, she's the boss man's woman.”

“She's anybody's woman.” Chaucer spit.

“Better not let Pardo hear you say nothing like that,” Harrah said. “Or Ruby.”

Chaucer glanced down at Blanche, his face flushed.

“Now…” Again, Duke stopped.

“I've told you boys once, and I'll tell you again.” Chaucer looked at both men. “Riding with Jim Pardo's a fool's play. You saw what happened at the train. All that money gone. Burned up. We haven't had any decent money in eight or nine months. Living up here in this hellhole. And now we've got Apaches to worry about. I'm for lighting a shuck out of here, heading over to Tucson, or Tombstone, someplace where there's money. Whiskey. Women.”

Harrah cleared his throat. “You best watch it, Wade. Last time you started talking about such things, you almost got Pardo killed. Getting The Greek to miss them shots.”

Suddenly, Chaucer chuckled. “Yeah, lot of good that did us. But I don't recollect you boys trying to talk The Greek out of it. Hell, it almost worked, but I'm glad it didn't. I want to kill Jim Pardo myself.”

“Now that's foolish talk, Wade,” Duke said.

“Might be foolish, but it's not as stupid as riding with Pardo. Anymore.”

“I ain't comfortable listenin' to this kind of talk,” Duke said. “Let's get this girl back to her ma, get back to camp. Let's wait and see what happens with the boss man, see what he says when he and The Greek and Mac come back.”

Chaucer laughed again. “The Greek? He isn't coming back. Don't you boys realize that?”

Duke and Harrah gave him blank stares.

“He took The Greek into the desert to kill him. Payback for missing those shots. He knows why The Greek missed. So when he comes back, he'll be planning to kill me, too.”

“Pardo wouldn't do that,” Harrah said, but his voice trembled with uncertainty.

“Wait and see,” Chaucer said. He patted the holstered Remington. “But he'll find me a little tougher to kill.”

Duke shuffled his feet. “How you…how do you know that…that he was gonna kill The Greek?”

With a chuckle, Chaucer answered, “Lacy told me. Pardo told her.”

When Harrah and Duke looked at each other, the discomfort apparent in their faces.

Chaucer laughed harder. “I told you, boys. Lacy's anybody's woman.”

“You can get killed talking like that, Wade,” Harrah said.

“You can get killed riding with Pardo. No, you
will
get killed riding with Pardo. Maybe not, if you were to ride with me.”

The wind picked up, carrying the silence across the valley. Blanche just sat, silently, listening, bleeding, aching. Fear crept through her now. She recalled something the lawman—Reilly McGivern, her mother had told her was his real name—had told them:
You two need to keep in mind that right now Jim Pardo's keeping us alive. If Wade Chaucer had his druthers…

“Well,” Duke said, shifting his rifle from one hand to the other, “it might be nice, I mean, to be shun of these mountains, be in a town with some whores. Pardo, he drew on me, was gonna kill me back at the Southern Pacific tracks. He was gonna kill me for boilin' coffee. For nothin'.”

“He's crazy,” Chaucer said. “Crazy like his old man. Crazy like that bitch of a mother he has.”

“Maybe you're the crazy one,” Harrah said.

“Maybe I am.”

A longer silence followed.

“What would you do,” Duke said softly, “with her?” His jaw jutted toward Blanche. He wet his lips. “And her ma?”

Blanche frowned. Her heart jumped into her throat. She was thinking, just maybe, since they had forgotten about her, she might be able to sneak around the other side of that tall rock sphere, start running, hightail it out of here. Now that chance had evaporated.

Chaucer jerked the Remington from its holster, and he thumbed back the hammer, the barrel just an inch from Blanche's head.

“I should kill her right now. Be done with her.”

“You do that, Wade, and it'll be the last mistake you ever made.” Blanche's eyes found Ruby Pardo a few rods away, aiming her Winchester from the hip. “Jimmy wants her alive. I reckon we'll keep her that way.”

She could see pure hatred in Wade's eyes, see that Ruby's contempt of Chaucer in her own hardened face. Duke and Harrah stepped away, Duke going to fetch his rifle, Harrah just getting out of the way of any potential stray bullet.

Blanche breathed and bled.

Slowly, Chaucer lowered the revolver's hammer and shoved it violently into his holster. He turned. “I'm heading back to camp,” he announced. “Then I'm going on a scout. Check things out in the valley.” He tipped his hat at Ruby, adding, “Don't wait up, Miz Pardo,” before disappearing around the rock tower. Ruby Pardo took a few steps back, keeping the Winchester ready, until she was satisfied Chaucer was no longer a threat. Only then did she spit and lower the rifle barrel. She nodded at Blanche. “Help the child up, Harrah,” she ordered. “Let's get back to camp.”

Duke reached over, roughly pulled Blanche off the ground, shoved her against the rock. “I ought to tan your hide, kickin' me in the nuts like you done, stealin' my rifle.” He threatened her with a backhand, but Blanche knew he wouldn't strike her, knew that even before Ruby Pardo warned him not to touch the child.

He shoved her toward Ruby, and Blanche, still limping from her twisted ankle, walked toward the old woman, wondering how much of the conversation she had overheard.

Reilly hadn't time to think. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted town Marshal Thaddeus McCutcheon stepping over the chain. Spinning quickly, he gripped the chain in his manacled hands and jerked upward. The metal lifted off the ground, catching McCutcheon full in the groin, and he pitched forward in agony, pulling against the chain, bringing Reilly to his knees. The pot McCutcheon was carrying went flying, spilling sowbelly and beans everywhere.

“Get that deputy!” Reilly bellowed while he scrambled to his feet, and raced toward the fallen lawman.

McCutcheon was no amateur. He knew what was happening, and, despite spitting out saliva, his left hand holding his balls, face contorted in pain, his right drew the Smith & Wesson. Reilly lashed out with the chain again, watching the metal slam into the marshal's hand, ripping the gun from his grip.

“Henry!” The lawman managed to spit out the words, a desperate plea to his deputy.

Reilly didn't have time to look. He hoped, prayed, Jim Pardo was taking care of Henry Dunlap.

 

“What the—” Pardo started. He saw Mac jerk the chain, then bolt toward the fallen marshal, screaming something.

He hadn't planned this. Hell's fire, he had been enjoying himself, pretending to be a lawman, drinking on the Wickenburg Town Council's budget, getting good and roostered. He hadn't given any thought to Mac or Swede Iverson. Damned near had forgotten about both of them until them two law dogs left Miguel's Saloon saying they'd best go see to their prisoners.

Mac's movement quickly sobered him up.

He looked toward the Jail Tree, finding the deputy, Henry Dunlap, who had been gathering the two chains that had held those two drunk Mexicans. Dunlap, pretty much in his cups like everyone else in that posse, was slow to comprehend. Suddenly, the town law called out, “Henry!” And Dunlap dropped the chains and went for his revolver.

This is no good
, Pardo thought, and made three quick strides across the prison yard, pulling out his revolver. His first impulse was to shoot, but that would be no good. The shot would alert the town. Quickly, he spun the gun on his finger, grabbed the barrel, and swung the walnut grip at Deputy Dunlap's head. Dunlap looked confused as Pardo swung. Then he looked stunned as the butt smashed his head, knocking off his hat. The deputy dropped like a felled pine.

Turning, reversing the pistol, Pardo looked across the yard at Mac and the town marshal.

 

Reilly leaped onto McCutcheon, whose right hand went to his shoulder holster. The breath went out of McCutcheon's lungs when Reilly landed on his chest, but the lawman remained game, recovered quickly, frantic, and jerked an American Bulldog .44. The barrel was coming up, and Reilly's handcuffs slammed down, catching McCutcheon's forehead, cutting an ugly line just below his scalp, jarring his head into the rocky ground.

With a soft whimper, McCutcheon dropped the .44 and went still.

“What the hell are you doing?” Pardo bellowed.

Chest heaving, face dampened by sweat, Reilly rolled off the unconscious lawman, spotted Pardo standing above Dunlap's supine body. Barely, Reilly lifted his hands, tried to speak, but his lungs wouldn't let him just yet, and pointed at the ring of keys the deputy had dropped by the mesquite.

Pardo shot a glance up and down the streets, but they remained empty.

“This ain't what I had planned,” Pardo said.

“Keys,” Reilly managed. Still pointing. He craned his neck, saw Swede Iverson just standing and staring. Looked on the other side of the tree to find the stagecoach bandit named Peck doing the same.

Pardo shoved the Colt into the holster, dropped to a knee, and picked up the key ring, then hurried over to Reilly. He found a small key, and tried it in the leg iron. “You best hope this works,” he said.

It didn't.

The next one, however, did, and the iron bracelet unclasped, and dropped off Reilly's boot. Reilly held up his chained hands, and Pardo let the key ring fall, and fished out the key to the handcuffs from his vest pocket. When those fell free, Reilly turned, pried the .44 Bulldog from McCutcheon's right hand, and shoved it into his waistband before staggering to his feet.

Pardo had grabbed the keys, and strode over to Swede Iverson.

“Your name Iverson? Swede Iverson?” he asked.

The dynamite man's head bobbed just slightly.

“I'm Bloody Jim Pardo.” Iverson's eyes widened, and he sought out Reilly for confirmation.

“Don't look at him, damn it. You look at me.” Iverson's eyes fell back on Pardo. “You want out of here?”

“Yes,” he croaked.

“Good, we got business to discuss.”

As Pardo went to work on Iverson's leg irons, Reilly locked the ankle bracelet on Thaddeus McCutcheon's left ankle, then moved over to Henry Dunlap, and secured his ankle to a chain, which he then affixed to the mesquite's lowest limb. He looked across the ground, saw the cigarette paper where Pardo had dropped it, still folded, unread. He wondered if he could get to it, somehow stick it into McCutcheon's hands, but Pardo was bringing Swede Iverson across the ground.

“All right, Mac,” Pardo demanded. “Now we got you and this galoot free, how the hell do we get out of town?”

“Miguel's Saloon,” Reilly said, straightening. “The posse's horses are out in front of it, I imagine.”

Pardo snorted, and spit. “A dozen men are right inside that place. Armed to the teeth.”

“And drunker than sin.”

Pardo's eyes brightened. “Yeah, I reckon they is, at that.” He ran his tongue across his lips. “Be risky, though.”

“You got a better idea?”

Before Pardo could answer, Gene Peck cried out, “Hey, don't leave me here! I don't want to get sent to Yuma.”

Pardo looked Peck over, considering him, scratched the palm of his right hand on the Colt's hammer, then let out a sigh, and walked back to fetch the key ring he had left by the end of the chain that had held Iverson. Reilly's eyes sought out the cigarette paper.

“You wasn't fooling,” Swede Iverson said. “That's Bloody Jim Pardo.”

“Yeah.” Reilly knew he'd have to leave the paper where it was, pray that McCutcheon or Dunlap found it. Not that it would do anyone any good now. He realized his hat was gone, and he found it by McCutcheon's body. By the time he had it settled back on his head, Pardo had freed Peck and stood between the stagecoach robber and the dynamite man.

“Where's Miguel's Saloon?” Reilly asked.

Pardo jerked a thumb to the south.

Reilly started, but hurried over to Dunlap.

“Now what are you doing?” Pardo cried out.

Reilly didn't answer. He unloosened the bandana around Dunlap's neck, rolled it up, and used it to gag the unconscious deputy. He saw the Smith & Wesson beside the tree, and snatched it up, shoved it into his waistband, too.

“I rattled his brains long enough that he'll be sleeping through September,” Pardo said with irritation. “Come on, Mac, we'd best light a shuck.”

Ignoring him, Reilly removed his bandana, and tied the deputy's hands behind his back, then dashed over to McCutcheon. He snapped the manacles on the marshal's wrists, and gagged him with his own bandana. Then, Reilly laughed, thinking,
Yeah, they'll really believe that note on that cigarette paper now.

Shaking his head, he hurried over to the three outlaws waiting for him.

“Let's vamoose,” Pardo said, and led the way.

 

The clawing of an out-of-tune banjo, accompanied by an equally wretched fiddle, rose above the din of voices and the clinking of glasses inside Miguel's Saloon. Darkness was coming fast, and the glow of light seeping through the glass looked inviting. But not as inviting as the dozen or more horses crowding the hitching posts in front of the single-story adobe structure bookended by an assayer's office and a vacant building with a
FOR RENT
sign nailed to the door.

A man in duck trousers and a muslin shirt stood in front of the doors to Miguel's place, discussing with a raven-haired woman in a frilly dress, when not fondling her, the cost of a trip to the woman's crib behind the saloon. From the corner of a café, Pardo and Reilly watched, growing impatient, until finally, the woman, giggling, grabbed the man's hand and led him to the alley that separated the saloon from the assayer's office.

Reilly studied the streets. He found another saloon six or seven doors down, heard piano music coming from that one, but saw no one on the streets or boardwalks. A door opened and closed, and a man in a black broadcloth suit stood down the street. He locked the door, strode off northward, turned a corner, and was gone.

Laughter exploded out of Miguel's Saloon.

Reilly looked at the horses.

“I see my mount next to yours,” Reilly said in a dry whisper.

“Didn't have time to find the livery,” Pardo explained.

“You want to keep them?”

“Hell, no. I'm going for that blood bay on the far end.”

Reilly's gaze fell on Pardo's roan, or rather, the Evans repeater sheathed in the saddle scabbard.

“Reckon I'll take yours, then,” he said.

Pardo giggled. “I must like you, Mac, letting you steal my horse.”

Reilly turned, nodding at Swede Iverson. “You think you can sneak up with us, grab the reins to that dun mare on the far side yonder, and lead it down the street till we reach this corner?”

The nod Swede Iverson gave didn't suggest complete confidence.

“Muzzle her while you walk,” Reilly said. He looked at Gene Peck. “You take the bay next to the dun. Keep him quiet.”

Peck gave a nervous nod.

The banjo and fiddle music stopped. An empty bottle flew out of the door, amid more laughter.

“I'd hate to be the county treasurer when he gets Miguel's bill,” Reilly whispered.

Pardo grinned. “I'd hate to be you or me when we sneak up to steal them horses.” He almost doubled over laughing, and when he straightened, he stared at Reilly and said, “Because I ain't told you something that's mighty important.”

Frowning, Reilly asked, his voice strained, “What's that?”

“The scout of that posse, Yavapai Joe, he's in that saloon, too. Was, anyway, when them law dogs and me took our leave.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he ain't the drinking kind.” Pardo chuckled. “He was in that saloon, next to that window yonder, sipping coffee and eating mutton. I wonder how our heads will look next to Luke Willett's nailed to a corral post by that livery.”

Wiping his clammy hands on his dusty pants, Reilly started for Pardo's roan, whispering, “Let's find out.”

 

He realized his mistake when Pardo took off to his left and Peck and Iverson went to his right. Pardo's roan was tethered right in front of the open doorway, yet Reilly kept moving. Briefly, he wondered if he could draw the Smith & Wesson or Bulldog and cut down Pardo. But what good would that do? The posse would come out, and drunk as they were, they'd start shooting. And what of Dagmar and Blanche, back in camp in the Dragoon Mountains? No, Reilly realized, he would need to think of something better, something that wouldn't likely get him killed.

Pardo, making a beeline, reached the dun first and was already leading it down the street when Reilly eased to the roan's side. Rubbing its side gently, muttering a few soothing sounds, Reilly slipped between the roan and a bay mare. He could see Iverson and Peck loosening the reins to their horses. He looked at the window, but the table where the Yavapai tracker had been sitting, according to Pardo, looked empty. Reilly had worked his way to the roan's neck, continued to rub it with his left hand, and reached for the reins wrapped around the rail.

The batwing doors pounded open, and a man staggered outside, trying to light a pipe. His eyes detected Reilly, and he practically fell onto the hitching rail, catching himself with both hands, pushing himself back up, grinning.

“¿Hombre, qué pasa?”
he asked. He wasn't Mexican, but an American with a thick mustache and beard. His breath reeked of tequila. He didn't seem aware that he'd dropped both match and pipe. Reilly looked over his shoulders into the saloon. No one seemed to notice, or hear. They were too busy watching a woman dance across the bar.

“Did you hear, hombre, that we caught Luke Willett? The Yavapai.” He guffawed, and slapped Reilly's shoulder. “He cut off old Luke's head, he did. I seen him. With my own eyes.” He nodded for emphasis. “Shot the son of a bitch, too. That injun's mean. Meaner than…” He struggled to find a word.

Reilly smiled at the drunk, and looked into the window. The table remained vacant. Maybe the Yavapai was in front of the bar with everybody else, watching a fat-legged woman do the cancan.

“Marshal M-M-Mc—the marshal,” the drunk said, “he nailed it to a corral post in front of Garland's Livery. Want to see it, hombre? The flies shouldn't be so bad, not this time a night.”

A horse snorted. The drunk weaved, then fell against the bay mare, which shied away, snorted, and kicked. Slowly the drunk righted himself, as his eyes focused on three men leading three horses down the street.

“Damnation,” the man said, “what the hell is that squirt doing with Zeke's mount?”

Reilly jerked the Smith & Wesson and clubbed the drunk's head, caught him at the shoulders, and eased him onto the ground. He shot a look inside, gathered the reins, and pulled the roan out.

“Hey, Carl!” a voice called from inside the saloon. “What the hell's keeping you?”

He didn't know if Carl was the man he'd just buffaloed, didn't care. Instead of leading the roan down the street, Reilly grabbed the horn and swung into the saddle, keeping the Smith & Wesson in his right hand. He heard footsteps, heard the squeaking of the batwing doors, heard a voice call out, “What the hell's going on?”