The Killing Shot (23 page)

A corporal stopped her when she arrived at the sprawling compound of adobe buildings on a plateau surrounded by the Chiricahua Mountains. She set the brake on the surrey she had rented in Contention City and slid down, almost collapsing into the stunned soldier's arms. A couple of privates whistled. Another clapped. The corporal, a young man maybe twenty-two, blushed.

Exhaustion had overtaken Gwendolyn Morgan. “I'm sorry,” she said, and tried to remove the burgundy boat hat that was cocked to her left side.

“That's all right, ma'am,” the corporal said. “Here, why don't you sit in the shade.” It sounded more like an order than a question or suggestion. He helped her up the steps, eased her onto a bench. A moment later, the corporal was offering her a dipper of water while fanning her flushed face with his slouch hat, the three privates staring over the kneeling noncommissioned officer's shoulders.

Closing her eyes, she drank greedily, cherishing the cool water as it traveled down her throat.

“Ma'am,” the corporal said, “what is it that brings you to Fort Bowie?”

She peered into the corporal's brown eyes.

“I came from Contention,” she said.

“Contention City?” The corporal slapped his hat on his head, rising. “You came all the way from Contention?”

Her head bobbed. Suddenly, she remembered her purse. She stood, weaving, weak from the heat, stumbled past the three privates, into the sun, found her purse in the seat of the surrey, came back to the bench, and collapsed.

Things had been a blur since Reilly McGivern's last visit. She had read his note—a woman's prerogative, she figured—had rented the surrey, ridden to Tombstone, where she learned that Special Deputy United States Marshal Ken Cobb had been murdered down in Nogales.

Now what?
she had wondered, pulled the note from her purse, and reread it. He had mentioned a Lieutenant Talley, and Fort Bowie, so she had climbed back into the surrey, lashed the horse with a whip, and now…well, she had made it, despite nothing to eat on the two-day journey, finally climbing through Apache Pass to the military post.

“Is Lieutenant Talley here?” she asked.

The corporal shook his head. “No, ma'am, he's in the field, Missus…?”

“Miss Morgan,” she said, and smiled at the corporal. “Gwendolyn Morgan. Call me Gwen.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He began blushing again, trying to ignore the muffled giggles of the privates behind him. “Well, Miss Morgan, I mean, Gwen, the lieutenant won't be back to Bowie for another week or two.”

“That's right.” Her head bobbed as she remembered the note. She clutched her purse tighter. “He's…I'd like to see the commanding officer.”

“The colonel?” The corporal looked dumbfounded. “I mean, General Crook, he's in the field, too. Colonel's in charge.”

“Yes. The colonel then. It's a matter of life of death, sir.”

“Don't ‘sir' me, ma'am. I am no officer.”

“I'm no soldier. Please, take me to the colonel.”

“Well, yes, ma'am.” He held out his hand, and helped her to her feet.

As they walked across the parade ground to another dreary adobe building, she felt every eye from every soldier marching or riding across the parade ground fall on her.
Like they've never seen a whore before
, she thought. The corporal opened the door, holding it open for Gwen. Inside, a black-mustached man peered up from a pile of papers littering his desk, removed his spectacles, and rose.

“Begging the sergeant major's pardon,” the corporal said, “but this is Miss Gwen Morgan, and she wants to see the colonel.”

She didn't like the look of the sergeant major, whose eyes covered her body up and down before he spit a mouthful of tobacco juice into a brass cuspidor by the desk. “Colonel's busy,” he said.

“Please,” Gwen begged, and the sergeant major motioned to another bench.

“Take a seat. Dismissed, Corporal.”

She must have waited an hour, and the sergeant major never went to the colonel's door. Gwen began to wonder if the colonel was even there. Maybe she should have just given the note to the corporal. He was a pleasant fellow. He would have helped her.

Another door opened, and a heavyset man stepped into the office. The sergeant quickly jumped to attention, and fired a salute as a man with close-cropped blond hair and thick eyebrows walked to the desk. “Sergeant Major,” he said in a German accent, “you vill deliver dis…” He must have caught Gwen out of the corner of his eye, because he turned, lowering the envelope he held in his right hand, and stared, whispering,
“Nicht schlecht.”

“Vell, Vell,” he said, and smiled.
“Guten Tag, fräulein. Wie geht es?”

She didn't understand a word he had said, but she understood that look. She'd certainly seen it enough.

“Major, this is Miss Gwen Morgan,” the sergeant major said. “Wants to see the colonel.”

The major bowed, turned, and whispered something to the sergeant major, who grinned and shot a quick lecherous look at Gwen, then accepted the envelope and listened attentively as the major gave his instructions. Clicking his heels, the major turned, bowed slightly at Gwen, and walked back to his office.

“Major,” Gwen said, rising, “please. This is an urgent matter. It has to do with Bloody Jim Pardo and a planned ambush on one of your wagon trains.”

The major stopped in mid-stride, turned. The sergeant major was walking out the door. The major watched the outer door open and close, then walked over toward Gwen.

“Pardon me?” he said.

“Please,” she said. “Jim Pardo plans to ambush one of your wagon trains. With Swede Iverson. At Texas Canyon. May we talk?”

“Certainly,” he said, and motioned her into his office. He closed the door behind him, pointed out a chair, and she took it, while he sat on his desk. She opened the purse, removed the note, and held it to him.

“This is from Reilly McGivern. He's a deputy U.S. marshal. Usually works out of Charleston.”

“Is that vere you vork?”

“No. I'm in Contention City.”

“And vat is it dat you do in Contention?”

“I…” She shrugged.

“Ah,” the major said, and, laughing, reached behind him and opened a cigar box, removed a thick brown one, and struck a match.

Gwen waved the letter Reilly had written.

The major didn't speak until his cigar was going. Afterward, he gestured with one end of the cigar at the note. “You have read it?”

“Yes.”

“I see. I know dis name, McGivern. Isn't he the one voo freed the Kraft brothers?”

Her head shook violently. “No, that's all a mistake. He says so in this letter. He told me it was another deputy, Henderson was his name, who set up the ambush.” Her mind was swimming with images, mostly of McGivern riding out of Contention with Bloody Jim Pardo, not doing anything to arrest him, after he had killed one of his gang members. Maggie Fairplay had told her, after what had happened in Contention, that, “Reilly McGivern is as crooked as the nights are long,” but she didn't believe that. She had known Reilly too long.

The major took the letter in his hand, opened it, and read.

 

“How many men does Pardo have?”

“Seis,”
Soledad answered, and lifted the glass of tequila.

Across the table, in a crowded cantina in Nogales, Mexico, K.C. Kraft laughed over the sound of castanets, a strumming guitar, and laughter. “Six men? He's going to attack an Army wagon train with six men? Yeah, I'd say he does need our help.”

Sitting on either side of the tall, leathery gunman, his two brothers laughed. Soledad drained his glass, and placed it on the table.

“You tell your boss that I told him
gracias
, but
no gracias
.” He gave Soledad a sharp nod, dismissing him.

As Soledad started to rise, the youngest brother shouted out, “Hold on there, Mex. Let's hear him out, K.C. This job sounds like fun.”

K.C. Kraft's eyes hardened, and his fist clenched the bottle of beer he was lifting toward his mouth. He slammed the glass on the wormwood table, and turned toward his brother. “It sounds like suicide, W.W.”

“Nah, brother, you're getting soft.” He winked, motioned Soledad back into his chair, and asked, “What's Bloody Jim got up his sleeve that makes him think he can pull off this damned robbery?”

Half-standing, Soledad looked at K.C., who let out a weary sigh and gestured with the beer bottle for Soledad to sit down again. Once Soledad was sitting again, he said, “Pardo has a man who knows ka-boom. Dynamite. Only, no, he plans to use, um, how you say, nitro…”

“Nitroglycerin?” K.C. asked.

“
Sí.
That is it. Big ka-boom.” W.W. Kraft clapped his hands. “Hot damn. That would be something to see.”

“Yeah. It'll probably be the last thing you see.” K.C. Kraft took a long pull of beer. The castanets stopped clicking, followed by applause and whistles.

“Pardo, he say, you bring as many men as you got,” Soledad informed him.

“I don't have that many,” K.C. Kraft said.

“Oh, hell, K.C., you got enough.”

On the other side, the third brother, L.J. Kraft sat quietly cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife, his tumbler of tequila untouched.

K.C. drained his beer. “What's in it for us?”

Soledad shrugged. Pardo hadn't told him what he could offer, other than the glory of riding with Bloody Jim Pardo. “There are many Gatling guns, I think. One cannon.”

“And how many men guarding them?”

Another shrug.
“Setenta. Ochenta.”
Actually, he seemed to recall the
gringo
called Mac mentioning a much higher number.

With a comical smile, K.C. Kraft shook his head. “Seventy or eighty. Yeah, against a dozen men I can round up. Plus your boss's six.”

“
Siete
,” Soledad said, “
con
Pardo.”

“Oh, right. Pardon me. Nineteen, maybe twenty, against seventy or eighty.”

“But ka-boom. Swede Iverson, he bring down the walls of Texas Canyon. Like Jericho. On top of
soldados
.”

K.C. kept shaking his head. “Forget it. Tell Pardo no.”

Soledad bowed, started to rise, but the youngest brother, W.W., shot to his feet. “I'm going, K.C. This is a haul that'll make us famous. No sense in letting Jim Pardo hog all the glory.”

The castanets resumed their clicking. The music and laughter grew louder.

“Go ahead. I won't stop you.” W.W. savagely snatched the bottle of tequila off the table, muttered an oath, and followed Soledad into the dusty streets of Nogales. “Where are we supposed to meet up with Pardo?” W.W. Kraft asked as Soledad gathered the reins to his horse in front of the hitching rail.

“Sierra Dragón,” Soledad said.
“Del norte.”
W.W. walked down a few rods and mounted a buckskin. He was waiting for Soledad to tighten the cinch of his saddle when the saloon doors swung open. Soledad looked up over his saddle and saw K.C. and L.J. Kraft standing on the boardwalk.

“Family,” K.C. Kraft said underneath his breath. “I hate having a damned family.”

 

She was a handsome woman. Armin Ritcher liked the way Gwendolyn Morgan looked. Liked how that boat hat of hers was cocked, showing off her attitude. She wore a well-fitting dress the color of violet, dusty from her travels, but still mighty fancy for a Contention City prostitute, a full skirt gathered in front and back, and a cloth-topped, high-heeled shoe that must have taken her an hour to lace up. A petite gold pocket watch hung from a chain around her soft, sweet neck. Something told Ritcher that she didn't always dress up so nicely.

He looked at the note she had given him, and read it again.

Reilly McGivern

Ritcher folded the note, saw it was addressed to Ken Cobb.

“When I found out Marshal Cobb had been murdered,” the woman told him. “I didn't know what to do, who I should give this to.”

“You've done right, child,” he said. “How did you get here?”

“I rented a rig in Contention. God. Maggie's going to be furious at me for missing all this work.”

“It's all right.”

“You'll get word to Lieutenant Talley? He's a friend of Reilly's.”

“I'll send out a galloper. Don't vorry, ve vill stop Bloody Jim Pardo. We vill vindicate your beau.”

“Oh, he's not, well, I mean, I'd like, but…”

He offered her a cordial of brandy. She drank. He dipped the end of his cigar in his brandy, admiring the auburn-haired beauty. Ritcher grinned.

Jim Pardo was a fool. He had a deputy U.S. marshal riding with him. The tall, dark-haired one he called Mac.

This will be all right,
Ritcher thought.
I'll just ride over to the Dragoons, tell Pardo all about his new man. That might be worth a few extra dollars—and that son of a bitch owes me. Might make Pardo think better of me, especially after what happened in Redington.