The Savage Gun (20 page)

Dick reared back as if he had been slapped in the face with a rug duster. If his face had been pale before it was now almost as white as a linen sheet.

The four riders stepped out, heading south for Pueblo. And three of them kept looking back over their shoulders. Only Ollie kept his eyes straight ahead, a determined glint in his eye. Every so often, he'd look up into the hills, but his mind was on one thing: getting to Pueblo and seeing Rosa Delgado again.

A small herd of pronghorn galloped across the plain. A lone sentinel stood like a garden statue watching the four riders, his white throat shining bright in the sun, his ebony horns adorning him like a stately crown. Small iron-red buttes dotted the land, golden outcroppings of rocks, mesas like giant ships in the background, shimmering under the wriggling shawls of heat waves. Turkey buzzards floated in the sky on invisible carousels, their wings outstretched, the tips just tickling the sky every so often.

They passed through the dusty, nondescript settlement of Fountain, almost without notice. A Mexican, sitting in the shade, his sombrero tipped low over his face, looked up and then went back to dozing. A few slat-ribbed dogs slunk into adobe shadows, and a large woman with a load of wash in a wicker basket waddled out of their way, two brown-skinned urchins tagging along after her with a hoop and sticks, their brown eyes too big for their little black-haired heads.

“You see anything back there, Army?” Ollie asked when they were an hour further south. “You keep lookin' like you're expectin' your mother-in-law.”

“Hard to tell. Might be specks in my eyes. Might be a couple of riders.”

“Anybody got field glasses?” Ollie asked.

“I think Pete had 'em last,” Red said.

“Shit,” Ollie said and, for the first time, he looked back up the road. His horse jounced him so much it was difficult to focus, but after several seconds of looking, he swung his head back around.

“I don't see anything at all,” he said. “Even if they was to come up on us, it's four against two.”

“That kid, that Savage kid,” Dick said, “is faster'n greased lightning with that six-gun of his.”

“Fast don't make straight,” Army said. “Fast don't make true.”

“Well, this kid shoots fast and true,” Dick said.

“He's really got you buffaloed, ain't he, Dick?” Red said, with a throaty chuckle. “Hell, he's just a kid. He'll stop a bullet same as anybody.”

“You stop him, then, Red, you're so fucking smart.” Some of the color had returned to Dick's face, but it might have been the burnishing sun falling off to the west, hitting him at just the right angle.

“It would be my great pleasure,” Red said.

“Trick is,” Ollie said, “don't never look at his gun. Look the bastard square in the eyes. It's that fancy gun's got you spooked, Dick. Take off all the glitter, it's still just a Colt six-shooter. You pack one yourself.”

“The one that kid's packin' has eyes,” Dick said.

Army and Red laughed.

Ollie just screwed his face up into a sullen frown. He was tired of hearing about the Savage boy. It was just dumb luck that he had killed the others. Or, they had just gotten stupid, dropped their guards.

Ahead in the distance, smoke scrawled across the sky, smoke from the smelters in Pueblo. It twisted and turned in the high currents like something alive, the shadow of a snake, or streamers of dark bunting. It contrasted against the golden cloud bunnies that flocked the sky over the plains and clear up to the mountains.

Ollie's heart picked up a beat.

“There she is,” he said. “El Pueblo, a mean bastard of a town.”

“Seems like home,” Dick said. “I'm plumb sick of mountains.”

Nobody said anything, they just looked up at the smoke, knowing there was a city underneath, and that meant a soft bed, a bath, a shave, some good whiskey, or mescal, or tequila, maybe a painted woman to warm the blankets, not a speck of wind inside a hotel room, and music to make the boards dance with the stomping of boots and long heels on shiny patent-leather shoes.

And the gold in Ollie's saddlebags. Pounds of yellow dust, waiting to be cashed in and split up. And now split only four ways.

“Rosie will be glad to see you, Ollie,” Red said.

Ollie smiled. They still had a good five miles to go, just to the edge of the city. Another long ride to Calle Vaca and Rosa's Cantina.

And where in hell was that kid and the old man?

He looked back up the road. It was as empty as a bartop at five in the morning. Not a cart, a wagon, a walker, or a horse in sight.

If they came, the kid and the old man, it would not be right away. If they were back there, following them, it would be full dark by the time they rode into Pueblo. And by the time they made their way to Rosa's, he would be ready for them.

And so would Rosa herself, and that scattergun she kept behind the bar.

Four against two. No, make that five against two.

Rosa was a crack shot and she had arctic blood in her veins.

20

THE HORSE DIDN'T SEE IT. AND THERE WAS NO WARNING. IT dipped its head, pushed its lips toward a tuft of grass growing out of a small depression in the earth. It shifted the bit in its mouth. The bit clattered against its teeth, the metal making a sound like a handful of clicking dice.

The timber rattler, no more than a foot long, struck with the speed of thought. It sank its fangs in the soft flesh of the horse's muzzle, square between its nostrils. The horse, a blue roan, gelded, snapped its head up. The snake held on, pumping venom into its veins. The horse shook its head violently from side to side, flinging the snake a dozen yards. Blood oozed from two small holes in its muzzle. It whinnied in pain and pawed the ground.

A half dozen other snakes began to coil and shake their tails. The rattles made an ominous buzzing sound. The snakes, scattered in the grass alongside the horse, struck at its legs, striking above the hocks and fetlocks, shooting venom into the horse's veins again and again as they struck, recoiled, and struck once more. The roan, with its close-cropped mane and bobbed tail, kicked at the snakes and tried to run, but its hobbles kept it anchored to the spot where it had aroused a nest of snakes.

“You hear that, Ben?” John said as they topped the hill.

“Rattlers.”

“More than one.”

“Several. Sounds like a sawmill down there.” Ben slid the Sharps across the pommel. John had wanted him to leave it where it lay back at their camp, but the rifle's lure was too much for Ben. There was something about the big .50, its legend, perhaps, or its clean lines, that made him want to keep it. John argued that it had been used to kill one of their fellow prospectors.

“It's just a gun. It don't have no brains,” Ben said.

“No, but it has a history.”

They rode down, and the rattling subsided. Now they could see the bobtailed roan twisting and kicking, stomping. As they rode close, they could see blood and what looked like pus oozing from several small holes in at least two of its legs.

“Would you look at that,” Ben said in a breathy whisper.

The horse looked at them, its liquid brown eyes seemed to be pleading for help.

The horse began to turn in circles. Snakes hissed and slithered away to avoid its hooves. Then the horse lurched as it lost its step. It staggered to one side, tried to recover and staggered in the other direction.

“Snakebit, for sure,” Ben said.

“That horse is plumb suffering,” John said.

“Yeah. Must've got into a nest of rattlers. It won't last long.”

“That's a terrible way to die, Ben.”

“I reckon. Nothin' we can do about it though.”

“We can put that horse out of its misery. That's what we can do.”

Muscles on the roan's legs twitched. It seemed to lose control of which way its feet went. It emptied its bowels in steam and stench. Its hind legs bent and it tried to straighten them.

John grabbed the Sharps from Ben.

“Give me a cartridge for this.”

Ben reached into his shirt pocket and handed John a .50-caliber cartridge. John pulled on the lever, opening the breech. He shoved the cartridge in, closed the breech, and took aim on the horse.

“Best thing you can do, Johnny.”

John squeezed the trigger. The Sharps recoiled with the explosion. The bullet struck between the cinch and its right front leg, lifting a puff of dust before smashing through ribs into the horse's heart. It tried to rear up, standing on both hind legs. Then, it collapsed. One hind leg kicked out, the other quivered. There was only a small amount of blood as its heart stopped pumping. Muscles in its chest quivered reflexively, then went rigid and still. John rode in close and threw the Sharps down. The rifle landed on its butt, then fell across the horse's belly, the barrel resting against the stirrup.

“Perfectly good rifle,” Ben said.

“Good riddance.”

John turned his horse and headed down the slope toward the creek. Ben followed. He looked back longingly only once, then whapped Dynamite across the rump with the tips of his reins, putting the Sharps out of his mind. A moment later, he dipped into his shirt pocket and picked up the remaining two cartridges in there. He threw them, useless impedimenta now, onto the ground.

“Hell of a thing to have to put down a sick horse,” Ben said, as he caught up to John.

“You just sat there, watching it suffer.”

“I don't think as quick as you, Johnny.”

John turned to look at Ben. An angry shadow passed across his face.

“Do you even think at all, Ben?”

“That ain't fair.”

“Maybe not fair, but true,” John said. “Last night, you froze up when that bastard come after us in camp. Sat there like a damned toad.”

“I ain't as quick as you, neither, Johnny. I mean, about killin'. I mean about killin' a man or a horse.”

“There you go again, Ben. Bein' critical.”

“Nope. Just commentin' on what's what.”

“I was slow once. When those outlaws were killing everybody, I could have run down there, knocked one of them off his horse, taken his gun, and started fighting back. Might have saved my folks and my sister from gettin' killed. Might have saved a bunch of 'em.”

“Johnny, them boys would have shot you to pieces before you ever got down them stairs.”

That was probably true, John thought. He had gone over that scene so many times in his mind, wondering what might have happened if he had taken a pick and just slid down there into camp swinging it at the first killer he saw. He had created a number of scenarios that might have changed the outcome of the slaughter.

They were all fantasies, he knew, born of guilt that he was still alive and all the others were dead. Ben had probably saved his life by keeping him up at the mine, unarmed as they both were. Ben wasn't that slow, and he had shown wisdom in his decision to stay out of the fight. If they both had gotten into it, they would now be dead like all the others.

“I'm sorry, Ben. You don't deserve being caught up in my anger. I just boil over and can't help what I say to you sometimes.”

“That's all right, Johnny. I understand. It eats at me, too. What might have been.”

“Yeah. What might have been. Did Hobart have to kill everybody? Why couldn't he have just robbed them at gunpoint?”

“Maybe killin's his nature.”

They ambled down the slope, tacking back and forth as if following some switchback trail. It was easier on the horses, put less strain on the saddle cinches. It was slower, but safer. John could smell the creek, and so could the horses. Their rubbery nostrils flexed as they sniffed the air. Their ears twisted, sometimes flattening, sometimes stiffening. This was new country for them and they were wary.

Just before they reached the flat, a jackrabbit exploded from cover and struck out for the creek. Both horses spooked, but Dynamite crashed through some rotten boards next to an old well. The sound spooked him even more, and he kicked at the boards, slashed at them with his front hooves, ripping through worm-eaten, weather-worn lumber hidden in the brush. He began to buck and Ben had his hands full trying to bring the horse under control. He held on to the saddle horn with his left hand, reined in hard with his right, bending the horse's head down until its muzzle almost touched its chest. Dynamite fishtailed and bounded stiff-legged over the scattered boards, stood on its front legs and kicked backward, its hooves striking empty air.

“Whoa, Dynamite, whoa,” Ben shouted as the horse bucked on down to the flat before it stopped twisting and trying to throw Ben out of the saddle and off its back.

John had to fight Gent, but at least Gent didn't go into a bucking fit. The two watched the antics of Dynamite, through all of his gyrations. The dappled gray twisted, bit, kicked, and humped up like a scared cat until Ben brought the animal back under his control.

“That's one way to exercise your horse, Ben,” John said, a trace of a smile on his lips. “I just walk mine with a halter.”

“Ain't you the smart mouth, now, Johnny. That rabbit come out of nowhere. Scared the shit out of me, too.”

“Well, the rabbit won that little race,” John said. “By twenty lengths.”

“Ha ha,” Ben said, his face reddening with embarrassment and exertion. “You're real funny, Mr. Savage.”

“All I can say is, you sure named that horse right, Ben. He come out of that brush like exploding dynamite.”

John headed for the creek, knowing Gent was thirsty. When Ben didn't follow, he looked back.