Payback at Big Silver (17 page)

“I know,” said Mae Rose, settling down, seeing she would have to deal with him. “I've seen so much of you in the hall I thought you were wallpaper.” She smiled coyly. “My feelings were getting hurt that you hadn't come to visit me yet.”

“We don't want your feelings hurt, do we?” said Rudabaugh.

“No, we don't,” said Mae Rose. “As soon as I get back, I'm going to come looking for you.”

“I'd like that—” Rudabaugh suddenly caught himself and glanced back in the direction of the sheriff's office. “Which way are you headed?” he said. He noted the livery's brand on the gray's rump and knew it was a rental horse.

Mae Rose gave a shrug.

“To Secondary,” she said. “I'll take the stage from there.”

“I'm going with you,” said Rudabaugh. “It so happens I'm headed that way myself,” he lied. “I can bring this cayuse back for you.”

“I already paid extra to have it brought back,” Mae Rose said.

“Look at me, little darling. I'm your boss, in a manner of speaking,” said Rudabaugh, moving in toward her. He glanced again in the direction of the sheriff's office, then back at her. “If I say I'm going with you, guess what that means?”

All right. . . .
She got it.

She only nodded. She followed him as he led the gray to a stable where his horse stood looking at them over the stall gate. She wasn't about to let her bags—one of them carrying her gold coins in it—get out of her sight.

Rudabaugh tied the gray's reins to the stall rail and gave an extra-hard yank on them to make them more difficult to loosen.

Stay cool,
she told herself. She was stuck with this overbearing rube for the time being at least. She would have to settle down and play things out to suit herself. She knew his name, his reputation, having heard of him from Rita and the other doves he'd managed to weasel his way into bed with. She watched him step inside the stall and hurriedly saddle his horse, a dark blaze-faced bay. Every now and then, she'd see him looking warily out the open door in the direction of the main street of Big Silver.

“So, what was the gunfire I heard out there?” she asked as he slipped the bridle up onto his horse's muzzle.

“Can't say for sure,” he said. “I heard some of the townsmen say it was Sheriff Stone, drunk again, shooting at anything that got in front of him.” He looked around and gave her a grin. “I expect somebody might have stopped his clock by now. I hope so anyway,” he added. “Stone and I don't get along very well.”

“You don't say so,” said Mae Rose. He had his back to her now. She knew this was her best chance to draw the Colt and shoot him. But she decided against it. Maybe riding along with him wasn't a bad idea. She could handle him; she was certain.

“I sure do say so,” Rudabaugh replied. “Lucky for him he hasn't caught me in a cross mood. I'm a professional stock detective. I'd put a bad hurting on him.” He turned to her and gave what she thought he considered a dashing grin.

“Oh my, I believe you would,” she said. “I've heard you detectives are not to be messed with.”

“You heard right, ma'am—Mae Rose, is it?”

“Yes, it is,” she said. She reached and playfully slapped his arm. “There, you see? You even know my name and still haven't come to my suite.”

“I am nothing but sorry for that, Mae Rose,” Rudabaugh said.

“That's okay,” she said, noting that he was quick to warm up to any show of affection. “We'll make up for it when I get back.”

“You can count on it,” Rudabaugh said. Again the attempt at a dashing grin. “Another thing they say about us detectives is that we are all born women pleasers.”

“I already knew
that
,” she said with a wide sparkling smile of her own.
Bang!
she said to herself, envisioning drawing the small Colt and firing a round into his spine when he turned his back on her again.

“Ready when you are, Mae Rose,” he said in a cavalier gesture, pulling his horse forward from the stall.

Mae Rose only smiled and gestured for him to loosen the gray's tightly tied reins from the railing.

He loosened the reins, but instead of handing them to her, he nodded toward his horse and said, “Why don't you ride my horse a ways, just until we see how hard this rented horse is to handle?

She thought about her pouch of gold lying inside one of the carpetbags. She started to object, but something told her it would do no good—probably only make him suspicious of her belongings.

“Why, thank you,” she said sweetly. “That's most considerate of you.” She took the reins to his horse; he assisted her up into the saddle.

“After you, then,” he said, stepping back as she put the horse forward at a walk. He mounted the gray and left the barn right behind her.

As a thin ribbon of light mantled the hill lines in the east, the Ranger rode onto the main street of Big Silver and brought his dun to a walk toward the sheriff's office. Three townsmen standing at the corner of a building stepped into the street. They looked up at Sam and waved him to a halt. Sam looked all around, his rifle lying across his lap. Several men stood out in front of the Silver Palace; more yet were scattered here and there in the grainy morning light.

“Ranger, thank God you're here,” one of the men said barely above a whisper. “It's Sheriff Stone. He's gone back to drinking, crazy as the last time you had to come settle his hash.”

Sam looked at the body lying half out the open door of Stone's office. He saw the other body hanging down out the broken front window.

“They're men who work for Edsel Centrila, Ranger,” the same man said. “We knew there's bad blood between Centrila and the sheriff, but we weren't expecting this.”

“He hasn't come out of there since this happened,” another man said. “Lucky for us you're here.”

“I was camped nearby,” Sam said, eying the situation, the darkened sheriff's office, the two bodies, broken glass. “I heard the gunfire.”

“Are you going to need our help?” a man asked, slipping in off the street with a rifle in his hands.

Sam looked at him, saw the long, pointed sleeping cap hanging down to his shoulders.

“No,” he said firmly, “everybody stay back.” He swung down from his saddle and struck his rifle down into its boot. The townsmen moved away as he led the dun closer to the darkened adobe building and hitched it out in front of a mercantile store twenty yards away.

He walked to the middle of the street in front of Stone's office and raised his gloved hands chest high. He saw someone move inside the broken window. He caught a glimpse of a shotgun barrel.

“Don't shoot, Sheriff Stone. It's me, Sam Burrack,” he called out to the open doorway. “Can I come in?”

There was a silent pause, but only for a moment.

“Of course you can come in, Ranger,” Stone called out in a friendly tone of voice. “You can lower your hands too, unless you think your gloves will fall off.”

“They're good,” Sam said, lowering his hands. He took a deep breath and walked toward the open doorway, seeing Stone appear and step over the dead gunman. The shotgun still hung loosely from his hand, but he'd reloaded it earlier.

“Are you drinking, Sheriff?” the Ranger asked. He stooped and picked up the gun and gun belt from under the hitch rail on his way.

“What kind of question is that, Ranger?” Stone asked. “Do I look like I'm drinking? Do I sound like it?”

“No, you don't,” Sam said, relieved. “But what about all these empty rye bottles?”

“I just needed two or three of them to help me do my job,” Stone said.

“I see,” Sam said.

He slipped the revolver up from its holster enough to see it was a battered unloaded relic. He shook his head, shoved it back in its holster and stopped only a few feet from the open door. Handing Stone the gun belt and range pistol, he looked all around and sniffed the air. “It smells like a distillery here.”

“I know it does. It's driving me crazy. Come on inside,” Stone said, looking back and forth along the grainy lit street as he stepped backward inside the dark office. “I'm expecting Silas Rudabaugh any time, soon as he gets his bark on.”

“What happened here, Sheriff?” Sam asked, stepping over the body of Three-toed Delbert Swank.

Stone gave him a look.

“This is that trouble you seemed to think I was
imagining
with Centrila,” Stone said.

The Ranger only nodded.

Stone said, “I saw it coming. I even saw Harper Centrila riding this way early yesterday morning.”

“Hold it,” said Sam. “It's likely you
did
see Harper.”

“That's what I just said,” Stone replied flatly.

“His father's men broke him out,” Sam said.

Stone nodded.

“That figures,” he said. “I saw a fight coming. I tried taking it to Rudabaugh and some other Centrila gunmen at the saloon. But they saw the shape I'm in and tried to rattle me, goad me out—try to cause me to make mistakes. So I decided if I couldn't take the fight to them, I'd best make them bring the fight to me.” He swept a hand about the blood and the bodies. “You can see it worked out better this way.”

As Sam watched, Stone picked up a wooden bucket full of rye and walked it to the rear door. He opened the door and swung the bucket, emptying it into the alley.

“It breaks my heart doing that,” he said, turning, setting the empty bucket down. “I sat here smelling rye all night, singing out loud, making them think I was drunk and crazy. Bad as I wanted a drink, I never took one.”

“That's good, Sheriff,” Sam said.

“Now, then,” Stone said as if settling things in his mind. “Next time I tell you Centrila is out for payback, are you going to believe me?”

“I believed you all along, Sheriff,” Sam said. “I just needed to see it start to play out some.” He looked around at the blood, at the dead still waiting to be removed. He shook his head.

“All this just to even a score?” he said. “Judge Long hasn't even brought the bribery charge forward yet. We don't even know that he will. Neither does Centrila.”

“It doesn't matter to Edsel Centrila, Ranger,” Stone said. “He thinks I crossed him. He wants even. Never stopped to think I was just a lawman doing my job. Anybody doesn't do what he wants is his enemy.”

“No chance he'll hear what happened here and back away?” Sam asked.

“No chance in the world,” said Stone. He toed a bloody buckshot-riddled chair out of their way. “This is only the start, Ranger,” he said, gesturing a hand at the dead. “If I know Centrila, it's going to get a whole lot bloodier before it's over.”

Sam gave the matter some thought. He walked around the office to a blood-splattered woodstove and held his hand near the stove's cold belly. He raised the lid of a blackened coffeepot, looked inside and set it back down. Watching him, Stone gave a thin smile.

“Had I known you were coming, I'd have boiled a fresh pot,” he said.

Sam nodded.

“How long are you willing to wait for Silas Rudabaugh to show up?” he asked.

“As long as it takes,” Stone said.

“And if he doesn't show?” Sam asked.

“Then I'll be very disappointed,” Stone said.

“I'll get some fresh water and boil us a pot,” Sam said, picking up the cold coffeepot.

“You don't have to wait here with me, Ranger,” said Stone.

“I know I don't,” Sam replied. He turned and walked out the front door.

•   •   •

Rudabaugh kept Mae Rose riding in front of him across the flats and up onto the hillsides trails. They rode in silence as morning sunlight gathered its strength and began to scorch the rugged terrain. After leaving Big Silver they'd ridden in almost total silence until they reached a fork in the trail, where to their right lay the trail toward Secondary. Without looking around, Mae Rose turned the horse at the fork, only to hear Rudabaugh sidle up close to her and take a hold on the horse's bridle, keeping it going straight ahead.

“Change of plans,” he said firmly as Mae Rose turned her head quickly and looked at him.

“What are you talking about?” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and level. “I'm going to Secondary. I'm taking the stage from there. You knew that—”

“I did,” said Rudabaugh with a sly little grin. “But like I said, ‘change of plans.'” He held up the leather pouch of gold he'd taken from one of her bags and jiggled it in his hand.

“You—you went through my things?” she stammered. “You had no right to do that.” She tried jerking the horse free of his hand, but even as she did so she realized that she couldn't make a run for it, not while he was holding all of her money.

Rudabaugh gave a wider grin. “Yeah, I went through your things, so what? I'm your boss, remember?”

Mae Rose only stared at him, smoldering.

“You see, little darling,” he continued, “being your boss, I've got every right to know how you managed to squirrel up so much money.”

“What do you care how I managed to get it?” said Mae Rose. “It's not Edsel Centrila's money, it's mine.” She tried to make a swipe at grabbing the pouch. But Rudabaugh jerked it out of her reach.

“Try that again I'll smack you cockeyed,” he threatened. “We're going to find us some shade somewhere and you can do whatever it takes to convince me that this is your money.” He paused and added, “If your story's good enough, maybe I won't have to turn this over to Centrila. You and I might split it up between us and keep our mouths shut. Fair enough?”

That's it,
she told herself. He wanted her; he wanted her money; he wanted everything. She knew the type. When he was through using her, never mind splitting the money, he'd take
all
the money and leave her lying dead in a dry wash somewhere. There was no way he would take part of the money when he could have it all.

This pig!

She let him see her take a deep breath and let it out as if in submission. She even gave a suggestive smile.

“Let's find that shade, then,” she said. “We'll see what I can do to convince you.”

“That's the kind of attitude I like,” Rudabaugh said. He turned loose of the horse's bridle and looked off along the trail in search of a suitable place to spread a blanket. As soon as he looked away, Mae Rose reached up under the tails of her blouse, jerked out the Navy Colt from her waist and started shooting.

Rudabaugh heard the gun cock and turned and grabbed for it just as the first shot exploded. The bullet tore through the palm of his outstretched hand and dug into his forearm, streaking along the bone until it blew out a ragged hole at his elbow. Her second shot went through his ribs and out his back, missing his lungs.

As she fired, the horse beneath her backed away, nervously. Rudabaugh, unable to reach her, blood flying from his chest and his arm, grabbed his big revolver up from its holster as another bullet exploded from the .36 caliber Navy Colt. This one sliced along his jawline and clipped off the upper half of his left ear.

Crazy whore!

He raised and cocked his Remington quickly; Mae Rose jerked the horse around to try to put some distance between them. She fired again, but the shot went wild and skipped off a rock on the other side of Rudabaugh. The Remington bucked in the wounded gunman's hand. The shot hit Mae Rose high in her right shoulder and sent her flipping sidelong from the saddle. She hit the ground flat on her back and didn't move. The Navy Colt flew from her hand and landed among the rocks at the edge of the trail.

Rudabaugh cupped a hand to his maimed ear; blood ran down his wounded side, his wounded arm. He swung down from the gray and let its reins hang to the ground. Stepping over to Mae Rose, he tried to wake her by rolling her face back and forth with his boot.

“Wake up!” he said. When the woman only lay there, limp, he nudged her wounded shoulder with his boot toe. “You brought this on yourself, you know,” he said. “You made me shoot you.”

Mae Rose moaned and stirred slightly at the pain in her shoulder. She opened her eyes and saw him standing over her. But in her addled condition, she closed her eyes against the glare of white sunlight and drifted as his voice grew further away.

Rudabaugh looked all around as he untied the bandanna from around his neck, wadded it and pressed it to his half-missing ear. This was no good, he told himself. He stooped down and loosened the scarf from Mae Rose's neck and tied it around his elbow, using his teeth to tighten it.

“Sheriff . . . help me,” Mae Rose murmured mindlessly under her breath.

“Oh,” said Rudabaugh, “you want to sic the law on me? Then you better do it quick. When I get you off this trail, you're dead.”

He rummaged through Mae Rose's bags behind the rented gray's saddle and pulled out a checkered cotton blouse. Tearing it in half, he folded it into two makeshift bandages and used them to stop the bleeding from his other wounds.

“Come on, whore, take your last ride,” he said. In spite of the pain in his wounds, he dragged Mae Rose to the rented gray, raised her enough to shove her up over the saddle. He saw blood on the back of her head where she'd landed on a fist-sized rock.

Mounting his own horse, he led the gray a half mile up the hillside trail where the land on either side had turned less sandy, more rocky, better hidden. This would do, he told himself, swinging down from his saddle. He pulled Mae Rose off the gray's back and dragged her over between two large rocks, out of sight. With plenty of smaller rocks to cover her, he thought.
Perfect.