Shotgun Charlie (17 page)

Grady Haskell yanked once more on the lead line, the very line that attached him to a fortune in wonderful money, cold cash. He laughed at that one, for in this weather it surely was that—and only that sliver of momentary self-induced mirth kept him from spinning around and drilling that laggard plug between her foul walleyes. A homelier horse he'd never seen, and she came with a trudging gait to match.

“Step it up, Methuselah, or you'll be feeding crows and coyotes in very short order.”

If the old girl had heard him, she gave no indication. Could be something was genuinely wrong with her, thought Haskell. Not a surprise, considering that she was Ace's horse. And he was as useless as his horse.

Speaking of useless, he thought, I should be coming onto Simp and Dutchy about any time now. Another reason he didn't dare risk a shot yet. Didn't want to tip them off that they were being followed. He'd rather give them the old surprise attack, if he could. All this dilly-dallying with the oafs had slowed him down by the better part of a day and he wanted to get to that cabin, rejigger his load, and wait out the posse.

He'd promised himself that if he ever made a big, big haul—and this surely counted in that category—he'd not spend his days glancing at shadowy places and strange faces and wondering. No, sir, he'd deal with them all in quick, short order. He'd snipe the do-gooders from Bakersfield as soon as they showed their heads, poking up like rabbits because they were sure the Almighty and the all-important Right were on their side.

Well, he had news for them. Nothing could be further from the truth. All he needed was a few good vantage points, and he recalled several, where he'd stashed the weapons he'd collected off the bodies of the fools he'd hired. Then he'd be set up as pretty as you please to deliver an almighty lead rain on the do-gooders.

He almost chuckled, but didn't want to reveal anything about his location, should they be closer than he suspected.

And dang if he wasn't. Not a quarter mile along the trail ahead, Haskell saw the unmistakable sign, then smelled it, of weakly veiled smoke from a small cook fire. Yep, had to be Simp. He was the only one fool enough to give in to such urges to make a fire. On the other hand, maybe he'd brewed up a few cups of fine coffee. Heck, thought Grady, even bad coffee would be better than the coffee he hadn't had in days now.

As he approached, he worked to keep his horse's steps slow and measured, kept his rifle drawn and laid across his lap, cocked and at the ready. And his left-side revolver was ready to be snatched free should Simp mistake him for a posse man.

As it turned out, Grady needn't have worried. The man, and it was indeed Simp, was asleep, curled up like a baby by his tiny campfire. He'd taken care to angle wide, frondlike branches of pines around the fire to help disperse the smoke. But it hadn't helped, now, had it, Simp?

Haskell smiled, a wide, cat-caught-a-mouse grin and swung down out of the saddle, his rifle held out and aimed forward. Simp might be dumb as a sack of horseshoes, but he was, Grady had to admit, a fair hand with a gun draw.

Grinning, Haskell approached the sleeping man. Still a few feet away, Grady paused, pooched out his bottom lip, and regarded the man, noted the dark staining of his lower legs and boots. Wetness. Hmm. He looked about the rest of the camp, then nodded, as if coming to a decision.

There was the man's horse, saddled and reins looped lightly, ready to be grabbed should a clean escape be necessary. The horse also had caked dust on its feet—a sign of recent wetness. And there were the two laden saddlebags, filled, no doubt, with Grady's money. Good, good, good . . .

“If I was to shoot you now, Simp, why you'd be . . . dead.” Haskell's smile spread as he watched the dozing man's reaction to his unexpected words.

Simp's arms and legs stiffened and shot straight out, as if he were trying to jump in all directions at once. He clawed for his sidearm fast, almost out of instinct.

“Don't, don't. No, no, no . . .” Haskell shook his head. “That's not how it's going to play out.”

The surprised man's eyes widened. “Boss . . . what's going on.” He rested his hand on the butt of the revolver, but didn't lift it free of the polished cherry grips. He ran his other hand down his stubbled face, rubbed his eyes quickly with a thumb and knuckle.

“Howdy, Simp. Kindly take that hand off'n your pistol.”

Simp complied, a newly roused curiosity and concern knitting his brow. “What . . . what you got that thing pointed at me for, boss?”

“Oh,” Haskell sighed, his voice casual, his eyes still narrowed on the horizontal man. “You see, I know what a hand you are with your shooter, and there wasn't no way I could think of to wake you up safelike so that you wouldn't up and plug me full of holes.” Haskell offered Simp a grin and a shrug. He tipped his hat back, and all the while kept his rifle trained on the man.

“Well, as you can see, I'm not about to shoot you. I'm all awake over here.” He grinned, looked embarrassed. “Been trying to dry out. Got a mite damp crossing that river a ways back.”

“Mm-hmm. I can see that, Simp.” Haskell nodded, but didn't otherwise move.

Simp swallowed, ran a raspy tongue over his equally dry lips. “So you can go on ahead and lower that rifle of yours, all right?” His smile was a weak, thin thing.

“Oh, this here rifle?” Haskell wagged the black-barreled Henry.

Simp nodded, not taking his eyes from the man.

“I will gladly do that,” said Haskell. “When you pinch that revolver out of your holster, nice as you please. Two fingers, then toss it this way.”

“You can't be serious with me, boss. That ain't right. You know me. We're working together.”

“Now, see, there's a couple of things wrong with what you said.” Haskell canted his head and regarded Simp as he would a daft child. “First is that you assume because we are acquainted that I like you and trust you. Nothing could be further from the full truth. Next thing is that we are not working together. Never did. You worked for me.”

Simp made to get up, but Haskell thrust the business end of the rifle at him and shook his head. “Not so quick. You need to toss that hog leg over this way.”

Paused in midrise, Simp stared at the man.

“Get on with it,” said Haskell, jerking the rifle again.

Simp made to speak, then with a hard sneer tossed the pistol as Haskell had instructed. It landed near Grady's feet, skidded, and kicked up a small spray of dust.

“Kind of feel naked now, don't you, Simp?”

The seated man said nothing, but stared at Haskell, trying to look angrier and less confused than he was. “What'd you mean when you said I used to work for you?”

“What it sounds like, Simp. The big deal has gone ahead as planned and you and the boys . . . well, let's say this was a onetime employment opportunity and now your services are no longer needed.”

“Hey, anyway,” said Simp, as if ignoring Haskell's utterances, “how'd you come to be snaking around behind me and not up the trail. When you left us early on you said you'd see us up ahead.”

“In a manner of speaking, I have. But I had things to tend to here and there. Oh, by the way, Simp. Ace sends his fondest wishes for a speedy recovery. Said to tell you that he went through it and it wasn't nothing. Over in a finger snap and now everything's all right. You got any thoughts as to what he means by that?”

Simp looked up at Haskell as if he'd recited part of the Bible in Latin. “I have no idea what you're on about.” He looked away, down at his feet. “Me and him, we never got on much anyway.”

“That is a shame. He was such a . . . no, I can't even say he was all that interesting. Just annoying, mostly, if I have to be honest.”

“What you mean . . . ‘was'?”

Haskell stepped closer, leveling the snout of the rifle inches from Simp's pocked, trembling features. Though it was a cool day, tears of sweat bubbled from his brow, leached through his ratty beard.

“You're gonna shoot me, ain't you?” It was almost an accusation.

Haskell grinned wide. “Shoot you? Great hoppin' goats, boy, what sort of a boss do you take me for? Course I ain't gonna shoot you.” He leaned close, fixed Simp with his eyes as a snake will a hare, and in a low, husky whisper, said, “Gonna gut you, boy.”

As the words sank into Simp's brain, so did Grady Haskell's skinning knife sink deep into the poor sop's gut. He had time to widen his eyes and think about screaming. But by then it was far too late. Something inside him burst and it was as if a candle had been blown out. His eyes dulled, relaxed, and blood spooled from his sagged lips.

“Naw,” said Haskell, still bent low, still grinning, still talking quietly to the newly dead man. “Shootin's much too loud. And besides, bullets cost money, and you ain't worth a nickel.”

He worked the knife in a little deeper, wrenched it back and forth, then slid it free and wiped it on Simp's tatty frock coat. “Now, all that palaver has worked up a powerful thirst in me. And as I recall”—Grady parted the dead man's coat and pawed inside it, patted down the sagged body—“you have a taste for corn liquor. . . .” He smiled as he withdrew a corked glass pint bottle half-filled with honey-colored liquid. “I take it back, Simp.” He popped the cork and tossed it away. “You are good for something after all.”

He upended the bottle, gurgled it all back, smacked his lips, ran his tongue around them, then tossed the bottle. It bounced off the man's head with a thunk.

Haskell smiled and sauntered on over to Simp's horse. After reassuring himself that the saddlebags contained his money, he rigged up a lead line from the horse to Ace's, then looked about the camp once more. His eyes settled on the little campfire, still quietly smoking. He considered it a moment, then walked to it, unbuttoned his fly, and drizzled until the fire steamed, giving up its embers to the dousing.

“You really ought to give more thought before you light a fire on the trail, Simp.” He looked over at the dead man as he buttoned his fly. “You never know who might show up. Lots of bad men out there.” His little joke brought a smile to his face and sustained him as he rode on out, heading for the Needle and beyond.

Charlie felt a terrible coldness, a bone-deep chill that he felt sure would never leave him for all his days.
Ha, all my days,
he thought.
I am dead—have to be to feel like this.

As the memories of what happened dribbled back to him—the trail, the river and its water, that cold, cold water—his thoughts curved back to the river and he realized he was not dead. Somehow he had survived. Was it even possible?

When he finally pried open his eyes, he felt like one of those frogs who emerges in the spring from being dug down deep in the pond muck all winter. But those frogs lived. So if they did, maybe he had too?

None of this made any sense to Charlie. He felt a wet, cold grittiness beneath him, on his face, his hands, tried to work his fingers to grip, to ball them into fists. Surely there was somebody to blame, somebody to deal with for all the misery he felt collapsing down on him.

And then there was—Haskell. Grady Haskell. That was the vicious brute who'd caused all this, for certain. He was the one Charlie wanted so badly. Even as he tried to force his eyes open, blinking them out from a long winter's layer of half-frozen mud—no, that wasn't right. You're not a frog, Charlie. . . .

No matter, he knew that as soon as he was able to get up out of the mud, stand for himself once again, he was going to track Haskell and that would be an end to it. And once he found him, Charlie vowed, he would show no mercy, vowed to peel the man apart like a soft apple.

He managed to get up onto his knees, forcing his eyes to stay open while he shook his head to dispel the fuzzy-headed feeling that lingered like a bad headache. Then he heard a voice behind him. He wasn't alone—someone else was there, sharing his riverbank. He knew that voice? Who was that? Who would be there with him? Only one man he could think of who knew he'd be there—Haskell. Had to be. It was as he'd feared; the man had been waiting for him, had seen him coming somehow and had decided to wait for Charlie. That meant Charlie was not only half-dead from his dunking, but unarmed and in the weaker position.

Charlie grinned. There had to be a way to make that work in his favor. Keep acting confused, he thought. Work your way on up to Haskell. Then lay into him suddenlike. Make him pay for everything he's done.

As bad as Charlie felt, all he cared about was getting close enough to Haskell to kill him. He trusted that his bare hands would do the job. That was all that mattered to him at the moment. Not whether he would live through the attack, for he was convinced he would not. Haskell would slit him open like a caught fish. But surely I have enough of something left in me to get close, close enough to snap the man's neck, twist his head off like a flower. Only Haskell was no flower. He was a killer. And Charlie only wanted one shot at making the man pay for his crimes. Just one.

He rose on his knees, tried to steady himself with his hands planted firm in the mud. He felt himself swaying, bulled through it, forced himself up onto one knee, pushed off the mud, and stood slowly full height. His vision was a blurred thing. The sound of the river, so close he felt almost pulled back into it, as if he were somehow attacked by its loudness, tugged at him. He slowly turned.

Through crusted, muddied eyes he saw a figure stretched out on the bank above, lying there like the arrogant man he was. Haskell. Yammering something at him, telling him no doubt how he was going to kill him. Well, thought Charlie, let him talk. I will use that to my advantage.

He lumbered up the bank, but didn't have to wobble too far. For there was Haskell. There he was. Right in front of him. Now or never, Charlie, old fellow, he thought. And with all the meager strength he could amass, he drew the fingers of his right hand into a big, hard ball of bone and skin, and with his lips stretched back tight over his teeth, Charlie drove that fist straight downward.

“Charlie! No! What are you doing?”

But even that wasn't enough to stop him. He knew the man was a deceitful liar, a rogue of the first order. Someone who would lie and cheat and steal and kill to get what he wanted.

Charlie landed a good one, right on the jaw of that rascal. But even as he did so, the momentum from the mighty punch he threw kept him going, kept him pitching forward. His body followed that fist downward, as if he were a mighty tree falling in the forest. He had enough wits about him to tuck one shoulder under and roll with it. Come back up, Charlie, he told himself. Come up and swing wide. You're bound to hit something.

As he rolled with it, came on up again, pivoting on his left knee, he shook his head to clear the fuzziness. Had to get straight, had to see what he was up to. This was his chance to best the killer. He knew for certain that any second he'd be shot.

“Charlie!”

The bum was howling at him now, a thin, reedy voice. Why wasn't he shooting? Charlie spun, faced the man, not wanting to waste the opportunity he was given, wanting to grab the precious moments before the bullets began to fly. Charlie could almost feel them hitting him, driving into him, even before he heard them. Had he been shot? No, no, it was the man, hitting back.

Charlie kept right on lashing out, spun around, and caught sight of Haskell, only it didn't look like him. Must be the Devil's wearing a disguise, thought Charlie. Like one of those stage performers he'd seen back in that railroad town, touring the streets, drumming up business for that evening's performance. He recalled wanting to go, but there was no way he had the money to get in. This had been months before he'd met up with Pap and the boys anyway.

Charlie's thoughts were a jumbled, tumbled mess, his legs shot fire up and down them, and his head felt stuffed full of ticking and an achiness that wouldn't go away. The only thing he knew he needed to do was keep swinging his big fists. He'd catch sight of his tormenter again any second.

Then something hit him hard on the side of his aching head. Stars bloomed before his eyes and through a hollow ringing sound he heard shouts, someone shouting his name, “Charlie! Charlie!” and then he thought he heard the word marshal. But that didn't make any sense. What did it even mean?

And then he fell, not remembering to roll this time, piling into the soft riverbank earth. So cold, so tired, Charlie wanted nothing more than to lie there, head aching, body aching, maybe sink into the mud and be done with it all. All this living and fighting and killing and dying and wounding. Fight, fight, fight, it never seemed to end, just got worse and worse until finally you ended up a man floating down a river, someone who should have died, but then . . . someone saves you. Someone . . . saved you?

Who would do that? Not Haskell, surely. Man wouldn't have any reason to save anyone except himself. Not for the first time that day, a dark veil pulled down low over his eyes and he knew no more.