The Killing Shot (13 page)

Raindrops pounded the tent in the predawn light, cooling the air but soaking through the canvas until water began dripping on Wade Chaucer's face. With a vile oath, he sat up, yanking the Remington from underneath the pillow, and found his pants. Beside him, Three-Fingers Lacy rolled over, muttering something incoherent. Chaucer pulled on his pants, then reached for his boots.

“Is it raining?” Lacy asked sleepily.

“No,” Chaucer said, “God's pissing on your tent.”

“Don't be sacrilegious, Wade.” She sat up, combing her wild hair with her fingers, then stared at the water forming a puddle in the center of her bed. “Must be a monsoon,” she said.

“Monsoons strike in the afternoon,” he told her as he shoved his pants legs inside the tops of his boots, stood, walked to the folding table, disgusted as his boots slopped through the wet ground, and turned up the lantern. Next, he grabbed his gunbelt, laying the nickel-plated pistol on the table while he buckled on the shell belt.

Lacy sat up. “Where you going, Wade?”

“Find some coffee,” he said.

“But it's raining.”

“Slacking up,” he said, and the storm was, too, just an abnormal morning shower.

“Don't you want to…?” She purred, and Chaucer looked at her, found her tempting. Her breasts surged against the dirty plum-colored camisole she wore. He made himself look away, and his gaze fell upon the uncorked bottle of bourbon on the table. He took a sip, then set it down.

“What would your Jimmy say about that?” he asked. “Or Ruby if she found me leaving your tent this early in the morn?”

When her face froze in fright, Chaucer laughed.

“You…you wouldn't tell him, or her, would you, about us?”

“I might,” he said. “Just to rile him. To see the look on his face right before I filled his gut with lead.”

“Wade,” she begged, and thunder rolled across the Dragoons.

“Don't worry,” he said, softening, and he walked back to the bed, and sat beside her, kissing her gently on her lips. “Jim, well, he won't be coming back from Wickenburg.”

Her eyes widened.

“When I went on a scout,” he said, “I rode all the way to Benson.”

“Benson?”

He nodded. “Sent a telegraph to Wickenburg law. Told him to be on the lookout for Jim Pardo. Said he planned to break Swede Iverson out of jail.”

“Wade!” She pulled away from him. “You set him up. That town law, he'll kill Jimmy.”

He shoved her down, rising, feeling the heat rush to his head. “What do you think he'll do to us, woman?” He looked at his feet, saw his boots covered with grass and mud, standing in a half-inch of water. “I'm sick of living like a cur dog, hiding in this heap. So it's high time you made a choice, Lacy, dear. Jimmy, or me? This camp, or a real town?”

Grabbing his hat, he left her trembling on her bed.

The rain had stopped. It remained dark, except for the glow of the lantern inside Lacy's tent, but he could make out Duke and Phil starting a fire, having set up a canvas cover to keep the fire pit relatively dry. Good, they'd have coffee boiling in a few minutes. He'd announce his plan over breakfast this fine morning, let them know that Pardo wouldn't be returning from Wickenburg.

“What about Ruby?” Lacy called to his back.

He snorted and walked toward the fire, trying to avoid any puddles of water he could see in the darkness. He had taken four or five steps toward the fire when the deadly metallic click of a rifle being cocked stopped him. Phil and Duke heard the noise, too, and stood, staring.

“You're a double-crossing bastard, Wade Chaucer,” Ruby Pardo said as Chaucer turned to face her. “You ain't worth giving no chance to, but I wasn't about to shoot you in the back.”

She stood beside the tent, so he could see her outline well, though not her face. Rainwater dripped off her waterlogged hat, and she wore a black poncho made of India rubber. How long had she been standing outside Lacy's tent? Chaucer wondered. From the looks of her, she might have been there all night. He wouldn't put it past her.

“Miz Ruby?” Duke called.

“I'm killing a cur dog,” Ruby said, and she took four long strides, keeping the Winchester pointed at Chaucer's gut. “A cur dog that's been hiding in this heap.” The light from the lantern inside Lacy's tent turned up, revealing Ruby Pardo's leathery face and the Winchester rifle. Her feet sloshed through the water.

The sky began turning to a gunmetal gray.

Chaucer grinned, and hooked his thumbs on his shell belt, between the holster across his midsection. The Mexican, Soledad, crawled from underneath his sugans, and slowly rose. The only person missing was Harrah, likely up on the ridge on sentry duty.

“Boys,” Chaucer said easily, “looks like we've got ourselves a standoff.”

An odd grin lightened Ruby Pardo's face.

Behind him, footfalls told him that Duke and Phil were walking over.

“I'm taking over this gang,” Chaucer said, never taking his eyes of the woman with the Winchester.

“You got an odd way of doin' it,” Phil said casually.

“Jim Pardo won't be coming back from Wickenburg,” Chaucer said. “The other day, I sent a wire to the Wickenburg town marshal.”

“You done what?” Duke exclaimed.

Chaucer spun. “That's right. I set Pardo up. Sicced the law on him. He and that Mac fellow are dead by now, or locked up in Wickenburg. Serves him right, for doing in The Greek like he done.”

“You don't know that Jim killed The Greek,” Phil said.

“Don't I?” His smile returning, he turned back to face Ruby. “Tell him, Miz Ruby. Tell him what your boy planned to do with The Greek.”

When Ruby Pardo remained still, Chaucer called out to Lacy: “Lacy, tell these boys what Jim Pardo had in store for The Greek!”

Nothing. “Bitch,” he mumbled, then forced his smile to return. “Looks like a standoff, Miz Ruby.”

“Standoff my ass,” she said. “I'm gonna drill you plumb center.”

“It's not like I can stop you. But killing me won't get your boy back. Your boy's dead. Dead, dead, dead.” He was waiting for the old woman to blink, to look away, but damned if she didn't keep her eyes locked on Chaucer and her finger on the rifle's trigger.

Bracing the stock against her hip, she let go of the grip and reached into the split of the rubber poncho. Chaucer's eyes narrowed, wondering what she was doing. She withdrew a piece of paper, yellow paper, flapped it open, then let it fall. He couldn't see what was written on the paper, but he knew it was the wire he had sent. Or had thought he had.

“This the wire you mean, Wade?” she said, her voice mocking. “Seems this telegraph never got sent.”

He felt as if he'd been kicked by a mule in the chest. “H-how?”

“You must think I'm an idiot. When you took your little ride, I asked Soledad to follow you, see what you was really up to. Saying you was going on a scout. Hell, you ain't done a lick of work since my son brought you into this gang.”

He looked past Ruby, found the ignorant Mexican just standing, smoothing his mustache, off to Ruby Pardo's left.

“Why?” Chaucer asked involuntarily. Then angrily: “You enjoy living like this? I've told you boys a million times we'll never get rich riding with Pardo. Why, man, why would you do that…to me?”

The Mexican shrugged. “Pardo treat me right,” he said.

Chaucer's head turned, finding no help in the faces of Duke, the fool, or Phil, the old man. He let out a heavy sigh, and turned back to the smiling Ruby Pardo.

“I wanted to see that look on your face.” Her smile had widened, and she gripped the rifle with both hands. “Wanted you to know that you ain't got a lick of sense, to think you could outsmart my boy, my Jimmy, to think you could outsmart me.” A cruel frown replaced the smile, and Ruby raised the Winchester to her shoulder. “I'll see you in hell, Wade Chaucer,” she said, and Wade dived to his right, drawing the gun, knowing he didn't stand a chance as the Winchester barrel followed him to the ground.

A shot punched the water-soaked tent flap behind Ruby Pardo, and she staggered forward, jerking the rifle's trigger prematurely—the bullet kicking up mud into Chaucer's face. Another gunshot popped from inside the tent, and this one dropped Ruby to her knees.

By then, Chaucer had drawn the Remington, and he fired twice. Water flew off the poncho as the bullets struck her, sending Ruby Pardo onto her back. Almost the instant she hit the mud, the rain started again in a soft drizzle.

As Chaucer rose to his feet, he trained the muzzle of the Remington on Soledad, who held both arms out to his sides. Then Chaucer spun around, saw Phil and Duke shaking their heads. Movement behind him turned him around, and he thumbed back the hammer as Lacy bolted out of the tent still dressed only in her dingy camisole, holding a smoking .32 Triumph, the little four-barreled hideaway gun they had taken off that catamount of a girl back when they had wrecked the Southern Pacific. Lacy's face was ashen, and she dropped the .32 in the mud and covered her face at the sight of Ruby Pardo, who lay on her back, still clawing at the Winchester on her chest, trying to work the lever.

More footsteps sounded, splashing across the yard, and Chaucer spotted the woman captive and her child running to the camp. The woman, Dagmar, stopped, and shielded the ten-year-old punk behind her. Next came the pounding of a horse's hoofs. That would be Harrah, riding down to see what the hell was going on. Well, Chaucer would show him.

He walked over to Ruby, and kicked the rifle out of her hands. Next, he studied Lacy, who lowered her trembling hands, and said, “She…she…I…” She whirled toward Soledad. “She had the drop on Wade!” Then looking at Phil. “I couldn't—I had to.” To the woman Dagmar. “Don't you see? She…”

Her eyes fell to Ruby, and she dropped to her knees and pressed both hands on the old woman's bleeding chest. She looked up. “Help me. Help her! We got to help Ruby.”

With surprising strength, Ruby Pardo pried Lacy's hands, lifted them, and flung them aside. Lacy broke into hysterical sobs and covered her face with hands stained by Ruby Pardo's blood.

By then, Harrah had galloped into camp, blurting out a lame, “What's going on?” and dropping from the saddle.

Chaucer stared at Soledad for a moment, then at the other three men, then looked down at Ruby Pardo. Blood seeped from the corners of her mouth. Rain bounced off her hard face. Grinning down at her, Chaucer aimed the Remington at her forehead, and started to squeeze the trigger, only to realize he'd just be wasting lead. Raindrops bounced off her unseeing eyes, and Chaucer turned, and eased down the hammer, but didn't holster the gun.

“She's dead,” he announced.

The rain began falling harder, but the darkness began receding. Now, he could see everyone clearly.

“Oh, no!” Lacy curled into a ball. “Oh, no, no, no, no…”

Harrah shuffled his feet. The others just stared. Chaucer looked over at Dagmar, back at Phil and Duke, and turned savagely toward Soledad.

“You're nothing but a spy, you damned greaser. I ought to plug you right now. Trailing me, going into that telegraph office after I left. How much did you have to pay that telegrapher not to send my wire?”

Soledad just stared, not at Chaucer, but at Ruby Pardo's lifeless body.

“All right!” Chaucer turned back toward the three white men. “There's still a chance. I can send that wire to Wickenburg. We can be rid of Pardo once and for all. We can run this gang.”

Phil was shaking his head. Duke backed away. Harrah's mouth hung open like a panting hound.

“What's the matter with you men?” He gestured wildly around camp. “You call this living?”

“You shouldn't have done it, Wade,” Duke muttered. “You shouldn't have kilt poor Miz Ruby.”

“Jim'll track you down,” Phil said. “There ain't no place you can hide.”

“We can ambush Pardo when he rides back here.” Realizing that he was begging, he tried to steady his voice. “Hell, there's a pretty good chance Pardo and Mac are dead already. Propped up in their Sunday best at the Wickenburg undertaker's. Dead, and I had nothing to do with it.” Trying to sound hopeful. Failing. Failing miserably.

“Where are you going?” he demanded. Phil was walking toward the lean-to.

“Fetch a shovel,” Phil announced, never slowing his stride. “I'll bury Ruby.”

Harrah had removed his hat, started taking tentative steps toward Ruby Pardo.

The fire Duke and Phil had started had gone out.

Chaucer looked behind him, saw Soledad had sank to his knees, was bowing his head, muttering a silent prayer, then crossing himself.

“You fools!” Chaucer yelled. “What's the matter with you?” He tried something else, something desperate. “What do you think Jim Pardo will do to you all when he finds out you let his mother get shot dead?”

“I ain't runnin',” Duke said.

Dagmar led her fidgeting daughter away.

Phil came out of the lean-to carrying two shovels, and a pick, tossing one shovel to Duke, who caught it, and followed the old Missouri bushwhacker. Harrah had knelt over Ruby's body.

“She looks peaceful,” he said, and reached to her face and closed the dead woman's eyes.

“Listen…” Chaucer tried, but Phil stopped him.

“No, Wade, you listen. We ain't gonna stop you. Way I see it, it was a fair fight. Well, would have been…” He gave the wailing Lacy a hard look, after which he tossed the pick to the rising Soledad's hands. “But we're Pardo's men, and I reckon we'll wait for Jim. But you, you best light out of here.” He took two steps, stopped, and pointed the blade of the shovel at Three-Fingers Lacy.

“And take her with you.”