The Killing Shot (16 page)

When Reilly turned, trying to catch his breath, he saw Pardo, still seated on the black, levering a fresh round into the Winchester before shoving the rifle into the scabbard.

“Right here,” Pardo said, staring at the dead Indian as he tapped the spot between his eyes.

Reilly grabbed the Smith & Wesson and the Evans, and looked down the canyon, frowning at Henry Dunlap's body hanging over the rocks, and two other dead men, the whiteness of their bodies in stark contrast to the darkness of the canyon.

“Best catch up your horses, Mac,” Pardo said. “You, too, Swede.”

Reilly looked over to his left, saw Swede Iverson rising from behind a giant boulder. He looked down the canyon again, finding the two paint horses about fifty yards beyond the slide area. Slowly, he started walking.

“Hey, Mac!” Pardo called out, and Reilly turned.

The outlaw was grinning. “I reckon I saved your life.”

Nobody much came to Redington, which is why Jim Pardo went there.

Maybe eight or ten years earlier, a couple of Yankee brothers had founded the little settlement on the eastern banks of the San Pedro River. The streets were quiet, but the aroma of green chile stew tore at Pardo's stomach. Redington existed for the farmers and ranchers in the area, but there was another reason it had a post office, two saloons, and three mercantiles. Riding the roan now, having left the black a few miles on the other side of Globe, Pardo motioned Mac and Iverson, who were trailing him, to ride up alongside him. When they did, he gestured toward a well-traveled road that intersected the dusty street they were riding down.

“Know what that is?” he asked.

Iverson shook his head, but Mac replied, “Military supply road. Heads down to Tucson.”

“That's right, smart guy,” Pardo said. “That's why we're here. You know what day it is?”

Both men shrugged.

“I guess you ain't so smart after all.” Pardo grinned at himself. “But that's all right, Mac, because I know.” He fished out a gold piece from his vest pocket and flipped it, watching it catch the sunlight as it arced its way to Mac, who caught it.

“It's not my birthday,” Mac said.

“Pretend that it is.” He jutted his jaw at the mercantile catty-corner from where they were. It was a two-story brick building, rare for this part of the territory, with big letters painted black across the whitewashed top story and some fancy lettering between the windows. “What's them words say?”

Mac turned and looked, then replied, “H. and L. Redfield and Company. Dealers in Every Thing.”

“That's good.” Pardo nodded. “Why don't you go in and buy you some clothes? You're a filthy man, shirt all ripped to pieces, vest not much better. See if they got shells for that Evans rifle you shoot so well. Get some .44-40s for my Winchester and a couple of boxes extra for my revolver. A sack of Arbuckle's coffee and some salt pork. And something for Ma.” His eyes lit up at the thought of his mother.

“Ain't that a grocery right next door?”

Mac looked, and nodded.

“Maybe they'll have some strawberries. Ma's partial to strawberries. Maybe they'll have some. Be nice to bring Ma a present.”

“Wouldn't she prefer a gun?” Mac asked.

Pardo glared. “Strawberries,” he said. “See if they have strawberries.”

His head bobbed, and he forgot Mac's sarcasm. Yeah, that would be a really nice treat. He could see his mother's face. “Then you see that place over yonder.” He hooked his thumb at the barber's pole across the street. “Get a haircut. Get a shave. You, too, Swede.”

“Do I get new duds, too?” Iverson asked.

“It ain't your birthday, Swede. You just get a haircut and a shave. When you're finished, meet me in that saloon.” He pointed out the place, and kicked his horse into a walk, leaving Mac and Iverson behind.

Half a block past the intersection, he stopped the roan. A dun horse was hobbled by the hitching rail in front of a stone building. The horse was branded
US
, with a McClellan saddle on its back. Pardo dug out his pocket watch, opened the case, and checked the time. Major Ritcher was early.

He swung to the ground, wrapped the reins around the hitching rail, tested the Colt in its holster, and stepped onto the porch, peering into the darkness before entering the cantina. The Mexican barkeep looked up without much interest, but straightened as Pardo approached him.

“Tequila,” Pardo announced, and slapped a coin on the bar.

Lazily, the bartender filled a tumbler, and started to take the bottle away, but Pardo grabbed its neck, and gave the Mexican an icy stare. Shrugging, the Mexican released the bottle and turned back to doing nothing.

“Vy don't you join me, stranger?” a voice called out, and Pardo turned, finding Major Ritcher seated at a table by the window. The Yankee son of a bitch raised a stein of beer in salute. Pardo walked over to him and stared.

“I'll take that seat,” he said.

Ritcher lowered the stein, his eyes slow to focus. Then his head bobbed, and he rose and took the chair next to the one Pardo was settling into. As Pardo sipped the tequila, Ritcher began talking.

“The Army train is coming from Fort Bliss in Texas. It vill be coming down the old Overland Mail route.” He wiped the froth of beer from his lips with the back of his hand. “They're taking the Gatlings all the vay to Fort Lowell.”

“Not Bowie?” Pardo asked in surprise. “I thought you said your boss at Bowie wanted them Gatlings for hisself.”

“He did,” Ritcher said. “but the commanding officer at Fort Lowell pulled rank. Seems he vants first crack at those Gatlings.”

Pardo topped off his tumbler with more tequila.

“That Army train?” Pardo said. “It'll follow the Overland route all the way to Fort Lowell?”

Ritcher nodded slightly.

“When's it due at Lowell?”

“Two weeks,” Ritcher answered, “from yesterday.”

Pardo killed the tequila. “How many guards?”

“Two companies of infantry left Bliss. My C.O. ordered Lieutenant Talley to take I Troop east and meet the train, then lead it back to Fort Lowell. And, naturally, bring Colonel Livingston his Gatlings and his howitzer. Dat's a lot of armed men, Pardo, although Mr. Talley's a little green. Plus the teamsters and muleskinners.”

Pardo stared into his empty glass.

“I said dat's a lot of firepower, Pardo. Two companies of infantry and a cavalry troop.”

“I heard you.” He still stared at the empty glass.

Silence.

Outside, a rooster crowed, though it was well past one o'clock in the afternoon.

“So in about eleven days, that train should be making its way through Texas Canyon.”

“Texas Canyon?” Ritcher blurted out.

“Not so loud, you damned fool.” Pardo slid the tumbler across the roughhewn table.

“Sorry. Let's see.” Ritcher did some mental ciphering, and finally nodded. “
Ja
, eleven, maybe ten.” He finished the beer, and carefully set the stein down. “So, do you have my thousand dollars?”

“No.”

Ritcher's shoulders tightened. He leaned back in his chair. “You said—”

“Shut up. You'll get your money. I been busy.” He grinned. “Maybe you heard. I busted Swede Iverson out of jail in Wickenburg.”

“I heard. It's been in every newspaper in the territory. You killed the town marshal. Slit his throat vile he vas hogtied. You killed a Mexican horse trader on the Agua Fria River. You ambushed a posse near the Bradshaw Mountains.”

Pardo laughed. “I ambushed a posse? That's funny. They tried to bushwhack us. They just wasn't worth a damn.”

“Ven do I get paid?” Ritcher asked.

“I told you. A thousand when you give me the route. Four after we pull the job.”

“I just gave you the route.”

“Then send me a bill.” He jerked the bottle off the table and poured tequila into his tumbler. A horse whinnied, and hoofs sounded outside. Quickly, Pardo set the bottle down and rested his hand on the butt of his Colt, listening to the jingling of spurs. Too soon to be Mac or Iverson. He saw a lone figure through the window. A tall man in beaten clothes. The figure disappeared from the window and entered the saloon. Pardo's left hand gripped the bottle so tightly his knuckles whitened as the man strode up to the bar and ordered a whiskey.

“Duke!” Pardo roared, and the thin, loose-jointed man spun around.

“Boss man,” he said, his eyes wide in terror. “You's here.”

“Yeah, I'm here, Duke. What the hell are you doing here? Why ain't you in camp?” Pardo was shaking, couldn't stop it, as he kicked the chair behind him when he stood, strode over to the bar. The Mexican beer-jerker backed into a corner.

Duke stood trembling. He reached for the whiskey the barkeep had poured, but Pardo's left hand shot out and knocked the shot glass across the bar.

“Tell me, Duke. What brings you to Redington? This is Chaucer's idea, ain't it? Well, Duke, what's the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Duke's head shook violently. “It was Phil, boss man. Phil told me to come.”

“Phil?”

Pardo stepped back.

“Yeah, boss man, Phil. He sent Harrah to Dos Cabezas. Told me to ride up here. He figured you'd first show up in either Dos Cabezas or here in Redington.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Pardo spotted another figure, a tall man with dirty blond hair dismounting a black horse, holding a bucket in his left hand. Pardo turned, halfway drawing the Colt from its holster, before stopping. It was a freshly shaven Swede Iverson, filling the doorway with his giant frame, a grin stretching from ear to ear.

“Hey, Pardo,” the man called out, just like a dumb Swede, letting everyone in the saloon know who he was, although the only one here who didn't know him was the Mexican. “I got them strawberries. Mac told me to bring them on over to you.”

Pardo felt his heart skip. Shoving the Colt back into the holster, he reached up and grabbed Duke's shirt-front, jerked the spindly man toward him. “Where's Ma?” he asked.

Duke's eyes bulged. His Adam's apple bobbed. His face went pale. His mouth moved, but no sound escaped his lips, just his rancid breath.

“Where is she?” He shook the tall man savagely.

“B-b-boss,” Duke pleaded.

“Where is she?” He jerked the .44-40 from the holster, thumbed back the hammer, jammed the barrel into Duke's stomach. “Answer me, you bastard, or I'll gut you with this Colt. Answer me. What's happened to Ma?”

Duke's trembling mouth shot out the word in a primal scream. At first, Pardo didn't hear him. Couldn't have heard those words. Swede Iverson was saying something about strawberries, picking up one of the fruit in his fingers, revealing it like he was showing off a four-pound trout he had just hooked. Major Ritcher was ducking through the door, practically knocking Swede Iverson out of the way. The bartender was exiting through a back door. Pardo shoved Duke against the bar, the tall man's flailing arms knocking pewter steins and glasses to the earthen floor. The room began spinning, and he heard Duke's words over and over and over again.

She's dead.

She's dead.

She's dead.

She's dead.

She's dead.

She's dead…dead…dead…dead…dead….

The Colt fell to the floor, and Pardo knocked off his hat, grabbing his hair, pulling and pulling. No, somebody was screaming, the voice coming from some deep well.

No.

No.

No.

It took a few minutes before Pardo realized it was he who was yelling.

He steeled himself, stopped yelling, quit yanking on his hair. Tears blurred his vision, but he found Duke standing by the bar, dumbly staring down at Pardo. Slowly, Pardo rose, wiped his eyes, and asked, “What happened?” His voice, surprisingly, sounded calm.

Duke made the mistake of hesitating, and Pardo leaped on him, slapping his face repeatedly, ignoring the stupid fool's pleas. “Who killed her? Who? Who done it, damn you? Who did it? It was Chaucer, wasn't it? Wasn't it? Wasn't it?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Chaucer. But…”

Pardo shoved Duke away, turned, found his gun, holstered it, started for the door. He should have known. Should have gunned down that son of a bitch before he left camp. He had felt this for some time, knew Ma would try to get that bastard, but…

Chaucer.

Something stopped him, and he turned savagely, eyes drilling into Duke.

“Y'all let him go?” His hands tightened into balls. “After he gunned down my mother?”

Duke backed against the bar, gripping it for support.

“Phil said it was a fair fight.”

“Phil? Phil let him go?”

Duke's head bobbed slightly. “Only…”

“Only what?”

“Well…”

“Go on, damn it. Out with it. Tell me everything.”

“She, your ma, Miz Ruby, she caught Wade—she had the drop on him. Out in front of Lacy's tent.”

“Lacy?”

Duke nodded. Pardo felt his hands turn clammy. He was sweating profusely.

“Your ma had Chaucer covered with the Winchester, said she was gonna kill him. And then…” Duke looked around for whiskey, a bottle, a glass, but he had knocked everything to the floor or behind the bar, out of his reach.

“It happened so fast, boss man. Me and Phil, we was tryin' to get a fire goin', get the coffee boilin', and then Wade was divin' and palmin' his Remington. And then…well…it was Lacy, inside that tent. She had that hideaway gun we taken off the girl.”

“The girl?” Pardo's eyes squinted.

“Yeah, boss man. The girl. The girl we taken off the train. Blanche. The one with the potty mouth.”

Oh, yeah. He had forgotten about the kid. He pictured the ten-year-old's mother, but then a vision of Lacy replaced the blond-haired German.

“What about Lacy?” he asked, trying to get the bitter taste out of his mouth.

“She shot…she shot Miz Ruby twice in the back.”

“In the back.” Calm. His voice sounded calm. As if he had expected this.

“Yeah. Mind you, she didn't kill her. Lacy, I mean. Lacy didn't kill your mother. But them slugs caught her in the small of her back, like they knocked the breath out of her, and that give Wade all the chance he needed. He had his gun drawn, and put two bullets through Miz Ruby's lungs. I'm…I'm…I'm plumb sorry, boss man. Phil, he sent me here. To find you when you come in, if you come in. Figured you'd want to know pronto.”

He turned, headed for the door.

He saw the bucket at Swede Iverson's side, saw the strawberries, and the madness struck again, savage, blinding him with rage, tormenting his soul. He jerked the bucket from Iverson's hand, threw it across the street, then pulled the Colt from the leather. He emptied the Colt into the overturning bucket, which rained strawberries on the street. People came out of the doors, opened windows, peered up or down the street, staring.