by Kurt Barker
Blackshot sat for a while in the shade of the rock, thinking over his options. He looked out across the arid land at the gray bulk of the horse, the motionless body seeming to undulate in the heat. Never mind the Comacho brothers; being caught without a horse in this country at this time of year was a deadly enough situation. Even if the heat was not a factor, he was more than a day's journey on foot from Carver City. His best bet was to try to make it back to Larsonville.
Blackshot swore silently at Joe Castle. No, he was not going back to Larsonville. He had a job to do, and that wily bastard was not going to shake him from it. In his mind Blackshot resolved himself to two things; he would make it to Carver City with the deed, and he would hunt down Joe Castle and put him in the ground.
With those resolutions firmly in his mind, Blackshot got up from behind the rock and started walking. He went first back to the rocky chamber on the road where the ambush had been laid; the bushwhackers certainly hadn't walked there, so there was a chance that their horses were still in the area. The sun fell as hot as burning matches on his bare shoulders and back as he walked.
He surveyed the area around the rocks and found where the men had left their horses, but as he had suspected, they were gone. The tracks on the ground showed that another horseman had led them away. No prizes for guessing who the horseman was. So Gentleman Joe had covered all his angles. All his angles except one; he had underestimated the determination of his opponent. That was his fatal error; Blackshot would make damn sure of that.
Blackshot returned to his previous spot and started off toward the dead horse. The sun had reached its height and was now falling slowly toward the western horizon. The jagged, rocky ridge had begun to spread its shadow across the dusty floor of the canyon, and Blackshot was able to use its shade for most of the journey. When he arrived at the body of the beast, he retrieved his canteen and a bit of jerky that he kept in the saddlebags. He took the spare cartridges he kept in another saddle bag and refilled the loops on his belt that he had emptied into the Colts.
Blackshot took a swallow of the lukewarm water from the canteen, then capped it and hung it from his belt loop. He slipped the jerky into his pocket as he made his way back to the shadow of the canyon wall. Then, he was off to Carver City, and good luck to any man that would try to stop him!
Chapter 6
The terrain became rockier and more treacherous, and the path of the narrow, winding trail grew fainter as the floor of the canyon sloped gradually upward to meet the far side of the rim. Blackshot moved steadily in the growing gloom that was settling across the canyon with the setting of the sun. He had stopped once to rest and eat some of the jerky, but had otherwise kept moving at as brisk a pace as he dared. He was always alert to the possible dangers of every crag and boulder that he passed, and was careful not to walk out in the open any more than he could help it.
Blackshot blinked the sweat from his eyes and felt its salty sting on his cracked lips. He had meted out the water in the canteen carefully, but it would not last much longer. His legs ached and his shoulders and back had been burned in the sun. As near as he could figure, he was not more than half way to Carver City, and all the while he was walking the punishing trail, men were riding toward him, hunting him down. The situation looked grim, but any time Blackshot felt his will falter he remembered the mocking voice of Joe Castle, and that was all the determination he needed to continue.
By the time Blackshot had topped the rim, the last glow of the sun had faded from the western sky and night had cast its inky net across the land. The air was cooler, and now that he was out from between the walls of the canyon the whisper of a breeze was blowing, chilling the sweat that ran down his wide chest. This and a smooth, firm turf replacing the rocky terrain that he had strove with most of the day gave new energy to Blackshot's weary legs.
Soon the ground sloped gently downward again toward a wide valley and disappeared in blackness at the foot of tall jagged cliffs whose silhouettes stood like broken black statues against the dusky sky. As Blackshot observed them, he thought he just caught a twinkle of light at their feet. Yes, he was sure of it; it grew brighter and more plain as he walked, and soon he could recognize its origin. It was the light from a house window!
Blackshot's pace quickened as new hope surged through him, but the ever present need for caution held him in check. Just ahead, the ground fell away more steeply into a dark valley, and Blackshot crept to the edge and lay down on the soft, sandy ground to get the lay of the land.
In the valley below ran a broad dusty road that went West toward Carver City, and it crossed here with another road which stretched South toward the distant border of Mexico. At the intersection of the roads sat a low, square house. It was old and weather-beaten and looked almost like a large shack; the light Blackshot had seen shone brightly from its front window, illuminating the dusty floor of the valley. From its glow he could pick out the dark bulk of something sitting a few yards from the door. A well! He licked his dry lips, imagining the abundance of cool, sweet water and how it would feel against his parched throat and sunburned shoulders.
But then something at the well caught Blackshot's eye. A little flicker of red light; he strained to make out what it was. He saw it again; it was the glow of a cigarette. There was a man sitting against the well, on the shadowed side away from the house. Now that he was looking closely, Blackshot could just make out the form of the man slouched against the base of the well. Something long and thin lay across his lap; a rifle. The man was a sentry.
Blackshot turned his eyes back to the house and scrutinized it more closely. He made out the dark forms of horses on the far side of the house, tied to a post near the building. There were too many horses for whoever was living in the little house. Some wayfarers were staying at the house, and Blackshot had a bad feeling about just who the wayfarers were.
Slowly and silently, Blackshot crept down the slope into the valley. He stayed low to the ground, keeping an eye on the gunman at the well to make sure he was not attracting attention. He didn't make straight for the house, but instead took an arcing path to his left toward the southbound road, keeping out of the light cast by the window.
When he reached the flat, dusty trail that cut through the southern end of the valley, Blackshot looked back toward the well. He could see the reflections of the light glinting dully off the pump's patina, and the silhouette of the man on the opposite side. Satisfied that he was sufficiently far from the sentry, Blackshot sprinted lightly across the road and into the shadows at the side of the house.
The sound of voices drifted from the window, relaxed and conversational. A loud, harsh laugh cut through the other voices and there was a loud thump; then the voices resumed as before. Blackshot worked his way quietly toward the open window at the front of the house , where the light and sounds were streaming out. He stood up next to the window frame, keeping himself flattened against the wall, and leaned out just enough to see inside.
From his vantage point, Blackshot could see that the house was a single room with a dirt floor. A faded sheet hung from a rope that spanned the room, making a sort of curtain that divided the back of the room from the front. The front half of the room was dominated by a thick wooden table, covered with a threadbare but prettily embroidered tablecloth.
There were four men seated on old wooden chairs around the table, eating red beans from tin plates. One look at the hard, sun-browned faces and the well-worn gun butts that protruded from the holsters on their hips told Blackshot that his suspicions were accurate; the Camacho gang had arrived.
The man that sat at the head of the table was a hulking, broad-shouldered giant; his shaggy black hair was matted to his head, and his pockmarked face bore a malicious grin. Beside him was a lean dark-eyed man with a wispy black beard and his long hair pulled into a braid that ran halfway down his back. Blackshot had seen enough wanted posters of the two to know the Camacho brothers; Rudy, the big, notoriously vicious one and Nando, the lean, coldblood
ed one.
“Hey, puta!” Rudy boomed, slamming his plate on the table, “Come here!”
A moment later the curtain was drawn aside, and a woman stepped out into the room. She had thick, dirty blonde hair that hung in tangled waves across her tanned shoulders. Her pretty face was stained with tears, and a smear of blood was drying across her full red lips and dimpled chin. She wore a faded blue dress that had been torn open and pulled down to her slim waist, and a pair of ample white breasts swayed bare on her chest as she moved.
Rudy grabbed her arm roughly with his thick, powerful fingers and pulled her toward him. “You give us just a little of this shit, bitch!” he snarled. “Bring us more!”
The woman returned behind the curtain and reappeared a moment later holding a black iron pot on her hip. She moved around the table, using a tin cup as a ladle to refill the men's plates. When she finished she turned toward the curtain, but Rudy's long, muscular arm darted out and yanked her back to him.
“This is all you give us, bitch?!” he spat at her. “Where's the rest?”
“It's all I have,” the woman replied in a wavering voice, defiance flashing in her glistening blue eyes.
The big outlaw brought the back of his hand slashing across the woman's face, sending her head jerking backward and starting fresh blood running from her lips. “All you have?!” he roared. “You lie, bitch!”
“Take it easy, Rudy,” said the man sitting to his right, a short burly man with a red face and beard. He reached up to the blonde's chest and groped one of the big creamy mounds with a rough hand. “If there ain't no more grub, that just means it's time for dessert, eh?”
Rudy slapped the man's hand away. “Hands off her!” he growled. “You boys will get your chance with her after I'm finished with her and not before!”
Nando stood up from the table and wiped his hands on his shirtfront. “And you'll all have to wait until I'm finished with her,” he said with a twisted grin curling his thin lips. He strode over to the woman and took her by the wrist. “Come on, puta, we'll make some more grub together. I always wanted to learn how to cook.”
This brought a roar of laughter from the other men, and Nando smiled broadly as he pulled the curtain aside and pushed the woman through ahead of him. Before he drew the curtain back into place, Blackshot saw a pot of water boiling on an ancient wood stove at the back of the room, and beside it a back door which stood open to let the cool evening breeze in.
Blackshot drew away from the window and stole silently around the house toward the back door. It was time to introduce himself to the Camacho gang.
Chapter 7
The light shone faintly from the back door of the house, illuminating a little dirt lot where a clothesline hung between a long nail affixed to the door post and another protruding from a wooden pole standing in the yard. Blackshot saw shadows move across the light reflected on the ground as he approached the door with stealthy steps.
Leaning out just enough to look in the door, Blackshot saw the angular form of Nando standing barely two feet away from him with his back to the door, the long black braid swaying between his lean shoulders. He was holding the woman close against his body by a tight grip on her dark blonde mane. Her dress was down across her thighs, and she sobbed as her small, pale hands fought vainly against Nando's large, rough hand which was exploring her exposed body.
“Play nice with Nando,” the bandit hissed in her ear, his fingers running through her bush, “If you're a good girl, I'll let you-”
She would never learn just what the reward for being a good girl was, for just then Nando's words were choked off by Blackshot's powerful arm around his throat. With a strong jerk, Blackshot heaved the stunned outlaw through the back door and into the dark yard. The woman was almost dragged along with them as Nando's hands flew from her too late to take hold on the doorpost. She let out a shocked cry in the instant of Blackshot's attack, but fortunately this brought only laughter from the men on the other side of the curtain, who imagined she was crying out for a much different reason.
Nando Comacho's feet scrabbled in the dust as he tried to regain his footing, and he attempted to call for help, but the pressure from the steely arm around his throat let nothing but a faint wheeze escape his lips. Blackshot saw the outlaw's hand dart toward the pistol at his side, and he grabbed his wrist in a strong grip, yanking it away from the gun butt. He knew he could not allow Nando to even touch the gun, for even if he could not draw it from the holster, firing a shot into the ground would be enough to bring the whole gang down on them.
Blackshot could feel his opponent begin to weaken, but he knew the struggle was not over. Nando's crafty mind was at work and his free hand fumbled at his belt, pulling shells from the belt loops. He would throw them against the house; the noise would be loud, jarring; the men inside would come to investigate.
Blackshot had to think fast; he could not afford to let go of Nando's right hand, or it would go straight to the gun at his side. Then as they stumbled backward away from the door, he felt the clothesline against his back. In an instant his arm released its grip around the bandit's throat, and he brought his hand to the base of his long braid. Before the other man could react, Blackshot thrust him forward against the wall of the house. The long nail that held the clothesline plunged into Nando's eye, and drove deep into his brain as Blackshot threw all his weight against him. His body convulsed, then went limp, the shells falling from his lifeless hand to join the big red drops that were dotting the ground at his feet.
Blackshot stood back from the outlaw's body which hung like a rag doll from the iron nail. The woman's body blocked the light from the back door, and Blackshot went quickly to her. She had pulled her tattered dress up over her shoulders, but it had been gashed down to her navel and did little to cover her voluptuous form. Long strands of blonde hair clung to her stained face, and her large blue eyes were wide and frightened as they searched the steel gray of Blackshot's eyes.
He raised a finger to his lips, and she nodded in response. Taking her hand, Blackshot drew her behind him and stepped gingerly into the house. He had worked hard to dispose of Nando without making any noise that would alert the other men, and it appeared he had been successful. Too successful; he had not taken more than two steps inside the door when the curtain was drawn back and the bandit with the red beard appeared right in front of him.
“What happened, Nando, did you lose interest in her-” the man was saying with a grin on his face, as he passed through the curtain. The grin disappeared as he suddenly found himself face to face with a tall, bare-chested stranger with flecks of blood streaking his muscular arms. He gaped and let out a confused cry, then his hand flashed to his holstered gun.
Blackshot's hands flew to the pot of boiling water on the stove beside him and he hurled it into the face of the red-bearded man. The man let out an anguished scream as the scalding liquid melted his flesh, and stumbled backward against the dining table where the other men were already jumping to their feet. Now Blackshot's Colts were out and working, and a the man's scream was cut short by a slug punching through his gut.
As he fell, the man behind him, a swarthy tough with an eye patch, was bringing his own pair of revolvers to bear. His first shot went wide of its target as a bullet slammed into his chest, sending a spray of blood across the table cloth. He didn't have a chance for a second shot, as Blackshot put a slug through his forehead, spattering blood on the posts of the window as his body tumbled through it.
With a roar like a mad bull, Rudy Camacho threw himself at Blackshot, taking the curtain with him. Blackshot turned his guns toward the giant brute and managed to put a bullet into his thigh, but it didn't even slow him down. His whole angry bulk came crashing down on top of Blackshot, knocking him flat to the floor. They struggled together in the tangled curtain, knocking the table against the wall as they fought.
As Blackshot strained to get into a position to land a clean blow against the powerful outlaw, he felt Rudy's thick
fingers paw at his face, seeking for his eyes. He turned his head away and struck out toward the other man's body; his fist hit squarely against hard muscle, and Rudy gave an angry grunt. He surged forward, trying to get astride Blackshot where he could pummel him with his hammer-like fists, but Blackshot braced his feet on the floor and drove him onto his side. Now Blackshot tried to press his advantage and get atop his opponent, but Rudy fought like a wild animal, slashing his fists into his chest and midsection, knocking him back to the ground.
A shout came from outside, and from the corner of his eye Blackshot saw the sentry appear in the doorway. He was a wiry, bearded man and carried a long double barreled shotgun. His eyes were wide as he took in the chaotic scene, and he stepped forward toward the men fighting on the floor, raising his gun. Blackshot knew he could not let up for a second in his battle against Rudy without fatal consequences, and his mind raced for an answer to this new problem.
Just then the loud bark of a gunshot reverberated through the house, and the sentry staggered backward. The woman was standing with her back to the wall, holding one of the fallen bandits' revolvers in both hands. Her bare breasts shook with the recoil as she squeezed off a second shot. A great jet of blood spewed from the man's throat as he stumbled half-turning against the door post. Blackshot heard a third shot and the dull thud of a body hitting the ground, but he did not have time to watch the action any further.
Rudy Camacho heaved himself upward and threw all of his prodigious weight against Blackshot, knocking him back against the old wood stove. Blackshot felt the bandit's hot breath on his face, and a huge arm wrapped around his neck. The pressure was immense, and Blackshot knew he could not withstand it for long. He drove both fists into Rudy's midsection with repeated sharp stabs, but the giant's grip did not weaken.
