The Deathtrap Girl

by Kurt Barker

  The old man; Blackshot remembered William Littlehorse lying on the porch of Captain Mike's Saloon. Was he still alive? There was probably some irony to the fact that Maisie was the one trying to keep him from dying, but it was nothing to laugh about now. He had to speak to Littlehorse, if he was still in any condition to talk. The old man knew something that could help him unravel this mess; he'd bet his bottom dollar on that. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was enough that someone was willing to kill him over it, and Blackshot needed to hear what it was.

  He stuffed Reuben's gun into the back of his own waistband and called Khamsin to him. “I'm going back to check in on the family quarrel,” he said as he climbed into the saddle. “I won't need any more help from you tonight, so you can get on home to daddy.”

  “Hey, my pistol!” Reuben called, but Blackshot didn't stop.

  The journey back to Dryer Hill was made at nearly the same speed that the pursuit had been. When he reached the main street of town Blackshot saw a crowd milling about the door of Captain Mike's, but no sign of William Littlehorse. He pulled Khamsin to a stop in front of the door and pushed his way through the onlookers to get inside.

  As soon as he stepped in the door of the saloon, he could see that there would be no talking to William Littlehorse. His body lay in the center of the bar room, covered with the coyote-skin rug. A smear of blood stained a path from the doorway to the place where he now rested.

  Captain Mike had laid a dish cloth on the floor and was wiping it across the stain with his foot in a half-hearted attempt to clean it up, while still maintaining a conversation with the onlookers. When he saw Blackshot he came and clapped a hand onto his shoulder and shook his head.

  “It's a rum go, lad,” he slurred earnestly, “a mighty rum go. Me lass and the fine Doctor O'Toole put the good work into the feller, but there was naught to be done for him, poor bastard.”

  “It's a rum go,” Blackshot agreed. He spotted Maisie sitting at the bar with a bottle of whiskey in her hand, and picked his way through the buzzing crowd to her.

  She held out the bottle to him, but he waved it off. “Fine, but I'm having another,” she mumbled, and refilled her cup on the bar. Her eyes were glassy with tears, and sweat stood out on her forehead.

  Blackshot put his hand or her back and rubbed it gently. “I'm sorry,” he said, “I know it's rough, and I know this isn't a good time to ask, but did Littlehorse say anything before he died? Anything at all?”

  “Delirium!” The boozy voice boomed out from behind him and he turned to see the fine Doctor O'Toole at the end of the bar, one hand holding a shaking cup and the other gripping the bar to keep himself from falling off his seat. “Delirious wi' the delirium of a man who stares at his own impending doom,” he pronounced with some difficulty. “Said it was a wolf that shot him. Said it was a wolf, you hear? Delirium, poor soul! A wolf!”

  “Let's go into the kitchen,” Blackshot said.

  Maisie led the way down the hall and into the little kitchen and Blackshot closed the door behind them. When he turned to face Maisie she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. He held her tight and stroked her hair softly.

  “He had to come to the bar to die, didn't he?” she muttered into Blackshot's shirt front. “The bastard never could come in here without causing some kind of trouble!”

  Blackshot lifted Maisie's chin and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Some fellows can't learn about fire any other way than by getting burned,” he said. “But I need to know what the old coot said to you. I think it could be important.”

  “It didn't sound important; he just said what the old wine skin told you, really,” she replied, stepping back from him and smoothing her skirt.

  “He said he was shot by a wolf?”

  “No, he just kept saying 'some wolf'. That was it; 'some wolf', 'some wolf', over and over.”

  Blackshot groaned and rubbed his eyes with his palms. Every time he thought he was getting close to digging his way out of this situation, someone would drop a load of fresh dirt on his head.

  “What's the matter?” Maisie asked, studying his face. “Does that mean something to you?”

  “Yes, it does,” he sighed. “It means that we haven't seen the worst of this yet, not by a long shot!”

  Chapter 18

  Maisie's eyes widened with fear. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  Before Blackshot could respond, there was a sharp rap at the door and the whiskey-soaked voice of Captain Mike called, “Hey there, gal! The young lad what was here before come back. He's come a' looking for his gun, he says, and to see about the poor dead feller, o' course.”

  “I've got his gun. Tell him I'll see him in a moment,” Blackshot said. Turning to Maisie he said, “Where to do you keep your flour?”

  “Flour? Over there in that sack on the counter. Why?”

  “Thanks. Be a dear and fetch me a glass of water, will you?”

  When Blackshot emerged into the bar room, Reuben was standing by William Littlehorse's body with his hat in his hand. Captain Mike stood beside him with a hand on the young man's shoulder, happy to have a new audience to listen to his tale.

  “I tell you it was a rum go, lad! All of a sudden like, he stretches out his hand, eyes big as saucers, and cries out, 'A wolf! I see a wolf! It's got its claws into me!' just like that, and then he gave up the ghost! Oh, it was a rum thing, it was!”

  “That's all he said? A wolf? Nothing else?” Reuben asked.

  “He wasn't in a very talkative mood,” Blackshot said.

  Reuben crossed the room toward him sheepishly. “Look, I'm sorry about- about what I did,” he said. “I thought I could help, you see, so-”

  Blackshot ignored his outstretched hand and instead jammed the pistol into the young man's holster. “Leave it right there from now on and you won't have any trouble with me,” he snapped.

  “Yes, of course! I promise! Er, sorry!” He started to leave, but then turned back to Blackshot with worry showing on his face. “You'll tell me if you find out anything, won't you? About Poloma, I mean?”

  “You'll be the first to know.”

  Reuben turned to go again, but Captain Mike caught him at the door. “Hey lad, Missus Stump o' the general store was supposed to be sending her boys over with a sheet for to be taking away the poor feller's body. See what's delaying 'em, will you, son?”

  “And be sure to tell them that they'll find three more customers for their sheets down by the rock ledge,” Blackshot called.

  This proclamation brought the buzz of conversation in the bar room to an abrupt halt, and all eyes turned to Blackshot in stunned silence.

  “What are you looking at me for?” he asked. Pointing at Reuben, he said, “There's the gunslinger that finished off the last of them.”

  With that he turned and went back to the kitchen, as the crowd gathered around Reuben. Maisie had been listening from the hall, and there was a wan smile on her lips. “Now that was mean,” she said.

  “I'm in a mean mood,” Blackshot said.

  A serious look returned to Maisie's face. “What were you getting at before you went out there? About it meaning trouble, what Littlehorse said?”

  “He didn't say 'some wolf',” Blackshot sighed, sitting down at the table. “Unless I'm very much mistaken, and I hope I am, he said 'Sun Wolf'.”

  “Sun Wolf? What's a Sun Wolf?”

  “A Comanche marauder, that's what,” Blackshot replied, “and not just any Comanche marauder. Sun Wolf broke off from the tribes down by the border because their raids were too tame for him, if you can believe that. For the last couple of years he's made quite a name for himself around the Rio Grande with a series of bold and daring attacks that shocked a lot of people. Everyone from the rangers to the army to the Federales has tried to get their hooks into him and his gang, but he's as clever as he is ruthless, and he slips right through their fingers like it's child's play.”

  “And you think this Sun Wolf fell
a has come up here?” Maisie exclaimed. “Why the hell would he do that?”

  “That's what I don't know, and makes me think maybe I'm wrong,” Blackshot admitted. “Sun Wolf only goes for the big scores; it's all about the reputation for him, not the money. If he had the choice of stealing a chest full of gold from an unarmed man, or stealing a penny from a walled fort full of soldiers, he'd get that penny and he'd make damn sure everybody knew it was Sun Wolf that did it.”

  “Well, what kind of big flashy raid could he pull in Dryer Hill?” Maisie wondered. “There isn't a damn thing in this one-horse town worth his while, if that's the kind of game he plays!”

  “I know. It doesn't make sense. But then again, I reckon those men that shot William Littlehorse were Comanches and they didn't shoot him for fun; something's brewing around here, and Littlehorse must have gotten wise to it somehow. I figure he was coming here to complain and raise hell about it to anybody who'd listen, but Sun Wolf made sure he never got the chance.”

  “It's all so crazy!” Maisie groaned, running her fingers through her hair. “What are we going to do?”

  “What else?” Blackshot replied. “Cherche la femme!”

  Chapter 19

  The first purple rays of dawn shone softly through the little window, its glass fogged and opaque, and glistened on the beads of sweat dotting Maisie's swollen breasts. They jumped and wobbled with each impact of Blackshot's hips against her thighs. Sweat was shining from her lip and forehead as well, and dripped from Blackshot's nose onto her quivering belly as he pounded hard and fast into her wet pussy.

  The creaking of the bead frame coupled with Maisie's gasping pants and the slapping of Blackshot's balls against her ass made a kind of rhythmic beat that filled the room. Finally it was interrupted by Maisie's anguished cry as an orgasm rushed through her even as Blackshot erupted into her in intense torrents.

  “Oh hell! I hope you wrap up this case soon!” Maisie moaned as he fell onto the bed beside her. “I don't know how many more of these workouts I can take!”

  “You'll be wanting it again in a few minutes,” Blackshot grinned.

  “Wanting it and being able to hold up to it are two different things,” she puffed. “I'm not built like that Poloma girl. With an ass and hips like that, you could wear out your cock on that thieving whore and she'd still be up for more.”

  “Ah yes, I recall your admiration for her ass, as well as your less charitable assessment of her moral character.”

  Maisie looked up at the little window and wrinkled her nose. “How do you suppose she got that big ass through a tiny little window like that, anyway? And with my good clothes on, too.”

  “I'm more interested in why than I am in how,” Blackshot replied. “She's at the bottom of this problem somehow, and I've got a feeling I won't be able to sort it out until I find her.”

  “I was hoping she'd stick around, too,” Maisie sighed. “I thought maybe she could take a turn with you every now and then once she mended up; just when I'm too sore, y'know.”

  “You've got some funny old ideas rattling around in that mind of yours, Sheriff Grady!” Blackshot laughed.

  “It was just a thought! Besides, I didn't know the bitch was married then!” Maisie chided. “I guess that Reuben kid's a lucky fella, to have a girl like that in his bed, huh?”

  “Lucky, yeah. I can think of a few other words for him, too.”

  “You don't like him?”

  “More like I don't trust him. I get the sense that there's more going on between him and Poloma than what he's telling us.”

  “Oh, I don't know about that,” Maisie said. “He's just a bit stuck up and full of himself like most rich kids are, but I think he's a good egg at heart. Why, last night after you left he even volunteered to take William Littlehorse's body back to his house to bury him.”

  “You mean to the Pawnee village? I would have thought the chief's wife would have seen to that.”

  “Oh, Littlehorse didn't live in the village; wouldn't have anything to do with it. He had some sort of set-to with the chief a few years back (yes, big surprise) and he left the tribe and went to live on his own in a shack in the woods.”

  Blackshot was already on his feet and pulling on his pants. “And Reuben's going there? Where is this shack?”

  “Down by the river; just follow it in the opposite direction as the Pawnee camp. What's wrong? Is there something going on I don't know about?”

  “Not if I can help it!” Blackshot said as he ran out the door.

  Chapter 20

  Khamsin's hooves were a blur of speed as they rushed along the riverbank, slipping every now and then on the muddy slush that ran down the hillside toward the water, but never breaking stride. The sky showed orange and pink through the upper branches of the trees now as the morning sun hoisted itself above the horizon line.

  Blackshot's mind was working fast, too; there was still a lot he didn't know, but a few of the pieces were falling into place. For one, he guessed that William Littlehorse didn't find out about Sun Wolf on his own; he knew because Poloma had told him. When she had sneaked out of Maisie's room she must have found her way to the old man's cabin.

  Had Poloma known Littlehorse before? Probably not; she wasn't from these parts and if Littlehorse had seen the camp in the woods that Blackshot had found, he would have been in town hollering about it days ago to anybody who'd listen. Either she had happened upon his house by chance while escaping through the woods, or Littlehorse had found her and made her tell him what she knew. Blackshot could almost see the old man, still fuming from their encounter earlier that day, demanding answers from the girl and threatening her with the law and anything else he could think of.

  She would still be there at the shack, hiding, unless Blackshot missed his guess. It was the only place that made sense. Reuben would come there this morning and find her; he would not have been able to navigate the treacherous and unfamiliar terrain at night, but he would have gone as soon as it was light.

  And if he did find her, what was wrong with that? Nothing that Blackshot could point to for sure, but somehow he had the feeling that their meeting would not be a joyous reunion of husband and wife. He had to get there as soon as possible.

  Through the trees up ahead he saw the low slanting roof of a small house. There were three horses standing in the clearing out in front; no, five horses. The other two lingered close along the side of the house, and on the back of one lay the unmistakable form of a dead body wrapped in a sheet.

  Blackshot turned Khamsin aside and rode up the hill to where he could get a good look at the surrounding area. The house was indeed little more than a shack, but larger than it appeared at first. The surrounding lot was littered with the clutter that came from years of living alone, but there was no one there. Whoever rode in on the horses was inside.

  Now that he was close to the house, Blackshot could make out raised voices; a man and a woman, both angry and threatening. He could tell that the man's voice belonged to Reuben, and there was little doubt who the woman was.

  “It's too late, don't you understand?! You can't back out of this now!” Reuben's voice was strained with rage.

  “I can do what I want! What are you going to do, shoot me? Go ahead and try it, little boy!” The sharp, insolent voice of Poloma was new to Blackshot, but it fit his impression of her perfectly.

  “You think I won't do it?! You don't know who you're trifling with, woman!”

  “Neither do you! You should wise up and run far away from here while you still can!”

  Blackshot pondered sneaking up to the back door and seeing if there was any way which he might get close without attracting the attention of the group inside, but then he stopped.

  “Screw that,” he growled, snapping Khamsin's reins. “Let's go crash this little party, shall we?”

  He rode down the hill and brought the stallion straight up to the front door. As he dropped to the ground the voices inside the house ceased. After a moment the d
oor opened and a tall, stocky man with a bushy red beard stepped out and closed the door behind him.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “I'm the sheriff,” Blackshot replied as he strode up to him.

  “Like hell you are!” the man snarled, blocking Blackshot's path to the door. “Hit the trail or I'll chew you up and spit you out.”

  The words were scarcely out of the man's mouth before Blackshot's fist was smashing into his jaw like a blow from a sledgehammer. He spun sideways on his heels and then dropped to his knees, his eyes fluttering as he struggled to stay conscious. His struggle was quickly ended by a boot slamming into the side of his face that knocked him into a heap of empty flour sacks by the side of the house, where he lay curled in almost fetal position with blood bubbling from his lips.

  The door to the house stood slightly ajar in front of Blackshot and he shoved it wide with such force that in banged against the inside wall as he stepped inside. The room that he found himself in would have been crowded even without anyone occupying it, for much like the yard outside, it was filled with haphazard stacks of hunting gear, clothes, pans, and general junk.

  The room was occupied, however, for in the center of the floor stood Reuben, his face flushed with anger and the big silver revolver in his hand. The gun was pointed at Poloma, her back to the wall of the room. Her long black hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and she wore a faded blue blouse, unbuttoned and tucked into a long brown skirt. The edgy poise of her body reminded Blackshot of a time as a boy when he had seen some men corner a wildcat in a barn.

  Poloma was not the only one tensed for action, for on either side of the door stood two nervous-looking men with their hands hovering near the pistols on their hips. They were dressed more like cow punchers than gunfighters, but unlike their young boss's piece, their guns looked to have seen a fair bit of action.

  “Howdy, folks!” Blackshot called, tipping his hat. “Nice day for a funeral, huh? It's early yet, so there's time for more than one!”