by Paul Bagdon
That didn’t make sense. The outlaws always stopped at dusk. Why would they change their ways now? An ambush wasn’t logical, not with Stone’s obsession with killing him in a gunfight mimicking the one they’d had before.
He stopped Snorty and sat thinking, unsure of what to do. He’d told Lee he’d be back in a few hours, and that much time had already gone by with no sighting of a camp or any other activity. If the gang hadn’t stopped, and if an ambush wasn’t in their plan, what were they up to?
The answer hit him like a punch to the gut. They ain’t goin’ to stop—they’re goin’ right in to LaRosa. It must be LaRosa, or they’d have swung off by now and headed west to the next nearest town. They’re riding until they reach their destination, and LaRosa must be it.
He knew Lee would keep on coming whether he returned or not. Maybe he could get the whole thing over and done with before she caught up to him. Maybe he could finish Stone before she even reached LaRosa.
He dismounted and filled his hat with water from his two canteens. Snorty drank thirstily. Ben finished what water remained, checked Snorty’s girth, and ran his hand over the paste Lee had used to coat the wounds. There was no heat on or around the gashes. He mounted and clucked Snorty into a lope.
The painted plaster head of the statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe exploded when Stone’s bullet hit it, putting a thick cloud of heavy, whitish dust into the humid air inside the church in LaRosa. Stone’s horse, skating on the polished wood-plank floor, upset the outlaw’s aim; his second shot missed the statue completely. He cursed and then laughed as the Madonna disintegrated in a shower of grit and painted particles of plaster. He emptied his pistol at a pair of smaller statues set on either side of the altar and dragged his rifle out of its scabbard. As he was working the lever, his mount’s rear legs skidded apart and its rump slammed into the floor. Stone stepped out of the saddle as the animal struggled to rise. He turned the rifle on the animal and put a round in the side of its head. Then he exited the church and headed out to the eerily empty streets of LaRosa.
As he strode out of the church, a wooden table was hurled through the plate glass window of the cantina across the street, spewing a fountain of glass splinters. Rifle and pistol fire seemed to be coming from all sides, accompanied by drunken whoops, rebel yells, and the racket of furniture and glass being destroyed.
Stone stood outside the saloon. One of his men raced by on the back of a sleek but panicked Appaloosa. He was spurring the horse cruelly and grappling drunkenly with the reins. Stone raised his hand in greeting and watched, laughing, as the horse suddenly veered into the open front of the town blacksmith shop and stable. The cross beam of the barn caught the outlaw in the face and ripped him off the horse’s back.
Stone chuckled to himself as he entered the cantina and plucked a bottle from behind the bar. He drank from it and chuckled some more as he watched his men stumble in and out to fetch whiskey. He hadn’t yet reminded the gang about the girls’ school just outside the town; he was saving that for after he’d bested Ben Flood.
He took a final drink from his bottle and then tossed it out into the street. The whiskey tasted good, but he could wait for more of it. He didn’t know how close Flood might be.
Ben heard the rattle of gunfire long before the town of LaRosa popped up on the horizon. He’d ridden through the night and well into the next day without rest beyond periodic stops for water. Now the sun was beginning its descent.
He knew he should feel more tired. But even after almost eighteen hours in the saddle, his mind was clear and his reflexes were keen, as if electricity flowed through his body. He reined in and dismounted, then took the small can of gun oil from his saddlebag and worked a tiny drop of it into the action of his pistol. He checked each cartridge and replaced one of the five with a fresh bullet. The thin thong holding his holster to his leg had loosened; he untied it and brought it up snug. He dropped his weapon into his holster and let it settle there. He didn’t bother to draw—it was too late for practice. Either he was or wasn’t faster and more accurate than Zeb Stone. He’d know for sure within a few hours.
And he knew Lee hadn’t stopped since he’d left her, unless the gray had given out. If the horse was still carrying her, she would be several hours behind him. Just as well, he thought. I’d rather meet her as I’m riding out of LaRosa, if that’s the way it’s going to go.
A fresh burst of gunfire erupted from the town ahead of him.
A series of pops muted by the distance reached Lee’s ears. Her back was stiff from hours in the saddle, and the wind that had started that afternoon began to chill her as it continued to sweep in from various directions. But the gunfire chilled her more than the wind; she had no way of knowing whether the bullets were directed at Ben. She’d prayed all night and through the day until her mind had gone blank and her entire world consisted of the weary horse taking one stride after another.
She heard another cluster of shots.
Snorty pushed scraps of brown prairie grass with his nose, looking for clumps worth eating. Ben forced himself to sleep for an hour or so while he awaited full darkness. But even though he was able to relax his body, his mind churned with quick pictures of Stone drawing on him, of Lee riding toward him, of where he might be the next day.
He’s going to die, she thought. It’s just like Uncle Noah told me. When a good horse has reached the very end of his bottom, there’s a surge of life that comes to him, that pushes him like a strong wind from behind, to carry his rider farther and faster until the end comes and the horse dies proud. Even though the darkness and the drop in temperature had seemed to invigorate the gray, she felt him weave under her and drag his hooves—a sure sign of exhaustion. Her uncle had ridden a horse to its death to save his own life once, and he’d told her of the experience. He’d cried at the horse’s courage and heart. Now, Lee cried just as her uncle had.
The sole light in the town of LaRosa spilled through the smashed window and batwinged entrance of the cantina. Ben rode down the middle of the street at a walk, the hairs on the back of his neck and arms standing stiffly. He worked his shoulders to ease the tension from his muscles, wondering how many guns were trained on him at that very moment. He knew Stone wanted the fight too much to allow an underling to gun him, but there was always the possibility that a tequila-fueled outlaw would take matters into his own hands.
A man lurched drunkenly out of the cantina, looked down the street at Ben, and hustled back in, slamming the batwings.
Now I’m into it, Ben thought. There’s only one way out now.
The voices and laughter from inside the cantina stopped. He watched the flicker of the lanterns as the wind struck them. The light inside would be fairly good, but he’d need to let his eyes become used to it before he encountered Stone. He dismounted and ground tied Snorty across the street from the cantina, feeling the weight of eyes on him as he started toward the building.
A zephyr blew grit into his face, and he used his right forefinger to wipe his eyes clear. Tears started as he blinked, and he impatiently brushed them away with the back of his hand. He stood to the side of the entrance with his eyes closed for a long moment. There wasn’t a sound from inside; the silence seemed as threatening as that of a firing squad before the final command was given.
“Thy will be done,” Ben said loudly enough for those inside to hear. Then, stepping in front of the doors, he eased his eyes open and pushed through into the saloon.
His mind scrambled to sort through the images as he walked into the room. A man passed out on the floor in front of the bar, shards of glass in the frame of a destroyed mirror, men along the side wall in chairs, most of them with bottles in their hands—and Zeb Stone, standing at the far end of the bar, under one of the four lanterns set in a line the length of the room.
“Ain’t gonna be thy will, Flood. Gonna be my will.”
A calmness settled over Ben—a gentle breath that blew away tension and fear. The electricity was now focused in his
right arm and hand, but it was a pleasant sensation, paradoxically easy and restful. He could somehow move his hand and raise his arm without using his body.
He looked at Stone, whose eyes were glinting like pools of crude oil reflecting bright sunlight. For a moment, the hatred in them weakened Ben’s strange sense of tranquillity.
Stone moved forward, stopping a dozen paces from him. “Voodoo ain’t gonna save you this time, Flood. You ain’t gonna cheat me like you done twenty years ago. This time you’re goin’ down to stay.”
Ben shifted his left foot back a few inches. His right hand hung loosely at the end of his arm, his fingers curling inward the slightest bit toward the grips of his pistol.
A drunken outlaw accidentally elbowed a bottle off the edge of a table, and the sound of it smashing was as sudden and unexpected as the blast of a cannon. Neither Stone nor Ben flinched.
“Man who done that’s gonna die,” Stone promised.
Ben watched Stone’s right shoulder with his peripheral vision. Usually, a man’s eyes would reveal when he began his move, but Stone was too good to let his eyes betray him.
“You don’t have to do this,” Ben said calmly, still keeping his eyes trained on his opponent. “There’s another way.”
“Ain’t no other way. Can’t be no other way, lawman.”
“Think for a moment, Stone. Do you want to die in this lousy cantina in front of a bunch of scum who’d love to see you dead? Do you really want to end your life right now, with the weight of so many sins crushing you?”
Stone’s shoulder dipped, and his palm slapped the grips of his pistol. His draw was clean and breathtakingly fast—the arc of the barrel swung upward flawlessly like the flashing head of a rattlesnake, all deadly speed without wasted motion. When the barrel of his pistol was level, he screamed.
He was being lifted off the floor by an unseen force. His weapon deserted his hand and crashed against the back wall of the cantina as two of Ben’s bullets ripped into his chest. Then he was on the floor.
Ben crouched and swung his smoking pistol toward the outlaws along the wall. “We’re done, Marshall,” one man whispered. “We got no reason to fight you.” He stood slowly from his chair. “You got no jurisdiction in Mexico. We’re leavin’—ridin’ out right now. You got no reason to gun us.” He turned slowly, stiffly, and walked to the entrance. He stopped for a second, shoulders hunched as if expecting a bullet, and then pushed through the batwings and into the street. The others followed until the cantina was empty except for Ben and Stone.
When Lee burst through the batwings a moment later, the muzzle of Ben’s pistol found her instantly, and the hammer began its trip back. He wrenched the gun upward as it fired a round into the ceiling. She ignored the blast and ran to him, throwing herself into his arms after he dropped his pistol into his holster. Her tears were wet against his face, and he could feel her trembling.
Stone groaned. Ben tensed and whirled away from his embrace with Lee, shoving her out of the line of fire. But there was no need. Zeb Stone groaned again.
Ben and Lee walked over and crouched next to him. Blood ebbed from the holes in his chest, and more from the exit wounds in his back pooled around him.
His eyes met with Lee’s. There was confusion—and fear—in his unfocused gaze. The horrible flames that had lit his eyes earlier were quickly running out of their foul fuel.
“Ask Jesus to help you,” Lee whispered hoarsely. “Ask him to be your—”
Stone’s mouth opened as if he were going to speak. His throat constricted, and he struggled to push out a word. Then his eyes closed, and his mouth gaped open. Lee touched her fingers to his cheek for a moment and then slowly moved them away.
Ben stood and eased Lee up by her hand.
“Did we do him any good, Ben? Did we . . . ?”
His voice was weary and hoarse. “I don’t know. I hope we did. But I don’t know.”
She searched his eyes. “It’s over. It’s finally over.”
Ben gathered his woman to him and held her, but he didn’t trust his voice enough to speak. He had a lot to say, but he’d get to that later.
