He paused, allowing Sal to digest what he had said.
‘Crazy Pete Robinson is the second in command. Sometimes called Pancho because he wears a sombrero. The story is that he killed a young woman cos she refused to dance with him and he was sentenced to hang, but he escaped from prison after knifing the guard. He went on a spree of violence and murder. Seemed to kill people just for the fun of it and ended up murdering a friend of mine – a deputy sheriff – last year. That’s what he has in common with Cassidy. They both enjoy killin’ and inflicting pain. They do it fer the hell of it.’ He paused and glanced at Sal. He was trying to bring home to her just how dangerous and lacking in feelings these men were, but he had crossed over the line. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’
‘Nice boys,’ she said quietly.
‘Indeed, ma’am. Nice boys.’
They rode on in silence as the sun began to set. He could see that Sal was once again enveloped in thoughts which, like the sky, grew darker as they travelled.
Before darkness completely descended they made camp for the night adjacent to a small stream. They sat quietly next to their fire and Reuben cooked some bacon in an iron pan. The silence continued as they ate then they watched the fire as it died down, listening to it splutter and staring at the orange glow.
Sal had wanted to ride on through the night, her eagerness to catch the men overriding all other considerations, but Reuben, experienced over many years, insisted that they stop and rest for the sake of the horses as well as themselves.
‘The other thing is we’ll be riding in the dark, which makes us pretty open to ambush.’
‘They’ll be well gone by now,’ she replied tersely.
‘Mebbe they will. But there’s plenty more than Shep Cassidy who might be riding this trail and some of them would be only too pleased to relieve a couple of sitting targets of their valuables in the night.’
She reluctantly agreed to stop for the night on the promise from Reuben that they would resume at daybreak.
Reuben poked the fire with a stick, causing a small shower of sparks.
‘Where did you learn to shoot?’ he asked.
‘My pa taught me at first. I was hardly able to hold a gun but he decided that being able to shoot was essential in a wild land like this, so that’s how it started. Me and Pa used to travel a lot. He used to get jobs on ranches and other jobs like bar tending, but I guess mainly he was a gambling man. Anyway, I was kinda good at shooting and found I could hit almost anything I wanted to. When I was fifteen a travelling show came to whatever town we were in and they had a shooting contest. I won and they asked me to join. Reached a stage where I could outdraw and outshoot almost anybody. Of course, you saw what I could do at Dakota.’
‘And do you think you could kill a man in cold blood?’ Reuben raised the question again and looked searchingly at her face in the orange, flickering light.
‘Some men, no. Those animals? Believe it, Marshal. I already accounted for two of them.’ She was emphatic and as if to ensure the message was clear she threw the dregs of her coffee into the fire, causing it to hiss and splutter. When she looked at Reuben something in his expression told her that he was unconvinced. She spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable.
‘They mur-dered my – hus-band. They raped me. I’d happily shoot them as they slept, only I’d like to see them suffer first jest so they know why they are going to die.’
‘If you do get a chance to kill them,’ said Reuben. ‘It may be when they are asleep. They won’t fight fair like in a story. If you get a chance to shoot them in the back you take it. It may be your last chance. If you hesitate you’ll end up dead. Most people are handicapped by having a streak of decency and they do hesitate. That’s why they end up in a wooden suit and Cassidy and Robinson are alive. Forget revenge and any thoughts of ensuring they know what’s happening – it’ll only cloud your actions and slow you down. Your aim is to kill them or bring them back to hang.’
‘I won’t ask for a chance and I won’t give them one. Those animals deserve to die.’
Reuben detected a tremor in her voice and he still had qualms about this woman accompanying him. She had too much hate, which could lead her into making the wrong decision at a crucial time. A wrong decision could cost her her life but a wrong decision by her could also cost him his life.
‘Just shoot to kill. That’s how it must be.’ He spoke wearily – almost sadly. ‘But remember, when you kill a man you change – forever. A part of you will die with them regardless of how bad they were. Remember that. That’s how it is.’
‘I’ll remember. Now, time for bed.’
Reuben thought that his words had probably fallen on deaf ears and he turned away as she adjusted her clothes then crawled under her blanket. Five minutes later he was asleep.
Sal lay there, staring at the stars through blurry tear-stained eyes.
Chapter Four
John Miles
They rode into Flintlock in blazing sunshine and under a clear light blue sky. Reuben climbed stiffly from his horse and looked up at Sal. It had been a gruelling ride.
‘First stop is the sheriff’s office. Sheriff John Miles. An old friend of mine.’
They hitched up their horses and entered the poky little room which served as a sheriff’s office. The office was sparsely furnished with a desk and two plain wooden chairs. A door led off to the jail. At the other side of the desk on a revolving chair a man in his mid fifties was dozing. He was balding, slightly overweight and a double chin wobbled slightly as he snored. His feet were resting on the desk, the scars on the wooden surface bearing testament to the fact that his spurs had often rested in a similar position. Reuben slapped his feet.
‘Miles, you old dog. Wake up. You’ve got female company!’
Sheriff Miles opened his eyes and after a moment adjusting himself to being awake, his face broke into a broad grin and he leapt to his feet.
‘Reuben! Reuben Kane! How the hell are you? I hear you’re still in the law business. And who’s this? Sure is a pretty young thing. How the hell did an ugly bum like you find her?’
Reuben looked embarrassed and surprised. Reuben was embarrassed and surprised and, truth be told, he still thought of Sal as the battered and bloodied woman on the bed and he had never even noticed if she was attractive. He coughed and stared at John Miles then explained the situation to the sheriff, who immediately looked suitable crestfallen.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. If I’d realized I. . . .’
‘No need for apologies, Sheriff. You weren’t to know. A woman can hardly complain when someone reckons she’s handsome.’ Miles’s face broke into a relieved wide, open grin and already she liked him. They sat down around the desk.
‘Coffee?’ Miles, without waiting for a reply, poured thick, aromatic coffee from an elderly black jug which sat on an even older stove in the corner, kicking heat into the already sweltering room. As he poured the strong black liquid, he talked over his shoulder.
‘What brings you here, Reuben?’
‘I’m looking for some men.’ Reuben placed wanted posters on the desk. Miles returned and set mugs of coffee down on the ring marked surface then studied the crumpled pictures. After a few seconds he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. But I’ve bin away for weeks in Barlow Valley. The posters are probably there in the tray with the other paperwork. You know what I’m like with paperwork, Reuben.’ He grinned sheepishly.
‘One day that failure to do your paperwork is going to get you a bullet in the back, John. These men have been wanted for a good while. If’n you can’t recognize men like these they’ll have a head start and—’
‘I know. I know. No need to tell me, Reuben. Anyways, I suggest you ask Baz Potter. He owns the only saloon in Flintlock and sees everyone who passes through cos the town store is in the same building. You staying to eat? They do good steak at Kate’s place.’
‘We’ll see,’ replied Reuben. ‘Baz Potter first. C’mon, Sal.’
T
hey walked slowly down the sidewalk and Sal noticed that Reuben was watching from side to side and taking everything in. When they reached the swing doors of the saloon he stopped outside and looked over the door top. The saloon was empty apart from two cowboys playing poker and a short, bald barman in a striped shirt wiping glasses with a red and white check towel. He nodded to Sal and they both walked across to the bar. Sal was aware that the two cowboys and the barman were appraising her and she blushed slightly as she and Reuben leaned on the bar.
‘Baz Potter?’ Reuben asked.
‘The same. And you are?’
‘Reuben Blake. Marshal Reuben Blake.’
‘And the lady?’ Potter nodded in Sal’s direction. ‘We don’t get many ladies in here.’
‘Deputy Marshal Sal McIntyre.’
Sal didn’t display any surprise at being introduced as a deputy but Potter’s eyebrows rose slightly, although he said nothing as Reuben took the posters from his pocket.
‘Have you seen these men, Mr Potter?’
Potter appraised the posters and showed no sign of recognition until he saw the pictures of Shep and Crazy Pete. He prodded them with a stubby finger.
‘These two. Definitely. Day afore yesterday. The weasel one got drunk and hit one of the girls. Then they left and I heard they stayed in rooms at the house owned by Rachel Horne – ‘Squirrel’ Horne everyone calls her, but I don’t know why. She lives in the white house just down the street next to the livery stables.’ He paused expectantly. ‘Now, are you just here to pump me for free information or are you buying a drink before you go?’
Reuben looked at Sal and she nodded and smiled.
‘Whiskey,’ she said. ‘Two.’
Potter looked at her quizzically. It was unheard of for a woman to order a whiskey in his saloon except for the women who worked there, persuading visiting cowboys to part company with their wages.
‘Two,’ she repeated the word in an emphatic manner and Potter, not being a man to allow any chance of gaining money to slip through his fingers, nodded and placed a bottle on the bar then removed the cork.
Reuben was about to ask how she knew he wanted whiskey but decided to stay quiet. They leaned on the bar and both of them downed the drinks in one and poured two more. Reuben looked at the young woman and for the first time she smiled openly at him.
‘Cheers, Mrs McIntyre. Let’s drink to hunting down those prairie wolves and bringing them to justice.’
Sal’s smile disappeared and she stared at the bar.
‘I thought I told you already. I ain’t intending to bring them anywhere, Marshal, ’cept mebbe in a wooden box. I intend to dispense justice without the expenditure of a trial.’ She tapped the Colt on her hip as if to emphasize the point. ‘That’s the justice they deserve and, if I’m spared, then that’s the justice they’ll get.’
They stared at each other for a full five seconds, neither smiling nor blinking. Reuben, as a lawman, should have made some point about the necessity of law and the fairness of a trial. Instead, he smiled a wry smile.
‘I guess if I’m truthful, that’s what I had in mind too, Mrs McIntyre.’
‘I think it’s time to visit Rachel Horne, Marshal.’
‘I think you’re right, Mrs McIntyre.’
‘Let’s go, Marshal. And stop calling me Mrs McIntyre.’
Rachel ‘Squirrel’ Horne was a busy, precise little woman in her sixties, or maybe even seventies, with thick grey hair cut for convenience rather than style and gold rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Her appearance immediately illustrated to Reuben why she was nicknamed ‘Squirrel’. She was immaculately neat and her skin shone from regular, scrupulous washing. Her grey hair poked up in bushy abundance and her black, darting eyes seemed to be looking for every movement around her. When she spoke it was in precise, clipped tones with a faint trace of a Scottish accent. Her movements, like her speech, were rapid and jerky.
‘Come in, ye both!’ Her invitation to enter her house sounded more like an order and the interior reflected her in its neatness and cleanliness. ‘Now what can I be doing for you?’
‘Marshal Reuben Kane, ma’am. I’m looking fer some men who we believe were involved in bank robbery and murder.’ He studied Rachel’s face to see if there was any reaction but there was none. When Reuben showed her the posters she recalled Shep and Pete with a sour frown.
‘They booked rooms to stay here but after they’d eaten they went to the saloon and when they came back they were both drunk. Then this one joined them.’ She pointed to the picture of Jed Gambles. ‘I tried to tell them they weren’t welcome in that state but the fat one pushed me aside. Knocked me clean over. He was sick on the stairs. Fat pig. The other one – he was wearing a sombrero – swore at me and called me names that I won’t repeat.’
Reuben nodded. He could well imagine this spirited little woman challenging the two violent men and his face was wreathed in a broad grin.
‘Is there something that amuses you, Mr Kane?’ She pursed her mouth and glared at him and this time it was Sal McIntyre’s turn to smile. Reuben stared hard at the carpet and looked contrite.
‘Shep Cassidy, Jed Gambles, Shorty Gambles and Pete Robinson, ma’am.’ Reuben spoke quickly before Rachel could take further offence. ‘All of them violent men. Killers. The thought of you challenging them . . . well. . . .’ He shrugged and smiled again and this time she saw the funny side and she uttered a short high pitched chuckle.
‘I can see where you are coming from, Marshal. I suppose it must have looked pretty funny. Anyway, what do you want to know?’
‘Did they say where they were headed, ma’am?’
‘Nope,’ she said without hesitation. ‘But the man in the sombrero rode out. Said he was going south. He must have been heading to Wildcat Valley – that’s the nearest town in that direction and about half a day’s ride.’
‘And Cassidy and Gambles?’
‘Well now. I can be more precise about them. They only left me about five minutes ago after arguing over the bill. I wanted to charge them extra for the cleaning after the business on the stairs and the fat one became. . . .’
‘Sorry, ma’am. Tell us that later, but now I need to know where they were heading.’
‘Easy. They’re in the place over the road – at Kate’s place. Only good eating place in town.’
Sal left the room before Rachel Horne had even finished the sentence. Reuben turned and strode after her. She had already primed her Winchester by the time she reached the walkway outside the café and he grabbed her arm and held it in a vice like grip.
‘Hold on there, Sal.’
She turned to him, her eyes round with anger.
‘Hold on? Why? I aim to blast those sons of bitches to hell before they even know I’m here. You said not to give them a chance and surprise is the best weapon.’
Reuben kept his tight grip and nodded.
‘I did so. I did so. But what if you burst in there and there are other people – maybe children – in the line of fire? What then? Do you open up and risk killing them? Cos what I do know is that Cassidy and Gambles won’t think twice about gunning a few women and children down. They wouldn’t even hesitate if it gave them an advantage.’
Sal ground her teeth and stared at the floor. She realized how stupid and headstrong she had been and she was silent for a few seconds. She looked up at Reuben.
‘What do you suggest we should do?’
He loosened his grip and drew his Colt, checking that it was loaded even though he knew that it was.
‘We wait. We wait till they come out. I’ll stand in the street and you kneel behind those barrels and keep that rifle steady on the door. When they come out, as soon as one of them makes a move for his gun you shoot Jed Gambles. I’ll deal with Cassidy.’
She hesitated, as if unsure of the wisdom of his plan, and then she nodded.
‘OK. But . . . be careful, Marshal.’
‘I specialize in being careful. You could even say it’
s my trademark. Now get yourself behind those barrels. And don’t forget to keep an eye open fer any others who might be around.’ Sal knelt behind the barrels and repeatedly checked her Winchester. Reuben had walked slowly to the middle of the street, facing the diner’s door and she thought he looked vulnerable, but she could see that he was both relaxed and alert as he examined both his pistols and stood, loose limbed, before looking up and down the street searching for anything or anyone who looked suspicious.
He was concerned that innocent people might get hurt as no one was aware of the impending conflict and the few people around were casually going about their daily business. A boy, aged about twelve, was walking up the street playing with a toy wooden gun and Reuben called him over.
‘What’s your name, son?’
Crooked M Killings Page 3
