Sidewinder

by Jory Sherman

  “I hear you, Del,” Wicks said. “Hell, ain’t I got time for a drink?”

  “You’re lucky I don’t shoot you where you stand. You got a bedroll there. You hurry, you can make it up there by morning. Hunt the Mex down, shoot him dead. And bring me proof.”

  “Proof?”

  “Yeah, cut off his head. I want to see his dead face, or I’ll come huntin’ you, Abner, sure as you’re standing there.”

  “Shit,” said Abner, and mounted up. He saw the anger in Delbert’s face, and he wanted no part of it. He checked his rifle, patted his full saddlebags.

  “Be seein’ ya, Ridley,” he said, as he rode off.

  “Where we goin’, boss?” Ridley asked.

  “To Ma’s place. We got a heap of unfinished business.”

  Ridley settled in the saddle.

  “Oh, that Storm feller?”

  “Him and a Mex. Them first, then their women. Ain’t gonna be no eyes on me, Ridley.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You see Kathy?”

  “She come with the money for Stoval, then went back to the bank. Said she’d meet you tonight at the hotel.”

  “She’ll be real sad when I ain’t there,” Delbert said.

  “Say, where is that Storm feller anyways? Him and that Mex.”

  “My guess is that they’ll be at Ma’s before us. I hope they’re waitin’, or else Ma and Pa have done put their lamps out.”

  “I guess we’ll burn some gunpowder tonight, Del.”

  “You can bet on that, Ridley. I hold most of the good cards in this deck.”

  “You know what that Storm feller calls hisself?”

  “I heard. Sidewinder.”

  “Funny moniker.”

  “Well, you know what they do to sidewinders out in Arizona, don’t you?”

  “No, sir, I reckon not.”

  “They shoot their heads plumb off, that’s what they do, Ridley.”

  Ridley grinned.

  “You gonna shoot Storm’s head off?”

  “Yeah, after I shoot off his balls.”

  Del put the spurs to his horse, and the two men galloped off. The sun was falling in the west, hanging there above the snowcapped peaks like a blazing golden cauldron, firing the clouds strung out across the sky like gilded coffins all lined up, waiting to be loaded on the night’s caissons.

  It was a glorious sunset, by any man’s measure, and it was just starting, Ridley thought.

  And there was blood in it, as well as gold.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  They hid their horses behind a hillock and walked a quarter of a mile to Pete’s old observation post. By the time they reached the copse of trees, the sun had set and the light was fading in the glowing western sky. All three men carried their rifles. Brad and Julio had reloaded their six-guns as they left Oro City.

  “You can see the layout,” Pete said. “Mite near impregnable. I mean you can’t ride across that bridge without coming under fire. Can you see the gunports?”

  “Just barely,” Brad said, but his mind was already working, and he saw a way in. He would have the darkness, too.

  “I’m going to make a wide loop,” he said, “and come in from the right. You two stay here with your rifles. I’ll leave mine here, so you’ll have one extra.”

  “There are gunports on the sides of the house, too,” Pete said.

  “I’m going to crawl to the front door. Under the front gunports. I doubt if they’ll have rifles poking out those side ones.”

  “Maybe.”

  He handed his rifle to Julio, took off his hat.

  “You watch that front door. If it opens and somebody steps outside and it’s one of them, shoot.”

  “Then, what will you do?” Pete asked.

  Brad was already hunched over, walking to the south of their position.

  “I’m going in with my six-gun blazing,” he said.

  The dark came on fast. Brad waded across the creek about a hundred yards from the house. He took it slow, so he wouldn’t splash. When he got directly opposite the front of the house, he dropped to his belly and began to crawl.

  He pushed one knee forward, then brought up the other a foot or so at a time. He crawled over grass, cactus, and rocks, and around brush. When he got to the side, he raised his head and looked up. No rifles in the side gunports.

  He crawled on.

  When he reached the front door, he saw a rifle barrel poking through a gunport on that side. The windows were all shuttered, but he could see a thin rim of light as someone inside lit a lamp.

  He stood up and flattened himself against the house, held his breath.

  Then he took out his rattle and held it right next to the gunport. He shook it furiously, and the rattling made his skin jump. He heard a commotion inside.

  “They’s a damn rattlesnake a-tryin’ to get in the house.” A man’s voice, yelling.

  The front door opened, and Brad shook the rattle faster.

  The old man stepped out, a rifle in his hand.

  There was the crack of a rifle from across the creek and road.

  The old man clutched his chest and staggered for two or three steps, then pitched forward. He hit the ground with a thud.

  Brad crouched and ran through the door. The man at the gunport to his right turned and stared at him. He was young and big. He started to pull the rifle from the gunport when Brad shot him, right between the eyes.

  The man tumbled backward and collapsed in a grotesque sprawl, blood oozing from a black hole between his eyebrows. His straw hair was stippled with blood drops as if he had been looking into an exploding can of barn paint.

  There was shouting and screaming from upstairs. A man entered the front room, a tray of food in his hand.

  “Hey,” he yelled, and dropped the tray. Food splattered everywhere as he bent down into a fighting crouch, and his hand flew to the pistol on his hip.

  Brad shook the rattle with his left hand.

  The man lost that one second of time.

  Brad squeezed the trigger and his .44 Colt exploded, spewing lead and orange sparks, smoke and flame from the muzzle.

  “You . . . you . . .”

  The bullet struck the man in the throat and ripped it out in a spray of bright red blood. He gurgled and fell to his knees, clawing at his throat, struggling to pull in air.

  His throat went into convulsions, and Brad heard his death rattle as he raced past him and took the stairs two at a time.

  Women were screaming, and he heard the thud of blows.

  He ran down the dark hall to an open door where the screams were loudest.

  He stood there, trying to see into the room. Someone lay on the floor. He saw a woman’s legs and shoes.

  “Felicity?” Brad said, and stepped to one side of the door, outside, in the hall.

  “Brad,” she screamed. “Help us.”

  Then he heard Pilar babbling in Spanish.

  “She is dead,” Pilar screamed. “You killed her.”

  Brad stepped inside the room, dreading what he might see.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Less than a mile from his mother’s home, Delbert and Ridley heard gunfire. Both men stopped their horses to listen.

  Then it was quiet.

  “I counted three shots,” Ridley said.

  “Maybe it’s all over,” Delbert said. “You ride up and see what’s been going on, Ridley. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Why me, Del?”

  “Don’t argue with me. Take it slow. Likely, you’ll see the Mex and Storm lying dead right out front. Now get moving.”

  Julio and Pete were waiting for Ridley when he rode up. They pointed their rifles at him from twenty feet away.

  “Off your horse, Smoot,” Pete said.

  “I’m damned,” Ridley said, seeing that he had no chance to retreat. As he was climbing down from the saddle, Pete and Julio braced him from two sides. He stared at rifle barrels less than a foot from his face.

  The three men he
ard a flurry of hoofbeats heading toward town.

  “That Delbert?” Pete asked, lifting Ridley’s pistol from its holster.

  “That bastard,” Ridley said.

  ∿

  “Is she dead?” Felicity asked as Brad stepped over Maude’s body. Felicity’s voice was quavering, and she still held the makeshift club in her hand.

  Pilar was pressed against Felicity’s back, trembling, sobbing.

  “Yes,” Brad said, and took the board from Felicity’s hand and dropped it on the floor. “Let’s go. Pilar, Julio’s outside, waiting for you.”

  ~

  Julio set down his rifle and took Pilar in his arms. They spoke to each other in Spanish.

  “Looks like you’ll be working for Harry, Brad,” Pete said. “Delbert Coombs hightailed it after throwing Smoot here to the dogs. Julio and I were the dogs.”

  “If it means bringing Coombs to justice, then I’m in Harry’s employ.”

  Pete looked at Smoot.

  “You’re going to hang, Ridley. All by yourself, I guess.”

  Ridley looked at Brad, a wry smile on his face. He saw the rattles hanging from Brad’s neck.

  “I heard about those rattles,” he said. “Wicks told me you scared hell out of him.”

  “Where is Wicks?” Brad asked.

  “He’s on his way up to your ranch. He’ll be there by tomorrow. Del sent him to kill that other Mex, the one you left behind.”

  Julio and Brad exchanged looks.

  “Don’t be too sure about that, Smoot,” Brad said.

  ~

  Abner Wicks circled the desolated remains of the Storm ranch. He saw no sign of the Mexican. He could still smell the acrid odor of the fire. The scent stung his nostrils. He was about to turn his horse and ride back to Oro City when he saw movement from the trees above the burned barn.

  Carlos rose up from his hiding place, a Winchester rifle at his shoulder.

  Wicks reached for his own rifle.

  That was the last act of his life.

  Carlos squeezed the trigger. The bullet fried the air with sizzling speed and struck Abner Wicks just to the right of his breastbone. His heart exploded inside his shattered rib cage.

  He fell to the ground, dead.

  And now, Carlos thought, I have a horse.

  Now, while there was still daylight, he would ride into Oro City to find Brad and Julio.

  He looked down at the body of Abner Wicks as he grabbed up his horse’s reins.

  “And, you,” he said, “will be food for the wolves and the buzzards.”

  ~

  Harry Pendergast handed Brad a thick envelope as Pete and Felicity looked on.

  “What’s this?” Brad said.

  “Salary and expenses, Brad. And, your first assignment.”

  “I have an assignment already?”

  Pendergast smiled.

  “I expect Delbert Coombs might lead you a merry chase. He’ll show up somewhere. His kind always do. I want him brought to justice. You know what justice is, don’t you?”

  Brad smiled.

  “Yes, I know what justice is. I have revised that old Mexican saying.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Now, it’s ‘There is justice in the world.’ ”

  He put his arm around Felicity and squeezed her tight against him.

  Then he handed her the sealed envelope, reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of greenbacks, and handed those to her, as well.

  “What’s this for?” she asked.

  “A new life,” Brad said. “A new home.”

  “Welcome to the Denver Detective Agency,” Pendergast said, handing Felicity a hotel key. “You’ll stay in the Clarendon’s honeymoon suite until you find a place of your own,” he said.

  Felicity felt her knees go weak. She felt faint until Brad kissed her, breathing new life into her heart and soul.

  “Let’s see if that key works,” he whispered.