Desperadoes

by Chris Scott Wilson

  “For a man with a bad back and a sore ass you sure do talk a lot.”

  “Good job one of us does.”

  “Here.” He pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket and offered it. “I sent a wire to the office while you were asleep and they sent this back.”

  The second man opened the wire and read:

  cancel investigation on benson and mackinaw+stop+their known associate emmett green reported in grama donna ana county new mexico+stop+make positive identification and apprehend+stop+signed m gallagher+stop

  He looked up. “Forget Benson and Mackinaw? I thought they were the two leaders of this outfit we’re after?”

  “Emmett Green is just as important as the others. Besides, we’ve lost them. If we don’t go to Grama now, we might lose this one as well. Besides, he might know where the others are. With a bit of persuasion…” He smiled as he brought out the sheaf of wanted flyers and passed one over.

  “Oh yes, this one. I wonder if he looks anything at all like this.” He peered at the picture without much hope. The face depicted in the crude drawing could have belonged to any one of the male population of St. Louis, never mind some backwater town. It wasn’t going to be much help at all.

  But then, they never were.

  ***

  They say if you kissed all the girls in Grama, New Mexico, it wouldn’t exactly give you sore lips. Grama was a very small town. There weren’t many girls either. And the inhabitants were wary of strangers, which accounted for the buzz of conversation in the general store when the two men in gray suits got down from the train. By the time they had walked down the main street and checked into the Diamond Hotel the news had reached Becker’s saloon.

  Hans Becker was a huge barrel of a man with biceps like plaited rope that he had earned swinging a fourteen-pound hammer in a foundry back in Germany. He was playing poker when his bartender, Robbie, offered him the news. He grunted his acknowledgement and Robbie returned to cleaning glasses.

  “You hear that, eh?” Hans said, glancing up from his cards.

  “I heard,” the man opposite replied in a flat voice without taking his eyes away from the three jacks and the pair of deuces in his hand. He was high cheek-boned, his hat pulled down low to shade his hollow eyes. Long dark hair, lank with grease and dust poked from under his hat to curl over the upturned collar of his duster, an ankle-length sand-colored waterproof coat split almost to the waist up the back so a rider’s legs would stay dry when on horseback. His square jaw carried a three-day growth of dark beard, flecked with gray at the corners of his thin lips. In contrast to his weathered cheeks, his fingers were soft and white as they curled around the five cards that were going to win him the pot. Most cowhands took care of their hands, proud to say they earned their pay from the back of a horse. The other type of man who always wore gloves was the kind Emmett Green was: a man who earned his living with a gun.

  Emmett’s eyes slid to the other two players then onto the big German. “Your call, Hans.”

  The big man pursed his lips and fanned his cards. “I think maybe I raise you twenty-five dollars.”

  “I’m out,” the second player said.

  “Call.” Emmett tossed the crumpled paper onto the growing heap.

  “And me,” said the third player, pushing money towards the center of the table.

  The saloon doors swung open to admit the two strangers. They crossed to the counter, and while the first one ordered the other stood with his back to the bar, surveying the room. His gaze lingered for a long moment on the four poker players then slid on past. A little awkwardly it seemed, he turned his back on them and spoke a couple of words from the corner of his mouth to his partner. The second man sipped his beer and then laughed as though his friend had made a joke.

  “You need any help, Emmett?” the second poker player offered, his right hand dropping below the table to flick off the hammer thong from his Colt.

  Emmett didn’t look away from his cards. “If I need it I’ll holler, but I’m obliged for the offer.”

  Hans lowered his cards. “Emmett, my friend, do not please do it in here. The furniture is expensive enough and I know you cannot afford to replace it.”

  “Unless I win this hand.” He offered a slow smile.

  “Not in here, my friend.”

  “Okay, Hans. I wouldn’t want to upset you. I’ve seen you crack a drunk’s head like a chicken egg. Tell me, is your piece still under the bar?”

  The big German nodded. “Sure thing. Robbie, he give it to you.” He glanced at the barkeep who returned his look and nodded. “Damn Pinkertons. Them I can do without.”

  Emmett didn’t comment on what seemed obvious. “You going to raise, Hans, or what? I ain’t got all day.”

  “No, I am out.” He folded his cards.

  “Up another twenty-five,” Emmett said.

  “Call,” said the last player.

  Emmett allowed his poker face to slip into a scowl. Apparently the last man had a good hand. This was going to take longer than he’d thought. He compressed his cards into a tidy pile and placed them face down on the tabletop before glancing at his opponent.

  “You mind if I tend to some business?”

  The poker player glanced at the two strangers at the bar, then raised an eyebrow. “I can wait.”

  “Good.” Emmett pushed back his chair. “Hans, it ain’t that I don’t trust him, but don’t let him sneak a look at my cards.” He half smiled as though it was a joke.

  The big German grinned. “Sure thing. I watch them for you.”

  Emmett walked to the end of the bar nearest the back door where he was shielded from the eyes of the two strangers by a group of drinking cowhands. He jerked his head at Robbie the bartender who fished below the counter then handed a scattergun beneath the flap where the bar-gate was open. Emmett pushed the gun under his open duster coat, holding it lengthways down his thigh. Robbie offered him a loose handful of cartridges which he dropped in his pocket. He touched his right hand to the brim of his hat then walked out through the back door.

  The first of the two strangers detached himself from the bar and crossed to the table where the three poker players were now smoking. He glanced down at the barrel-chested German.

  “Are you Hans Becker?”

  Hans nodded somberly. “Ja, I am.”

  The stranger’s eyes darted around the room then returned to Hans’s face. “I’m looking for a man called Emmett Green.”

  “Would it be business or pleasure?” Becker asked.

  “I’m a friend. Me and him go back a long ways,” the Pinkerton lied.

  “Then you are welcome.” Becker’s face showed no emotion. “He has just gone to the backhouse. He should be back in a minute.”

  The stranger waved a hand. “This is kind of urgent. I’ll go find him.” He offered a tight smile then turned towards the rear exit. He shot a glance at the second man who put down his half-empty glass and pushed himself away from the bar. He kept pace with his partner so they both met near the door.

  The poker player who had offered Emmett his help made to get out of his seat. Hans gripped his arm in beefy fist.

  “Leave it. Our friend knows what he is doing.”

  “But he’s outgunned.”

  “I do not think so.”

  “But what if they get him?”

  Hans’ mouth twisted at the corner. “If they kill him, then you can kill them.”

  Outside, Emmett leaned back on the rear wall of the saloon as he brought out the shotgun from under his coat. He broke the action to reassure himself both barrels were loaded then snapped it shut. He didn’t need the other shells Robbie had given him. If he emptied both the barrels without the results he wanted then there wouldn’t be time to reload. He would have to switch to his .44 Colt. He pushed off the hammer thong and eased the revolver loose in its holster ready for a fast draw.

  The backhouse was directly opposite the saloon’s rear door. Emmett edged along the wall until he
was enveloped in shadow. If he’d guessed them right it would all happen any minute now. And he was as ready as he ever would be.

  Inside the main building, the man with the backache laid a restraining hand on his partner’s arm. “Which way do we handle it?”

  “Carefully. This man Green knows what he’s about. Soon as we’re out of the door you go to the backhouse and open the door fast. I’ll stay back against the building to split his targets.”

  “If he’s not expecting us he won’t have time to shoot,” the other man argued.

  “Don’t give me a hard time. Do it my way.”

  The man with the backache grimaced. “You’re the expert.”

  “Just do it.” They both drew their pistols and then the first man unlatched the rear door. They stepped out. He flattened against the wall, gun covering the alley.

  The second Pinkerton glanced nervously at his partner then tiptoed to the backhouse. He positioned himself out of the sightline of the door then slowly reached around to the latch. Biting his tongue and keeping his body as far back as possible, he eased the latch open.

  Nothing happened.

  He flung open the door, bringing up his pistol. He froze, staring. Then the tension flowed out of him and his gun hand lowered. He turned to his partner. “It’s empty…”

  “You two sons of bitches looking for me?”

  One moment there was only a shadow. The next Emmett Green was there. Face grim, eyes hidden in the shade cast by his hat brim, he stood legs apart. Solid, determined.

  The Pinkerton by the wall was the first to move. He swung into a crouch. The scattergun roared. The Pinkerton saw only a blast of black smoke and sparks, an image of Green’s compressed lips in his mind. Then he was dead, picked off his feet by a gunpowder hand. Peppered by buckshot, he was flung backwards. He sprawled in the alley, sightless eyes open to the sky. The only movement was blood welling up to stain his gray suit.

  In that moment of deafening sound, the second Pinkerton forgot all about his sore ass and his backache. He jumped forward, grabbing the backhouse door to use as a shield.

  Emmett didn’t even consciously register the death of his first target. Well used to sizing up opponents, his gunman’s eye had chosen him as the more dangerous of the two. He had fired and seen him go down. That was enough. A shot from the scattergun at that range could almost cut a man in half.

  He altered his balance by shifting the weight on the balls of his feet. The barest of movements brought the yawning muzzle of the shotgun to bear on the backhouse. As the Pinkerton lurched for the door Emmett pulled the trigger. A hailstorm of lead splintered the wood.

  The Pinkerton screamed, leaving hold of the door. Blood was pouring from between his knuckles where one of the pellets was embedded, Panicking, he took a fast glance across the alley where his partner lay dead. No help there. And this was a bad position. His gun hand, his right, was on the inside. That meant for him to return fire he would either have to place his back to the door and shoot blind or lean right out for a clear shot.

  Then he remembered.

  Scattergun. Two barrels. Two shots. Green would have to reload. A surge of relief flowed through him. How long since the last shot? A second? Two? He could not have possibly reloaded yet. It would take at least five seconds. He had to do it now. Any more time wasted could be his life running out.

  Forcing every ounce of energy into play, he sprang clear of the door, out into the alley. He snapped up his revolver, lining it on Green.

  Emmett saw him coming.

  He tossed the shotgun from his right hand to his left. Freed, his right hand swung back, brushing the duster coat out of the way then came forward to grip his Colt and draw, all in one movement. A variation on the Border Shift. The pistol cleared leather, his thumb cocking the hammer. As the Pinkerton landed in a crouch in the center of the alley, Emmett’s .44 Colt reached the top of its arc.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The pistol roared. The bullet smashed into the Pinkerton’s ribs on the left side, spinning him around. His own gun went off, bullet flying wild. He staggered, knees buckling, mouth slack before he fell. He lay sprawled, legs moving feebly as he tried to rise. Arm stretched out, his hand opened and closed in the direction of his gun, but it was out of reach.

  Emmett moved forward, Colt recocked, ready. It wasn’t needed. One glance and it was obvious the Pinkerton was dying. Even as Emmett stood over him the man’s mouth filled with blood like some evil crucible. He was choking, chest heaving for precious air. He didn’t last long. His eyes opened almost impossibly wide then the blood bubbled over his lips to dribble down his cheek. He was dead.

  Emmett uncocked the Colt and holstered it, but kept hold of the scattergun as he went through the man’s pockets. Nothing much. A few dollars and some identification. Pinkerton Detective Agency, Denver office. Nothing Emmett hadn’t already known. He stood up and went back to the first man. His pockets yielded almost two hundred dollars and a batch of tattered flyers, torn by the buckshot and stained with his blood.

  Frowning, Emmett went through them. There was one on him, and then the others were on Floyd Benson, Jody Mackinaw, and the Sonora Kid. So the Pinkertons had picked them out ’specially. All he had to do now was figure out why. He went through the flyers one by one again, trying to remember the last time he and the others had ridden together. The only job that came to mind was the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe robbery in Prowers County. But Jack Keble had been on that job and there was no wanted sheet on him. Unless they’d already caught him? It could only be that job. Although they hadn’t got away with much worth stealing, he knew the railroad company looked on it as a matter of principle, eager to make an example as a deterrent. They must have brought in the Pinkertons to make a good job of it.

  Only they hadn’t.

  But when these two didn’t show up or check in by wire, sure as hell the Pinkerton office would send another crew, if only to catch up with the man who killed their agents.

  Emmett stuffed the money and the flyers into his pocket then stood up. What he had figured out was food for thought, but he had something else to finish first.

  He laid the shotgun on the bar and returned the handful of unused shells.

  “Everything okay, Mr. Green?” Robbie asked, stashing the gun.

  “Sure. You set us up another round of drinks ’n’ keep the change.” He put a five-dollar bill on the counter. Back at the table he sat down as though nothing more had happened than his visit to the backhouse.

  “You took care of business?” the player who had offered his help asked.

  Emmett rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Sure thing. Hans? Can you have someone take care of the mess in the alley?”

  The German beamed. “Ja, my friend, it is already done.”

  Emmett slid his cards off the edge of the table then fanned them slowly. “I believe it’s my call?” He looked hard at the spread of jacks and threes.

  The fourth player, the last one in the game, nodded.

  Emmett dug into his pocket to bring out the crumple of bank notes he had taken off the dead Pinkerton. “I’ll see them.” He sorted out enough money and tossed it onto the heap.

  “You paid.” The fourth player spread his cards face up. One-two-three-four eights.

  Emmett smiled slowly then sipped from his whiskey glass. When the raw liquor had burned the long route to his stomach, he nudged his own cards face down towards the deck. When his opponent made no move to pick up the money, he made an openhanded gesture.

  The player stared, still making no move.

  “It’s yours,” Emmett said as he sat back to nurse his whiskey glass. “Some you win, friend, and some you lose.”

  CHAPTER 6

  April 11th, 1884

  Las Cruces, Donna Ana County, New Mexico Territory

  “You sure this is where the Kid is?”

  Floyd looked away from the sun-baked street. Sophie looked exhausted. Her hair was uncombed, straggling from beneath her
hat to hang on her shoulders where it brushed her dirty shirt. Her face was smeared where she had constantly used her gloved hand to wipe away the sweat, and her eyes had taken on a half wild look, big in their sockets through bad food and little sleep on the trail. Floyd felt pretty much the same himself although he had lived this kind of traveling life as long as he cared to remember.

  “Yeah, this is the place,” he told her again, half smiling. “All we gotta do is track him down. First thing, we’ll get the horses grained then it’s about time we had us a good meal.”

  Sophie frowned. “Can’t we get right to it?”

  Floyd sighed at her impatience. “We just got here and we’re all beat. Be sundown soon. What d’you expect me to do? Go knocking on every door in town saying, Hey, I’m Floyd Benson the famous outlaw and I’m looking for the Sonora Kid, a bounty hunter.”

  Sophie just stared at him, hollow-eyed, accusing.

  “You don’t understand,” Floyd sighed. “This is a border town. Probably a whole heap of men here like us, wanted across half the States in the Union. Last thing they want is to meet some bounty hunter’s friend. They’ll figure I’m trying to set them up.” He could see she didn’t believe him. “People are kinda touchy in towns like this. Just as likely to throw down on you as spare you the time of day. Believe me.” He smiled. “We’ll find him.”

  “We’d better,” she said firmly.

  Floyd looked hard at her. Although she looked nothing like her, sometimes when she spoke he could almost swear she was Mary. Just the thought of Mary now brought that ache of despair. Looking at Sophie every day on the trail had been a constant reminder. Barring her impatience, there were so many ways they were alike. It put him off his stride. And he hoped she couldn’t see it in his eyes. Sophie seemed to forget he had almost as strong a reason for finding the man in black.