Desperadoes

by Chris Scott Wilson

  “Sure would, if you’ve got a mind.”

  Emmett nodded and peeled off his duster coat. “Give me that here. You take a spell.”

  Floyd handed over the shovel then climbed out of the way, pulling a cheroot from his vest pocket. “What d’you figure?”

  Emmett went to work, digging at the dirt with a vengeance. “That Billy’s a good boy. He read those tracks all right.”

  “There’s no doubt then?”

  “None at all. The Kid’s dead. Hung like a crow.”

  “All I can say is that bounty hunter must be one slick son of a bitch. Take more’n a country boy fresh growed and wet behind the ears to get the drop on the Kid.”

  Emmett made a face. “Kid’s been here a couple of months. My bet is she softened him up with good eating and that big bed of hers.” He shook his head sadly. “Women.”

  “I’m partial to ’em myself.”

  He looked up from the shovel. “Me too. Man needs a good woman once in a while. Takes off the edge. But when it comes to regular, they tie you down with their softness, and that’s when a man’s likely to forget what he’s about.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Emmett paused in his shoveling and made a face as he wiped away the first beads of sweat.

  “Ask the Kid,” he said.

  CHAPTER 11

  April 12th, 1884

  Donna Ana County, New Mexico Territory

  Vernon Reynolds had been giving some thought to the visit by the two Pinkertons down from Denver. Up to now during his tenure of office in Las Cruces there had been very little trouble. A couple of drunks every night and the occasional high-spirited cowhand who suddenly gave in to the irrepressible need to shoot out all the windows along Main Street, and even then they usually fell off their horses before they managed it. But the Benson gang was something else. They could mean real trouble.

  He fed another forkful of beef stew into his mouth, chewing the chunks of meat slowly. What the hell. Maybe the Pinkertons had made a mistake. All they knew was Emmett Green had headed south out of Grama. So what? That didn’t mean the whole Benson gang was going to be in town. Hell, Green could have gone to Rincon or even turned off the trail right outside Grama. And as for Las Cruces being where the Sonora Kid hung out, well he hadn’t ever seen him, and who could miss a man with a steel hook? There weren’t many of those about.

  Reynolds used the last chunk of bread to mop up the remains of the gravy from his plate. Smacking his lips, he sat back in his chair and signaled to the bartender. “Hey, bring me some coffee over here.” He rolled a cigarette while he was waiting. No, the Benson gang wouldn’t show up here. No chance. “Hey, where’s that coffee? I’m a busy man.”

  “You’ll be Sheriff Reynolds?”

  “I’m wearing a star, ain’t I,” Vernon said in reply to the man who had come to stand in front of him, “so I guess that makes me the sheriff.”

  “I’d like to talk with you about the matter of a reward.”

  Reynolds studied the stranger. Had Las Cruces suddenly declared open season on outlaws? This one was tall, dressed in black from head to foot, a long angular face, but there was something disturbing about the eyes. He had the sensation those steely gray eyes were looking right through him.

  “You ain’t another Pinkerton by any chance?”

  The man frowned. “Pinkerton?”

  Reynolds waved a hand in dismissal. “Forget it. What do you want?”

  “I’d rather talk in your office.”

  Reynolds glanced around the almost empty saloon. “When I’m eating, this is my office,”

  The man in black wasn’t to be put off, “Your office down the street. Not here.”

  The sheriff frowned, sensing he wasn’t going to get any more out of him. “All right, but I ain’t had coffee yet. Give me ten minutes,”

  “Your office then.” The man in black turned on his heel and stalked out.

  The bartender brought over a cup and the coffeepot to the table. “Dinner okay, Sheriff?”

  “Sure, sure.” He sipped the coffee and made a face. It was bitter. “What you done to this?”

  The barkeep frowned and tasted the offered cup. “Seems all right to me.”

  “Must be me, then,” Reynolds said, suddenly not wanting it anymore. He pushed out his chair and headed for the door.

  The man in black was sitting outside his office as Reynolds neared. He rose and opened the door, allowing the lawman to go in first, but Reynolds stopped in the doorway.

  “Now, what was it about a reward?”

  “I want to collect one.”

  “On who?”

  “He’s here on my packhorse.” He gestured to the two horses at the rail, one, a pinto, carrying a man-sized burden.

  Reynolds glanced at the stranger then stepped down off the boardwalk to push between the black and the pinto. He loosened the tarp and lifted the corner. Facing him was the back of a man’s head, his arms stretching down to meet his legs under the horse’s belly. There was only one hand. Where the other should have been was a bright steel hook.

  Reynolds swore.

  ***

  “You seen the crowd down there?”

  Mike Gallagher looked up from filling his pocket flask from a whiskey bottle. Tom Keene was standing by the window, watching the street below. Gallagher grunted and went back to his task.

  “Now, what do you suppose is going on?”

  Gallagher sighed. Keene obviously wasn’t going to shut up until he went over and ventured his opinion. He screwed the flask top on tight, pushed it into his coat pocket, and then went over, standing behind Keene to look over his shoulder.

  Out in the street a crowd was growing larger by the minute, jostling each other as they strained forward to look at something in a store window. Even while they watched, the gathering grew so large it extended almost into the middle of the street.

  “Must be something good,” Keene commented. “It’s a regular peep show.”

  Gallagher glowered. “Yes, but what?”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Gallagher turned quickly, drawing his revolver from his “hide out” shoulder holster to cover the door. With a swift motion of his free hand he directed Keene to the wall, out of the sightline from the door. Keene obeyed.

  “Who is it?” Gallagher called.

  “Sheriff Reynolds.”

  As Keene relaxed, Gallagher held up a hand so he remained in place. His own gun never wavered. He wasn’t about to trust a muffled voice from the other side of a rooming house door.

  “Come on in, Sheriff.”

  The door opened and Vernon Reynolds walked in. His lawman’s eyes quickly saw both guns leveled at him and flickered from one face to the other, finally resting on Gallagher’s.

  “You both sure are trusting.”

  The two Pinkertons holstered their guns. The big Irishman waved a vague hand and shrugged. “It’s our business.”

  Reynolds made a face. “Sure. I understand.”

  “What brings you here?”

  Reynolds noticed Keene’s eyes stray to the window. He jerked his head. “You’ve seen the crowd down there? ’Bout an hour ago a bounty hunter brought in the Sonora Kid.”

  Interest sparked in Gallagher’s eyes. “On his feet or head down across a saddle?”

  “Dead. He’d been hung. Had a gunshot wound too.”

  The Irishman cursed. No information there. “What’s he look like, this bounty hunter? You know him?”

  “Never seen him before. Dresses in black from head to foot.”

  “Like a preacher?”

  “Come to think of it, that’s what he reminded me of. Sure, a preacher.”

  Gallagher nodded at Keene’s inquiring glance then looked back at Reynolds. “What took you so long?”

  “I had to find out where you were staying. You never checked back with me.”

  The Irishman nodded. It was true. By the time they had eaten and found a room there had not
been time to tell the sheriff. He peeled fifty dollars off his roll and held it out. “Here, you did good. There’ll be another fifty if you get news of the others.”

  Reynolds took it and shoved it uncounted into his vest pocket, then turned for the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “You do that.” Gallagher watched the sheriff leave then sat down on the bed and began to break down his revolver.

  “Cleaning your gun’s a bad sign,” Keene observed.

  Gallagher nodded.

  “You know this preacher man?”

  The Irishman nodded again. “Name’s Creech. When I was a permanent field operative I used to come across his name so much I started keeping a file on him. He’s crazy. Both ways. Crazy sly and crazy nuts. Thinks by bringing in outlaws he’s doing the Lord’s work. He hangs them too, nearly every time before he brings them in. Never brings them in alive.”

  Keene smiled. “You mean a Bible in one hand and a gun in the other?”

  “Right. Only as well as being crazy, he’s good. Damn good. Put the two together and you’ve got one dangerous man.”

  Keene frowned. “You mean he’s just as likely to kill one of us as one of them?”

  The Irishman looked at him. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  ***

  They rode into town after dark.

  After a good feed and rest the horses made good time in the cool of the evening. As a precaution they came in from the north, taking rooms at the first rooming house after checking no other strangers had signed in that day. They stashed their gear in the rooms then met up downstairs in the lobby. Floyd looked out at the street where the lanterns were being lit in each of the buildings.

  “We’ll split up and go through both sides of the street. Jody, you and Billy take the other side. Emmett and I’ll take this one.”

  “What about me?”

  “Sophie, you stay here out of the way.”

  She shook her head. “No chance. I’m in this all the way. You leave me here and I’ll go out on my own.” She fingered the big Colt at her hip. “I can use this. It isn’t for show.”

  Floyd exchanged glances with Emmett, nodding reluctantly. “You can go with us, then. But nobody, and I mean nobody, gets a hot head if they get a line on this man in black. It has to be all of us together. If he could take the Kid, he’s good, and I don’t want any more of us getting nailed to the wall.” He looked around at their faces. “You got that?” He turned and pushed open the door.

  With Sophie between them, he and Emmett began working all the saloons and hotels. As they came out into the street from the second one, a bright light suddenly burned for a second or so further along the street towards the center of town. Sophie tugged at Floyd’s arm.

  “What was that?”

  “Not sure I rightly know.”

  Emmett squinted. “Kind of a big crowd down there. Let’s go take a look.”

  At the edge of the people they found the bright light had been caused by a man with a big black box on legs. As they arrived the photographer held something aloft, then as he lifted the cover from the box’s lens a burst of magnesium light flared from the holder.

  “Oh, hell,” Emmett said.

  “Aw, shit,” Floyd cursed, eyes riveted to the scene.

  “What is it?” Sophie asked, suddenly anxious, dancing on her tiptoes, unable to see above the heads of the crowd. When neither of the men answered, she started to elbow her way through to the front, pushing away Floyd’s restraining hand.

  “Only the small sum of two bits for your picture permanently engraved for all your grandchildren to see!” the photographer touted. “Come on, folks, just two bits!”

  Sophie burst out of the front of the crowd. She found herself in front of the undertaker’s parlor and in the window was a coffin, propped up so it was almost upright. In it was the Sonora Kid, prepared for burial. He was naked to the waist, the blood washed away from the gunshot wound in his arm, and his head tilted to one side to display the rope burns around his throat. His eyes were closed and he could almost have been asleep, Sophie thought as her eyes began to fill. She shook her head to quell the tears and looked up at the crudely lettered sign hanging over the open coffin.

  this is the body of the notorious outlaw and desperado

  the sonora kid, caught and hanged this day april12th

  1884 in las cruces, new mexico territory

  Sophie gagged and turned away back into the crowd.

  “Come on, just two bits to have your photograph taken with a desperado! Your own piece of history!”

  Someone stepped forward to stand proudly next to the coffin, carrying a scattergun like a big game hunter. The paunchy citizen smiled brightly. Another tall story to tell.

  “Ghouls,” Sophie whispered, head down, pushing away from the spectacle. Somebody laid a hand on her arm. She tried to shrug it off but it was insistent. She straightened her face and looked up. A young man in a checked suit with some paper in his hand was staring intensely at her.

  “I couldn’t help noticing your reaction. You seem to be taking this mighty personal. I’m Howard Robson, with the Tombstone Epitaph. I just happened to be in town. Did you know him, the Sonora Kid?”

  Sophie shook her head, still working towards Floyd and Emmett. The reporter laid a restraining hand on her arm.

  “If you did, it’d make a real good story, and I could use a break.”

  “I didn’t know him.”

  With the reporter still clinging on, she reached Floyd and buried her head in his vest. Robson’s gaze shifted from the distressed woman to the two somber-faced men. Once glance into their eyes and he slowly removed his hand from Sophie’s arm then tipped his hat.

  “Howdy, gents,” he said breezily. “I’m with the Tombstone Epitaph. I was just asking the lady if she knew the outlaw on show here.” He gestured behind him at the funeral parlor.

  Emmett eyed him coldly. “Mister, you heard the lady. She didn’t know him.”

  The reporter turned on a cheerful smile. “Well, what about you two gents? Did either of you know him? I could get your picture in the paper. Make you famous.”

  Floyd was stony-faced. “Listen. We never even saw him before.”

  ***

  “They even polished his hook,” Sophie said sadly, clinging to Floyd as they lay in bed. He could feel her tears on his neck and her clenched fist resting on his bare chest. But she had stopped crying now.

  There, in the darkness, Floyd suddenly had a vision of himself propped up in a coffin in some dust-bowl of a town, a notice above his head and fat-bellied citizens stepping up to have their photographs taken with him. Little kids pointing and young girls giggling, matronly women in sunbonnets nodding tight-mouthed while their skinny husbands made small talk about how at last the lawlessness of the frontier was being wiped out, along with the scum like the one displayed in the store window.

  Hell, what a way to end your days, he thought, staring into the night, Sophie’s warm body wrapped around him. When he was young it had all been exciting, fire in the blood, riding from town to town or holding up a train, relishing the power that raced quivering through you while you did your job. Your trade, hard learned in a school where if you made a mistake there were no second chances, your only future the dance you would do at the end of a rope.

  Now he was sick of it. Not even with Mary had he felt the way he did now with Sophie. He smiled wearily in the darkness, a hand absently caressing her shoulder through the thin cotton nightdress. All the traveling just seemed a waste of time. If only he could get a bankroll together he would quit. They could disappear somewhere without the constant threat of some bounty hunter or a man with a tin star knocking on the door. He was getting so jumpy he had nearly shot Sophie that first time she had come to his room. Remembering the failed bank job in San Pedro where they had nearly got nailed; it had been then he had suddenly realized for the first time he was afraid of being caught…

  Small teeth nibbled at his shoulder. He look
ed down, barely able to make out the line of Sophie’s cheek. He pulled her even closer as her hands began to work on him.

  There was only the man in black now. Once he was dead, Floyd could quit, but he had eluded them today. Every watering hole in town had proved dry. He was laying low, waiting for the reward on the Kid to arrive. Now there was a thought. What did the reward stand at now? Four, five hundred dollars? That was one good bankroll to start off a new life, if only there wasn’t the others to share it with. But maybe even that could be arranged.

  The man in black faded as Sophie’s hands grew more insistent. She climbed up his body, lips feverish as they crushed against his. He ran his hands through her hair, fingers twisting in and out of the strands. They slid to her shoulders to ease off the nightdress. As her bare skin brushed his he sighed with pleasure. If only they could stay like this, together for ever.

  “Sophie,” he murmured.

  “Oh Floyd,” she sighed in reply.

  ***

  “They’re here.”

  Gallagher’s penetrating eyes roamed the sheriff’s face. “Are you sure? One hundred per cent sure?”

  Reynolds nodded. “They were seen near the funeral parlor. Green and Benson with a woman. The other one, Mackinaw, is in town too. He was seen in a cantina with another man. Could be a new man in the Benson gang.”

  “You’d better not be telling me tall stories. I don’t like paying hard cash for dead ends,” the Irishman said, peeling banknotes off a roll.

  “Would one lawman lie to another?”

  “It’s been known,” Gallagher replied as he handed the wad of notes over. “Now you just make sure you keep out of the way.”

  Reynolds touched the brim of his hat then left the room. Keene watched his boss’s face intently. “The sheriff could be of some use to us. Three guns against four is better than two, ’specially with that mad preacher ’round.”