The Killing Shot

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “K.C., you stupid ass!” L.J. shouted when the din faded into the desert heat. “You ain’t the one stuck in here. Bastard just nicked my left earlobe.”

  “I’m hit, too!” W.W. whimpered. “He blew off my damned boot heel.”

  Reilly shot again, pushed out cartridges from his bandolier, and began reloading the rifle.

  “He’ll be out of bullets soon,” K.C. said.

  “Like hell,” W.W. argued. “That rifle of his holds more rounds than an armory.”

  Reilly almost smiled. W.W. was right. Designed by, of all people, a Maine dentist, and featuring a rotary magazine in the walnut stock, the Evans had a 30-inch octagonal barrel that could chamber twenty-eight .44 cartridges—earlier models could hold more than thirty shells—and Reilly had filled every loop on the bandolier with a cartridge before leaving Charleston.

  He wouldn’t die for a lack of ammunition.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of light, and rolled, pulled himself closer to the dead horse, already drawing flies. Off to the northeast, maybe three hundred yards, among a couple of spindly ocotillo cactus that were probably in a dry wash. That would be the man with the Sharps. At least, that’s where Reilly would have gone.

  Reilly wiped sweat off his brow, rested the barrel against the buckskin’s stiffening forelegs, adjusted the tang sight he had a Tombstone gunsmith add two years back, and waited.

  “Reilly!” K.C. yelled. “Looks like we’re at a standoff. I don’t want my brothers dead, especially not shot without a chance. And you don’t want you dead. Let’s work out a deal. A deal that’ll leave everybody alive.”

  “Everybody?” Reilly said, never taking his eyes off those ocotillo. “What about Denton and Chisum?”

  The wind kicked up.

  He drew a breath. Waiting. Exhaled.

  He made out the figure, or what he guessed to be the man with the Sharps, adjusted his aim for the wind, and squeezed the trigger. The Evans roared, but he detected something behind him and rolled, working the lever, cursing, seeing that Gus Henderson had found his courage, was leaping from the driver’s box, swinging up the Winchester.

  Reilly’s lever jammed. If the Evans had one flaw, it was its tendency to jam. That’s one reason the company had gone out of the rifle business. Reilly swore again, pitched the .44 aside, reached for the revolver. Henderson’s shot spit sand into Reilly’s face and kicked away the Merwin. Reilly grabbed for the pistol again, Henderson’s shot almost tore off a finger or two, and the deputy was pleading: “Don’t, Reilly. Please don’t.”

  He made another play for the revolver. Had to. This time, the Winchester’s slug spanged off the pistol, and Reilly let out an exasperated sigh. Slowly, he rolled away from the revolver, knowing it was over, that Gus Henderson wouldn’t give him another chance, that the Merwin was ruined, that his rifle was useless.

  That he was as good as dead.

  “I got him, Mister Kraft,” Gus Henderson shouted, smiling. “I got him covered.”

  K.C. Kraft smoothed the handlebars of his reddish brown mustache. Except for those big ears of his, most people considered him a good-looking man: cowlick that gave a little height to his hair and forehead, a firm jaw, angular nose. He wore a brocaded vest, and, satisfied with his mustache, removed his wide-brimmed straw hat, and began running his fingers around the sweatband. Waiting. Studying Reilly with his brilliant hazel eyes while W.W. exchanged boots with the dead Slim Chisum and other men rolled smokes or reloaded their weapons.

  One man rode up from the ocotillo-dotted arroyo, but didn’t bother to dismount.

  “Carter’s dead,” the man said. “Gut shot. Bled out mighty quick.”

  K.C.’s eyes twinkled, as he set the straw hat back on his head. From his vest pocket, he found a cigar, and nodded at Reilly. “You that good?”

  “Scratch shot,” Reilly admitted.

  “I’m reckon Carter’ll appreciate knowing that.” Still looking at Reilly, he said, “You about done, W.W.?”

  “Just about.”

  They had stripped the dead of money and watches, gone through the weapons—tossing Reilly’s jammed Evans, bandolier, and busted revolver atop the dead buckskin—and tied a silk rag tightly over L.J.’s bloodied ear. One of the riders had taken his gunbelt and shoved Frank Denton’s weapon into the holster. Another was pulling coin and scrip out of Reilly’s pouch.

  “You probably could have held us off,” K.C. said, “if it hadn’t been for Judas here.”

  Gus Henderson’s head dropped.

  Reilly spit. “No. You would have killed me.”

  “Maybe. But you probably would have shot one, or both, of my brothers to pieces.”

  He jutted his jaw at the Evans. “Jammed. That ended it.”

  “Would have been interesting, though,” K.C. said, “if not for Judas.”

  Gus Henderson choked back something, and toed the sand with his right boot.

  K.C. Kraft struck a lucifer against the butt of his holstered Colt and fired up the cigar. He took a long pull, removed the cigar, and asked, “You want a smoke, Reilly?”

  He shook his head.

  “What about you, Henderson?”

  The deputy looked up.

  “Don’t give me that look, boy. So you sold out your pards. You had good reason. Woman in the family way. You making hardly no money to speak of, risking your life for Arizona’s finest citizens. Reilly don’t blame you none, do you, Reilly?”

  If Reilly had planned to answer, he never got the chance. Heavy iron slammed into the back of his head, and the next thing he saw was sand. His head throbbed. Blood matted his hair. He felt himself being jerked up, and he tried to shake away the pain, blink back the tears.

  Heavy iron, hot from the sun, fell against his right wrist, and he felt the manacles tighten. Laughing, W.W. Kraft squeezed the other cuff until it bit deep into his left wrist, then held the key in front of Reilly’s face, and dropped it in the dirt beside the dead buckskin.

  “That iron stays on,” W.W. said, “till you get to Yuma.” Even L.J. laughed with his brother, and Reilly felt rough hands jerk him back, shove him. The heavy door opened. After they threw him inside, he heard the door clang shut. And more laughter.

  With iron-cuffed hands, he gripped the hot bars, pulled himself to his knees. The Krafts mounted their horses, and W.W. tipped back his hat with the scattergun—Slim Chisum’s twelve-gauge—he held in his right hand. “Don’t look like you’re going to get to Yuma no time soon, Mac. That’s too bad.”

  K.C. jerked the cigar from his mouth, as if it suddenly had turned bitter, and threw it in the dust.

  “He’ll die here.” Gus Henderson’s voice trembled.

  “Look around, boy,” L.J. Kraft said. “You helped send two other lawmen to their demise. Now, you’re getting soft?”

  The young deputy stared at his dirty boots and walked toward a ground-reined bay horse without shooting Reilly another glance. Sighing, maybe even crying, he grabbed the reins and mounted. Immediately, W.W. Kraft jammed the shotgun’s buttstock against his shoulder, and cut loose with both barrels, blowing Henderson out of the saddle. The bay bolted toward distant buttes, and other horses danced nervously from the deafening roar, the fresh scent of blood.

  Eyes and mouth open, Henderson lay faceup, spread-eagled on the ground, his chest blown apart by buckshot at close range.

  “Damn you, boy,” K.C. said, trying to control his big dun mare, “why’d you do that? I gave that kid my word.”

  “Your word? To a law dog?”

  “My word, you jackass.” He pulled the reins tight, and the horse stopped twisting, though, snorting, it fought the bit, eyes wide.

  “He sold out his own men,” L.J. Kraft said. “Sold them out for money. A Judas.”

  “That’s right. A turncoat,” W.W. said. K.C. turned his horse around, waved a hand at Reilly, and coughed out a mirthless chuckle. “Reilly,” he said, turning. “My idiot brothers have short memories, don’t they?”


  “Appears,” Reilly said.

  “If not for Henderson,” K.C. said, turning back at this brothers, “you two would be dead. Reilly would have seen to that. That Judas saved your lives. I wasn’t about to forget that. The money I promised him, well, that’ll be going to his woman. And it’ll be coming out of your share.”

  The brothers said nothing, although W.W. looked like he wanted to. L.J. tugged at the bandage covering his bloody ear.

  “Look at him,” K.C. said. “That’s murder. Next time you go up in front of a judge, it ain’t going to be fifteen years you’re looking at. It’ll be a hangman’s rope. Same as me. Now ride out of here, boys. All of you. Ride hard. I’ll catch up.”

  The younger Krafts, and the five other riders spurred their mounts. For a long minute, K.C. watched the dust, and eased his mount toward the wagon. Turkey buzzards already circled in that dead sky. He found his canteen, offered Reilly a last swallow of water. Reilly took a long pull before returning the canteen.

  “This ain’t my doing, Reilly,” K.C. said softly. “I want you to know that.”

  “I know it.”

  “I would have killed you quick.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “But this had to be left up to my brothers.”

  “Makes sense. I arrested them. I was taking them to prison.”

  “Yeah.” K.C. looked through the bars, past Reilly, at the rising dust. “You got family, Reilly?”

  He shook his head.

  “Lucky,” K.C. said absently, and galloped after his brothers.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  You could smell the stench all the way up the ridge.

  Below, coyotes pulled noses and fangs away from one of the bloated mules, spotted the riders, and took off running toward an arroyo. Above, buzzards kept circling in black-winged silence.

  Pardo climbed out of the wagon, dropped to a knee, and studied the valley.

  “That’s a prison wagon,” Harrah said. “I seen one just like it in Prescott.”

  “I got a better look at one over in Yuma,” Duke said. “Got a real good look. From the inside.” He laughed and mopped the sweat off his neck.

  “Shut the hell up,” Pardo told them. His eyes went over every rock, every cactus, every hole.

  Nothing stirred except dust and coyotes. Four mules had been pulling the wagon. Two horses, one close to the black wagon, the other off a few rods on the far side, equally still. Pardo could make out a body near the bloated mules, and something, or someone, lay inside the jail-on-wheels. Nothing else.

  Leather creaked, and Pardo looked up to find Wade Chaucer pulling a spyglass out of his saddlebags. Pardo hated Chaucer for that, too. The gunman slid open the telescope and looked—slowly, carefully—then shook his head.

  “Nothing’s moving down there.”

  “I can see that,” Pardo said. “Without no fancy glass.”

  The telescope slid shut with a snap.

  “We could ride around this,” Three-Fingers Lacy whined. “I don’t like it. Let’s ride around, pretend we never seen nothing.”

  “Bloody Jim Pardo don’t ride around nothing,” he told her angrily. “But he don’t ride into nothing, either.”

  “We can’t wait here all day,” Chaucer said, “not with that posse likely on our trail.”

  “Something’s in that wash,” The Greek said. “I don’t know what.”

  Pardo turned quickly, and Chaucer jerked the telescope back to his face. They stared. “The Greek’s right,” Chaucer said. “Looks like a man in that ocotillo. But he’s not moving. I think he’s dead. Everyone down there’s dead.”

  “Greek.” Pardo stood. “Make your way down that way.” He directed with his finger. “Into the arroyo, come on up alongside those cactus. See about the man there. If he’s dead, good. If he ain’t, kill him.” He let out a mild chuckle, and walked to the edge of the wagon, holding out his arms toward Blanche whatever-the-hell-her-name-was. “Come here, little darling,” he told her. “Uncle Jimmy’s got a chore for you.”

  The girl didn’t move.

  “Come here, you damned little wench, or I’ll rip the veins out of your throat.”

  She leaped over the buckboard’s side, avoiding Pardo’s hands. The kid’s mother tried to rise, said something in protest, but sank back onto the rough bed they’d made for her. He shoved Blanche forward, and pointed at the wagon and animals. “You’re going down there, kid. Just walk down this hill, make sure that ain’t no ambush.”

  The girl took in the scene quickly, and shot Pardo a hard look. “There’s not a damned thing down there but dead animals and deader men.” White-faced she was, but gamer than many of Pardo’s men. He liked that about the girl, but didn’t let that show.

  “You don’t get a move on, Blanche, and there will be a dead ten-year-old girl down there, too. Vamanos.”

  A weak cry rose out of the buckboard. “Shut up, you hussy,” Ruby Pardo told the kid’s mother, and reached for the can of snuff she kept at her boots. “Ain’t nothing going to happen to your girl.”

  Pardo took the Winchester from his mother’s hand, squatted again by the team of mules, and watched.

  “There’s another body,” Chaucer said, still looking through his telescope. “Pinned underneath that horse on the other side. I don’t think this is any ambush, Pardo. Was an ambush, yes. But not now.”

  “Likely you’re right, Chaucer,” Pardo said easily. “But you don’t mind if I play this hand my way, do you, pal? I’m cautious by nature when it comes to my hide.” He shot a glance behind him, saw that The Greek had made his into the arroyo, and looked back at Blanche. The kid was halfway down the ridge.

  Her knees buckled and she fell. She tried to stop the rising bile in her throat, but gagged and vomited all over her dirty brogans. She wanted to turn, run back up the hill, but knew better. You’re tough, girl, she told herself. There’s nothing down here that can hurt you. What can hurt you is up that ridge.

  After wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she staggered to her feet, and went forward, keeping her hand over her nose and mouth. Her eyes burned from sweat, from the stink. So hard to breathe. A gust of wind pushed a black cloud of flies off the dead mules, and she came to the dead man.

  His shirt, once white, was blackened by blood. His face had…She looked away, and wretched again, falling, putting out her hands, catching the hot iron bars to keep from sinking.

  When she forced her eyes open, she found another body, manacled hands reaching out toward the locked door, the wind blowing through his curly hair that wasn’t pasted with dried blood.

  Blanche let out a sigh. She wasn’t as tough as she tried to make others believe.

  She stepped from the wagon, read the words on the top of the iron cage.

  U.S. MARSHAL, ARIZONA TY.

  Something moved off to her right, and she jumped, stared, mouth dropping open. A man. A man was rising out of that wash, amid the ocotillo, and she tumbled backward, almost falling on the bullet-riddled carcass of what once had been a beautiful buckskin horse. Then, the dead man, the man in the wagon, rolled over, and she whirled but had the sense, the will, not to scream. His face looked leathery, but the dark eyes flashed open, and the cracked lips parted.

  Blanche looked away. Back toward the cactus. Her heart skipped, and she realized it was The Greek, raising his big rifle over his head, signaling the others. She turned, faced the ridge, saw Bloody Jim Pardo tossing his mother the rifle and climbing back into the wagon bed with Blanche’s mother. The older man, the one called Phil, eased his horse down the slope, and others followed.

  She spun around, focused on the man in the wagon. His eyes had closed. He was probably dead. His hands were manacled, but something wasn’t right. Her eyes locked on the six-pointed star pinned on the vest’s lapel, and she moved back to the wagon, stuck a trembling hand through the iron bars. She looked back at the dead man on the ground. He was wearing a badge, too. Deputy U.S. Marshal. So what was this one doing locked inside
a jail-on-wheels, wearing handcuffs?

  The dark eyes opened, and the lips tried to form a word.

  Water.

  “You a real lawman?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Barely a whisper. And again: “Water.” But she couldn’t hear him, just read his lips. The eyes closed.

  She reached for the badge. He jerked back into consciousness, the manacles grating as he dragged his arms across the iron floor, toward her hand, tried to stop her, but he was too weak.

  “Mister,” she said, “I don’t know who you are, but I’m guessing you don’t belong locked up in this box. You damned well better be a lawman. If you ain’t dead yet, listen to me.” She pulled off the badge, surprisingly heavy, secured the pin in its clasp, and slid the piece of nickel into the pocket of her trousers. “My ma and me are prisoners of Bloody Jim Pardo, and him and his gang are coming down to fetch me. And maybe you. Though they might kill you.” She felt the bile rising again, knew she was about to throw up, if she had anything left in her gut, knew she had to finish quickly. “Don’t tell them you’re a lawman. That’s your…our…only…”

  “This one’s dead, too,” Duke called out well beyond the prison wagon, and followed that with a laugh. “Some son of a bitch stole his boots. Don’t that beat all? He was a lawman till the end. No boots, but he’s still got his badge, by golly.”

  The Greek pointed the barrel of his Sharps toward the arroyo. “The one there had no badge, just a bullet hole….” He stuck his thumb right underneath his rib cage. “Right here.”

  Blanche let out a weary sigh. “That one’s still alive, I tell you!”