When his head started swimming, he decided he’d better head back to his bedroll, before somebody had to carry him there.
For supper, the girl brought in a plate of beans, two burned tortillas, and a cup of coffee. Reilly was sitting up, rubbing his wrists, watching the men and women at the fire. The graybeard was gone, but a swarthy gent had replaced him. Likely trading off guard duty.
“Where’s Pardo?” he asked, taking the plate from the girl’s hand.
“I ain’t his keeper,” she said, kneeling.
“Somebody’s going to slap that smart mouth of yours shut,” Reilly said. “And it might be me.”
Handing him the coffee, she eyed him with a measure of respect.
“He rode off this morning.”
“How many men does he have?”
“Five. That’s all I seen. But I hear them talk that one of them got killed when they wrecked the train, and his brother took him home to get planted. I don’t know when he’ll come back.”
“They wrecked a train?”
“Yeah. Killed my stepfather. Don’t give me that look. He was a louse.”
Reilly tested the coffee. It was terrible, but it was coffee. “You best get back, look after your mother. They don’t want us talking much.”
“Back in the desert, you said you were a real lawman,” she said softly.
“I am.”
“What you plan on doing?”
He didn’t really have an answer. “Try to keep you, your mother, and me alive,” he said as she walked away. A thought struck him, and he called out, “Blanche?”
She turned.
“Where’s my badge?” he whispered.
Her fingers began dribbling the pocket of her pants.
“Bury it,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“See, the boys been betting on when my cussedness would get the better of me, and I’d kill you,” Pardo said. “You’re walking around pretty good now. Amazing what a few days of rest, grub, and good coffee’ll do for a fellow.”
“Good coffee?” the tall man from the prison wagon said, and Pardo cackled, but the mirth ended a second later. Pardo tested the Colt in his holster, just letting this hombre called Mac know that he still might die. Today. In the next minute.
“Where you from?” You didn’t ask a man where he hailed from, didn’t even ask his name, you just let him tell you if he had a mind to, but nobody had ever accused Bloody Jim Pardo of being polite.
“Grew up on a farm in Johnson County,” he answered easily as he lifted the blackened coffeepot off the fire and filled his cup.
Pardo took his hand away from his revolver. “Hell, Mac, we was neighbors.” He found a tin cup on the ground, held it out for the stranger to fill. “I growed up on a Cass County farm myself.”
The man didn’t seem nervous. Just topped Pardo’s cup with miserably bad coffee—making it was never one of Three-Fingers Lacy’s strongest talents—then sat across the fire on a boulder, sipping casually. Like they were in some café in Tucson, talking about the weather or the parson’s sermon last Sunday.
“You fight in the war?” Pardo asked.
He shook his head. “Too young.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Look older. Well, maybe not older, but experienced.”
“I’ve done some traveling.”
“Me too.” Pardo laughed. “’Course, me, I’m four years older than you. I fought in the war.”
“Everybody knows that about Jim Pardo. You rode with Quantrill.”
He set the cup down. “You got a problem with that?”
The man had a disarming smile. “Not at all. My mother used to sing praises of Captain Quantrill, said he was saving us all from damned Yankee tyrants. Too bad how it all had to end.”
Pardo frowned. He remained silent for a long time, staring at the small fire, then spit on a coal, and watched it bubble and disappear. “Yeah. ’Course I rode with some boys as young as you would have been then. I reckon your mother wouldn’t allow you to fight those invaders.”
“My brother fought. Somebody had to work the farm. That was me.”
Pardo started scratching the palm of his right hand against the Colt’s hammer. “Who’d your brother ride with?”
“First Missouri.”
He spit again. “Some real outfit, eh, not irregulars like me and Quantrill. Not bushwhackers. Not murderers.”
“I don’t know about that. My brother was killed somewhere down in Tennessee. Ask my mother, and me, the war was being fought in Missouri.”
“And your ma? Where’s she now?”
“Dead. When Paul, that was my brother, died, it pretty much killed her, too. I buried her the next fall.”
“What about your pa?”
“I never knew him. Lightning strike got him when I was a baby.”
“No family, eh?”
He shook his head.
“That’s too bad, Mac. Me? Kansas redlegs, gutless bastards, got my pa killed. All I got now is Ma. Had me a kid brother, but he died of fever when he was just a tot. Would have been about your age now, I reckon.” Pardo’s eyes became slits. “So, Mac, let me guess. You grow up, hating Yankees, go down to Texas, get into trouble at Fort Concho, and light a shuck to Arizona. That’s your story as I remember.”
“McKavett. Not Concho.” The man smiled. Smart fellow, this Mac. He knew Pardo was trying to trap him.
“What did you do?”
“Robbed the paymaster. Killed a guard.”
Laughing, Pardo reached for the cup, took another sip. “Yankees don’t care much for that. I guaran-damn-tee you that. How much money did you get?”
“I don’t know. I lost the strongbox crossing the Pecos. Kept riding, but Texicans and the Army have a long memory, and a longer reach.”
“Yankees get their money back?”
“I don’t think so. They were asking me about it when they caught up with me in Bisbee.”
“That’s good. That they didn’t get that money, not that they arrested you. Me, I had me a little plan. Robbed us a train. That’s how come I got the kid and that handsome woman with us. Derailed that son of a bitch, but everything went to hell. Boiler blew in the engine, express car and everything else went up in flames. The boys didn’t care much for it, but I say, at least the Yankees didn’t get their pay.” He clinked his mug against the cup in Mac’s hand in a rebel toast.
“So they caught you,” Pardo continued. “They started hauling you back to Texas. Who ambushed you in the valley?”
“Apaches.”
“That’s too bad.” Pardo emptied the coffee into the fire, watching the ash bubble and boil, and pitched the cup aside.
“Would have been,” the man said, “if you hadn’t happened along.”
Pardo rose. “Let’s take a ride, Mac. Don’t give me that look. Man’s strong enough to walk, he’s able to ride, I say. Saddle us up a couple of horses. I’ll ride that roan. Saddle the sorrel mare for yourself.”
The man kept frowning. Hell, Pardo didn’t blame him for that. Suspicious. Maybe a little scared—he ought to be—but it didn’t show in his face.
“No offense,” he said softly, looking at the corral, “but that sorrel’s not much of a horse.”
“Don’t matter. We ain’t going for much of a ride. That’s my saddle yonder. You take the McClellan.”
“McClellan?” The man frowned. “That’s a Yankee saddle.”
“Makes you feel better, I took it off a dead Yank. Get to it, Mac. I need to talk to Ma and the boys before we light out.”
Ruby Pardo drowned an ant with a waterfall of brown juice when Pardo walked up to her. Working the lever of the Evans rifle, she grinned, and tossed the weapon to Pardo, saying, “Good as new.” He caught it but didn’t return his mother’s smile, and butted the stock in the dirt.
“Something’s the matter,” she said.
“Yeah.” He bowed his head. “I wanted to like Mac, Ma. Wanted to
trust him. Says he hails from Johnson County.”
“Johnson County ain’t Cass County, son,” his mother said bitterly. “Damned Yankees didn’t force Southern folks from their homes over there. That was us good people in Cass, Jackson, and Bates counties. A few families down in Vernon County. You remember Order Number Eleven.”
He made himself meet his mother’s hard stare. “I remember, Ma.”
She hooked the dip of snuff out of her mouth—a few flakes still stuck in her teeth—and shot a quick glance at the corral. “I never trusted him. You’d be better off killing him, plus that woman and her kid with a mouth like a privy.”
“He says Apaches jumped him.”
She squinted. “Apaches, eh? But you said—”
“I know what I said.” He hefted the rifle, tried to change the subject. “Heavy, ain’t it?”
“It’s loaded,” she said. “Where you taking him?”
“Down below.”
“Be careful.”
“I always am.”
“I’m sorry he didn’t work out, son.”
“It’s all right. He ain’t family. And like you said, Johnson County ain’t Cass County. I got to go talk to The Greek.”
Carrying and studying the Evans, he stopped where the boys were playing poker in front of the Sibley tent. Wade Chaucer didn’t bother to look up, but Harrah, Duke, and The Greek did.
“Got a chore for you, Greek,” Pardo said.
Silently, The Greek waited.
“You and your Sharps.”
Now, the swarthy man smiled, and looked at the corral. “Him?”
Pardo nodded. “Wait till we leave camp, then follow us. We’ll ride down in the valley a bit. Stay in range. Might not have to do nothing, but I want you to back my play.”
“I always do,” The Greek said.
“You’re gonna kill him, boss man?” Duke blurted out, a little louder than he should have, but likely not loud enough to be heard over in the corral.
“You got the brains God gave a cactus, Duke. Shut up.” Back to The Greek: “I want to kill him. But if something happens…”
The Greek tossed his cards into the dust. He reached for the Sharps. “I never miss, Pardo. If you don’t get him, I will. There’s a science into making that killing shot, and I’m a scientist. It’s all—”
“I don’t give a damn. Just do your job.”
With that, Pardo strode over to the corral.
The game was over, not that it had been much of a poker game. Not playing against fools like Harrah and Duke, Wade Chaucer thought, although The Greek had some skill. They watched Pardo and the man known only as Mac ride slowly out of camp.
“I should go.” Slowly, The Greek finished wiping the brass telescope on his Sharps, stuck the rag in his vest pocket, and started to rise.
“It would be a shame,” Chaucer said absently.
The Greek shouldered the heavy rifle. He said nothing.
Duke, stupid Duke, had to ask the question. “What would be a shame, Wade?”
With a grin, Chaucer shrugged. “Why…if The Greek happened to miss, just once.”
The silence kicked like that big .45-70 rifle The Greek held. Chaucer looked across the camp. Ruby Pardo had retired to her tent. Phil was on guard duty. The woman and her kid sat quietly in a corner, and Three-Fingers Lacy was somewhere sleeping off a drunk.
“You’re talking dangerous,” The Greek said.
Chaucer shrugged again. “I’m just thinking out loud. Thinking about how tragic it would be if somehow Pardo got himself killed. Accidentally, I’m thinking. Thinking of how nice things might be were things to change.”
“You’d best watch it, Wade,” Harrah said.
“I’ve been watching.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I watched that Army payroll go up in flames because Jim Pardo is an idiot. How much money have we seen in the past eight months? I told you how we should have robbed that train.”
“I need to get moving,” The Greek said, but his boots remained planted.
“We could have gone to Dos Cabezas, too,” Chaucer said, “instead of coming back here. That posse, any posse, would have given up long before then.”
“I wanted to,” Duke said. “They’s women in Dos Cabezas.”
“There’s women…a woman, at least…here, too.” Chaucer stared at Dagmar Wilhelm. “A fine-looking woman. And Lacy, well, she has certain charms, too.”
“You heard what Pardo said about that woman,” Harrah said dryly. “And if you try something with Lacy…”
“I’ve heard what Jim Pardo has said about lots of things,” Chaucer said. He found a cigar. “Mind you, I’m just thinking out loud.”
“I’d better go.” This time, The Greek moved.
“Good luck, Greek,” Chaucer called out. “But, yes, sir, it sure would be a shame….”
When The Greek disappeared, Chaucer’s laugh frightened off Harrah and Duke. Chaucer started to light the cigar, thought better of it, and decided to walk across camp, see if Three-Fingers Lacy had awakened from her little nap.
They were being followed.
Reilly knew that much, and he knew Pardo was aware of it, too. He also knew Pardo planned to make this Reilly’s last ride. It had taken them more than three hours to pick their way down the mountains, through the forests and creek beds, riding in silence, but finally they had moved into the clear desert.
“Where are we going?” Reilly asked.
“Nowhere in particular,” Pardo said, but he jutted his jaw southeast toward a spartan wasteland of rock. Reilly looked at him, frowning at the Evans rifle in Pardo’s scabbard. He nudged the sorrel forward.
Down here, it was murderously hot. They should have stopped, rested, watered their horses, but Pardo went like a mad dog, moving, moving, moving. Reilly wet his lips, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong, what he had said. He had been born in Johnson County. His answer had been a slip, but he had, or thought he had, gotten away with it. Johnson County, Indiana, but Pardo thought he had meant Missouri. The rest of the lies weren’t really lies. Paul McGivern had taken a rebel ball through both lungs at Pittsburg Landing, Tennessee, but he had been campaigning with 11th Indiana—Slim Chisum had served in the First Missouri, seldom shut up about “seeing the elephant” at what the Rebels called Shiloh—and when Reilly’s mother had learned of Paul’s death, she gave up any effort at living. The next fall, Reilly had buried her on the farm beside Reilly’s father, who had been struck and killed by lightning when Reilly was only twenty-one months old.
He was barely in his teens when his mother had died. He’d been on his own since.
What had he said to Pardo?
No, it didn’t matter. What mattered was staying alive. But how?
Pardo pulled back on the reins, letting Reilly move in front of him. Reilly looked for an arroyo, some boulders, something he could use for cover. Also, he listened, for the creak of leather, the click of a gunmetal. Instead, he heard Pardo’s voice behind him.
“Rein up, Mac. And turn around.”
Reilly pulled the reins, turned in the saddle, saw Pardo slowly drawing the Evans from the scabbard. He said nothing, just looked. “I need to test out this here rifle.” Pardo grinned.
“On me,” Reilly said.
“That’s right. You ain’t surprised?”
Reilly said nothing.
“You said it was Apaches,” Pardo jacked a cartridge into the Evans.
“It was Apaches.”
“That’s a damned lie. Apaches been no trouble of late.”
“They jumped the reservation.”
“Why?”
“Ever been to San Carlos?”
Pardo shook his head.
“I have.”
“Then you know Apaches, Mac. Problem is, I know them, some. And I can read sign. Whoever waylaid you, they was on shod horses. Injuns don’t ride shod ponies.”
“Apaches ride what they can steal.”
“Them dead marshals was
n’t scalped.”
Reilly tried to match Pardo’s grin. “You know Apaches. You know they don’t take scalps.”
“But they wouldn’t have left you alive, Mac. Not no Apache. They would have had their fun on you, my friend.”
Now, Reilly chuckled. “I don’t speak Apache,” he said, “but from what I heard, those Apaches seemed to think they were having some fun. Leaving me in that can to bake.”
Lying had always come pretty easy to Reilly. It helped him win more than he lost when he sat down to play poker, and it had gotten him a deputy’s job when he had told Marshal Tidball that he had never spent time in jail.
“Nice story, Mac.” Pardo raised the rifle to his shoulder. “But Major Ritcher would have told me if Apaches was on the prod.”
Reilly dived off the horse just before a shot left his ears ringing. He hit the ground, rolled, hearing another shot, and another, hearing the sickening wail of a dying horse, then Pardo’s cursing. More gunfire. Even a man with an Evans couldn’t shoot that fast. Horses running, wild yips like those of coyotes, only…Reilly looked up and found Pardo’s leg pinned underneath the dead roan. Bullets kicked up dust around Pardo, the horse. Another tore off Reilly’s hat. The sorrel was galloping due south, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.
Across the desert floor charged a half-dozen Apache riders.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He stood, stepped, and dived, practically in one motion, feeling a bullet’s tug on his bandana. As he landed beside Pardo and grabbed the Evans rifle, the thought struck Reilly: Second time in a week I’ve found myself pinned behind a dead horse. Quickly, he aimed, let out a breath, squeezed the trigger.
A horse went down, throwing a young brave into the dust. Reilly jacked the hammer.
Beside him, Pardo cursed, his leg stuck under the weight of the dead horse. The battered old Colt lay just beyond his reach. Reilly didn’t have time to fetch it for him.
He swung the rifle around, found his mark, pulled the trigger, levered another shell into the Evans, swung back, fired. He hated killing the horses, but they were bigger targets than the riders. A bullet sliced his shirt, somehow missing his flesh but spoiling his next shot, yet he worked the Evans, felt the kick of the big rifle.
The Killing Shot Page 6
