Before he could cock the Evans again, they were on them.
An Appaloosa and rider leaped over their make-shift redoubt, the hoofs of the big stallion barely missing Reilly’s head. He started to turn, but the next Apache leaped from the saddle, slammed into Reilly and the Evans. Another shot, from where, Reilly couldn’t tell, echoed, but the bullet must have gone wide. The Apache was on top of him, black, malevolent eyes unblinking, dirty hands gripping the Evans, trying to rip the gun from Reilly’s hands.
He let the Apache lift the rifle off his chest, felt the freedom in his right leg, and kneed the young brave savagely in the groin. The black eyes closed in pain. The Apache’s grip loosened, and that was all Reilly needed. He shoved the warrior aside, rose, spotted the Apache on the Appaloosa levering a cut-down Yellow Boy rifle, and ignored the Indian writhing near him. Another shot boomed behind him. Sharps, from the sound of it, but the rifleman missed whatever he was aiming at. Reilly had to fire from the hip. The stallion buckled, fell, throwing the mounted warrior to the ground.
Reilly spun, reversed his hold on the Evans, slammed the stock savagely, crushing the skull of the warrior he had kneed in the groin. Spinning while working the lever, Reilly fired again from the hip, missed. The Apache scrambled for the old Winchester he had dropped when he leaped clear of the dying Appaloosa. Reilly cocked the Evans, this time made sure of his aim, and shot the brave through the chest.
A scream came behind him, and Reilly spun. Another Apache came charging, armed with only a knife. Reilly brought the rifle to his shoulder. The Evans barked, and the running Apache staggered, dropped his knife, kept on running, weaving, and as Reilly chambered a fresh round into the Evans, he finally fell, started to rise, and sank, shuddering, into the dust.
At last, he filled his lungs and sank behind Pardo and the dead horse, scanning ahead of him, looking behind him. Three Apache horses lay still, two in front of them, plus the dead Appaloosa. The piebald gelding trotted about, surprisingly patient, easy, about ten rods behind them. Another horse, a blood bay Reilly had shot, stood over its motionless rider. None of the Apaches moved.
“Get me my damned pistol,” Pardo said. “And get me from under this horse.”
“Quiet,” Reilly said, trying to catch his breath. “Keep your head down. There’s somebody else out there. Somebody with a long gun. Sharps, from the sound.”
“I know that, Mac. It’s The Greek. Now give me a hand.”
Reilly turned, his eyes steady, his voice controlled. “Give you a hand? A minute ago, you were about to shoot me.”
“A minute ago, I didn’t believe you about Apaches jumping the reservation. Now get me up, damn it.”
He pondered his chances, thought about Dagmar Wilhelm and Blanche. He thought about how much he could use a shot of rye just about now. Softly, he lowered the hammer on the Evans, leaned the rifle against the dead roan, and helped pull out Pardo.
The first thing Pardo did was grab his gun and blow grit from the cylinder. After checking the barrel, he eared back the hammer. “I’ll take that rifle, Mac.” He aimed the Colt at Reilly.
“I just saved your hide, Pardo,” Reilly told him.
“Put in for the Medal of Honor if you want. You saved your ass, too.”
Reilly lifted the Evans, and tossed it to Pardo, who caught it in his free hand. The killer pitched the rifle behind him, removed his hat, and waved it over his head for several seconds, yelling, “Greek. Come on. It’s over.” Then, to Reilly: “Better make sure it is over.” Limping slightly, Pardo moved to the Apache lying facedown near the Appaloosa, and shot him in the head.
Reilly stepped over the roan’s legs, found his hat, stuck his finger through the hole in the crown, then slapped it against his thigh as he walked toward the other Apaches. A rider, The Greek, appeared from the rocks, started trotting easily toward them. Reilly knelt beside another Apache, and jumped as Pardo fired another coup de grâce into another Apache.
The fall from the horse Reilly had shot had killed this young brave. Slowly, Reilly reached over and closed the unseeing, dark eyes. He let out a snort, part laugh, part sigh, and shook his head. These Apaches, maybe, had saved his life, coming as they did, after jumping the San Carlos reservation. Saved his life, and he had killed them for it. Of course, they would have killed him.
He looked down, saw the pearl grip sticking out of the warrior’s breechclout, and he reached down and withdrew the derringer. It was an over/under .41 Remington, nickel plated. He didn’t have time to see if the hideaway gun was loaded, but quickly shoved it down into his left boot top, and stood. The Greek was about fifty yards away when he suddenly stopped, raising the big Sharps. Reilly wet his lips, thought the man planned to kill him, but The Greek was looking beyond Reilly.
Quickly, Reilly whirled. Pardo stood in front of one dead Apache, his back to another who was still alive, lifting his head, raising an old musket, aiming at Pardo’s back.
The Greek waited.
The Apache cocked the rifle, started to squeeze the trigger.
The Sharps boomed, spitting dust a yard behind the Apache, who didn’t flinch.
Reilly jerked the derringer from his boot, firing as Pardo whirled. The Apache rolled over, and Pardo emptied his Colt into the dead man’s chest, then quickly reloaded while limping toward Reilly.
He stopped a few yards in front of Reilly and holstered the Colt. “Reckon you saved my life again, Mac.”
Reilly lowered the smoking Remington. “Maybe I’ll put in for another Medal of Honor.”
Riding up to them, The Greek still carried the big Sharps with the telescope, but he looked scared as he reined up. “I am sorry, Jim,” he said. “I missed.”
“You missed quite a lot, Greek,” Pardo said, but he kept looking at Reilly, sizing him up. “I thought you never missed.”
“The first shots, I feared I would hit you. The last one, I just rushed.”
“It’s all right, Greek. We all have our bad days. Besides, Mac here came through. That’s a damned good shot, Mac, with a derringer. Not to mention how you handled that rifle. Like you was born to shoot them. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“I’ve had plenty of practice.”
Pardo held out his left hand, palm up. “Still,” he said, “I reckon I’ll take that little peashooter.”
“Still don’t trust me?” Reilly handed him the Remington.
“I’m starting to, Mac,” Pardo said, only now his eyes drilled on The Greek. “But I tend to trust men who ain’t heeled a lot more than I trust them that is. Catch up them horses, Greek. See if that bay’s fit to ride. I’ll scalp these bucks and we can sell them in Mexico next time we cross the border.”
Pardo filled the mugs with whiskey and raised his own. “A toast,” he said, “to Mac. God gave him a pair of eyes, and a steady hand. Wasn’t for Mac, Bloody Jim Pardo would be burning in hell.” He drank, and the others followed his example.
It was mescal, not rye, but Reilly liked the way the liquor burned his throat, even how it exploded in his stomach. They were all drinking that evening, all but Dagmar and Blanche, who remained in their little corner of the camp. Three-Fingers Lacy quickly held out her cup for a refill. Often Reilly had wondered how the leathery woman had gotten her name, for she sported all of her digits. Three fingers? Reilly thought. More like four or five. The woman could drink more whiskey than anyone Reilly had known.
Feeling generous, Pardo refilled the mugs, giving Three-Fingers Lacy a generous pour. Quickly, Pardo drained his mug, and tossed the cup aside.
“I can use a sharpshooter like you, Mac. We have need of a new man. If you’re game enough to ride with me.”
The Greek’s swarthy face went ashen. “Pardo…” he began.
“Rest easy, Greek. We lost Rafael. Not sure when Soledad will get back. And I trust you, Greek.” Pardo’s face said he didn’t trust The Greek at all. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
“I won’t.” With trembling hands, The Greek rais
ed the cup to his mouth.
“You trust me,” Reilly said, “enough to let me have a gun?”
Pardo laughed. “Don’t rush me. In time. Now, you want to ride with me?”
“I’d be delighted.” Reilly killed the mescal in his own cup.
“Glad to hear that, Mac. Ain’t you, Ma?”
“Delighted,” Ruby Pardo said, her voice mocking, her cold eyes flaming hatred in Reilly’s direction. She trusted Reilly about as much as her son trusted The Greek. “How’s your leg, son?”
“Bruised. But a bruised leg is better than being dead.”
Reilly rose. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a hard day.”
“A lot harder on those Apache bucks you killed, my friend.” Pardo cackled. “But it was a profitable venture, or will be, when we get to Mexico. Mighty profitable.” He was looking over Reilly’s shoulder, at Dagmar Wilhelm.
“Let’s eat,” Pardo said, and began filling bowls with stew. Reilly picked up the first two filled.
“Thought you was turning in?” Pardo said.
He tilted his neck toward the captives. “I am. I’m a little off my feed.” That wasn’t a lie. He’d been sick most of the day. “This is for the woman and her kid.”
“All right, Mac,” Pardo said, his tone now wary.
Silence greeted him as he handed Dagmar and Blanche the steaming bowls. He didn’t tell them it was horse-meat stew. Uninvited, he sat down anyway. Hell, he almost collapsed.
“You’re the talk of camp,” the kid said.
He let out a weary sigh.
“You saved his life.” Blanche’s voice was bitter. “His life. Some damned lawman you are.”
Dagmar added, “Those men killed my husband, Blanche’s father.”
“He wasn’t my pa.” Blanche turned her wrath on her mother. “Just because you—”
“Listen to me.” Reilly hooked a thumb toward the celebrating killers. “I saved my own hide, and feel like hell for doing it. But you two need to keep in mind that right now Jim Pardo’s keeping us alive. If Wade Chaucer had his druthers…” He shuddered. Damn, but he was worn to a frazzle.
Blanche had heard enough. She kicked over her bowl and stormed into the night. Dagmar closed her eyes, let out a sigh, and looked at Reilly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, tears welling.
“Don’t be.”
“I’ve lost my hold on her. Not that I ever had one.” A tear escaped, but she quickly wiped it off her cheek. “I’m not as tough as Blanche.”
“You’re tougher,” he said, and he meant it. “She’s all bark. You’ve got grit.” He meant that, too. It took a lot of grit to be a woman, a good-looking woman, with a daughter, and hold her own while a captive of a gang of black-hearts. “Don’t worry about Blanche. She’ll grow up, come around.” He wasn’t sure about that, though.
“Pardo was going to kill you today,” she said.
He nodded.
“Good thing you knew about those Apaches.”
He couldn’t contain the laugh. “Would have been,” he said, “had I known about it.”
Her beautiful eyes widened. “You mean…?”
“Luck,” he said, and frowned, thinking about the dead Apaches and dead horses. The bay he shot had managed to get them into the Dragoons before it played out, and Pardo had slit its throat and ordered The Greek and Reilly to butcher it for their evening feed.
“Do you know what they’re planning?”
He shook his head, though he had a good idea. Pardo had given him that much. At some point, they’d ride down to Mexico, turn in the Apache scalps for the bounty the Mexican government paid, and, likely, sell Dagmar to…he didn’t want to think of that.
“Do you have a plan?” she asked.
He pictured Frank Denton dead, remembered W.W. Kraft pulling the boots off Slim Chisum’s feet. “Last plan I had,” he said in a dry whisper, “got two good men killed.”
Her eyes widened, looking over his shoulder, and he heard the footsteps. Slowly, Reilly rose and turned, facing Jim Pardo.
“Thought you was all tuckered out,” Pardo said icily.
“Just talking to the lady.”
“Well, don’t. I don’t like nobody talking to Dagmar, except me. Maybe Ma. You’d best turn in, Mac. We got a busy day come first light. You and me is going for a ride.”
Reilly straightened, tense. “Another ride?” He tried to make it sound like a joke.
“That’s right.” There was no humor in Pardo’s reply.
CHAPTER NINE
Dos Cabezas lay a torturous forty-plus miles from Pardo’s camp in the Dragoon Mountains. It took Reilly and Pardo better than two days to reach the bleak mining town shadowed to the east by two bald-topped peaks that gave Dos Cabezas its name, not to mention its life: from the water at Ewell Spring to the gold and silver mines on those rocky, rough ledges.
The clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer greeted them as they rode past the National Mail and Transportation Company stagecoach station, the only building that didn’t look worn down even though the town had only been around a few years. A few miners stood outside one saloon—too hot, maybe, inside—shaded by a palo verde tree as they passed around a bottle.
Silently, Pardo pointed at another saloon at the edge of town, and turned his horse toward it. When he reined up, he looked over his shoulder down main street.
“What do people do in Dos Cabezas?” he asked.
“They hide,” Reilly told him.
Actually, they mined. Assayers said there were some pretty rich claims in those hills. The town had a hotel, a stamp mill, and three saloons: one for the miners, one for the soldiers from Fort Bowie, and this one, an adobe square with a patched tin roof, one window, and one doorway without a door. Dos Cabezas also had no church, no telegraph, and no law.
“Let’s cut the dust,” Pardo suggested, and both men eased out of their saddles, and led their horses to the hitching rail.
It wasn’t much of a saloon. A bald man with red sleeve garters and a white mustache stood behind a two-by-twelve plank nailed atop two barrels about fifteen feet apart. In a bucket of blood like this hellhole, Reilly doubted if he could get a clean glass, let alone a shot of Old Overholt. No fancy bottles were stacked on the back bar. There was no back bar. Just two more kegs, several brown clay jugs, and a clear jar filled with rattlesnake heads. Probably used to season the whiskey, Reilly figured. Without a word, the man handed Pardo a jug, spotted Reilly, and slid two glasses over the rough pine. He folded the newspaper he had been reading, left it on the bar, and began wiping glassware with a rag darker than wet adobe.
Pardo took the jug and glasses to the far, darkest corner, kicked a chair leaning against the table, and sat down hard, his back to the wall, with a good view of the door and window. He plopped the glasses and jug in front of him, drew the Colt, and placed it in front of him. Reilly dragged a chair to Pardo’s left and sat.
Golden liquor filled both glasses. Pardo didn’t bother stoppering the jug.
“To your health.” Pardo lifted the glass and didn’t wait. Reilly was still drinking his when Pardo refilled his own.
Reilly made no effort to refill his. Some might call it tequila, but Reilly wouldn’t bet on its origins.
“What time is it?” Pardo asked.
“One of your boys took my watch,” Reilly reminded him.
The glass emptied. Pardo refilled it again, and called out to the bartender for the time. A few minutes past noon, came the answer.
“Reckon everybody’s taking hisself a siesta,” Pardo said.
He drank again. And waited.
Two hours must have passed. Pardo had ordered some grub, and the taciturn barkeep had gone to fetch something. That had been an hour ago, and Reilly’s stomach grumbled. Pardo didn’t seem to care. A few minutes later, Pardo reached for the Colt on the table. Only then did Reilly hear the slow clopping of hoofs, followed by a horse’s whinny, the creaking of leather, and footfalls on the dirt outside. A large shado
w filled the doorway.
“It is me, Jim,” a voice said. Hard. More German than Dagmar’s.
“Come ahead, Major.” Pardo kept his grip on the Colt.
He was a heavyset man in a dusty Army uniform, Second U.S. Cavalry, looked to be maybe fifty, with a Roman nose and thick eyebrows. He stopped when he saw Reilly, staring, wetting his lips.
“This is Mac,” Pardo told him. “New man riding for me.”
“Guten tag,” the man said. He sat, hazel eyes locked on Reilly, trying to place his face. Reilly didn’t like that at all. The Second Cavalry was his friend Jeremiah Talley’s outfit.
“This is Ritcher,” Pardo said, and slid the jug across the table. “Fetch a glass and have a drink.”
Major Ritcher’s eyes never left Reilly.
Slowly, Reilly rose, watching the major’s stare follow him. “I’m not in the habit of drinking with blue-bellies,” he said, trying to match the officer’s stare. “I thought you were the same.”
“Sit down, Mac,” Pardo said testily. “The major’s all right.” He grinned. “For a damned Yankee.”
Reilly found his seat.
“Your face is familiar to me,” Ritcher said.
Reilly spit, brought the jug back, and refilled his glass. “It should be,” he said. “You Yankees hounded me long enough.”
Pardo laughed. “The Fort McKavett robbery,” he explained to Ritcher. “Mac’s the one who done it, the one being hauled back to Texas. Obviously, federal marshals didn’t quite get that job done.”
“Ah,” Ritcher said, but Reilly knew the major had never heard of any Fort McKavett robbery. Reilly had made all of that up.
“Yankee bastards,” Reilly said between clenched teeth.
The major sighed. “The var,” he said, “has been over near twenty years. You should—”
Pardo’s fist rocked the table, overturning his own glass, and knocking the jug onto the sod floor. “The war,” he said, “ain’t over, Ritcher. Not by…”
His nose started bleeding.
The Killing Shot Page 7
