“I heard about that, too.”
“Yeah, well, Pardo took a woman and her ten-year-old daughter hostage. You hear about that?”
The lawman didn’t answer. Reilly took that as a “no.”
“He’s got them back in his camp in the Dragoon Mountains. With Wade Chaucer and his other men. Oh, yeah, if you ride down the Hassayampa to the Gila, then turn east and south for about five miles, you’ll come to a series of buttes. There you’ll find what’s left of one of Pardo’s men, a sharpshooter they called The Greek. Pardo killed him.”
“Killed his own man? What on earth for?”
Reilly eased the marshal to a seated position, then started tying his feet. “They don’t call him ‘Bloody’ for nothing.” He looped the rope around the marshal’s ankles. “Listen—”
“Hurry up in there, Mac!” Pardo yelled. Reilly heard the horses’ hoofs pacing outside.
“When you get back to Wickenburg, I want you to wire Marshal Cobb, Kenneth Cobb, in Tombstone. Tell him what I told you. Tell him…hell, I don’t know what to tell him. Tell him I’m working on it.”
“If you’re on the level, give me a gun,” McCutcheon said. “We can take Pardo and Iverson down now. While they ain’t expecting it.”
Reilly shook his head. “I can’t leave that woman and her kid. Not in that camp. Not with those cutthroats. They saved my hide. I have to get back to the Dragoons, and I need Pardo alive. I go back there alone, or with a dozen posse members, you know what they’ll do to that woman and her kid.”
The town marshal frowned. Reilly tied a final knot and stood, staring down. “You do this for me, Marshal?”
McCutcheon looked up, studying Reilly’s face.
“Mac!” called Pardo.
The lawman nodded.
“Shouldn’t take you too long to get out of that,” Reilly said. “I appreciate this, Marshal.” He looked at the scabbed line across McCutcheon’s forehead. “Sorry about what happened back at the Jail Tree. I’d left a note on a cigarette paper. Pardo was picking it up. I had to do something, or he’d have started gunning you, Dunlap, and me down.”
That seemed to satisfy McCutcheon. Likely, the lawman remembered the Mexican handing him the paper.
Reilly touched the brim of his hat, and turned, leaving the door open behind him. He swung into the saddle, and took the rope pulling another saddled paint horse.
“What took you so long?” Pardo snapped.
“Wanted to make sure they were comfortable,” Reilly said. “On account that I’m soft. Remember?”
They rode back to the pond, where Pardo reined in and let the black drink. As Iverson and Reilly let their own horses slake their thirsts, Pardo handed the lead rope to Reilly and turned the black around. “I forgot something,” he said, and spurred the horse into a gallop, riding back toward the adobe house. He pulled up and swung down, then was swallowed by a cloud of dust.
Reilly’s stomach knotted. He touched the butt of the Smith & Wesson, but stopped when he heard Swede Iverson mutter something. Slowly, Reilly turned to stare down the barrel of the Bulldog .44 Iverson pointed at his head. “You aren’t thinking of doing nothing, are you?” Iverson asked, with a wicked smile.
Big Swede Iverson had developed a great deal of confidence since he was free, no longer chained to that mesquite tree back in Wickenburg, no longer facing a hangman’s noose.
“What’s Pardo doing?” Reilly asked.
“He ain’t making no noise to alert that posse,” Iverson said, and Reilly’s heart sank as Pardo emerged from the doorway, wiping blood off the blade of his knife. He closed the door, sheathed the big bowie, and swung into the saddle, loping back toward the pond. He let the black drink some more.
“Did you have to do that?” Reilly asked.
“Not really,” Pardo answered as he took the lead rope from Reilly, “but it made me feel better.”
“We’ll see how you feel when the posse comes back here and finds those two,” Reilly said, trying to keep control, but his temper was flaring. “They’ll alert every county sheriff, every town marshal, the U.S. marshal, and the United States Army. The whole territory will be looking for Bloody Jim Pardo.”
Pardo cackled. “The whole country has been looking for me for better than twenty years, Mac. They ain’t caught up to me yet.” He pointed north. “That Yavapai, I’m betting he’ll be waiting for us downstream. We’ll ride north a ways, then cut over to the Verde River, follow it a spell, pick our way into the high country. Be cooler up there. We’ll ride down to Globe, and follow the Arizona Narrow Gauge tracks to Mesaville, pick up the San Pedro River and ride down to Redington, where I got me a date. Then we’ll head back to camp. See Ma. Make sure Ma’s all right.” He spurred the black into a lope.
They made their way through a deepening canyon, out of the heat, the clopping of the shod horses amplified. A raven’s kaw sounded overhead, and Pardo reined up, drew his gun, pushed back the brim off his hat. He looked up the walls, pinched his nose, and frowned. For five minutes, he stared, then tugged his hat down, and turned, suddenly smiling, and gestured with the gun at Reilly.
“Too tight a spot,” he said. “We’ll have to ride single file. You go first, Mac.”
Reilly drew the Evans from the scabbard, laid it across the pommel, and nudged the little piebald mustang into a walk. Pardo gave him a good lead before he kicked the black and started to follow.
The canyon’s rocks were black lava, lined here and there with twisted juniper. Ahead, part of the canyon had caved in, leaving behind a rocky slope. He looked over the pinto’s head and gave the mustang more rein to pick its own path over the fallen rocks and prickly pear. When the horse’s ears pricked forward in interest, then flattened against its head, Reilly eared back the hammer on the Evans.
He spotted the white bandage encasing the top of Henry Dunlap’s head and leaped from the saddle as the deputy jerked a rifle to his shoulder and fired. The bullet whined off a rock, and the echo bounced across the black rocks. The two paint horses took off down the canyon, and Dunlap cocked the rifle, but didn’t duck. Damned fool, Reilly thought, watching Dunlap’s bandaged head explode as Pardo’s Winchester roared. Another figure appeared on the top of the canyon, and another ran out to try to catch the two runaway paint horses.
Suddenly, Reilly saw a flash above him, and rolled over, raising the Evans to fend off the Yavapai’s slicing machete. The blade nicked the barrel, glancing off with a whine. The Yavapai grunted, and Reilly kicked up, flipping the Indian over his head. Bullets ricocheted all around him, and his ears rang from the fusillade. The Yavapai was on his feet, machete still in his hand, but Reilly had rolled to his own feet, and now the Yavapai approached cautiously, black, malevolent eyes boring a hole into Reilly’s soul, both men ignoring the chaos around them.
The Yavapai feinted to the left, but Reilly didn’t fall for it. They circled each other. A bullet pulled at the shirt hanging loosely under Reilly’s right armpit, and the Yavapai charged, grunting, swinging. Reilly ducked as the blade whooshed over his head, and shoved the barrel of the Evans as if thrusting a sword. Easily, he could have pulled the trigger, killed the Indian, but he didn’t want to do that.
“Listen—” he began, but had to duck again.
This time the Yavapai grabbed the rifle barrel with his left hand, jerked it forward, pulled Reilly close. He had to drop the rifle and grip the right wrist of the Indian, then fell backward, the lava rocks ripping the back of his vest and shirt, cutting his shoulders. The Evans clattered on the rocks. The Yavapai’s left hand found Reilly’s throat, squeezing.
Reilly kept his own right hand locked on the hand that held the machete but moved his left and grabbed the Yavapai’s throat. His lungs burned for air, yet he tightened his grip. His hands were slippery with sweat, but the Yavapai’s eyes began bulging.
A riderless horse leaped over them, the hoofs just missing both the Yavapai’s and Reilly’s heads, and the men broke free, rolled over, came up. The Yavapai wa
s quick, and Reilly had to leap backward to avoid the blade of the machete, which ripped through his shirt just above the waistband, catching the Smith & Wesson, jerking it free, sending it bouncing across the rocks.
The Yavapai charged, thrusting the machete, pulling back as Reilly stumbled and fell. He rolled to his right, heard the blade strike the dirt, then gripped a small chunk of rock and flung it at the Indian’s head. The Indian tilted his head, let the rock fly past his ear, then moved the machete to his left hand, nodding in respect at Reilly.
“Listen,” Reilly tried again, but jumped back as the blade swept up, down, and across. Reilly backed up until he pressed against the canyon wall. The sounds of battle were slowly receding, the echoes dying down. Reilly held up his right hand but jerked it from the menacing blade to keep all of his fingers.
The Indian charged, and Reilly ducked, spun, stepped away from the wall. The Yavapai fell against the wall, and Reilly stumbled again, looked up, saw the blade rising over the Indian’s head, saw the Yavapai step closer, start to bring the machete down, saw a purple hole appear above the nose of the Yavapai and a pink mist spray the canyon side.
Reilly never heard the gunshot.
The Indian dropped the machete and sank into a seated position, then slumped to his side, eyes staring at the raven circling overhead, but not seeing a thing.
When Reilly turned, trying to catch his breath, he saw Pardo, still seated on the black, levering a fresh round into the Winchester before shoving the rifle into the scabbard.
“Right here,” Pardo said, staring at the dead Indian as he tapped the spot between his eyes.
Reilly grabbed the Smith & Wesson and the Evans, and looked down the canyon, frowning at Henry Dunlap’s body hanging over the rocks, and two other dead men, the whiteness of their bodies in stark contrast to the darkness of the canyon.
“Best catch up your horses, Mac,” Pardo said. “You, too, Swede.”
Reilly looked over to his left, saw Swede Iverson rising from behind a giant boulder. He looked down the canyon again, finding the two paint horses about fifty yards beyond the slide area. Slowly, he started walking.
“Hey, Mac!” Pardo called out, and Reilly turned.
The outlaw was grinning. “I reckon I saved your life.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Nobody much came to Redington, which is why Jim Pardo went there.
Maybe eight or ten years earlier, a couple of Yankee brothers had founded the little settlement on the eastern banks of the San Pedro River. The streets were quiet, but the aroma of green chile stew tore at Pardo’s stomach. Redington existed for the farmers and ranchers in the area, but there was another reason it had a post office, two saloons, and three mercantiles. Riding the roan now, having left the black a few miles on the other side of Globe, Pardo motioned Mac and Iverson, who were trailing him, to ride up alongside him. When they did, he gestured toward a well-traveled road that intersected the dusty street they were riding down.
“Know what that is?” he asked.
Iverson shook his head, but Mac replied, “Military supply road. Heads down to Tucson.”
“That’s right, smart guy,” Pardo said. “That’s why we’re here. You know what day it is?”
Both men shrugged.
“I guess you ain’t so smart after all.” Pardo grinned at himself. “But that’s all right, Mac, because I know.” He fished out a gold piece from his vest pocket and flipped it, watching it catch the sunlight as it arced its way to Mac, who caught it.
“It’s not my birthday,” Mac said.
“Pretend that it is.” He jutted his jaw at the mercantile catty-corner from where they were. It was a two-story brick building, rare for this part of the territory, with big letters painted black across the whitewashed top story and some fancy lettering between the windows. “What’s them words say?”
Mac turned and looked, then replied, “H. and L. Redfield and Company. Dealers in Every Thing.”
“That’s good.” Pardo nodded. “Why don’t you go in and buy you some clothes? You’re a filthy man, shirt all ripped to pieces, vest not much better. See if they got shells for that Evans rifle you shoot so well. Get some .44-40s for my Winchester and a couple of boxes extra for my revolver. A sack of Arbuckle’s coffee and some salt pork. And something for Ma.” His eyes lit up at the thought of his mother.
“Ain’t that a grocery right next door?”
Mac looked, and nodded.
“Maybe they’ll have some strawberries. Ma’s partial to strawberries. Maybe they’ll have some. Be nice to bring Ma a present.”
“Wouldn’t she prefer a gun?” Mac asked.
Pardo glared. “Strawberries,” he said. “See if they have strawberries.”
His head bobbed, and he forgot Mac’s sarcasm. Yeah, that would be a really nice treat. He could see his mother’s face. “Then you see that place over yonder.” He hooked his thumb at the barber’s pole across the street. “Get a haircut. Get a shave. You, too, Swede.”
“Do I get new duds, too?” Iverson asked.
“It ain’t your birthday, Swede. You just get a haircut and a shave. When you’re finished, meet me in that saloon.” He pointed out the place, and kicked his horse into a walk, leaving Mac and Iverson behind.
Half a block past the intersection, he stopped the roan. A dun horse was hobbled by the hitching rail in front of a stone building. The horse was branded US, with a McClellan saddle on its back. Pardo dug out his pocket watch, opened the case, and checked the time. Major Ritcher was early.
He swung to the ground, wrapped the reins around the hitching rail, tested the Colt in its holster, and stepped onto the porch, peering into the darkness before entering the cantina. The Mexican barkeep looked up without much interest, but straightened as Pardo approached him.
“Tequila,” Pardo announced, and slapped a coin on the bar.
Lazily, the bartender filled a tumbler, and started to take the bottle away, but Pardo grabbed its neck, and gave the Mexican an icy stare. Shrugging, the Mexican released the bottle and turned back to doing nothing.
“Vy don’t you join me, stranger?” a voice called out, and Pardo turned, finding Major Ritcher seated at a table by the window. The Yankee son of a bitch raised a stein of beer in salute. Pardo walked over to him and stared.
“I’ll take that seat,” he said.
Ritcher lowered the stein, his eyes slow to focus. Then his head bobbed, and he rose and took the chair next to the one Pardo was settling into. As Pardo sipped the tequila, Ritcher began talking.
“The Army train is coming from Fort Bliss in Texas. It vill be coming down the old Overland Mail route.” He wiped the froth of beer from his lips with the back of his hand. “They’re taking the Gatlings all the vay to Fort Lowell.”
“Not Bowie?” Pardo asked in surprise. “I thought you said your boss at Bowie wanted them Gatlings for hisself.”
“He did,” Ritcher said. “but the commanding officer at Fort Lowell pulled rank. Seems he vants first crack at those Gatlings.”
Pardo topped off his tumbler with more tequila.
“That Army train?” Pardo said. “It’ll follow the Overland route all the way to Fort Lowell?”
Ritcher nodded slightly.
“When’s it due at Lowell?”
“Two weeks,” Ritcher answered, “from yesterday.”
Pardo killed the tequila. “How many guards?”
“Two companies of infantry left Bliss. My C.O. ordered Lieutenant Talley to take I Troop east and meet the train, then lead it back to Fort Lowell. And, naturally, bring Colonel Livingston his Gatlings and his howitzer. Dat’s a lot of armed men, Pardo, although Mr. Talley’s a little green. Plus the teamsters and muleskinners.”
Pardo stared into his empty glass.
“I said dat’s a lot of firepower, Pardo. Two companies of infantry and a cavalry troop.”
“I heard you.” He still stared at the empty glass.
Silence.
Outside
, a rooster crowed, though it was well past one o’clock in the afternoon.
“So in about eleven days, that train should be making its way through Texas Canyon.”
“Texas Canyon?” Ritcher blurted out.
“Not so loud, you damned fool.” Pardo slid the tumbler across the roughhewn table.
“Sorry. Let’s see.” Ritcher did some mental ciphering, and finally nodded. “Ja, eleven, maybe ten.” He finished the beer, and carefully set the stein down. “So, do you have my thousand dollars?”
“No.”
Ritcher’s shoulders tightened. He leaned back in his chair. “You said—”
“Shut up. You’ll get your money. I been busy.” He grinned. “Maybe you heard. I busted Swede Iverson out of jail in Wickenburg.”
“I heard. It’s been in every newspaper in the territory. You killed the town marshal. Slit his throat vile he vas hogtied. You killed a Mexican horse trader on the Agua Fria River. You ambushed a posse near the Bradshaw Mountains.”
Pardo laughed. “I ambushed a posse? That’s funny. They tried to bushwhack us. They just wasn’t worth a damn.”
“Ven do I get paid?” Ritcher asked.
“I told you. A thousand when you give me the route. Four after we pull the job.”
“I just gave you the route.”
“Then send me a bill.” He jerked the bottle off the table and poured tequila into his tumbler. A horse whinnied, and hoofs sounded outside. Quickly, Pardo set the bottle down and rested his hand on the butt of his Colt, listening to the jingling of spurs. Too soon to be Mac or Iverson. He saw a lone figure through the window. A tall man in beaten clothes. The figure disappeared from the window and entered the saloon. Pardo’s left hand gripped the bottle so tightly his knuckles whitened as the man strode up to the bar and ordered a whiskey.
“Duke!” Pardo roared, and the thin, loose-jointed man spun around.
“Boss man,” he said, his eyes wide in terror. “You’s here.”
“Yeah, I’m here, Duke. What the hell are you doing here? Why ain’t you in camp?” Pardo was shaking, couldn’t stop it, as he kicked the chair behind him when he stood, strode over to the bar. The Mexican beer-jerker backed into a corner.
The Killing Shot Page 14
