Reilly sank back, mouth open. Stunned, he quickly recovered, putting up a facade, and laughed. “Old Cobb, eh, took a bullet. That’s a shame.” He looked past Dagmar at hard-eyed Jim Pardo. “Cobb’s the lawman who arrested me.” He tried to think of where he told Pardo he had been arrested, if he had told him anything. Decided it didn’t matter. “Well, I guess I owe Mister K.C. Kraft a beer next time we meet. He saved me the trouble of tracking down that lawman and killing him myself.”
His stomach almost heaved. His mouth went dry. He reached for the bottle of mescal Harrah was offering him. Tried to think while Pardo apologized for Reilly’s interruption and asked Dagmar to continue with her story.
“‘A prompt reply from our telegraph to the Nogales Town Marshal confirmed the earlier wire, we are sad to report. Marshal Cobb had walked into The Silver Lode Saloon at noon, Friday instant, and happened to see K.C. Kraft standing at the bar. He reached for his Colt’s revolver, but Kraft’s younger brother, W.W., sitting in the corner and out of Marshal Cobb’s view, shouted a warning, rose from his seated position, and grabbed Marshal Cobb’s hand, preventing him from finishing his draw.’”
The mescal burned a wicked path down Reilly’s throat, exploded in his stomach. It’s all right, he told himself, thinking about that letter he had written for Cobb, the one he had given Gwendolyn Morgan to deliver to the marshal. Gwen would have read the note. She would get it to somebody. Maybe Tidball in Tucson. Maybe Fort Bowie. He winced in pain, perhaps from the mescal, though more than likely from the fear of what would happen if that note wound up in Major Ritcher’s hands.
Damnation, he thought. Why didn’t I say in that note that Ritcher’s a traitor, that he’s working for Pardo?
“‘At that instant, K.C. Kraft, according to eyewitnesses, spun, and drew a Remington revolver, discharging three shots in quick succession, the second bullet striking Marshal Cobb in his sternum, the other shots missing their marks, but the one that hit the marshal took deadly effect, driving the marshal backward into the street, where he sank to his knees, muttering, “I am killed,” and collapsed.’”
If, Reilly thought, Gwen knows that Ken Cobb is dead, what will she do? If she doesn’t know, she’ll take the note to Tombstone, learn of what had happened in Nogales, and…and what? Give it to the city marshal? Reilly tried to think. Who is the city marshal in Tombstone? Can he be trusted? Or would Gwen take it to the sheriff? He knew Deputy Constable Isaac Roberts there. No, Ike was dead. He had caught a bullet back in March trying to serve papers on a lot jumper.
“‘At that time, L.J. Kraft, the third brother of these notorious outlaws, who recently escaped…” Dagmar cleared her throat, wet her lips. Reilly was looking at her now, cursing the newspaper editor at the Epitaph for not putting that story on the front page, or putting a headline over it that he would not have scanned over. “I’m sorry,” she said, giving Pardo a little smile, and the gunman grinned back. “Where was I? Oh, yes. ‘Recently escaped from jail…” The story hadn’t said jail. He knew that. It had mentioned him. “…came charging down the street on a black horse, leading the horses for his brothers, firing a pistol in the air, urging Nogales’s fair citizens to “GET OFF THE STREETS,” and out of the saloon charged K.C. and W.W., who mounted their fearless steeds, and charged out of town, crossing the border.
“‘Marshal Cobb was carried back inside the saloon, and laid on a billiard table, while Doctor Ezra Goldman was quickly summoned, but the marshal had expired before the good doctor set foot inside the saloon.
“‘We promise to have more details of Tombstone’s great loss in our next edition. Our sympathies go out to Ken Cobb’s widow, mother, and three children.’”
Dagmar wet her lips again. “Let’s see. Here’s a story about the price of silver. It says—”
“That’s all right,” Pardo said. “That’s enough reading.” He stroked his chin.
“Them Kraft brothers,” Soledad said. “Muy mal.”
“You know them?” Duke asked.
“Sí. They hide out in Nogales. On the Mexico side of the border. That is where mi madre lives. That is where I take Rafael….” He cast his eyes downward, lowered his voice. “That is where I bury my brother. The Krafts, they were there.”
“Muy mal, you say, eh?” Pardo showed his teeth. “You think you could find this K.C. Kraft in Nogales?”
“Sí.”
Reilly’s stomach began twisting into knots. “What are you thinking, Jim?” he asked.
“I’m thinking it’s like you said, Mac. We’ll need some more boys to shoot down them soldier boys when we trap them in Texas Canyon. I’m thinking the Kraft boys—I’d read about them before. Well, I’ve had some reading done to me before. But I’m thinking they might be good for this here deal I got cooking up with the blue-belly army. Besides, they’s family, them brothers. Three of them, sticking out for each other. Family’s important.” He winked. “Besides, you owe K.C. a beer for gunning down that John Law, don’t you?”
“Three men won’t be enough,” Reilly said.
Pardo laughed. “You don’t know them Kraft brothers, Mac.” That brought a wry grin to Reilly’s face. He knew the Krafts. Knew them too damned well. “They got some friends. Soledad, you tell K.C. to bring as many of his gang as he wants. More the merrier. More blue-bellies to gun down.”
The trees began rustling in the moaning wind. The temperature began dropping, and Reilly could smell rain in the air.
“Hand me that paper, woman,” Swede Iverson shouted. “I want to read that story again. See if there’s something in it about me.”
Reilly froze. So did Dagmar. Damn, Reilly thought, he never should have brought that newspaper with him, should have left it on the boardwalk in Contention City. But Jim Pardo yanked the Epitaph out of Dagmar’s hand, and held it across the fire. “Ask politely, Swede,” he demanded.
Once he removed the cigar from his mouth, Swede Iverson forced a smile. “Begging your pardon, both of yours,” he said, tipping his Irish cap, “but might I have a chance to read that newspaper?”
“That’s better,” Pardo said, and he extended the paper. Iverson reached across. Dagmar’s lips mouthed, No.
Reilly started to rise, gripping the neck of the mescal bottle, ready to swing it, but Blanche whipped out the stick she’d been stirring the coals with, the burned end catching the paper, knocking it from Pardo’s grip. The Epitaph fell onto the coals and erupted in flames while Pardo and Iverson cut loose with dozens of curses at the ten-year-old girl.
“Sorry,” she said, a forced meekness.
Savagely, Iverson reached for her. Blanche fell away, dodging a blow from the explosives expert’s backhand. Dagmar shot to her feet, covered her daughter’s body with her own. Reilly was up, dropping the mescal bottle while jerking the American Bulldog from Iverson’s waistband, shoving the big man over the fallen log he had been using as a chair. He cocked the revolver and aimed at Iverson’s forehead.
“Put it away,” Pardo said, and he stepped over the log, helped Iverson to his feet. Slowly, Reilly eased down the hammer and shoved the .44 into his own waistband.
“That’s my gun,” Iverson said, and pointed.
“Bull,” Reilly said. “I loaned it to you back at that horseman’s place.”
“But I—”
“Shut up,” Pardo snapped. “Especially you, Swede. I seen how you was looking at Miss Dagmar, and I don’t like it.”
He turned around to face the others.
“All right, boys. It’s settled. Soledad, mount up, ride to Nogales, tell the Kraft boys that Bloody Jim Pardo wants them to join him in a little job. Tell them that we’ll meet at this side of the Dragoons.” He pointed north. “Tell them to bring as many boys with them as they want. Tell them we got us a hog killing planned. Ain’t that right, Duke?”
Duke slapped his knee. “That’s right, boss man. It’ll be a regular—”
“Shut up.” Pardo pulled his hat down. “But you tell them, Soledad, that they go
t to be here, at the northern tip of the Dragoons, in six days. Then we’ll ride over to Texas Canyon and have ourselves a real party.”
“What about us?” Phil asked.
“We ride to Total Wreck first thing tomorrow. To fetch us Swede’s dynamite.” Looking back at Iverson. “How long will it take to sweat nitro out of them sticks, Swede?”
Iverson kept his eyes on Reilly. “They’ve probably already sweated. All we have to do is get the nitro loaded and not blow ourselves into oblivion doing it.”
“What about the woman? And the kid?” Harrah asked.
“They’ll be tagging along. We won’t be able to get the nitro up here, and once we’re pulled our little job, we’ll be raising dust for the border. So everyone leaves camp. It’ll be a party.”
“How many wagons do you have?” Iverson asked.
“One,” Pardo said. “A buckboard. It’s hidden down below. We’ll fetch it tomorrow. Why?”
“You’ll need two more.”
“How come?”
Lightning lit up the sky. Four seconds later, thunder crackled.
“Because I’m thinking we’ll have three crates of nitro. One for each wagon.”
“Can’t you just haul that juice in one wagon?”
“Sure.” Swede Iverson smiled. “But what happens if one batch decides to blow up? Then you lose all of it. This way, you got a better chance.”
Pardo’s head bobbed. He slapped Iverson’s broad back. “I like the way you think, Swede. Don’t worry. We’ll get us a couple of extra buckboards before we get to Total Wreck. All right, boys, best take cover before them skies open up. I got to go talk to Ma.”
He was walking up the hill when the first sheets of icy rain tore across the camp.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Reilly stepped inside the tent that had been Three-Fingers Lacy’s, which Pardo had said he could use. Pardo had moved into his late mother’s tent. He took off his hat, shook off the water, sent the hat sailing to the bed, then sank into the chair at the desk.
The tent flap flew open, and Blanche stepped inside, soaked from the rain. Reilly stared. The ten-year-old stared back.
“How’s your mother?” Reilly asked.
“She’s fine. They been leaving us alone. I got my gun back.” She pulled up her britches, and he saw the handle of the little .32 Triumph sticking out of her brogans. “Got two shots left. That whore who was in this tent shot that old crone with this gun.” She pointed at the bullet holes, leaking rain, in the flap.
Blanche smiled. “Nobody saw me pick it up. They was all confused, moping around after that old woman got killed, then burying her, and that Chaucer bastard and this whore had to leave camp in a hurry. Ma led me away, but I sneaked back. Just picked it up out of the mud, cleaned it.” She swallowed. “You want it?”
He drew the Bulldog .44 from his waistband, checked the loads, ejected four spent cartridges. “I have a gun,” he said, thinking, With two shots left. Plus maybe three or four in the Evans. “You best keep it in case…” He smiled wearily. “Better get back to your mother, Blanche.”
“How you gonna get us out of here?” She pulled down her pants legs.
Reilly sighed. He didn’t have a plan, but he’d have to make his play before Soledad returned with the Kraft brothers. “You just follow my lead, kid,” he said. “Maybe at Total Wreck. Maybe at Texas Canyon. Then you and your mother keep your heads down.”
The girl started to say something, but gunshots, muffled by the wind and rain, stopped her. She turned, pushed open the flap, stepped outside. Shoving the revolver back into his waistband, Reilly grabbed his hat and quickly followed her. They looked up the hill where Jim Pardo had gone. Somewhere in the forest came more shots, followed by a primal scream.
“Get back to your mother,” Reilly said, and he ran through the puddles, past Phil and Harrah, climbed up the hill, ducked underneath a branch, and followed the trail. It was hard to see in the rain, but he slid to a stop when he detected the form of Pardo, on his knees, head bent, rain pouring off the brim.
He moved closer, could see Pardo now. Sobbing. Gun in his right hand, the barrel in the mud.
“Jim,” Reilly called out, and was answered by thunder. He heard footfalls behind him, turned to find Harrah and Phil, but he waved them back with his gun barrel. He squatted beside Pardo.
“What’s the matter, Jim?” he asked.
Pardo shook his head, then slowly pointed at the pit before him.
“They dug her up,” he said, releasing his Colt and burying his face in his hands. “Wolves. They dug up Ma!”
Reilly cringed as he looked into the shallow grave. Lightning flashed. He made out ripped bits of an India rubber poncho, parts of Ruby Pardo’s boots.
Suddenly, with a animal’s ferocity, Pardo turned, staggered to his feet as he grabbed the Colt, and took a few steps back toward camp. “You dumb sons of bitches!” he screamed at Phil and Harrah, aimed the gun, pulled the trigger, the hammer falling on a spent shell. “You don’t know no better than to put rocks on a grave! She’s gone. Wolves. Coyotes. Cougars. Something dug up my mother and ate her, you dumb bastards!” He kept cocking and firing, but the Colt was empty.
“Easy, Jim.” Reilly reached over, took the gun from Pardo’s hand, let it slide into the water-slick holster.
“She’s gone,” Pardo sobbed. “Ma’s gone.”
“No, Jim, she isn’t,” Reilly whispered, his arm over Pardo’s shoulder, steering him up the path. Briefly, he wondered if he could shoot down Phil and Harrah, but then his gun would be empty, and he still would have to deal with Duke and Swede Iverson, maybe Soledad, if he hadn’t left camp. And Pardo. He looked through the falling rain. Didn’t appear that either Harrah or Phil had anything other than the shotgun Phil held. He motioned the two gunmen to return to camp, and they obeyed. “Ruby’s right here,” Reilly said softly. “She’s right here with you.”
“You…think…so?”
“I know so.”
“I…”
“It’s all right, Jim. You can talk to your mother anytime. Anywhere. And you know what? She’ll listen.”
“Ma always listened,” Pardo managed. “To me.”
“She always will, Jim.”
They were coming down the hill now, back into camp.
“I ought to kill Phil. Kill them all. Letting them animals make a meal out of my ma.”
That would help things immensely, Reilly thought.
“Guess I can’t, though.”
He steered Pardo into Three-Fingers Lacy’s old tent, let him have the chair, while he found a bottle of bourbon they’d left behind, and he pushed out the cork and put the bottle in Pardo’s right hand. “Have a drink, Jim,” Reilly said, and sat on the end of the bed.
Pardo switched the bottle to his left hand, and took a long pull, then another. He had stopped crying now, but his eyes were rimmed red. “Thanks, Mac,” he said.
Reilly shrugged.
“It’s funny, Mac. Ma never liked you. Didn’t trust you. Told me I shouldn’t trust you.”
“Do you?”
“I’m starting to. It’s funny. I’m starting to think of you as my kid brother. Remember? I told you about him. The one who didn’t live.”
He took another pull, and passed the bottle to Reilly. There was just enough for one more drink, and Reilly took it, then dropped the bottle on the wet ground.
“That’s fine with me,” Reilly said. “I’ve always thought of you as my big brother. Remember? He was killed during the war.”
“Damn Yankees,” Pardo said. “Yeah, I remember.” He pulled out the Colt, began ramming out the empty shells and refilling the cylinder with fresh loads from his shell belt. “We’ll make them damn blue-bellies pay for what they done to our families. They killed my pa. I tell you about that?”
Reilly shook his head.
“Well, they didn’t really kill him. Pa died of fever. Actually, he was about to be shot by his own men for breaking some kind of damn-fo
ol rule, but fever got him before they could line him up in front of a firing squad.”
He’s mad, Reilly thought. He’s a stark, raving lunatic. Saying, however, “That’s all right.”
“My nose ain’t bleeding.” Pardo holstered the Colt.
“That’s good.”
“Family’s important.”
Reilly nodded. “The most important.”
“It’s good to talk like this.” Pardo took off his hat, set it on the table. “I’m still half a mind to kill Phil and Harrah. Even Duke.”
“I wouldn’t stop you.”
“Damn right, you wouldn’t. I’d kill you if you did, even if I think of you like my brother. I saved your life, you know.”
Reilly was rubbing his beard. He stopped, stared deep into Pardo’s deadly blue eyes.
“Stopped that Yavapai from splitting your skull. You owe me, Mac.”
“What do you want me to do?” He felt uncomfortable now. Wished he had something to drink.
“Oh, I’ll think of something. Right now, it’s just…well, I was thinking of making you my partner. Split everything even. Fifty-fifty. Like brothers should do.”
Reilly’s head bobbed slightly. “I’d like that, Jim.”
“Well, I ain’t done it yet, Mac. I want to talk it over. With Ma.” He stood, grabbed his hat. Lightning flashed, followed by a deafening burst of thunder. After Pardo had gone, Reilly just sat there, staring at the two bullet holes in the canvas tarp, watching the rainwater seep through, wondering just how in hell he was going to be able to save Dagmar and Blanche, and himself.
The town of Total Wreck lay scattered about the rolling desert hills in Pima County, well south of the Southern Pacific tracks on the eastern slope of the Empire Mountains, just a little due east of the Santa Rita Mountains. It was home of the Total Wreck Mining and Milling Company—earning its name from a man’s comment, “This whole damned hill is a total wreck”—a number of houses, a few stores, three hotels, four saloons, some brick, most adobe, but several wood structures, too, a lumberyard, and the seventy-ton mill.
The Killing Shot Page 18
