“Hey,” she said.
Reilly wet his lips. “Blanche?”
“I’m fine,” he heard the kid call out from behind him.
He looked back at Gwen. “How did…?”
“Marshal, perhaps I should ask the questions here,” a deep voice said, and Reilly watched the man with the pith helmet drop to a knee beside his chest.
“My surgeon will be here directly, Marshal,” the voice said. “I am George Crook.”
“Yes, General.”
“You are Reilly McGivern?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have quite a lot of explaining to do.”
“Yes, sir. Where are the Gatling guns, General?”
Crook frowned. “Fort Bowie,” he said at last. He nodded at Gwen. “Miss Morgan ran into one of my Apache scouts at McCoy’s Well, Marshal,” Crook explained. “He saw Major Ritcher attacking her, but, unfortunately, Major Ritcher escaped. But I’ll hang him when I catch him.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, sir. Ritcher’s dead. Pardo killed him.”
“And Pardo?”
Reilly smiled faintly. “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”
Crook looked at the still-smoking canyon. “He detonated the nitro, then?”
“Yes, sir. Blew himself up in the process.”
“Blew this canyon to hell. Mr. Powers tells me it will take engineers six months to perhaps a year to clear this canyon.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry about that….”
“Don’t apologize.” Crook looked over his shoulder. In a muffled voice, he said, “You’ve done well.” He spoke louder. “Today, at least. After we heard Miss Morgan’s story, I countermanded the orders, and had the Gatling guns and howitzer delivered to Fort Bowie, the rest of the train proceeding on toward Lowell. We hoped to trap Pardo and his men here.” He sighed. “I guess we succeeded, despite this bloody mess.”
“Sir,” Reilly said.
“Yes, Marshal?”
“There’s nitro planted all along the sides of the eastern end of the canyon, too. They haven’t exploded yet. I can show you….” He bit his lip from pain. “I can…”
“You rest.” Crook was standing. “Bring me the prisoners!” he barked, and a couple of minutes later, four troopers shoved two men into the center.
Reilly wet his lips. Soledad kept his head down, his right arm in a sling, his shoulder stained with dried blood. Beside him, hands manacled behind his back, stood Harrah, a dirty, bloodstained rag wrapped tightly over his left thigh.
“Can one of these men find the explosives?” Crook asked.
Reilly nodded. “He knows where they are.” He lifted a finger at Harrah. “The Mexican wasn’t here when Swede Iverson planted them.”
“Very well,” Crook said. He grabbed the manacles and jerked Harrah toward him. “You filthy piece of murderous trash. You will lead ten of my men to these explosive.”
“I ain’t doing…”
“You’ll do what I say, mister, or by grab I will have you executed right here and now by firing squad!”
He shoved Harrah to an awaiting sergeant, who in turn, pushed Harrah through the crowd.
Reilly jutted his chin at Soledad. “There was a man riding with him.”
“Draped over the saddle, Marshal,” Crook said. “Dead. Sergeant Sullivan recognized the corpse as L.J. Kraft.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And Kraft’s brothers? Were they…?”
Reilly tilted his head westward. “Back there. Buried, most likely. I killed them.”
Reilly closed his eyes. He felt one hand being lifted, pressed against Gwen’s lips. Felt the other being lifted, too, pressed against Dagmar’s lips. He felt himself drifting away….
The surgeon shoved his way through the crowd, dropped to his knees, began fumbling through his black satchel while he felt for Reilly McGivern’s pulse.
George Crook held his breath until the major shot him a glance and said, “He’s just sleeping, General.”
“Good,” Crook said. “Will he live?”
The major hooked a thumb at the caldron up the canyon. “If he survived that, General, a couple of bullet holes shan’t bury him.”
“Good,” Crook said again. “But wake him up. I am not finished with my interrogation. Marshal McGivern still has a lot to explain, especially his behavior of late. Wake him up.”
A boot slammed into his ankle, hurt like blazes, and Crook turned around, hobbling, half a mind to shoot some soldier for insubordination. Instead, he found himself looking down into the bright green eyes of a filthy, bloody, ten-year-old girl.
“I’d let Reilly get some sleep, General,” the girl said, and looked down, grinning at the deputy marshal. “Lord knows, the son of a bitch has earned it.”
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Copyright © 2010 Johnny D. Boggs
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The Killing Shot Page 26
