by John Shirley
He had to stop and clear his throat again, swallowing hard. He knuckled at his eyes.
Wyatt felt a jarring, unwelcome sympathy for Pierce, then. He thought of Urilla—Pierce surely blamed himself …
But Pierce went on, with an angry abruptness, “Then I figure that what I’d said, it made her hate herself and despair. I had driven her to suicide. Well, I thought maybe she’s still alive, maybe Burke is wrong. So I go back in and there she is, on the floor, with that twisty sheet by her—I shake her, and I call to her, and I slap her cheek—” He mimed all this for Wyatt as he said it. “But she was dead. Then I hear people coming and I rush out of there. I yell for Johann to come on. I didn’t want the … the association.”
“You didn’t tell anyone,” Wyatt said, shaking his head in disgust, “that you thought it was suicide—even when a man was accused of her murder?”
“I was ashamed of the whole thing—it’s one thing being in a whorehouse with a bunch of range-dirty drovers and another if it’s talked about in the newspaper. We managed to keep some things out of the paper, but there’s only so many holes you can stop up in a leaky barrel. I’ve been thinking of running for office, back in Texas. And then her being my daughter—”
“So you made arrangements with Smith. You let them kill Montaigne and you killed Plug Johnson to keep him quiet.”
Pierce shot him a defiant glare, his natural arrogance rising up in him again. “They were both no-account scum! You know that! One doomed to die in the shavings on the floor of a saloon—and the other a crook bound to be lynched!”
Wyatt looked Pierce in the eyes—eyes going dark and hollow in the dusk. “And you tried to get me killed, Mr. Pierce—me and Henry McCarty. All because you didn’t want people to talk about you.”
Pierce scowled—and shrugged it off. “Burke was only supposed to scare you.”
“He sent Blackburn to kill me, on the train to Medicine Lodge. That wasn’t just a scare either. You know about that, Mr. Pierce?”
“Not … well …” Pierce smirked, his smile twisty. “You went too far when you arrested me in Wichita.” His confidence was returning—putting Wyatt in his place made Pierce feel more like himself. “… Dunc Blackburn, was it? I kind of thought Burke was going to do it himself.” His fists balled on his knees as he turned to Wyatt, lowering his head like a bull. “But I’m telling you, boy—don’t think I’ll admit any such thing if it comes to court! I’ll say you’re makin’ it all up. I’ll get the best damn attorney in Kansas! You won’t touch me for any of that!”
The two men glowered at one another. Then a worried, thoughtful look came over Pierce. “You said—what did you say about the suicide?”
“I said, you thought it was a suicide, Mr. Pierce. Burke wanted you to think so. I expect he told himself the girl would make problems for you. But that was just an excuse to do what he wanted to do anyway. Why do you think the coroner went with murder and not suicide? Because the sheet was pulled down? No sir. The coroner looked at her throat, and saw the marks there—the marks of a man’s fingers, Mr. Pierce. Your daughter was murdered. Strangled by Johann Burke—that’s how I figure it. Because she was alive when you left her. And then Burke went back in, and in a minute or two she was dead. And if it wasn’t suicide … then your own man killed her.”
“No.” Burke shook his head violently. “That’s … no!”
Wyatt leaned toward Pierce and went on earnestly and implacably. “He pawed her, and strangled her, Mr. Pierce. I expect he likes killing. You can see it in the man. And you know it’s so—when you were talking about how he likes killing, just a moment ago, it was in your mind that maybe he’d done it. It seems to me you already knew.”
And Wyatt could see it in Abel Pierce’s eyes: he knew the truth now. Pierce had suspected all along. But Burke worked for him and Pierce didn’t want to believe it. Because that was something even worse than believing your daughter had killed herself: knowing that your own hired killer had strangled her … just for the hateful joy of it.
They were silent for awhile. The shadows of the poplars reached farther and farther, to be joined by other shadows, of shrubs and outcroppings and clouds, all merging with the gathering evening. Crows sent derisive cries from the treetops as the wind picked up, making the poplars switch about. Midges rose in a cloud from the reeds, and mosquitoes hummed over to investigate the two men …
Finally, anger simmering in his voice, Pierce said, “I expect it’s so.” He swatted at a mosquito. “Damn these gallnippers. Yes I reckon so—Burke seemed crazy-fascinated with Dandi, the moment he saw her. Maybe there’s a sickness in him.” He swallowed, and the next words were growled: “God damn him.” He spat into the creek. “But Earp—I had nothing to do with what he done. I didn’t know.”
Wyatt looked hard at Pierce and after a moment he nodded. “I believe you. But don’t you think Burke should pay for killing your daughter? He should hang for it. You could testify against him.”
Pierce shook his head. “I don’t want to testify—bring all this out in public. That business with Plug Johnson, I can see now that was poor judgment. I shouldn’t have done it. All that could come out, in court, was I to testify against Burke. But I’ll tell you what, Deputy. I’ll tell you where Johann Burke is likely to be, now that you know for sure he’s the one. If—if you give me your word on two things.”
“Which two things, Mr. Pierce?”
“Just that you’ll do your best to see to it he dies at your hands. I don’t want him talking to a judge. And second … after it’s done, you don’t tell anyone about any of this. If you swear to that, I’ll forget about your Henry McCarty, and I’ll tell you where you can likely find Burke.”
Wyatt didn’t much like it. Making a deal with Pierce seemed wrong—Pierce had murdered Plug Johnson. And he’d let Smith arrange Montaigne’s murder. Maybe even paid for it to be done. But it was true: with Pierce denying everything, no one would believe Wyatt’s theory about why Pierce had shot Johnson. The letter he had didn’t prove for sure that Pierce was Dandi’s father. It was hearsay. The great Shanghai Pierce could claim it was another A. Pierce—it was a common name. Pierce would say he’d shot Johnson in self-defense and he’d be believed. Smith would back him up.
Wyatt judged that he could bear to let Pierce go. But not Burke.
Johann Burke had to have killed others the way he’d killed Dandi. It’d come too naturally to him. Burke would go on killing. And Wyatt had promised to avenge Sanchez.
Still, to hunt Burke down the way Pierce wanted … Even up in the Black Hills, Wyatt had hoped to get the jump on Burke and disarm him.
“It doesn’t sit well with me,” Wyatt said, musing aloud about it, “to hunt a man just for the purpose of killing him. If I have to kill him when he resists arrest, that’s different.”
“You make up your mind to do it this time, and I’ll give Burke to you. Now you know for sure he killed her—you know he deserves to be shot dead, like a mouth-foamin’ dog. And you know he won’t let you arrest him. I can tell you where to find him but I’ll need your word you’ll keep silent, after. Is your word good, Earp?”
“It is. And I give it to you—but there’s one condition. I’ve got to tell Masterson. He was there with me that night when we first looked at her body. He’ll keep quiet. Bat Masterson can be trusted.”
Pierce peered like a crystal gazer into the stream. Then he nodded.
“You just missed me in Medicine Lodge, Deputy—Sheriff Purcheson told me about your telegram. Then I saw you get off that train. I saw to it you didn’t see me—and I wired Burke about where you were. I figure he’s on the way to Medicine Lodge. And he’ll look for you on the trail you took to get here …”
* * *
Wyatt and Pierce didn’t even say goodbye. Abel Pierce simply rode south, and Wyatt headed north.
It was as dark as murder out now, with the only light from a sliver of moon and a clutch of stars half hidden by thickening clouds. Wyatt’s horse seemed co
nfident of the road, but Wyatt wasn’t—he wasn’t sure he was on the right road, at all.
There was no turning back. He was going to hunt Burke down and kill him. No judge, no jury. Just kill him. And leave his body for the vultures.
He knew he’d crossed a line, inside himself, deciding to do it that way. He knew that having crossed that line, he would be able to do it again some day.
Thinking about that, he shivered, and rode into the night.
* * *
About midnight Wyatt was able to see the lights of town reflected on the clouds at the horizon. Just a flicker, but it was unmistakable. He decided he’d rather face Burke in the daylight, after a rest. A cold wind was blowing from that direction, like an outrider for winter, and Wyatt hadn’t brought along a heavy coat.
It was tempting to ride into Medicine Lodge, check into a hotel room—but Sheriff Purcheson would keep track of travelers, and he couldn’t be trusted. Come morning, he might well tell Burke that Wyatt was in town, and where he was staying. Right now, Wyatt figured, the gunman was probably still somewhere well North of town.
On the edge of the Gyp hills, Wyatt found the thread of an antelope trail, barely visible in the starlight. He followed it off the road into an area of crumbling rock and thorny scrub. The ground rose to a modest hillside and there, almost a quarter mile off the road, he camped near a spring that was just a trickle on the rocks, icicles in the shadowy parts. He chose a small flattened patch of ground about thirty feet above the trail.
Wyatt staked his horse behind a granite outcropping, fed and watered the sorrel, then made a fire of scrub oak. After a scanty supper of jerky and spring water, he sat with his back against a mossy rock, watching the flames snap when the wind wormed close. He was uncomfortable, sitting there with his gun belt on, so he took it off and set it on a low rock nearby, next to the sawed-off shotgun John Slaughter had given him as a gift.
The fire was too far off the trail to see, wasn’t it? But maybe not. Maybe he ought to put that fire out … Lord he was tired …
Weariness washed over him and carried him into a fitful sleep shot through with red, fragmentary dreams.
Wyatt woke at dawn to the breath of a horse in his face.
My horse pulled up its stake and wondered over here, he guessed sleepily, sitting up.
But it wasn’t his horse. This was a big gray horse, with jet black eyes. Johann Burke was smiling down at him from the saddle. He looked like a living corpse, sitting up there, with his face gray-blue in the early light.
But it was Wyatt who was closer to death. Burke had his pistol pointed down at Wyatt’s heart.
“That’s three times, boy. Twice I catch you with your back to me, and now I catch you sleeping. Your hands are in clear sight—no guns in reach. You see? No one’s that lucky three times in a row—your luck’s run out. It stands to reason that if a man don’t watch his back, he’s gonna die. And you keep forgetting to be watchful. Now you’re going to eat breakfast in Hell.”
Wyatt tried to think of some way to keep Burke talking. “You kill the girl for that mafie bunch in Kansas City? Or for fun?”
Burke shrugged. “I did get the word to look for her. I was thinking of bringing her back to them. But she bit my hand, when I took hold of her, so I had to make her sorry … Should have taken her alive, though. They wanted her alive. Good money gone to waste.”
“How’d you find me out here?” Wyatt asked. Hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. Hoping Burke couldn’t hear his heart pounding—it seemed to him the sound was echoing across the hills.
“Kind a got lucky myself, boy—lucky you’re a fool!” Burke said, grinning. “Rode all night, to catch up with you. Would’ve passed you this mornin’ if it weren’t for that smoke. Just a little. Just enough. Now stand up.”
Wyatt looked at the fire. It had burned down to embers but it was still smoking. He saw that his weapons were where he’d left them—but he’d never reach them before Burke shot him dead. There was a box of shotgun shells, near his left foot, at the base of the rock, but they were of no use to him.
“I said stand up,” Burke repeated, backing his horse up a step.
Wyatt stood, letting the blanket drop away.
“Was me,” Burke said, “I’d never, ever sleep out in the open like this with an enemy within traveling distance, and not have my gun under my hand. You’ve got a lot to learn, boy. Too bad you won’t have the chance.” His thin smile widened, then, and he cocked his gun.
“Pierce knows you killed the girl. I told him so,” Wyatt said, quickly. Both he and Burke knew he was stalling—but he could think of nothing else to do. He would make a dive for that shotgun. Burke wouldn’t miss, with that pistol, up so close—but maybe he’d be able to shoot Burke with the shotgun as he was dying himself. That’d be some consolation.
Burke’s face went blank, but it was a blankness that covered a cold, killing fury. “You told him that? You’re a dirty sneaking little back-climbing son of a bitch.” Burke’s head cocked to one side as something seemed to occur to him. “You know, with your back to that rock … why …” He chuckled. “This horse is pretty well trained. He’s a fightin’ horse. A Comanche warrior taught him this trick … now watch this … watch as he kicks your face through the back of your head …”
Wyatt looked at the big gray horse, the breath steaming from its twitchy muzzle, and seemed to see in its black eyes that it’d been brutalized into obedience; into thinly bridled violence.
Burke shouted “Hy-yah!” and the horse reared up, slashing out with its forelegs—
—Wyatt kicked very deliberately at the ground near his weapons—
—as the horse gave out a sound that was more shriek than whinny, striking at Wyatt with its fore hooves. He ducked back, a shod hoof grazing his right cheek, cutting the side of his face under the temple; the hoof, coming back down, struck sparks from the stone behind him, and the other hoof’s fetlock glancingly struck his left shoulder, making him suck in his breath with pain. The horse reared back for a killing blow … as Burke laughed and hooted.
Then three of the shotgun shells that Wyatt had purposely kicked into the embers went off, almost at once: three miniature thunderclaps just to the horse’s right, peppering its legs with shot and coal.
The detonations of the shotgun shells terrified the appaloosa. The horse fishtailed to get clear of the blasts, its whole body writhing in fear and pain, bucking away from Wyatt, Burke clinging to the pommel like a rodeo rider, cursing. The gunman fired his revolver but couldn’t aim from the back of a bucking horse and the round hissed past Wyatt’s head as he swept up the sawed-off shotgun, double-cocking it in the same movement. Wyatt took a step to the left for a clearer shot and fired, from six feet away. Both barrels.
Burke’s gun-hand vanished and the flesh on the right side of his face went with it, carried away by the double barrel of shot.
Burke screamed and lost his grip on the bucking horse, fell from the saddle. But his left foot was caught in the stirrup, and the horse—running from the shotgun discharge—twisted away from Wyatt, dragging Burke down the hill.
The whinnying horse dragged Johann Burke through patches of thorn and over craggy rocks and across spiky stumps of dead trees.
“Oh God in Heaven,” Wyatt muttered, his stomach lurching. He managed to control the retching, as he set the shotgun down, and found his pistol. Cocking it, and setting his boots carefully on the slope, he started after Burke. It appeared the horse had dragged Burke a good ways …
But the trail of blood, torn flesh and ripped clothing ended about forty yards away. He was surprised to see Burke struggling upright, leaning on a boulder, standing on his right foot; on the limb that wasn’t broken. The stirrup and saddle, pulled from the horse, were still attached to his shattered left leg. Burke’s great gray horse was nowhere to be seen.
Burke had lost his six-shooter—he was gasping, whimpering. Coming closer Wyatt saw that Burke’s body was torn by the dragging to ex
pose the bone of his ribs and breastbone: shreds of skin mingled bloodily with shreds of clothing; his face was a ruin, his right arm ended in a bloody stump. Burke was wracked by long shudders, going from head to foot, again and again …
The young deputy shook his head, not sure what to do—and that’s when what was left of Burke jerked a Colt’s Pocket Pistol from inside his coat with his intact left hand, and brought it into play.
Wyatt fired his pistol, aiming for Burke’s heart but the angle was awkward and the round caught Johann Burke high in the right side of his belly. Burke quivered back against the stone at the impact, yelling hoarsely: “No!” Wyatt cocked and fired again, his second bullet smashing into the gunfighter’s left shoulder. Burke jerked and sobbed at the impact of the bullets, convulsively squeezing off a shot from the pocket pistol. His shot went in to the ground—and then the stubby gun slipped from his drooping fingers.
Seeming to collapse in on himself, Burke slid down the stone.
Wyatt went closer to the dying man, wanting to say something, and not at all sure what it was. But he was careful to kick the pocket pistol out of reach.
“Please,” Burke said, his ruined mouth bubbling with blood. “Just … kill me. Kill me. Please …”
Wyatt took a deep breath.
Then he cocked his pistol—and he accommodated Johann Burke.
You should regret it, he’d always felt, when you had to kill a man. But the truth was, when he shot Burke dead it was as if the recoil from each shot was the gun just leaping for joy. To Hell with Johann Burke.
* * *
Wyatt spent the night in the best room he could find in Medicine Lodge. The next morning, after a light breakfast, he set off on horseback for Wichita. He might’ve taken the train, but he felt strange, within himself, and he wanted time to digest all that’d happened. Time to think, in quiet.
