The Reluctant Pinkerton
Page 22
“Wha—What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. He eyed the top drawer of his desk, where he’d just put his gun.
“We have unfinished business.”
“We—what business do we have?”
“Nancy Ransom,” Roper said, “and a girl named Dol.”
“Dol?”
“You killed one or both of them. Whichever one you didn’t kill, your man Jessup did.”
Roper took out his gun.
“Wait, wait,” Bonner said, “Jessup did it. He killed ’em both.”
“On your order.”
“Never,” Bonner said, “I never—it was Brewster. See, he owns this place, not me. I’m just a front for him.”
“But a man like you always has his own plans,” Roper said. “At some point you’d double-cross Brewster, if you got the chance. Well, you’re not going to get that chance.”
Bonner was breathing so hard he was starting to hyperventilate. He clutched his chest, staggered, grabbed the edge of his desk, and then went for the drawer with the gun in it. He got it open, got his hand on the gun, and Roper—glad Bonner had made the attempt—shot him.
“No, no,” Bonner said, slumping to the floor. “Not fair…not…I was gonna open a place…a new place…”
Roper stood over him and said, “No new place for you, Bonner,” and shot him again.
Epilogue
Socorro, Mexico
Three months later…
Roper rode into Socorro on his rented horse. His saddle and horse were still back in Denver, where he had not yet returned. He had left Fort Worth when he realized Hoke Jessup had fled, for whatever reason. Maybe he thought the law would be after him after what happened to Bonner and Brewster.
Roper took to the trail, tracking Jessup, always a step or two behind him. But he finally got the word that Jessup was in Socorro. He only hoped he would still be there when he arrived.
It took him two days since the word had reached him. He had ridden day and night, because Dol Bennett deserved no less. The girl should never have died.
Socorro was like most border towns, with adobe buildings, dusty streets, both American and Mexican citizens. And people passing through, on the way from or to the United States.
He felt years older when he got off his horse in Socorro in front of a cantina. He tied the horse off and went inside, ordered a cold cerveza.
He was halfway through the beer when a man wearing a badge sidled up next to him. He had a sombrero hanging behind his back and a badge on his chest that had no writing or etching on it. He was a portly man with a quick, ready smile which revealed teeth of silver, gold, and yellow.
“Welcome to Socorro, señor,” the man said.
“Thank you.”
“I am el jefe here, señor—how you say in your country—the sheriff.”
“Good for you.”
“May I ask, señor, why you are here?”
“Sure,” Roper said, having no reason to lie, “I’m looking for a man. I’ve been looking for him for three months.”
“Ah,” the sheriff said, “Señor Jessup.”
“That’s right. Is he still here?”
“Still here, señor,” the man said, “and very, very tired of running. He had been running from you, no?”
“I hope so.”
“Well, he will run no more,” the sheriff said.
“You have him in your jail?”
“Oh, no, señor,” the sheriff said, “he has broken no law here. But he and I, we have become simpatico, we have talked.”
“You made friends with him?” Roper asked, surprised.
“Well, I am a friendly man, señor,” the lawman said. “What can I tell you?”
“You can tell me where he is.”
“He is waiting, señor,” the sheriff said. “He has been here waiting for perhaps a week.”
“Where is he…exactly?”
“I will take you.”
“And I will let you take me,” Roper said, “but if this is an ambush—”
“Señor,” the sheriff said reproachfully, “I would not take part in such a thing. And I do not take sides in the disputes of others. I am simply delivering a message,”
“All, right,” Roper said, putting his beer mug on the bar. “Lead the way.”
“Sí, señor,” the sheriff said. “Come with me. I will take you to him.”
* * *
Roper left his horse in front of the cantina and followed the sheriff on foot. The portly man led him to the end of town, perhaps the very last building.
“He is in there, señor.”
“Doing what?”
“Drinking,” the sheriff said, “preparing to kill, or be killed.”
“Just like that?”
“Señor,” the sheriff said, “you have chased him for many months. A man, he becomes tired of running, no?”
“He becomes tired, yes,” Roper said. “Now you deliver a message for me. Tell him I’m out here.”
“Sí, señor,” the man said, “that was my intention.”
The portly man hurried into the small, run-down building. Roper didn’t know if it was a cantina, or somebody’s house—he just cared that Jessup was inside. And that he was coming out. He was still wary, though, of a possible ambush.
The sheriff came hurrying out and said to Roper, “He is coming, señor. I wish you luck. I, uh, will stand aside, if you do not mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
The sheriff hurried off to one side just as Jessup appeared in the doorway. He was a bleary-eyed, disheveled mess, and Roper knew he looked much the same.
“Roper,” Jessup said.
“Jessup.”
The killer stepped out into the open. He wore his gun low on his right hip. He had long arms.
“All this for some little saloon girl?” he asked. “You been doggin’ me all this time—”
Roper drew and fired. His bullet hit Jessup in the chest and the man’s eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, and then he slumped to the ground. Roper was not a gunfighter; he wasn’t a fast draw. Jessup might have been. Roper couldn’t take the chance.
As he holstered his gun, the sheriff ran to Jessup, checked his body, then walked to Roper.
“You gave him no chance, señor.”
“No,” Roper said, “no chance at all.”
He walked back to his horse.
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