“Damn it all,” said Bellibar, sounding disappointed with himself. “I must’ve left them both out back. Can I see yours?” He held out a hand.
“You can sure enough, pard,” said Moran. He nodded, raised his black-handled Colt from its slim-jim holster and handed it over to Bellibar butt first.
“Fine-looking six-shooter,” Bellibar commented, examining the gun.
“It’s always done well by me,” Moran said with a tequila slur to his voice.
“I bet,” said Bellibar. He cocked the big Colt with a flat grin and shot the unsuspecting gunman squarely between the eyes.
The sound of the gunshot prompted a thunder of boots across the dirt floor. The music stopped cold. Chairs turned over; men crouched behind overturned tables and drew guns of their own.
“My God!” Sharlo Bering bellowed as his partner’s warm brain matter splattered all over his face. His reflexes kicked in. He fell back a step, reaching for his own gun, as Bellibar swung the smoking Colt toward him and fired again.
Bellibar aimed for the same spot between Bering’s eyes, thinking how impressive that would look to Pettigo and the others. But the shot fell short. The bullet sliced through Sharlo’s throat just beneath his chin and blew out the side of his neck in a spray of blood and exposed tendons. Drinkers continued fleeing in every direction; the woman standing dropped her chair leg, ran wildly headlong into a thick tent post and crumpled to the ground.
At the bar the bleeding gunman managed to turn and hurl himself away from Bellibar as a third shot exploded from the Colt in Bellibar’s hand. The bullet hit Sharlo low in his back. He stiffened but didn’t let it stop him. He stumbled and scraped, half running, half falling, and managed to get out the front fly onto the dirt street. Along the street the sound of gunfire caused more running, more shouting, more leaping for cover.
“Here it is,” said Dale Pettigo, him and his men standing across the dirt street watching as Bellibar leisurely followed the bleeding gunman, the Colt out at arm’s length, smoking in his hand. Another shot exploded, hitting Bad Sharlo between his shoulder blades. He went down but kept crawling, his gun flying from his bloody hand.
“I got to admit, he’s made a believer out of me,” said Denver Jennings, one of the most respected and feared of all the Pettigo mercenaries.
“Yeah,” said Newton Ridge, the former assassin, “Bad Sharlo Bering has never been known as a man to take lightly—Harvey Moran neither, to my knowledge.”
“Do tell,” Dale Pettigo murmured, watching closely as Bellibar took his time, stepped alongside the crawling gunman and finally planted a boot down on his bloody back, stopping him.
“What do you say, boss?” Denver Jennings asked. “Are we going to take him in, make him one of our own?” He gave a wry grin. “Take him home to meet your pa, so to speak?”
“We’ll take him in,” said Pettigo. “But he’s not going to be one of us.”
Jennings looked at him.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“Never mind,” said Pettigo. “I’ve got plans all my own for this one—something special I want him to do for us here.”
From the middle of the empty dirt street, his boot keeping the badly wounded gunman crawling in place, Bellibar looked over at Pettigo and the mercenaries and called out, “Did anybody check the time on that?”
“He’s a cocky son of a bitch. I’ll give him that,” Jennings said sidelong to Pettigo. They stared at Bellibar, who stood at ease in the street with his holster empty, Moran’s smoking Colt aimed down at Sharlo’s bloody back.
“Nobody, huh?” Bellibar called out. “I’m going to say under five minutes,” he added, “unless somebody wants to correct me on it?” He gazed back and forth among the faces watching him, waiting for someone to challenge his timekeeping. When no one did, he looked back down at Bad Sharlo, who coughed and hacked and spit up a surge of dark blood. With Bellibar’s boot on his back, Sharlo still tried to press forward in the dirt. “Let me ask this, then,” Bellibar called out to the silent, staring gunmen. “Has anybody got a hammer?”
“He’s a gone-crazy son of a bitch, this one,” said Denver Jennings to Newton Ridge.
“Yeah, I noticed,” said Ridge, the seasoned assassin. “But he did exactly what he said he would do.” A thin trace of a smile came to his lips. “That’s about all that counts in gun work.”
Dale Pettigo saw Bellibar look toward him. A faint smile of satisfaction came to Pettigo’s lips as he gave Bellibar a single nod.
Bellibar fired a final shot through the back of Bad Sharlo’s head; the gunman slumped beneath his boot and stopped moving.
“Never kill a man’s accountant,” Bellibar said down to the dead gunman. With the black-handled Colt smoking in his hand, he turned and walked over to the others and stopped in front of Dale Pettigo.
“Mind your manners,” Denver Jennings cautioned him, noting the big Colt in his hand.
But Bellibar ignored him and stared straight at Dale Pettigo.
“Well, boss,” he said to Pettigo, “when do I start work?”
Pettigo looked back and forth as three miners carried Moran’s body out of the cantina and flopped it down in the dirt beside Bad Sharlo.
“About five minutes ago,” Pettigo said.
Bellibar nodded and turned to Leonard Tiggs, who stood a few feet away. Cherzi Persocovich the Russian stood at Tiggs’ side.
“I’ll be talking my shooting gear back,” he said with finality.
Tiggs and the Russian both stiffened, seeing Bellibar’s thumb go across the Colt’s hammer, ready to cock it.
Tiggs shot a tight glance to Pettigo, who gave him a nod. Without another word he slid Bellibar’s Colt and the big Remington from behind his belt and held them out to him, butt first. Bellibar looked almost disappointed that the Canadian hadn’t given him a reason to kill him as he took his thumb from over Moran’s gun hammer and shoved the smoking gun down in his belt.
When he’d taken both revolvers Tiggs had held out to him, he shoved his Colt down into its holster and the Remington behind his belt. He patted his waist and smiled at what he considered a nice growing assortment of firearms. Turning a cold stare to the Russian, Bellibar let his eyes tell the big man what he wanted.
Cherzi got his message instantly and handed him his rifle butt first without a word. Bellibar took it, checked it and cradled it in his left arm.
“All right, boss,” he said to Pettigo, “what’s gonna be my job today?”
“Same as everybody’s job every day,” said Pettigo, “killing the gunmen and thieves from Lookout Hill when they ride down and gather here to rob us.”
Gunmen and thieves?
Bellibar thought about Paco Reyes and Saginaw Sparks, both of them tough hombres from Lookout Hill. Ha! He’d left them lying dead in the dirt. All right, he thought, feeling better about how things were shaping up for him. Lookout Hill was where he’d been headed—a place to lie low, get his trail clean and make plans. But looking around…this wasn’t such a bad place either.
“Point me to the bunkhouse, boss,” he said to Pettigo. “I’ll stow my gear and start killing them right off.”
“Huh-uh,” said Pettigo. “You’re not riding to the mines with us. I’m leaving you here to keep down trouble before it gets started.”
The men looked at each other in surprise. Pettigo noticed the expression on their faces.
“That’s right,” he said. “This man is going to be the first town sheriff of Copper Gully.”
“Town sheriff?” said Jennings, taken aback by Pettigo’s announcement. “Jesus, boss, this is Mexico.”
Pettigo gave his top gunman a bemused look. A tense silence fell over the men.
“Thank you, Denver,” he said in a mock tone of gratitude. “I’m obliged to you for telling me where I am—”
“That’s not how I meant it, boss,” Jennings cut in quickly, correcting himself. “I mean, is Mexico going to stand still for us appointing a town sheriff of Cop
per Gully?”
“Look around you, Denver,” said Pettigo. “There was nothing left of Copper Gully when Pettigo-American Mining came here. This was no more than a dried-up hole left by the early Spaniards. We’ll have the full say-so here, until we ever decide to leave.”
“I understand, boss—” Jennings tried to say.
But Pettigo cut him short. “If I say there’s a town sheriff here, then, by God, sir, there is a town sheriff here.”
“Yes, boss,” Jennings said submissively.
Pettigo continued, looking from one attentive face to the next as he spoke. “The Mexican government agreed to allow us to provide ourselves with whatever resources we need to conduct our business here. Had I appointed a man to administer the law in Copper Gully sooner, our accountant wouldn’t be lying dead on a barn floor today.” He turned his eyes from the rest of the men and fixed them on Bellibar.
“I’ve seen this man in action,” he said. Then to Bellibar, “I trust you’re you up to this assignment, Mr…. ?” His words trailed into a question.
“Mr. Hughes…Bob Hughes,” said Bellibar. “And you’re damn right. I’ll whip this town into shape in no time—”
“Whoa, hold on, Bob,” said Pettigo, doubting any authenticity to the name. “This town doesn’t require any whipping into shape. What I want is a man who keeps an eye on the trail in both directions, and keeps this town cleared of thieves and border trash. Am I making myself understood?”
“You are that, boss,” said Bellibar. He stifled a grin. “Border trash, beware,” he said. “The law has come to Copper Gully.”
“Jesus…,” Denver Jennings said under his breath. He shook his head and turned toward the barn where they’d left their horses.
On the eleven-mile stretch of trail from Copper Cully to the Pettigo-American Mining facility, Dale Pettigo pulled his horse to the side, stopped it and stuck a fresh cigar in his mouth as the men filed past. Denver Jennings swung his horse right along beside him, and before Pettigo could fish a match from his pocket, Jennings struck one on his saddle horn and held it out to the tip of his boss’ cigar. Pettigo puffed the cigar to life, let out a stream of smoke and watched as the last rider led Harold Wartler’s body past him, strapped over a horse’s back. Wartler’s muddy low-cut town boots dangled down the horse’s sides. His red pin-striped rear end pointed skyward across the saddle.
After another long puff on his cigar, Pettigo crossed his gloved hands on his saddle horn and relaxed for a moment. Jennings sat his horse in silence beside him and Pettigo let out a breath.
“All right, spit it out, Denver,” he said.
“I’m not saying nothing, boss,” his top gunman replied in an even tone.
“Either spit out what’s stuck in your craw right now or keep your mouth shut about it,” Pettigo said gruffly. As he spoke he took a silver case from inside his riding duster and handed a cigar to Jennings.
“Obliged, boss,” Jennings said, taking the cigar. He bit the tip off and spit it away. “Speaking flat out? No holds barred?” he asked.
“Yep, just the two of us,” said Pettigo. He heard a match flare beside him as he stared straight ahead.
Jennings puffed his cigar to life and let go a stream of smoke.
“All right, here it is, boss,” he said. “Are you out of you mind, leaving a crazy son of a bitch like this Bob Hughes, or whatever his name is, overseeing Copper Gully?”
“I knew that’s what it was,” said Pettigo, staring straight ahead, out across the hilltops in the evening sunlight.
“You said, spit it out. There it is,” said Jennings.
“He won’t cause any trouble,” said Pettigo. “Tiggs and Cherzi will keep him on track. I want a man like him on our side. I just can’t have him around the house, so to speak—nobody would feel safe in their sleep.”
“Tiggs and Cherzi already hate him, boss—he hates them,” said Jennings. “I can’t see how this will work.”
“Never underestimate the power of hatred,” said Pettigo, drawing on the cigar and blowing out a stream of smoke. “Everything I did, I did for a reason.”
“I’m trying to lean your way, boss. I just don’t see it,” Jennings said, shaking his head, unable to apply any level of rhyme or reason to his boss’ actions.
“If you’ll listen closely and allow me to enlighten you,” said Pettigo, “I’ll give you a lesson in business management usually reserved for those of us with fathers who can afford it.” He gave a smug grin. “Would you like that?”
Arrogant little prick…. Jennings bit down hard on his cigar and kept his mouth shut.
“I would be nothing but grateful, boss,” he managed to say.
“All right, answer me this,” said Pettigo raising two gloved fingers, his cigar resting between them. “What problem most besets our entire operation here in the hill country?”
“Gunmen?” Jennings said as if uncertain.
“Come, now, Denver,” said Pettigo, giving him a withering look.
“All right, gunmen,” said Jennings with stronger conviction. “Thieving gunmen, from Lookout Hill,” he amended.
“Precisely,” said Pettigo.
“But in all likelihood,” said Jennings, “that’s where this so-called Bob Hughes was headed.”
“Absolutely,” Pettigo agreed. “No cold-blooded killer like him shows up here just to do some sightseeing.”
“So you’re thinking he came up to ride with the Lookout Hill boys, but we got to him first?” Jennings asked.
“I’m betting on it,” said Pettigo. “The good thing about men like Hughes is that they will kill anybody for a price, anyone. This one is a straight-up maniac. He’ll draw the Lookout Hill boys to us like flies to an outhouse—keep us from running ourselves ragged searching the hills for them.”
Jennings started to understand the gist of Pettigo’s thinking. He smiled and puffed on his cigar.
“Another good thing about men like Hughes,” said Pettigo, “once he’s helped kill off his own kind, we throw him away like a worn-out sheep gut.” He tapped a gloved finger to his forehead. “It’s called managing resources.” He added, “Instead of letting resources manage us.” He lowered his finger and wagged it, making his point. “Therein lies the management lesson I referred to.”
Jesus…that’s what old man Pettigo paid good money for his son to learn?
“This is going to work out just fine, trust me,” Pettigo said proudly. “We’re operating in my arena now.”
Denver Jennings stared at him through a waft of smoke. Pettigo was still an arrogant little prick, but at least now Jennings understood what he was up to.
The problem was, Dale Pettigo had just proven that he had no idea how men like this fellow—this so-called Bob Hughes—thought. This man was a murdering maniac and Jennings knew it. There was no school he’d ever heard of that could teach how to predict and understand how a maniac thinks, but there was nothing more he could say about it. When it came down to it, Jennings realized he was nothing himself but a hired gun.
He was better than most—smarter than most. But there it is, he told himself. A hired gun and nothing more. Dale Pettigo was an educated man. There was a point to which he would listen to what Jennings had to say on a matter like this. But now young Pettigo had gotten full of himself, thinking he had a plan to solve the problem they had with outlaws from Lookout Hill. He wasn’t going to listen to anybody—Jennings knew it.
Yet he’s the man who pays your wages, he reminded himself, and with that he turned his stare into an impressed gaze of wonderment.
“I don’t know what to say, boss,” he replied as if almost in awe.
Pettigo gave him a firm smile as he nudged his horse forward back onto the trail.
“Just say, ‘Right you are, boss,’” he said.
“Right you are, boss,” Jennings said, nudging his horse up beside him.
Chapter 12
For two full days the bloodstained bodies of Bad Sharlo Bering and Harvey Moran s
tood leaning, untied and unassisted, against two boards perched out in front of a small adobe building owned by Petigo-American Mining. On the third day, for reasons no one understood, Sharlo Bering’s lifeless knees buckled; he went down, then pitched forward across the boardwalk just as two mine foremen’s wives walked past.
From inside the building, Bellibar heard the thump of the body hit the boardwalk, followed by the women’s screams. He ran out, shotgun in hand, Cherzi the Russian right behind him.
Hearing the screams, Leonard Tiggs came running from the tent cantina. But he slowed to a walk as he saw the prone body on the boardwalk and realized what had happened.
As a mercantile clerk and his wife ushered the two distraught women inside their store, Bellibar turned to the gathering crowd of townsfolk with his hands on a shotgun.
“All right, everybody get the hell out of here, else you’ll be leaning on a board your damned selves.”
Jesus! Tiggs grimaced at Cherzi, but the Russian didn’t appear to think the new sheriff’s words were too strong or offensive.
“Hughes,” said Tiggs, “you can’t talk to people that way!”
“What way?” Bellibar asked, facing Tiggs with a thumb over the shotgun hammers.
The powerful Canadian gunman just stared at the two of them, the Russian stepping over beside Bellibar with his thick hand wrapped around the butt of a Starr revolver. Damn! The job had gone to both of their heads.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Leonard,” Bellibar said with a sour twist to his voice, “Pettigo named me sheriff. What I say goes. You’re only here to do as I say. Keep poking your nose in how I run things, you might become owner of Mexican real estate, same as these two.” He gestured toward the two ripening bodies, one still propped on the board in a swirl of flies, the other lying facedown on the rough plank boardwalk. A skinny cat reached its nose out and sniffed at Bering’s purple ear.
Bellibar’s threat didn’t cause Tiggs to back off.
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