Desperado's Gold

by Linda Jones

  It was a command, one that Jackson was anxious to obey. He wanted Catalina away from this place. She would be safe in Texas.

  At the same time, he knew he had to do something about Goodman. The kid had murdered an old man. For land. For gold. It wasn’t right.

  “We hadn’t planned on leaving just yet,” Jackson said evenly. “I suppose we’ll have to stick around to see that my uncle receives a decent burial.”

  Catalina stepped out of the house, and he heard her sharp intake of breath. “He’s dead? Doc’s dead?”

  “Yep.” Harold Goodman leaned forward, grinning like a fool.

  “Get back in the house, Catalina,” Jackson ordered, but she ignored his command and stepped past him.

  “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  Jackson didn’t dare take his eyes off Harold, but he could hear the tears in Catalina’s voice.

  “Nope,” Harold assured her easily. “He did.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate Koop, waiting patiently to his rear.

  Jackson knew he could take them both if he had his Colts. If Catalina would get out of the way. It made no difference. He didn’t know if the weapon in his hands would even fire.

  Catalina stepped forward, toward Harold’s horse. “How could you have that nice old man killed? He never did anything to you. How many years did he have left? This place could have been yours eventually, you greedy bastard.”

  Jackson stepped forward and grabbed her sleeve, trying to pull her back, but she jerked her arm away without even looking at him.

  “And you.” She turned her attention to Koop, took one look at that tough face, and stepped back. She recognized that he was no green kid like Harold Goodman. Koop had the face of a man who killed without thinking, without regret. Regret? Jackson doubted Koop knew what that was, and he’d certainly never felt it.

  “Inside, Catalina,” Jackson ordered sharply.

  Koop leaned forward in the saddle and grinned. “Well, hello, Kid,” he said smoothly. “I thought that was you.”

  Harold’s smile faded as he realized who he faced, and he reacted quickly. Too quickly. Catalina had turned to do as Jackson asked, or at least to return to his side. But Harold reached out and grabbed her by the hair, jerking her to his side. Koop pulled his pistol and pointed it at her head.

  “Drop the rifle,” Koop ordered softly, and Jackson did so without thinking. Catalina stood between the mounted men, motionless. Harold held a handful of her hair, pulling it much too hard, and Koop held the barrel of his weapon against her temple.

  “Shoot him,” Harold ordered.

  Jackson waited for the blast of Koop’s Colt, but there was a long moment of complete silence.

  Koop didn’t move the gun barrel away from Catalina’s head.

  “I said shoot him, dammit!”

  Koop shook his head. “Can’t do that. He’s not armed.”

  “Doc Booker wasn’t armed,” Harold seethed. “That didn’t stop you.”

  The hired gun shrugged his broad shoulders. “That was different. It was business. This is pleasure.”

  “Pick up that rifle.” Harold ordered, nodding to the weapon on the ground.

  Jackson ignored Harold and stared at Koop. “What do you want?”

  “I want it all, and I want the world to see,” Koop said, moving the gun barrel in small circles at Catalina’s head, brushing her hair with its cold steel. “Is she yours?”

  “No,” Jackson said quickly. “Let her go.”

  Koop actually laughed. “I don’t believe you, Kid. I thought you were a better liar than that.”

  The hired gunman turned to Harold. “Hand her up here, to me.”

  Harold was obviously taken aback. The tables had turned quickly, and Koop was now giving the orders. “I don’t see — ”

  “Do it,” Koop said calmly. “Or you’re next. It would be a real pleasure to take care of your whinin’ ass when I’m done with the Kid.”

  Harold did as he was told, all but jumping from his saddle to lift Catalina to Koop, setting her before the gunman. Koop snaked an arm around her waist, keeping the gun pointed at her head.

  “Baxter. Three hours, Kid.”

  “If you touch her, if you hurt her, you’ll wish for a quick death, Koop. I swear it.”

  Catalina’s hair whipped around her face, caught by a cool, dancing breeze. She had said nothing, scared, shocked, uncertain, but Jackson saw the lucidity come back into her eyes.

  “Stay away from Baxter,” she insisted, her voice almost calm. “You know what will happen. You promised me.” The last was a hoarse whisper. A plea, more than a reminder.

  Jackson stared at Catalina’s face, ignoring the two men who were taking her away from him. She was scared not for herself, but for him. He returned his eyes to Koop’s face.

  “Three hours,” Jackson said in a velvety smooth voice that betrayed none of his emotions.

  He stood there and watched them ride away, Koop and Harold Goodman and Catalina.

  Jackson threw open the door to the little house, allowing the brightening sun to fill the room. He knew what he had to do.

  He searched her room first, yanking drawers from the dresser, emptying the wardrobe that held the calico dresses Catalina had been wearing. He tried not to panic, knew he could not panic, but for God’s sake he could smell her, could feel her in the fabric in his hands. All he found were pastels and fragile material. No black, no steel.

  He finally found it all, minutes later. They had been the longest minutes of his life.

  Catalina had packed all his old things in a chest at the end of the bed, mixed in with blankets and some of Mrs. Booker’s old dresses. He threw it all on the bed and finally found what he was looking for in the bottom of the chest, under a faded blue gown with delicate lace and tiny pearls.

  His silver spurs. The black clothing Catalina had so happily replaced. The black duster. His gunbelt, with two Colt Peacemakers still in their holsters.

  A chill came over him as he put everything on the bed. He should have known it was too good to last.

  Nineteen

  *

  Catalina struggled against the man who half dragged, half carried her into Alberta’s place. The heels of her boots scraped across the boardwalk, and she did her best to elbow the man in his generous gut. All he did was chuckle under his breath.

  Everything she’d done up to now, all her plans, were for nothing. She’d never felt so utterly helpless, so insignificant. Jackson was going to die on the street, just as the history book said.

  The man Jackson had called Koop deposited her roughly in a chair at the back of the room. They had the saloon all to themselves, apparently.

  “Sit there and be a good girl,” he said in a gruff voice.

  Catalina jumped to her feet, but Koop pushed her roughly back into the chair. Before she knew what was happening he had dropped a rope around her and was tying her to the chair. The rope bit into her arms as he tied it tightly at the back of the chair. That done, he tied her ankles to the chair legs, ignoring the feeble kicks she planted on his arms and his chest. Catalina looked up, tightly bound, and there was Alberta, a smug smile on her face.

  “He won’t come,” Catalina said without a tremor in her voice. She felt that shaking deep down, though.

  Koop wasn’t buying it. “He’ll come, all right. The Kid always had a strange sense of justice.” He sat beside her and leaned back as if he didn’t have a care in the world, his arms crossed over a broad chest, that gut all but distended.

  “It’s called a conscience,” Catalina snapped.

  Alberta didn’t sit, but walked around the table, swinging her wide hips. “Don’t listen to her,” the madam cooed. “The Kid will be here. He had a soft spot for her all along. Caused me nothing but trouble.”

  Koop only grinned. “Well, it will be his downfall. That and his … conscience.” He peered at Catalina knowingly. “The whole town will be watching, and my reputation will be made. The man who shot Ki
d Creede.”

  Catalina licked her lips. It wasn’t right, that she should come all this way … only to have to watch Jackson die.

  “He’ll kill you,” she said, but this time the tremor was in her voice.

  Koop laughed. “One minute you tell me he’s not coming, and the next you say he’s going to kill me. Make up your mind, woman.”

  Koop reached out and brushed the back of his hand along her cheek. Catalina tried not to tremble, not to give in to the nausea that gripped her when he touched her. “If you’re so certain he’ll kill me, how about a little bet? If I win, I get a tumble.”

  Catalina tried to back away from his hand, but there was nowhere to go. “If you win,” she promised, believing every word, “I’ll kill you myself.”

  He didn’t laugh at that, and he finally withdrew his hand.

  Milo appeared, stepping behind the bar to polish the wood surface, to arrange bottles and glasses for the crowd yet to come. Alberta was never far away from the table and the gunman who intended to kill Jackson, and her eyes were bright as she placed a single glass of whiskey in front of Koop. Catalina could almost feel the excitement radiating off the madam, the blood lust she barely held in check, and she hated Alberta more at that moment than she ever had.

  Koop quickly drained the glass, and Alberta was there to refill it. Catalina hoped, for a moment, that he might get drunk. That would give Jackson an edge. But Koop only sipped at the second glass, and watched Catalina over the rim. He had beady eyes, a muddy brown with no life, no soul.

  “How could you murder a defenseless old man?” Catalina asked finally, her anger overriding her good sense.

  “For six hundred dollars,” he said calmly. “It was nothing personal,” he assured her with a smile that told her he really thought that should make a difference. “Now, with the Kid, it’s right personal.”

  “Why?”

  Koop looked almost pensive, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward slightly.

  He slowly raised his right hand and pushed back the filthy cuff. Catalina saw the scar before he ran a thick finger over it.

  “He shot me. And then he left me to fend for myself, bleedin’ all over the place.”

  “I’m sure he had a good reason. Did you draw on him first?” Catalina knew before the question was out of her mouth that that wasn’t what had happened. Jackson shot to kill. He had told her that, and told her why.

  Koop snorted. “You think the Kid is better than me? That he wouldn’t draw on me first?”

  Catalina had no doubts about her answer. “I know he’s a better man than you. If he shot you, he had a good reason. And if he hit your hand, that’s what he was aiming for.”

  “He shot me from behind,” Koop said defensively. “I was only doin’ my job, darlin’. Hell, the same thing he does for a livin’.”

  “Jackson’s nothing like you,” Catalina whispered.

  “Jackson, is it?”

  Catalina refused to answer.

  “I met the Kid a few years back. We were both traveling through Colorado. I knew him, by reputation, and of course he had heard of me.” Koop had an inflated opinion of himself. Catalina could see that in his confident smile, and the sparkle that appeared briefly in his eyes. “We stopped in this little town north of Denver, and that’s where we got offered the job. The Kid turned it down flat, but I needed the money, so I took it on. The old farmer came to town, and I took him out right there.”

  Catalina couldn’t help but compare that incident to the job Jackson had been offered here in Baxter.

  “And Jackson shot you?”

  “Not until I killed the woman. That farmer’s wife. Hell, she was caterwauling something awful.”

  And he would kill her, once Jackson was dead. Catalina knew that now. Koop had no soul, no conscience, and there was no one in Baxter who would help her.

  She gave him a confident smile, even as her insides churned and her head pounded. “He won’t be aiming for your hand today. Do you prefer to be killed with a shot to the head or to the heart? Perhaps I could pass your preference on to Jackson before the shootout.”

  Koop’s sure smile faded, and Catalina knew she had at least dented his confidence.

  But soon that smug grin was back. “The Kid’s soft. He’s always been soft. Hell, I’ll empty both guns into the sonofabitch while you watch, and then I’ll collect on that bet.”

  Catalina would have fallen over if she hadn’t been tied to the chair. Her head swam, and she closed her eyes against the sudden dizziness that engulfed her.

  Koop wore two six-shooters. He’d just threatened to shoot Jackson a dozen times.

  “He’s not dead!” Harold Goodman pushed his way through the batwing doors, and Catalina snapped her head around. Goodman’s face was beet red with anger, and his hands were clenched at his sides.

  Koop remained seated, apparently unconcerned. “Who’s not dead?”

  “Doc Booker! Some damn farmer found him on the road, still in his buckboard, wounded but still alive.”

  Catalina closed her eyes and sighed. Relieved, frightened, angry, all at the same time, she tried to hold onto her sanity.

  “Where is he now?” Koop asked casually.

  “At the preacher’s house, with Reverend Preston watching over him.”

  “I’ll take care of him later, when I’m done with the Kid.”

  “That’s going to be difficult for you,” Catalina said sweetly. “You’ll be dead.”

  Alberta and Milo watched from a distance, having the sense to stay away from the emotion-charged Goodman and the calm and deadly Koop.

  “You were paid to do a job.” Goodman insisted, his anger making him foolish. “I insist that you take care of Doc Booker first.”

  “See?” Catalina cooed, egging Koop on. “Even this boy knows you can’t beat Kid Creede. Why else would he insist that you finish the job now?”

  Koop shot her an angry glance. “Am I gonna have to gag you, woman?”

  Catalina leaned back and was silent, but her smile — forced as it was — remained.

  Her arms and her hands were numb, but her boots kept the rope at her ankles from doing any damage. She could run, if she was free. She could flip Koop and take his guns, if she wasn’t tied up. Of course, she hadn’t been able to flip Milo, but he was even bigger than Koop, and she’d been drunk at the time.

  Goodman and Koop continued to stare at one another, and she could see the younger man growing angrier and more frustrated with each passing moment. Had he expected a man like Koop to obey him — to respect him — because he was paid to?

  Catalina could see what Goodman could not — that Koop’s hand rested on the butt of his gun, easily, almost casually. But not quite casually. The fingers flexed, jumped almost, as Jackson’s had on occasion.

  “Damn it, Wynkoop,” Goodman shouted, stepping forward. He raised his fist, in what could have been seen as a blow coming, though Catalina suspected the young man was simply raising his fist in impotent anger.

  They would never know. Koop drew his weapon and fired directly into Harold Goodman’s chest. Catalina flinched and closed her eyes. As much as she hated Harold Goodman, as much as she felt the man deserved to die at the hand of his own hired gun, she didn’t have the stomach to watch a man die, to see more blood spilled.

  She heard Koop order Milo to take away the body, in a voice more amused than remorseful. Harold Goodman might have been a pesky fly, or a spider beneath Koop’s heavy boot. He didn’t care that a man was dead, that he had taken a life. Not in the least.

  Catalina didn’t open her eyes until she felt those thick fingers beneath her chin, rough fingers caressing her skin.

  “Did I scare you, blondie?” he asked gruffly.

  She lifted her head to shake his fingers away. “I feel ill,” she admitted, and it was the truth. “Do you think you could … untie me? I mean, where am I going to go? How far could I expect to get?” Catalina forced her eyes wide and gave Koop her best vulnerable woman sta
re, scared and helpless. The scared part wasn’t an act.

  Koop actually looked as if he was considering her request, and then Alberta appeared at his elbow. “Watch your step with this one, Koop,” she confided. “She tossed Harold flat on his back one night a while back. Grabbed his arm and threw the boy over her shoulder. Damnedest thing I ever did see.”

  Koop tilted his head and gave Catalina what amounted to an oh-you-naughty-girl lift of his eyebrows, accompanied with a crooked smile, and Catalina knew that if she were free the first thing she would do was pop Alberta right in her big mouth.

  “Maybe I should leave you right where you are, for the moment.” Koop nodded his thanks to Alberta, leaving a frustrated Catalina to tug at knots that refused to give.

  He didn’t push his bay, but rode slowly into town. Rushing without thinking had almost gotten him killed the last time he was in Baxter. It took all his strength, all his resolve to push down the emotions that made him want to barrel headlong into town to find Catalina.

  Kid Creede didn’t act impulsively. Ever.

  They were expecting him. It was the middle of the day, not yet noon, but there was not a soul on the street. Straight ahead, at the opposite end of the single street, a door slammed shut. A gust of wind brushed across the dirt path, and for a moment Baxter looked like an abandoned mining town. A ghost town. There were plenty of those in Arizona Territory.

  Catalina had been wrong. He’d been wrong. He couldn’t leave Kid Creede behind and start a new life as if the first thirty-one years hadn’t happened. He couldn’t be reborn. There would always be a Koop out there, waiting. He wouldn’t ask Catalina to live like that.

  Koop stepped out of Alberta’s and onto the boardwalk. Alberta and Milo were right behind him, and they held between them a bound Catalina. Her hands were tied behind her; even her legs were lashed together. Koop was taking no chances with his hostage.

  The fury that welled up inside him was quickly squelched. It wouldn’t help Catalina. It would probably get them both killed. His eyes searched the windows and balconies above his head and found them as deserted as the street.

  Koop stepped onto the street as Jackson dismounted and tossed the reins over a hitching post.