by Will Keen
‘I figured a boat,’ Paladin said. ‘You scoffed at the very idea.’
‘But you were right,’ Emma said. ‘It comes in tonight. The Mexican boy’s brother’s on board, one Alvaro Rodriguez. He’s the man with the money we were wondering about – whether it’s gold or banknotes isn’t clear. He stole it somewhere in South America, and trekked his way north. He’s got men meeting him here. They’re coming in from Texas.’
Paladin was frowning. ‘Why? Breaker and his men are here with this Alvaro’s brother.’
‘Who is out for some kind of revenge. Somehow he heard of Alvaro’s sudden riches, doesn’t care much for him, and hit on the idea of taking the money.’
‘Someone else got wind of that faraway theft,’ Shorty Long said. He looked at Paladin. ‘If you were right, those lawmen were here not to arrest Breaker, but to put the handcuffs on Alvaro Rodriguez.’
‘I think it’s more complicated,’ Paladin said. ‘What if Rodriguez is already in irons. Say he was caught when he was setting sail—’
‘From Vera Cruz,’ Bowman-Laing said.
‘—and is now a prisoner. Wires hummed, signals went back and forth, and he’s to be handed over to Texas lawmen meeting the boat.’
‘What damn Texas lawmen?’ Brad Corrigan said. ‘I’ve been listening and not following one damn word.’
‘They’ve been dealt with, and Breaker’s lost another man,’ Paladin said. ‘There are no men coming in from Texas to help Alvaro Rodriguez. Tonight, young Rodriguez will be down there on the shore looking for a light flashing out at sea. He’ll acknowledge it. A small boat will come in, and the kid thinks he’s going to grab the cash from his brother. If I’m right, Alvaro is in irons, there’ll be an armed escort, and Breaker and the Mexican kid are looking at one hell of a battle.’
‘Leave ’em to it,’ Brad Corrigan said bluntly. ‘By dawn they’ll all be out of here.’
‘Leaving two good men buried in the woods,’ Bowman-Laing pointed out.
‘Something we cannot forget,’ Paladin said, ‘and that makes one more score I’ve got to settle with Bushwhack Jack Breaker.’ He grinned coldly. ‘Come dark tonight, there’ll be more horses passing through Salty’s Notch than through a bronc chute on rodeo day.’
The former wrangler and bronc buster chuckled. ‘My word, that takes me back.’ And then he sobered. ‘Emma’s made the point, and you reinforced it: the killing of Mackie and Paulson cannot go unpunished. But what’s your plan, Paladin? I take it we’re going down there tonight, but when we get there – then what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Paladin said. ‘But as a bounty hunter, that’s been the story of my life.’
Chapter Nine
Bloody-minded, flatly refusing to take no for an answer, Brad Corrigan insisted on riding out with Paladin and Long. Bowman-Laing, a slim figure outlined by lamplight flooding from the doorway, was shaking her head in disbelief as she watched the two men help La Belle Commune’s wounded marshal up on to his horse.
Yet, despite losing the argument with Corrigan, Paladin knew there was more. He was up against kindred spirits. Bowman-Laing had calmly told them she would remain in the lodge and wait for news. Not for one moment did Paladin believe her.
One stroke of good fortune: there was no moon. High clouds had floated in to give thin cover that created luminosity, flattening contours, turning men into pallid ghosts riding phantom horses. Knowing that Breaker, Rodriguez and the two remaining gunmen would be watching the waters of the Gulf intently from the patch of shore at the end of Salty’s Notch, Paladin nevertheless chose a route that carried them wide of the town.
They crossed the trail well to the east of La Belle Commune, going across singly. Long, holding his loaded Henry rifle across his thighs, led the way after a quick glance to ensure they were unobserved. The low ridge that in town was cut by Salty’s Notch had at this point flattened to level ground, and once across the trail the horses trotted without sound across soft sandy soil. Ahead of them, black silhouettes in the wan light, the tall palm trees bordering the shore were like gallows awaiting the arrival of doomed men, the rustling of their fronds like the flutter of vultures’ wings.
The three men maintained their spacing. Corrigan was a few yards behind Long, not comfortable in the saddle. Paladin took up the rear. Deliberately, he dropped back – and at once wondered what that was for, what primitive instinct was causing his scalp to prickle, the cold sweat to break out on his brow.
Long was through the palms now and on the shingle beach, Corrigan closing up. Then, behind those two men and to one side there was movement where there should have been none. Peering into the deep shadows under the palms, Paladin swore softly and reached for his six-gun. His mouth was open to call a warning when a rider pulled out. His black attire had rendered him all but invisible. He fell in behind Corrigan. Something was said that Paladin was too far away to hear. Then light glinted on the man’s six-gun. It was levelled at Brad Corrigan’s back. Paladin heard a hammer being cocked, followed by an icy chuckle.
The man was Flint. For Paladin, yet again, it was too late.
‘There,’ Breaker said softly. ‘You see it – or am I going crazy with looking?’
‘There is a light, for certain,’ Guillermo Rodriguez said. ‘I have been watching it for several minutes. Now, I am sure. The signal is as arranged.’
‘About damn time,’ Breaker said, and he walked away impatiently, kicking at the shingle; turned, looked at where Devlin was standing by the palms with the three horses; looked again at the young Mexican who, to Breaker’s chagrin, had been calling all the shots.
The killing of Lomax by the men in the buckboard did not concern Breaker; like Flint, he was looking forward to a welcome increase in his share of the stolen gold. However, the fact that Lomax had been gunned down by US marshals was completely unexpected. The lawmen had hinted that they had no interest in the town. ‘If it’s not the town we want, but the beach’, they’d said, and so the clear inference to be drawn was they were there to arrest Alvaro Rodriguez.
If they’d got wind of the stolen gold, the identity of the thief and his destination, who else knew? And where were the men Guillermo Rodriguez had said would be there to meet his brother?
Rodriguez, impatient, called, ‘You have the lamp?’
Devlin came jogging across the shingle. He handed the shiny tin lantern to Rodriguez. A match flared. The lamp’s wick sputtered, then caught. The yellow light was a pool wavering around the Mexican’s boots as he walked down to the water’s edge. He held the lantern high and swept off his sombrero. He used the big hat to cover the light, expose it, cover it again. The movements were erratically spaced.
Breaker shook his head. ‘How the hell will they see that?’ he growled, moving to Rodriguez’ shoulder.
‘It is possible even without glasses. They are close now, but only as close as is safe for a big boat. You see? Against the horizon? It is a ketch. A small boat will be lowered—’
He broke off because a distant splash told its own story.
‘And now what we have been waiting for begins to happen.’ Rodriguez’s grin was wide and dazzling.
All three men stood peering across the flat waters with aching eyes, straining their ears. It was the kid who was first to see the small boat bringing Alvaro Rodriguez to the shore, Breaker, moments later, picking up the splash of the oars. Then they could all see it: the phosphorescence as the oars lifted dripping from the water drawing their gaze, their eyes immediately identifying the dark shape low in the water.
‘Small row boat with three men,’ Breaker said. ‘One’s working those oars. One’s standing, got his hand on the other feller’s shoulder.’
Rodriguez shrugged. ‘Two men, three men, it is something I do not understand but it is unimportant.’
He’d placed the lantern on the shingle. Now he moved away from Breaker and Devlin, all his attention on the boat. There were no waves. The sea was lapping the shingle gently, ebbing and flowing with a
faint hiss. Then, almost magically, the high cloud cover broke and the small boat was caught in a shaft of moonlight. There was a grating sound as the prow grounded, and the tall man who was on his feet lurched forward. The oars were shipped. The rower straightened, eased the kinks out of his back. The tall man bent to grasp the gunwales with one hand and stepped out into the shallow water.
The seated man rose and followed him. Dark-skinned, he wore a fancy sombrero, a neat black jacket with its edges trimmed with braid. He splashed awkwardly into the water. His hands were in front of him, his movement restricted by manacles gleaming on his wrists. As he entered the water he staggered backwards. This took him a little way away from the tall man. He bumped against the boat. It rocked. The oarsman cursed and grabbed the gunwales.
Alvaro Rodriguez flashed a glance towards his brother. Their eyes met. Guillermo Rodriguez gave an almost imperceptible nod.
And, as the tall man snapped a command at his prisoner, the night air was ripped apart by a rapid burst of distant gunfire.
Chapter Ten
Brad Corrigan fell off his horse.
To his dying day, Paladin would marvel at the wounded marshal’s quick thinking. He’d heard the metallic cocking of the six-gun. The man holding the gun was behind him. Corrigan was in too much pain to twist in the saddle. He had already taken one bullet in the back. A second would surely finish him off.
So fast was Corrigan’s fall, so unexpected, Flint was for a fleeting few seconds, incapable of movement. He was a man holding a cocked six-gun, pointing it at a horse without a rider.
He was snapped out of his daze by Shorty Long. The little hostler was lame in one leg but could near as dammit make a horse talk. He heard the click of a hammer followed by Brad hitting the sandy ground with a thud and a grunt of pain. With the touch of one knee and a light tug on the opposite rein Long had his horse halfway around before Flint could react. The rifle was still flat across Long’s thighs. Without lifting it he jacked a shell into the breech and pulled the trigger.
In the faint moonlight the muzzle flash was blinding. The bullet plucked at Flint’s empty leather holster, then sliced across his horse’s rump. The animal squealed in pain, reared, hoofs flashing. Grabbing the saddle horn with one hand, firing blind, Flint managed to send three quick shots hissing out high over the Gulf. Then he tumbled backwards out of the saddle. His horse bolted, galloping towards the wide expanse of beach.
Caught well back up the trail, Paladin spurred his horse and moved in fast. Corrigan was doing his best to crawl into the shelter of the palm trees. Long had slid from his horse and was limping towards Flint. The outlaw, winded by his fall, was struggling to rise. Shocked, bruised, disorientated, he had kept his grip on his six-gun. Long, coming at him, was outlined against the luminous skies.
Flint hit him with a single shot. The hostler lurched sideways. All his weight was taken by his gammy leg. It collapsed under him and he went down in a crumpled heap.
Then Brad Corrigan rolled on to his back. Upper body raised, he gripped his Colt in both hands. Then, firing between his feet, he opened up with blazing gunfire from under the trees. At the same time Paladin leaped from his horse, dropped to one knee and triggered his six-gun.
He heard the thump of the marshal’s bullets hitting flesh and bone. Saw his own bullets punch holes in the outlaw’s face. Flint cried out once, pitifully. Then he flopped down, a slack body lying in the dust, devoid of life.
Silence. The distant lapping of the sea, the rustle of the palms.
‘Shoulder,’ Long moaned, sitting cross-legged and rocking. The rifle was still clutched in one hand. With the other he was struggling to staunch the flow of blood from the wound. ‘Plugged me in the shoulder, damn him.’
‘Went in the front, so at least you can reach yours,’ Corrigan growled. ‘Me, I hit the ground hard. The wound in my back’s opened up again and there’s damn all I can do about it.’
‘I blame myself for what’s happened,’ Paladin said. ‘Both of you need Doc Forbes, and this time it’s my turn to go fetch him.’
Once again disgusted with his performance, he was turning his horse to go for the doctor when, from the other end of the beach, there came a rattle of gunfire.
Breaker had sent Flint out to cover the far end of the beach because he’d grown increasingly suspicious about an old woman’s motives. Earlier that day she had walked into the jail looking for Corrigan. She said her name was Emma Bowman-Laing and, like most elderly folk, she had difficulty sleeping. At some time around midnight, she said sweetly, she had distinctly heard gunfire up near her old home and was rather worried.
Breaker, his mind on the crackle of gunfire coming from the outskirts of town where he’d placed his men on guard, had pacified her, taken her hand when she politely welcomed him as the new town marshal and smiled through his impatience. Then, with Rodriguez, he had stepped out into the heat of the sun and the Mex kid had never stopped talking.
Bowman-Laing, when she eventually emerged from the office and walked off up the street, had looked frail and confused. Later, Breaker was to remember her eyes, their clear bright blue and the look of intelligence in them she was unable to hide. And he wondered if she was playing him like a fish.
Now, he was again being distracted by the rattle of gunfire. Instinctively, he and Devlin turned to gaze up the stretch of beach. They looked away only fleetingly, but it was enough for Guillermo Rodriguez.
The Mexican drew his six-gun. He shot Devlin through the heart. The big man had not hit the ground before Rodriguez plucked another six-gun from his waistband and tossed it across the narrow stretch of water to his brother. Alvaro caught it deftly in his manacled hands. The tall man had also been looking along the beach. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the glint of metal as the six-gun whirled through the air. His eyes widened. He dropped his hand in a desperate attempt to draw his gun. Without hesitation Rodriguez smashed a savage blow across the bridge of his nose with the gun’s barrel. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. With a splash, the man fell face down in the water.
Moving fast, Alvaro Rodriguez tucked the six-gun in his waistband, reached back into the boat for a bulging leather case, then waded two steps forward. He drove a booted foot hard down on the tall man’s back. Then he straightened his leg, leaned his weight on it and held him beneath the surface. For a few moments there was a frenzied thrashing. The man’s legs kicked the water to foam stained red with his blood. Then the kicking slowed, stopped. Bubbles broke the water’s surface in one brief burst, then they too died.
With a wild splashing the sailor who had ferried the lawman and his prisoner from the ketch, dug his oars into the water, executed a hurried turn and pulled rapidly away from the shore.
And all this time Breaker was staring into the muzzle of Guillermo Rodriguez’s six-gun.
‘I was wrong about you,’ Breaker said. ‘This meeting was arranged. You didn’t sell your brother down the river.’
‘But it was a good story,’ Guillermo Rodriguez said, grinning. ‘The long ride in a wagon from Nicaragua with stolen gold with always the fear of pursuit, Alvaro’s ability to sail a boat well in all weathers. But, of course, there was no wagon journey, and there is no gold. My brother, he robbed a bank in Vera Cruz.’
‘And got away,’ Alvaro Rodriguez said, splashing out of the shallows. ‘But only for a little while and, when I knew capture was inevitable I arranged for Guillermo to meet me here. I suggested he bring men with him who would, if necessary, kill the several lawmen who would be accompanying me.’ He shrugged. ‘But of course there was only the one lawman, and I have myself killed him very easily.’
He had the heavy leather case in one hand. The six-gun was in the other. He had not yet fired a shot. His eyes, when he looked at Breaker, had a blank look in them Breaker knew meant his life was hanging by a thread.
‘There’s a lot of men dead,’ Breaker said. ‘Your kid brother was responsible for four of ’em.’ He shook his head ruefully at Guillermo Rodrigue
z. ‘You think that makes you some kind of red-hot gunslinger, but you had it easy, Guillermo. Three you shot in the back; Devlin, there, he was distracted; you shot a man who was looking the other way.’ He paused, let the moment hang in the air then said softly, ‘The odds here are two to one in your favour, but I’m looking you in the face, kid. You think you’ve got the guts?’
Guillermo Rodriguez took a couple of steps backwards, pouched his six-gun, held his arms out from his sides.
‘Now we see,’ he said. ‘My brother Alvaro, he will stay out of this. It is you and me, face to face.’ He grinned. ‘But I think maybe you have a yellow streak, Breaker. You will run for your life and I will be forced to shoot you in the back—’
‘Get it done,’ Alvaro snapped, ‘there’s riders coming fast along the beach.’
And in that instant when Guillermo flicked a glance at his brother, Jack Breaker went for his gun. He was swift. His hand accomplished the short down-and-up movement in the blink of an eye. He curled his thumb over the hammer. The snapped upward movement cocked the heavy weapon. He was too fast for Guillermo Rodriguez. The kid’s lips drew back from his gleaming white teeth. His hand touched the butt of his gun but already he was staring death in the face: the black hole of a six-gun’s muzzle.
Breaker was fast, but his desperate effort was wasted because yet again Guillermo Rodriguez had lied through his teeth. In the instant before Breaker could squeeze the trigger, Alvaro lifted his six-gun casually and shot him in the arm. Breaker’s fingers went dead. His six gun fell in wet sand.
Alvaro Rodriguez grabbed Guillermo’s arm, pulled him away and, as hoofbeats hammered closer, the brothers sprinted for the three horses tethered under the palms.
