The Outlaws of Salty's Notch

by Will Keen

‘Dammit, the rider was Emma,’ Corrigan said fiercely. He was walking with the hostler, his clenched hands showing white knuckles as he looked behind him, to the side, searching aimlessly. ‘She rode out after Paladin and Breaker with no clear idea of what she was about. I warned her, tried to stop her. . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Something must’ve gone badly wrong, but how far did she get? What happened to her, and where?’

  ‘She’s a feisty lady, but Paladin and Breaker were chasing those two Mexicans,’ Long said. He looked grimly at Corrigan. ‘That young Mexican is a cold-blooded killer. By the look of this horse, the feller riding her was using spurs with big Mexican rowels.’

  His message was clear. Corrigan felt hollow. He stopped, stood with hands on hips. His eyes searched the street, the rough ground between the wide-spaced shacks where late afternoon shadows fell; the grassy slopes leading up to the Bowman-Laing bridge over Petit Creek and beyond that the shell of the old house.

  ‘If you’re right, and it’s the young Mexican, why has he come back – and then that same question: where the hell is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Shorty Long had stopped with him. He was holding the exhausted mare still, gentling her with his hand as he watched Corrigan with concern. ‘I tend horses, Brad, spend time in the saloon playing the piano when I’m not serving drinks. You, you’re a tough old cattle-town marshal—’

  ‘All right, I’ll give you my opinion,’ Corrigan snapped. ‘Yes, it’s the young Mexican. That’s a hunch, and when they’re mine, I trust them. The way I’m picturing it, he’s been using two horses and he came back here in one hell of a hurry. On the edge of town he let Emma’s mare go, then went his way.’ His face was bleak. There was pain naked in his eyes. ‘I don’t know where Bowman-Laing is, I don’t know why the Mex has come back, but this is a clear warning, Shorty: look what I’ve done, he’s sayin’, now make a guess on what I’ll do next. And I wouldn’t be one bit surprised if at this very moment that Mexican kid isn’t out there, swigging out of a jar of mescal while he watches us over the sights of a rifle.’

  To Paladin, it seemed like the longest ride of his life. The way he felt it had taken a whole year, with those 365 days squeezed into two that from dawn to dusk were exquisite agony.

  When he saw some way ahead of him the shacks of La Belle Commune shimmering in the heat haze, he was a dried-out shell parched by the overhead sun and clinging to the saddle horn with what remained of his strength. On the banks of the wide river he had bandaged the wound in his shoulder with the sleeves torn from his shirt. In the two days it had taken him to get from the Sabine to La Belle Commune, his shoulder had not for one minute stopped throbbing.

  Yet, plumb tuckered-out, famished, dry as the proverbial bone and as weak as a day old kitten, Paladin was clear-headed. Not once during that ride had he failed to keep his eyes skinned for any sign of Guillermo Rodriguez. Not once had he ridden through a stand of trees or taken his horse under the shadow of a tree-lined bluff without constantly scanning the slopes and ridges for the ideal site for a bushwhack.

  There had been no sign of the man. No crack of a rifle, no bullet piercing his flesh to add to his pain. Paladin had made it all the way to La Belle Commune with just the one painful fall from his horse when he sank into a deep sleep in the saddle – but what about Brad Corrigan? If there had been no sign of Rodriguez on the trail, the Mexican had swallowed Paladin’s theatrical dying act, dismissed the once-feared bounty hunter from his mind and concentrated on what lay ahead. What spurred the Mexican on was the story he had been fed of a devil in human clothing: Brad Corrigan, the renegade Texan Bowman-Laing had told him had killed his mother.

  And the town, as Paladin rode in, was ominously quiet.

  The honky-tonk piano jangled discordantly as Shorty Long’s hands banged down on the yellow ivories. He froze in that position, leaning half forward with his hand spread wide. He could feel the tender skin around his healing bullet wound stretching painfully as his eyes stared at the intricate gold design on the old piano’s panels close to his nose.

  The ring of the six-gun’s muzzle pushed warm and hard against the nape of his neck. Long’s mouth went dry at the sound of the weapon cocking.

  ‘If you are Brad Corrigan,’ a soft voice said, ‘you should perhaps remember your childhood prayers while you have time.’

  ‘I’m not Corrigan.’

  ‘No. You are too small, too insignificant. Is clear to me that I have the wrong man. But you know where he is, of course.’

  ‘Take that damned gun away from my neck, Rodriguez.’

  There was a wicked chuckle. The muzzle was removed. Booted feet scraped. Long turned cautiously on the rickety stool. Rodriguez had stepped back. Silhouetted by the backdrop of bright sunlight in the saloon’s open doorway he was a figure larger than life, his tasselled sombrero casting a grotesque shadow. The light flooding through the doorway glinted on the silver conchos decorating his hat band.

  He waggled the shiny six-gun menacingly.

  ‘Where is Brad Corrigan?’

  ‘I don’t know any Corrigan.’

  ‘Is a pity, but no es importante. I am quite content to kill every man who gives me the wrong answer. When I get the right answer, I will kill Corrigan.’

  ‘I don’t know who this Corrigan is,’ Long said, ‘but killing me won’t help you find him.’

  ‘Es verdadero. So perhaps there is another way. If you are a man of some importance in this apology for a town and I take you outside into the sun with a gun at your throat—’

  ‘What’s going on here, Shorty?’

  Like a startled lizard, Rodriguez took refuge. In a blur of movement he took several dancing steps that put him behind Long. He was much taller than the little hostler and so not entirely hidden, but the ring of the six-gun’s muzzle was once again at the nape of Long’s neck.

  ‘Ah,’ Rodriguez said softly as sunlight reflected from the mirror behind the bar touched Corrigan’s face, glinted on his badge of office. ‘Is a dead man, risen again. Next time I will be sure to shoot very straight.’

  ‘He’s looking for a feller called Corrigan,’ Shorty Long said.

  ‘What’s he want with him?’

  ‘Wants him dead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Many years ago,’ Rodriguez said, ‘this Corrigan was with renegades who cross the Bravo with Jack Breaker. When they attack my pueblo, Corrigan, he shoot and kill my mother. I have killed Breaker. So now. . . .’

  There was a sudden silence. Corrigan’s face had hardened. Then he shrugged.

  ‘Wish I could help,’ he said, ‘but being entirely truthful, I can’t say I’ve ever come face to face with the man.’

  Despite the deadly ring of steel, Long chuckled.

  Rodriguez pushed him away, hard. Long’s gammy leg gave beneath him. Deliberately, he emphasized the stumble. He fell against Corrigan, clutched at the marshal’s clothing for support. When he straightened and stepped away, Corrigan had turned half sideways and his six-gun had vanished from its holster.

  Rodriguez had not spotted the bold move. He shook his head impatiently. ‘Is a very old woman I see in Bay City,’ he said. ‘She lives here, I have seen her, she is perhaps familiar to you. My actions in dealing with Breaker were impressive to her. So she told me this about Corrigan, this shooting of my mother. Also, she say he is well known in this town. If she is right, you are wrong. So I find out. Is easy. You tell me, or you die.’

  ‘You’d better hold that questioning for a little while, rest your trigger finger,’ Corrigan said. ‘I hear a rider, and it sounds as if he’s coming this way.’

  Paladin rode warily. Once he was within the town limits, the electric tension that was crackling in the air drove all aches and pains to a hidden recess in his mind. He listened with straining ears, probed every possible hiding place with eyes that were never still; paid particular attention to the sixth sense that in the past had many times saved his life.

  The wide street was deserted. A hot dry
breeze sent a torn scrap of paper skittering in a cloud of dust. Paladin rode through it, eyes narrowed. He pushed on to the jail, and there he drew rein. His sixth sense was screaming a warning.

  The afternoon sun was warm on his back, but the sight of the empty rocking chair sent a chill down his spine. Guillermo Rodriguez had come to La Belle Commune hunting Brad Corrigan. When Paladin turned his gaze across the street, he saw Rodriguez’s horse tied outside Paulson’s place.

  ‘Well now,’ he murmured. ‘So this is where it ends.’

  And he dismounted with difficulty, tied his horse and started across the street.

  He walked stiffly, picking his steps with care because of the weakness that he knew was only in abeyance. He drew his six-gun. Without taking his eyes off Paulson’s place he checked the cylinder’s loads silently and by the touch of his fingers on the bullets’ round noses, let it fall lightly back into the holster. In the soft dust of the street his booted feet moved with a whisper of sound, but his eyes looked with misgivings at the loose steps leading up on to the gallery: climbing those in silence would be an impossibility.

  When he reached the hitch rail, he thoughtfully touched Rodriguez’s horse, ran his hand down its neck as it nudged him with its head. He squinted up at the saloon’s open door. If Rodriguez was in there, a man climbing those creaking steps would be alerting the Mexican gunman. Walking into that dim room with the sun at his back, he would be committing suicide. But if he circled the building and went in through the back door the situation would be reversed. His approach would be unexpected, and the sun’s location would be in his favour.

  Paladin slapped the horse’s rump. It whinnied, stepped its rear end sideways, tail swishing; whinnied again in protest.

  Now Rodriguez knows I’m here, out front, he thought with satisfaction.

  Then as fast as stiff muscles and almost useless left arm would allow, Paladin ran for the side alleyway. The salt tang of the sea was cool on his face, but all too reminiscent of the scent and taste of freshly spilled blood.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘I give you my opinion,’ Guillermo Rodriguez said. ‘It is Paladin out there. I kill him on the banks of the Sabine, but he is like the tall marshal here: he rise from the dead.’

  ‘You’re a lousy shot,’ Corrigan said.

  ‘That is a matter of opinion, and perhaps a big mistake.’

  Out in front of the saloon a horse whinnied, then again. Rodriguez grinned savagely.

  ‘Paladin was a bounty hunter,’ Corrigan said. ‘He downed your pal Flint without too much trouble and now he’s coming after you.’

  ‘Bounty hunters are insignificant. And you must understand that if this Paladin comes through that door with his six-gun blazing, one of you will be the first to die.’ His teeth flashed. ‘I will leave you in suspense.’

  Then, behind him, a door banged open.

  ‘Drop it, Rodriguez.’

  Paladin had his six-gun out and cocked. He was defeated by the bewildering speed of the slim Mexican. Without hesitation, Rodriguez shot Shorty Long in the throat. Then he sprang at Corrigan. The six-gun Long had been hiding clattered to the ground. The little hostler fell with a gurgling cry. He was behind the unarmed Corrigan. The marshal stumbled over his body as Rodriguez’s shoulder slammed into his chest. His hat fell off and rolled under the tables. Then the Mexican was behind him. He whipped a sinewy arm around the marshal’s throat and held him in a choking headlock. He poked his six-gun under Corrigan’s arm and fired two shots towards Paladin. Then he began dragging Corrigan along the bar towards the door.

  The shots drove Paladin back against the kitchen doorway as he ducked the hot lead. He had badly misjudged the opposition, and he’d been wrong about the light. Rodriguez and Corrigan were outlined against the bright rectangle of the open doorway, but the dazzling light in Paladin’s eyes turned the room as dark as a cave. Rodriguez was clutching the marshal too close to him for Paladin to risk a shot. Halfway along the bar the Mexican flung the marshal bodily away from him, hooked a foot around his ankle. Corrigan hit the floor hard, roaring in frustration and pain. Exposed but now free to run, Rodriguez used the light and the shadows. One second he was visible to Paladin, the next he had dropped to the side and was lost. Paladin’s eyes were adjusting. He had time for one swift shot that drew splinters close to the Mexican’s head. Then it was too late. Rodriguez darted out of the shadows and into the light once more – then he was gone.

  Paladin stepped further into the room and took a quick look at Long. The hostler was lying motionless in a pool of blood.

  ‘Shorty’s dead,’ Corrigan said over the rattle of receding hoofbeats. Up on his feet, the marshal was looking for his hat. He located it, kicked the table out of the way, slapped on the battered Derby and said, ‘Get after that feller, Paladin. I’ll go see Doc Foster, tell him to arrange a buckboard to collect Shorty’s body. Then I’ll grab me some weapons and shells from the jail and follow you on up.’

  ‘On up where?’

  Corrigan’s grin was bleak. ‘That Mex is after a man called Corrigan. He’s not about to leave town, and my guess is he’ll take to the high ground. He’ll be making for the Bowman-Laing bridge.’

  ‘It was Bowman-Laing who put him on to you.’

  ‘Yeah, so he said. An old woman in Bay City. I find it hard to believe.’

  ‘She told it to me herself when I cut her down from the tree.’ Paladin flapped a hand at the marshal’s wide-eyed consternation. ‘She’s unhurt, and had her reasons for what she did, but that’s for later. We need to get Rodriguez before he gets you. I stopped by his horse out at the front rail. He’s got a rifle and I was a fool not to take it. With that, in cover, he’ll be difficult to shift.’

  The sun was low. Once Paladin had pushed his horse across the long grassy slopes and was into the trees sheltering the upper reaches of Petit Creek, the shadows were long. The smell of the creek was rank, but almost overpowered by the lingering stench of smoke and charred wood from the ruined house.

  Paladin had again been expecting Rodriguez to attempt an ambush from the cover of the timber, and so had ridden with care, his six-gun always at the ready. Against a rifle, from any decent range, that was about as much use as a slingshot against a charging grizzly. But there was no ambush. The woods were silent but for the rustle of leaves in the faint breeze, the crackle of twigs marking Paladin’s progress. He took his horse across the bridge, the echo of its hoofs on the shaky timber sending roosting birds flapping and squawking from the undergrowth. When he reached the edge of the trees and drew rein to look across the ruined lawns fronting the big house, realization hit him with a jolt. Corrigan had said Rodriguez would make for the high ground. What the wily old marshal had been telling Paladin – without spelling it out – was that it was in Emma Bowman-Laing’s old house that Guillermo Rodriguez would make his last stand.

  And, by God, Paladin vowed, this would be his last.

  The house was a blackened shell, but for a man with a rifle it was ideal cover. The fire had burnt upwards fiercely, but the unnatural downdraught that had come whirling through the trees had stopped it in its tracks. In any fire-gutted building, it’s always the stairs that are left standing. Rodriguez would use those, find footing on what was left of the floors and position himself alongside a window. Rooting him out of there would be like trying to get a clam out of its shell.

  Those thoughts were occupying one part of Paladin’s mind when he heard the rattle of hoofs on timber behind him and knew Corrigan had reached the bridge. That split-second distraction was almost his undoing. The crack of the rifle was followed by a puff of smoke from a downstairs window. A green overhanging branch took the impact of the bullet, split, whipped Paladin across the face. He rocked sideways in the saddle, cursing, and a second bullet was an angry bee buzzing uncomfortably close to his right ear.

  ‘Pop a few shots in his direction from time to time,’ Corrigan called. ‘I’ll cut through the woods behind the house, leave my horse
and take him from the rear.’

  ‘There’s fresh graves in there, Brad.’

  ‘Well let’s make damn sure the next one you dig is for that Mex.’

  ‘It will be. When I hear you open fire, I’ll come running.’

  ‘Don’t drag your heels. I’m a tired old man with a bullet hole in his back.’

  Corrigan tossed over a box of shells which Paladin caught deftly, then brush crackled as the Derby-hatted marshal took his horse into the woods where Paulson and Mackie lay buried. Prudently out of the saddle and back under cover, Paladin tracked his progress by sound. He wondered if Rodriguez were doing the same, and thought it likely. But even if the Mexican knew he was being outflanked it didn’t lessen the danger he faced.

  To add to Rodriguez’s problems and help Corrigan move in unobserved, Paladin slipped his Winchester from its boot and planted a couple of shots through the centre of the downstairs window. They whacked into the room’s back wall with hollow thuds.

  He was rewarded by merry laughter. An answering volley came from an upstairs window. The bullets sliced through high branches. Leaves fluttered like moths around Paladin’s head.

  Then, in a show of bravado and brazen defiance, Guillermo Rodriguez stepped out on to the first-floor balcony. He lifted his rifle and waved it aloft, then swept off his colourful sombrero and executed an elaborate bow.

  The defiant, theatrical pose ended abruptly. Corrigan must have chosen that moment to charge into the building from the rear. Rodriguez spun on his heel. Paladin tried another long shot and saw it chip fragments of blackened glass from the window frame. One must have hit Rodriguez as he fled, for he clapped a hand to his face. Then he was gone, inside the ruins. Shots rang out, muffled by distance and intervening walls.

  Paladin slipped the rifle back into its boot. He hitched his horse’s reins to a tree, took shells from the box and filled his belt loops. Then he set off at a loping run across the lawns to the house.