Santa Fe Showdown

by Jory Sherman

  “It’s legal enough. If the local law mixes in, you can tell them you’re a deputy U.S. marshal. I’ll back you up.”

  They rode over to some hitch rings along the low brick wall and dismounted. They quickly tied their reins to the rings and started to stride toward the hotel entrance.

  Suddenly, they heard the sound of hoofbeats, and both men turned to see three riders galloping toward the hotel, hell bent for leather. Strollers moved out of their way. The riders stopped a few yards from the hotel as the man in the lead held up his hand. Then he dropped his arm slightly and pointed toward Lew.

  “There he is, the bastard.”

  Lew’s heart seemed to stop dead in his chest.

  It was Charley Grimes, and he was already reaching for his sidearm.

  “Duck,” Blackhawk said as Grimes drew his pistol and took aim.

  Both men dove for the bushes in front of the hotel as the men with Grimes, Baker and Riley, spilled from their horses, their pistols drawn. They swatted the rumps of their horses, and the animals humped up and leapt away at a run.

  Grimes fired his pistol as Blackhawk knocked Lew to the ground behind the low wall, into a clump of bushes.

  Lew could hear Grimes running toward them, his boots coming down hard on the flange of cobblestones that bordered the front of the hotel. Lew clawed for his pistol as Blackhawk rolled away into the concealing shrubs.

  Grimes fired again, and the bullet skidded across a brick, spun off in a caroming whine before it thudded into the heavy outer wall of the hotel. Lew heard a shot from behind him and knew that Blackhawk had drawn a bead on one of the charging men. He raised his head and saw Grimes clutch his belly. But he didn’t go down.

  He put his left hand over his belly and blood pushed through his fingers, gushing from his gut in a crimson torrent. Grimes staggered forward, hammering back his pistol for another shot. Blackhawk fired again, and the bullet caught Grimes high in the right side of his chest, spinning him off-stride. He staggered under the impact and took aim on Blackhawk’s position.

  Lew lifted his pistol, thumbing the hammer back, and snapped off a shot at Grimes. The bullet slammed into his breastbone. Lew heard it crack like a walnut. Grimes sank to his knees, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets. He grunted, but did not go down. He looked toward Lew and swung his pistol, taking aim even as he was obviously dying. Lew wasted no time. He squeezed the trigger of his Colt and saw Grimes twitch midway in the swing of his arm. The bullet caught him in the throat. Blood gushed from the wound as if someone had exploded a catsup can, flowing down his neck and soaking his shirt until it looked like the side of an Iowa barn.

  Grimes crumpled in a heap, releasing the grip on his pistol. His fingers twitched as the gun hit the ground with a thud, puffing up a tiny cloud of dust.

  Baker and Riley split up and tried to flank Blackhawk and Zane. They ran hunched over like sniffing bloodhounds, and they were fast, so fast Lew had trouble tracking them. He heard Blackhawk’s pistol roar, and saw his bullet kick up dirt a half yard behind Riley, chipping off a chunk of brick that tumbled through the air like a jerked-out tooth. Riley fired back at Blackhawk and the bullet ripped through small limbs, cracking them like matchsticks, mangling leaves to shreds before it thudded into the hotel wall, scattering painted plaster in all directions.

  Baker hesitated, then dashed straight at the edging wall and leaped over it. Blackhawk blasted off a shot, but missed.

  “Got to reload, Lew. Can you handle it?”

  “Yeah,” Lew said, and cracked off a shot at Riley, who had stopped and turned to take aim at Blackhawk. Just as Lew squeezed the trigger, Riley fired and then threw himself headlong onto the ground. He sprawled there and rolled over toward the wall for cover.

  Lew’s bullet whined off a cobblestone, winging into the starry night. People who had been nearby a few moments before were either huddled against buildings, or had disappeared. It was strangely quiet.

  Lew could hear Blackhawk feeding fresh cartridges into the cylinder of his pistol. He heard the slide working to eject the empty hulls. Lew had lost count of how many times he had fired, but knew he would have to reload after another shot or two, unless he was already empty. It was difficult to see Riley, and Baker had vanished into some brush. Lew would not know where Baker was until Baker fired his pistol and Lew could see the flash.

  A man walked out of the hotel and stood there for a moment in confusion. He looked at all the people huddled in fear beyond the walkway. He saw a woman run across the plaza and the streaming fountain and knew something was wrong. He turned right around and went back inside the hotel.

  “I’m loaded,” Blackhawk said, and Lew heard a rustling in the bushes as the marshal changed position.

  He took that interval to eject his spent cartridges and reload. He kept his head down, hugged the ground. Riley was no more than thirty feet away and could be preparing to attack.

  “See anybody?” Blackhawk asked.

  “I just reloaded.”

  “I’m going after the one who ran into the bushes.”

  “That’s Baker,” Lew said and lifted his head to peer over the wall.

  That’s when Riley rose up and fired his pistol. Lew ducked, but the bullet sizzled past his ear and the hairs rose on the back of Lew’s neck as a shiver rippled up his spine. Riley fired again, and Lew heard the bullet spang into the wall, spitting up fragments of brick.

  Blackhawk was moving. Lew heard more rustling behind him. Then he saw Baker push aside a branch and take a bead on the marshal.

  “Look out, Horatio,” Lew gruffed. Then he crawled a few feet on his belly and lifted his head again. Riley had flattened out again, but Lew could see the crown of his hat.

  He knew where Riley was. Lew dug his hand into the dirt and picked up a clump. Then he tossed it over the side of the low wall, straight at Riley.

  Riley fired off another shot, and that’s when Lew stuck his head up and used the wall to brace his pistol. He shot and saw his bullet hit the crown of Riley’s hat, tearing it from his head. The hat sailed a few feet, then sank to the ground. Riley fired again just as Lew ducked back down.

  Baker fired two quick shots into the bushes behind Lew. He waited to hear a groan from Blackhawk, but none came. Instead, Blackhawk fired off a shot at Baker. Lew heard the bullet splash through leaves and strike a tree trunk with a loud thunk, like a hammer hitting wood.

  A man emerged from the hotel’s front entrance, carrying a shotgun.

  “What the hell’s going on out here?” he yelled.

  Baker shot him where he stood. The man staggered a few feet, then dropped to the ground. His shotgun clattered on the stone walk.

  Blackhawk fired another shot in the direction of Baker, and Baker returned fire almost immediately.

  Lew crawled two more feet and grabbed another handful of dirt. He tossed it where he thought Riley would be and heard the clod hit something. He raised up for a quick glimpse, then ducked his head just before Riley fired.

  Lew came up with his Colt and saw Riley looking down at his pistol.

  “Drop it, Riley,” Lew yelled.

  Riley brought his pistol up to bear on Lew. Lew fired from twenty feet away. Riley let out a grunt as the bullet struck him just above the belt buckle. A red stain spread across his shirt and he took aim at Lew. His shot went wild, sizzling over Lew’s head.

  Lew shot him again, right in the heart.

  Riley did a slow pirouette as he sank to the ground. His pistol tumbled from his fingers and clacked on the cobblestones. He sprawled facedown and didn’t move.

  “You got him, Lew,” Blackhawk said, and Lew heard the bushes rustle again as the marshal moved closer to where Baker was hiding.

  “Baker, you better give up,” Blackhawk yelled. “If you don’t want to join Grimes and Riley on Boot Hill.”

  “You come and get me,” Baker said.

  “No sooner said than done,” Blackhawk said.

  Lew rolled over toward some flowers and
bushes. He pointed his pistol where he had last seen Baker, looking for any movement, any sign that Baker was going to expose his position.

  He couldn’t see Blackhawk, nor could he hear him.

  A woman whimpered somewhere off toward the plaza and Lew heard the sound of running feet off in the distance as someone ran for cover at a more distant location.

  Then the doors to the hotel opened, and another man came out, ducking his head. He looked around, then went back inside. Lew didn’t recognize him.

  “Damn,” Blackhawk said.

  “What?” Lew asked.

  “That was one of Smith’s men who just came out. I recognized him.”

  A shot rang out from where Baker was hiding, and Lew heard the bullet smack into a tree, shaking it. Some leaves fell to the ground. Then, Blackhawk fired at Baker.

  Lew knew he was in a bad spot. Baker hadn’t seen him yet, but if he moved a few feet closer, Lew knew that he’d be spotted.

  A series of clicks and metal scrapings drew Lew’s attention. Baker was reloading. He steeled himself.

  “Now or never,” he breathed and got to his feet. He jumped the sidewall and ran along it, hunched over. He circled the place where Baker was concealed.

  He looked back to see Blackhawk emerge from the bushes. He charged straight at the place where Baker was standing. Lew saw Baker move. He stopped, fired a shot at Baker.

  Blackhawk, in a crouch, hurried toward Baker. Baker swung on Lew, then switched to bring his pistol to bear on the marshal.

  Too late.

  Blackhawk fired, and Baker spun away from the tree. Blackhawk was on top of him in seconds.

  “Drop your pistol, Baker,” Blackhawk ordered.

  “Damn you to hell,” Baker snarled.

  Blackhawk shot him once in the belly, then again in the chest. Baker groaned in pain, then keeled over, mortally wounded.

  Lew ran over to look down at Baker.

  “He’s done for, Horatio.”

  “I know. We’ve got to get in that hotel, find Smith.”

  Baker let out a last gasp, then lay still, his hand still gripping his pistol.

  Lew started toward the hotel entrance. Blackhawk began to trot and passed him. They swept into the lobby.

  “Where’d that man go who was just outside?” he asked the startled clerk.

  The clerk cocked a thumb toward the rear of the hotel.

  “Him and two others went out the back way. You just missed them.”

  “Stay here, Lew,” Blackhawk said, and raced down the hallway, out of sight. Lew heard a door open and then slam shut. He stood by the counter, feeling the clerk’s stare on the side of his face.

  “Are you robbers?” the clerk asked.

  Lew looked at the pistol in his hand. The clerk’s hands were raised in a gesture of surrender. Lew holstered the Colt.

  “U.S. marshals,” he said. “Put your hands down.”

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said, but he kept his hands dangling chest high.

  Blackhawk returned in a few moments.

  “They got clean away,” he said.

  “I want to look in Smith’s room,” Blackhawk told the clerk.

  “We don’t have any Smith registered here,” the clerk said.

  “Those men have three rooms?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Give me the keys to all three, then.”

  “I don’t…”

  Blackhawk waved his pistol.

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said and turned to the boxes behind him. He threw three keys on the counter and backed off, his hands held shoulder high.

  They checked all three rooms. Smith’s room was the largest, and that’s where they found empty sacks that had once held silver.

  Lew reached in his pocket and took out the bar he had been carrying.

  “I found this over at El Rincon,” he told Blackhawk. “Baker, or one of them, dropped it through a hole in a sack like one of these.”

  “I think Smith has already converted those bars to cash. And now he’s gone. He’s got at least two men left. But it’s not going to do him any good.”

  “Why?” Lew asked.

  “Because I know what the bastard’s got planned. And we’ll have time to stop him.”

  “We?”

  “Until Marshal Vogel gets back from Socorro, you’re my deputy, Zane. I said ‘we.’”

  “Horatio, I hate the law. The law ruined my life. I won’t help you.”

  “You will or I’ll put you in jail tonight. And throw away the damned key.”

  Lew looked around the empty room. He was free, but he felt trapped. And Marylynn was waiting for him. She was probably worried.

  “How long before Smith makes his move?” Lew asked.

  “Thursday’s the day,” Blackhawk said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “That’s Cinco de Mayo, Lew.”

  Lew had no idea what Blackhawk was talking about.

  25

  WAYNE SMITH HAD JUST FINISHED PACKING HIS SADDLEBAGS when there was a knock on his door at the Posado del Rio. He drew his pistol and walked to the door, stood to one side of it.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s me, Crisp.”

  Smith holstered his pistol and opened the door.

  “Where’s Reed?” he asked as Earl Crisp strode through the door lugging his saddlebags and bedroll.

  “He’s comin’, I reckon. He’s slower’n turtle shit on a cold day.”

  “Moon ought to be here any minute,” Smith said, closing the door. He dragged his saddlebags across the room and set them by the door.

  “What about Charley and them?”

  “They’re comin’, too. We can’t stay here no more,” Smith said. “Too many people know where I am. We only got two days, maybe, to get everything ready.”

  “You’re set then, Wayne?”

  “I’ll know by tomorrow. I think so.”

  Someone was banging on the door.

  “That’s Reed now, I reckon,” Crisp said.

  “Well, make damn sure. And if it is, let him in. Then we’ll go down to the lobby and wait for Charley Grimes, Baker, and Riley. Horses all saddled and ready to go?”

  “Yep,” Crisp said. “They’re tied up out back, like you said.”

  “I got a funny feelin’,” Smith said as Crisp went to the door.

  “That you, Danvers?” Crisp called through the door.

  “Who the hell you think it is?” Danvers replied. “Open up, will ya?”

  Crisp opened the door, let Danvers inside. He, too, was carrying his saddlebags and bedroll, rifle and sheath.

  “What was that you said, Wayne?” Crisp asked after he had closed the door.

  “I said I got me a funny feelin’ tonight.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know. I think maybe it was that flyer Charley showed me. And he’s got his mind on collectin’ that reward for Zane, ’stead of on business.”

  “Aw, you know Charley. He’s a good man. He’s just got him a wild hair up his ass over that kid.”

  “Zane ain’t no kid. He’s all haired over and full growed. That peckerhead’s got more notches on his gun than you got silver dollars in your pocket, Earl. I don’t like him bein’ here in Santa Fe.”

  “Who? Charley?” Danvers said.

  “No, Zane,” Smith said.

  He paced the floor while the other two took out store-boughts and lit up. Finally, Smith stopped pacing.

  “Shit,” he said, “I got to get out of here. We’ll wait for the boys downstairs. They’re probably tryin’ to drink all the tequila down at that cantina.”

  Earl Crisp didn’t say anything. Wayne was such a stickler about secrecy that he kept everybody scattered out, never trusting them all to be together unless they were on a raid or a job. He could have had Charley and the others just come to the Posado instead of having to send Moon to get them and bring them. Grimes, Baker, and Riley still didn’t know where Wayne was staying, and wouldn’t u
ntil they showed up with Moon leading the way.

  Danvers got up and walked to the door.

  “Put that smoke out, Reed,” Smith said. “You’ll catch something on fire if you walk down to the lobby with that quirley stuck in your jaw.”

  “Yes, sir,” Danvers said, and craned his neck looking for an ashtray.

  “Come on,” Wayne said. “Earl, you lead the way. We’ll just wait downstairs for the boys.”

  “Boy, Wayne, you are fidgety tonight,” Earl said.

  “Yeah, and when I’m fidgety, that means there’s a fly in the damned buttermilk. Somethin’ ain’t right. It’s that lawman’s instinct, I reckon. Like when everything’s going right, that means something’s sure as hell going to go wrong.”

  “Yeah,” Earl said. “I know what you mean.”

  “I don’t,” Reed said, as he stubbed out his cigarette.

  Crisp spit on his cigarette and put the stub in his pocket.

  Then the three of them started walking down the stairs to the lobby. That’s when they first heard the firecracker popping of gunshots.

  “Some kind of Mexican celebration,” Crisp said.

  “Sounds like gunfire to me,” Smith said.

  When they got downstairs, the lobby was deserted. The clerk was cowering behind the desk.

  “What’s going on out there?” Smith asked.

  “Mister, there’s a hell of a gunfight going on. One of the men who works here went outside with a scattergun and they done blasted him down. He’s a-lyin’ out there, deader’n a doornail.”

  “Who the hell’s doing the shooting?” Smith asked.

  The clerk shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “but they been goin’ at it for four or five minutes. Maybe longer.”

  “Earl, you take a look out there, see what you can see,” Smith said to Crisp.

  “I hope it ain’t our boys,” Danvers said.

  “Shut up, Reed,” Smith said.

  “Do I have to?” Earl said.

  “Yeah, Earl. Now get to it.”

  Reluctantly, Earl approached the entrance. They all heard the gunfire, so close sometimes it seemed like it was inside the hotel.

  Smith watched Crisp go outside. Saw him stand there a minute, then come running back inside, his face turning a rosy pink from the exertion.