Palomino watched as Brand rolled like a rag doll on the sun-drenched sand before coming to a rest.
Red staggered through the gunsmoke and dropped down beside his young pal. He holstered his six-gun and then helped Palomino to his feet before glancing across at his handiwork.
‘Don’t look so damn surprised, Kid,’ the older deputy said as he moved to the lifeless Brand and kicked sand in his face before returning to his pal. ‘I told you that I could shoot.’
Palomino looked up at his friend.
‘I sure wish you’d done that a whole lot earlier, Red,’ the Kid sighed as he rubbed his aching ribs. ‘I almost got kicked to death.’
Red raised his hands and shrugged. ‘My damn rifle jammed, Kid. I tried to draw my gun but Carson and them two other varmints had me penned in.’
Palomino shielded his eyes against the sun and stared down the street. Only the body of Amos Brand remained beside his horse. Carson and his hired guns were gone.
‘Carson high-tailed it?’ he asked.
‘Yep, they just whipped their horse’s tails and rode on out of here a couple of minutes back,’ Red replied as he looked all around them and then rubbed the nape of his neck. ‘Where’s Charlie?’
The Kid’s eyes widened as horror etched his face.
‘Hell!’ Palomino swung on his boot leather and ran to the trough. He stared down into the murky water and felt panic overwhelm his bruised form. ‘Help me get him out of here.’
Red rapidly moved to the opposite side of the trough and reached down into the water. They gripped the old man’s arms and legs then fished him out.
Ignoring his own painful injuries, Palomino carefully scooped the bedraggled Charlie up in his arms and steadied himself. He forced himself away from the trough and started along the blisteringly hot street.
‘I’m taking Charlie to the doc’s,’ the Kid gasped.
‘What happened, Kid?’ Red asked as Palomino staggered with the limp body in his arms. ‘How’d Charlie get in there?’
The young deputy continued walking as best he could. ‘This brave old critter tried to draw that bastard’s fire away from me, Red.’
‘Holy cow.’ Red trailed his friend toward the home of Fargo’s only medical man. ‘Charlie sure drew that varmint’s fire OK. He looks dead to me.’
The younger deputy’s eyes darted at his pal. There was a fire burning within them.
‘Charlie ain’t dead,’ the Kid insisted before adding, ‘not until the doc says he’s dead anyway.’
Red did not dare utter another word. He knew that Palomino was right. Nobody was truly dead until the doc said so.
Kid Palomino kept walking even though every sinew in his bruised and bleeding frame told him that it was useless. He knew that if Charlie had not drawn Brand’s attention away from himself for those precious few seconds, the outlaw would have simply shot him as he had intended.
As they reached the small house at the end of Fargo’s main thoroughfare Palomino sucked in air, stepped up on to the rickety boardwalk and kicked the small gate off its hinges.
The shooting had awoken most of the town’s citizens but Doc Black’s front door was still shut. The Kid paused and was about to kick it out of its frame when it swung open and the elderly medic ushered him into the building.
Red rested his wrists on the picket fence and stared silently into the darkened interior of the wooden structure. After what felt like a lifetime, the Kid wandered back out into the sunshine.
Red rubbed his unshaven jaw and watched as Palomino brushed past him and sat down on the edge of the walkway. The young deputy looked down at the sand at his feet but said nothing.
It was obvious to Red that he had been correct about Charlie, but not to his young pal. Palomino had to have time to let the truth sink in. The older deputy was about to speak when the sound of movement behind his broad shoulders drew his attention back to the small house. Red turned and stared at the old medical man as he approached the open door and looked straight at him.
The grim face of the doc answered the question that was burning in his craw. Doc Black shook his head and then sorrowfully closed his door.
‘Charlie’s gone, Kid,’ Red sighed heavily.
Seated on the dusty boards, Palomino nodded in acceptance of the gruesome fact. He then got back to his feet and exhaled loudly.
‘C’mon, Red.’
‘Where we going?’
Palomino paused and looked straight at his friend’s face.
‘We’re going to get our horses,’ he snorted. ‘We got some outlaws to round up. We got a score to settle.’
Even though Red knew that they should wait for Sheriff Lomax to return to Fargo, he also knew by experience that it was never wise to argue with Kid Palomino.
Not when he was hurting and the Kid was hurting real bad.
As they made their way back to their awaiting horses outside the sheriff’s office, Palomino stopped and stared to where they had first set eyes on Bill Carson and his hirelings.
‘I reckon we’d best go check on Stan Hardwick, Red,’ the Kid said. ‘Him and his ladies might need our help.’
Neither Palomino nor Red could imagine the horror they were about to find as they casually strode up to the elegant house and entered.
Their gruesome discovery only a few moments later within the confines of the banker’s home would spur both battle-weary lawmen to avenge the shocking outrage. They retraced their steps and paused in the rear yard for a few moments. They looked as though every drop of colour had been drained from their faces.
The Kid glanced at Red. ‘Let’s get back to the office and get our horses ready.’
The older man nodded. ‘I’ll call in the funeral parlour on the way, Kid. He can sort this mess out.’
Palomino tightened his gloves.
‘I’ll leave a note pinned to the billboard for the sheriff,’ he drawled angrily as he vainly tried to dismiss the sight that was branded into his mind. ‘I’ll tell him where we’re headed and ask him to rustle up a posse to follow.’
Red nodded and thought about the brutal slayings they had just discovered. ‘How can anyone do something like that, Kid?’
‘I don’t know,’ Palomino answered. ‘But I swear by all that’s holy, Carson and his boys will never do nothing like this again, Red.’
Both lawman headed back into the heart of Fargo.
CHAPTER NINE
The sight that had greeted the deputies had chilled them to the bone. Neither lawman had ever seen anything like the savagery they had discovered in the home of the banker. It was clear to Palomino that the notorious Bill Carson was probably far worse than even the law realized. The Kid wondered how many other times had Carson simply dispatched all the witnesses to his lurid crimes in a similar fashion, so that they could never be linked to him.
Palomino hooked his stirrup over the horn of his saddle and tightened the cinch strap as his fellow deputy came out of the office with two fully loaded Winchesters and a box of cartridges. He stepped down into the sunshine and slid one of the rifles into the mount’s saddle scabbard. He lifted the leather flap of his saddle-bags and pushed the ammunition into the satchel.
The Kid lowered his fender and caught the repeating rifle his pal threw to him. He pushed the gleaming barrel into his own scabbard and then looked over his high-shouldered stallion.
‘Are we ready?’ he asked Rivers as he pulled his long leathers free of the hitching pole.
‘We got us a few extra canteens of water and some vittles,’ Red replied as he patted his quarter horse and ducked under its reins. ‘We got rifles and enough bullets to fend off the 7th cavalry.’
‘That should do.’ Kid backed the palomino stallion away from the office and then grabbed the horse’s cream-coloured mane and stepped into the stirrup. He mounted in one fluid action and then gathered up his loose reins and watched as his friend duplicated his actions.
Palomino leaned on to his saddle horn and stared at the now busy stree
t that faced them. He tilted his head and looked at his partner.
‘Which way did them bastards head, Red?’ he asked.
Red pointed. ‘They was headed for the desert, Kid.’
Palomino grimaced and then sighed, ‘The desert is gonna be mighty hot at this time of day but I reckon I know it a whole lot better than they do.’
‘It ain’t even noon yet, boy,’ Red remarked. ‘That desert is gonna get hotter than hell before it starts to calm down again.’
The Kid patted the neck of his handsome horse and shrugged as he steadied the powerful animal beneath his saddle.
‘As long as we’ve got enough water for these horses I ain’t worried, Red,’ he stated firmly.
‘You figure we can catch up with them hombres?’ Red asked as he swung the quarter horse around and trotted to the side of his friend. ‘They’ve got a mighty good start on us, Kid.’
Palomino nodded. ‘Yep. We’ll catch up with them though.’
Both horsemen glanced around the wooden structures and the tall red brick bank before steadying themselves on their hot saddles. It was something they always did without even knowing that they were doing it. It was as though they were taking a last look at the settlement in case they never returned from their often perilous missions.
‘Nugget’s ready,’ Palomino told his pal.
Red leaned over the neck of his mount. ‘Are you ready, Derby?’
The quarter horse shook its head. Both men raised their eyebrows and gave out a mutual yell. The horses thundered through the shimmering heat haze in the direction that Red had pointed to a few moments before.
The determined duo stood in their stirrups and thundered between the countless people who now filled the street as the sun slowly rose in the cloudless blue heavens.
It would get hotter, just like they figured. Hotter than hell in more ways than anyone might imagine before the day was through.
CHAPTER TEN
The rattling chains of the stagecoach echoed off the scattering of buildings, which were known collectively as Dry Gulch. Those who were not sleeping during the unrelenting sunshine sat on weathered hardback chairs and pondered the shadows that slowly indicated the passing of time. Dry Gulch was a place that only survived at the edge of the desert because of its deep wells and crystal clear water. Yet the overwhelming heat had always kept the population to a bare minimum.
Shaded by porch overhangs the onlookers puffed on pipes and watched as the Overland Stage came to an abrupt halt outside the solitary saloon. The Busted Wheel was by far the largest building within the confines of Dry Gulch. It oozed a powerful aroma of stale perfume, spilled liquor and tobacco smoke.
The driver beat the dust off his clothing and wrapped his reins around the brakepole. He leaned over, looked down at the side of the coach and bellowed.
‘Dry Gulch.’
The carriage door opened and the well-dressed Deacon disembarked with elegant ease. He held his ivory-topped cane under his arm as the driver handed down his canvas bag.
‘Thank you, driver,’ he said touching the brim of his hat and turning to face the large saloon. ‘Do they have rooms to rent here?’
‘Yep, and they also got females to rent as well,’ the driver chuckled and then carefully descended to the boardwalk and pushed his way past the man who looked like a gambler in his rush to quench his thirst.
Danby Deacon smiled to himself and then followed the bearded stagecoach driver into the saloon. The smell greeted him before his eyes adjusted to the far dimmer interior. It was in total contrast to the blazing sun of the street. The driver had already finished his first whiskey before Deacon had walked across the sawdust-covered floor.
The bartender looked long and hard at the elegant Deacon as he slowly walked with bag in one hand and the other swinging his cane to match his stride.
‘What in hell is that?’ the bartender asked the driver as he poured the thirsty man another full glass of whiskey.
The driver glanced over his shoulder at Deacon and then returned his attention to the glass in his hand.
‘A gambler,’ he sniffed as he filled his mouth with the fiery liquor and swallowed. ‘Picked him up in Cherokee Springs. Why in hell anyone would wanna come here beats me.’
The scrawny bartender shook his head as he polished a glass with his apron bib.
‘He sure looks awful neat, even for a gambler,’ he remarked. ‘I ain’t ever seen a gambler look quite so neat before. It just ain’t natural.’
‘And he’s a lousy poker player, Hyram,’ the driver noted. ‘I sure don’t know where he gets his money from ’coz it ain’t from being able to play cards.’
A wry smile came to the bartender’s face. ‘That’s mighty interesting. I might challenge the dude to a few games of stud.’
‘He dresses up a storm though.’ The driver sighed. ‘He’s got himself a gold stick pin holding down his bib.’
Danby Deacon reached the bar counter, glanced at the stagecoach driver and smiled.
‘Cravat, my good man. It’s called a cravat,’ Deacon corrected and patted the dusty driver on the back. He coughed as a cloud of trail dust wafted over the counter and then placed a fifty dollar gold piece down on its wooden surface. ‘A bottle of your best sipping whiskey and a box of your finest cigars. If this establishment has such items.’
‘We got ’em, mister,’ the bartender said.
The driver looked at Deacon. ‘That’s a lot of whiskey for one man to guzzle on his lonesome.’
Deacon nodded in agreement. ‘Two bottles of whiskey, barkeep. One for my friend here.’
The stagecoach driver beamed. ‘Well thank you kindly.’
‘My pleasure.’ Deacon looked at the bartender as the man placed two bottles of amber liquor down on the wet surface and then plucked a box of cigars from a shelf at his side. ‘Anything else, mister?’
Deacon smiled and glanced around the tobacco-stained interior of the Busted Wheel. ‘Where are the whores?’
Both men chuckled.
‘They’ll be here soon enough, dude.’ The driver winked as he picked up one of the bottles and tucked it under his coat and turned on his heels. Deacon watched the driver sway as he walked back toward the bright street. ‘You’ll smell them before you see them.’
Danby Deacon turned to the man who was still polishing glasses on the other side of the counter.
‘Where’s he going?’ he asked the bartender.
‘He’s got to drive the stage to Poison Flats.’
Deacon rubbed his jaw. ‘He’s going to drive a six-horse team in that condition?’
‘Hell, he can drive even when he’s sober,’ the lean bartender replied before testing the gold coin with his teeth and then pocketing it.
Deacon raised his eyebrows. ‘Keep the change.’
‘I already have.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The tracks left by the Carson gang’s horses’ hoofs were easily followed in and around Fargo but the further north they ventured toward the arid desert, the harder it was for the intrepid pair of deputies to follow. Every mark left in the white sand soon disappeared. It was so fine and dry its granules filled in every impression a few seconds after it was made.
Yet somehow young Kid Palomino seemed to instinctively know where the three riders were headed. He kept encouraging the tall golden stallion beneath his saddle on, to the bewilderment of his pal.
‘Admit it, Kid,’ Red said nervously as he trailed his determined friend deeper into the unfamiliar terrain. ‘Them hombres could have headed anywhere. We ain’t got a chance of catching them.’
Palomino had been strangely quiet since they had discovered the bodies of Hardwick and the three females. The young deputy had a gritty determination festering in him that refused to even consider defeat. He glanced back at his pal and slowed his mount so the smaller horse could draw level with him.
‘Stop fretting, Red,’ he snapped. ‘I know exactly where Carson and his men are headed. I figured it out befo
re we even left Fargo.’
Red mopped the sweat from his face with the tails of his bandanna and exhaled loudly. ‘I ain’t calling you a liar, boy, but you ain’t yourself. You’re dripping with revenge and its messing with your head. Nobody could find them in this inferno. It just ain’t possible.’
Palomino grinned. ‘Nothing’s impossible, Red.’
Red shook his head as the horses headed up a slight rise of soft sand. Both men had to stand in their stirrups and urge the lathered-up mounts up the slope. With every step an avalanche of loose sand rolled down the ridge they were climbing.
As the exhausted horses reached the flat top of the ridge they eased back on their reins and stopped the animals. The top of a dune offered them a panoramic view of the arid terrain they had doggedly ridden into. Yet wherever they cast their attention all they could see was a desolate ocean of golden sand. The distance was blurred by a curtain of boiling air that rippled and played tricks with their tired eyes, yet Palomino was still confident that he knew exactly where their prey had headed.
Red Rivers did not share his partner’s enthusiasm. He was scared and it showed. The veteran lawman had faced many heavily armed outlaws in his career but the blistering sun and the arid landscape frightened him.
‘We’d best turn back, Palomino,’ Red sighed as he checked his canteens nervously. ‘They ain’t nowhere to be seen and we’re running low on water.’
‘Easy, Red,’ the Kid said as he removed his hat briefly to wipe the sweat off his brow. ‘I know where they’ve gone.’
A tormented expression filled Red’s features. ‘How can you tell which way they’ve gone? There ain’t nothing out there but sand and nowhere to take cover from the sun. I’m as riled up as you are but I ain’t hankering to commit suicide trying to catch them throat-cutting bastards. We just gotta head back to Fargo while there’s still time.’
The Kid dismounted and dropped his hat on to the ground and then poured a good ration of water into the upturned bowl for his mount to drink. He stared at his friend who carefully slid from his saddle and watered his own mount.
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