Black as Death

by George G. Gilman

  ‘I’ve just left there.’

  ‘No telegraph line to there, seems?’

  ‘That’s right’

  ‘Got a lawman there?’

  ‘No.’

  Coombs looked at Dwyer. ‘Sounds good, don’t it?’

  Dwyer remained as unimpressed as ever. And directed some bean-colored saliva into the fire. ‘Just one thing I don’t like.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The boy give up the money too easy.’

  ‘Shit, you said for Coombs to blast his legs from under him if he didn’t do what he was told,’ Ketland reminded.

  ‘Go check out the rig. Includin’ that coat he was sleepin’ on. Maybe he’s just shit scared. Or maybe he tossed us peanuts hopin’ we wouldn’t figure to look for the real bundle.’

  He did not shift the stare of his wearied eyes away from the expressionless face of Barnaby Gold as he spoke.

  ‘I reckon it’s a waste of friggin’ time,’ Ketland complained.

  ‘You’re through eatin’. Me and Coombs ain’t yet. So you got time on your hands.’

  Ketland said: ‘Shit,’ and got to his feet again. But with less enthusiasm this time. And he stooped to slide the Colt from his holster on the ground before heading for the rear of the hearse. He carried it low at his side and paid more attention to Coombs’ gun — making sure that, as before, he did not get between it and the black-clad youngster.

  ‘Why’d you bother with a fire’ boy?’ Dwyer asked.

  ‘Uh?’ Gold grunted, after watching Ketland go to the open rear door of the hearse and reach inside.

  The fire? Why’d you want a fire? We checked while you were sleepin’ like a baby. You’re traveling light. No grub, no shavin’ gear, no friggin’ nothing’.’

  Ketland drew out the frock coat and patted the pockets. Found only the tin box of cheroots, which he claimed.

  ‘Keep warm. But turned out I was so dead beat all I could do was climb into the rig and sleeps

  Ketland began to tap his fist on the floor of the hearse, searching for a hidden compartment that would be revealed by a hollow sound.

  ‘Crazy thing to do in country like this, boy. Go to sleep with a fire blazin’ like a friggin’ beacon. With a gun that ain’t loaded and is way outta reach anyway.’

  ‘Town folks, I figure,’ Coombs said as both men finished eating. ‘Greenhorn outside of where the sidewalks end.’

  Dwyer ignored him, as Ketland transferred his attention to the space beneath the hammer cloth covered seat of the hearse — going around the far side of the vehicle from where Gold stood.

  ‘Where you headed?’

  ‘Europe.’

  ‘Shit, you didn’t make it too far,’ Coombs muttered.

  Dwyer tossed the dregs from his coffee mug on to the fire. ‘If it hadn’t been us, boy, it’d have been some others. Way you are.’

  Gold shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘Just wasn’t thinking straight, I guess. Like I said, it was a heavy day.’

  ‘Ain’t nothin’ aboard but nothin’,’ Ketland reported.

  ‘See if he ain’t wearin’ a money belt or got some fancy secret pocket in his pants.’ Dwyer obviously did not think there was much chance of this. ‘And don’t hog them there cheroots. Toss them over.’

  Ketland rasped: ‘Shit,’ again and scaled the tin box toward the fire.

  ‘Way I see it,’ the rat-faced man growled, ‘a boy like you didn’t oughta be allowed out on his own. Let alone smoke.’

  He flipped open the lid, took a cheroot for himself and handed the box to Coombs. Then reached to lift a glowing stick from the edge of the fire. Ketland, angrily resentful of doing the chores while his two partners took their ease, waved his gun at Gold to order the young undertaker away from the wheel of the hearse.

  In expression and attitude, Gold appeared resigned to obey whatever order was given him as he stepped forward two paces, so that Ketland could move behind him.

  ‘Hands out to your sides, boy.’

  Gold extended both his arms to their fullest limit, straight out from his shoulders: as he felt the pressure of the Colt muzzle against the base of his spine.

  Dwyer’s cheroot was alight and the first taste of its smoke was being relished with a sigh and a grin of pleasure.

  Coombs was searching the fire for a suitable stick to light the one he had taken from the box.

  Ketland kept the Colt muzzle tight to Gold’s back as he used his free hand to pat the left side of the undertaker’s pants. Then the gun moved fractionally as he awkwardly crossed one arm over the other to make a cursory exploration of the other pants leg.

  Which was when Barnaby Gold whirled to swing around anti-clockwise in what for a second looked like some clumsily executed ballet movement — as he dipped to the left with both arms still fully extended to the sides. Then his left arm came down and back very fast, the wrist twisted and the hand clawed. To clasp the barrel of the Colt and force it to aim at the ground. This as he flung his right arm ahead of the body turn, bending the elbow and the fingers of the hand.

  ‘Shit!’ Ketland screamed, the word venting from his throat at the same instant that the Colt exploded a shot into the ground. And Gold’s right hand took a grip on the nape of his neck.

  For just part of another second, Gold had his back to the men at the side of the fire. But before that same second had run its course, the full three hundred and sixty degree turn was completed. And the short of stature Ketland was stumbling toward his partners, on the verge of pitching headlong to the ground, as a result of the violent thrust of Gold’s right hand against his neck. While the black-clad youngster was in possession of the Colt — uncocked, holding it around the barrel in his left hand after wrenching it from Ketland’s grip.

  ‘Blast the bastard!’ Dwyer shrieked, spitting out the cheroot and hurling himself to the side, both hands reaching for the gun in the holster on the ground.

  Coombs hurled away the stick with a glowing end and kept the freshly lit cheroot clamped between his teeth as he strove to get his bulky frame up off the ground: seeking a clear shot at Gold over the tumbling form of Ketland.

  Gold dropped on to his haunches and tipped himself to the left. The Colt was in both his hands now, the hammer cocked. He squeezed the trigger with the index finger of his right hand. And clicked, back the hammer with his left thumb.

  Two reports sounded, the second a sliver of time after the first. He heard a bullet thud into the timber of the hearse. Saw blood on the undershirt of Coombs as the big man’s scowl changed to a look of surprise.

  Ketland was sprawled face down on the ground by now and he was wailing like a baby.

  Coombs looked down at the bloodstain spreading across his filthy undershirt, then dropped his gun and tipped over backwards.

  ‘You sneaky sonofa — ’

  From where he lay, full-length on his side, Barnaby, Gold tracked the Colt away from the dying man, over the prone form of the crying one and halted its move when it was aimed at the shouting one. Who was just as angry at himself as at Gold — because of his clumsiness as he snatched up his gunbelt, and struggled to unfasten the thong that held the revolver in the holster.

  Dwyer was halfway to his feet, and the second bullet exploded from the gun in Gold’s double-handed grip, cracked between the legs of the rat-faced man as he came erect. And made to aim his own gun while it was still in the holster, attached to the bullet-heavy gunbelt.

  Ketland began to beat at the ground with the heels of his fists, the sight and sound of him even more baby like.

  Gold thumbed back the hammer, tilted the gun and squeezed the trigger.

  Dwyer took the bullet in the chest and swayed back, then forward. He merely grunted. Then was hit in the chest again. He was forced to take a backward step, struggled to stay erect. But the life ran out of him through the two holes in his flesh. He dropped his gunbelt, the death rattle sounded in his throat and he fell like a sawn tree. Into the fire that sprayed up sparks and ash amid
the billowing smoke around his body. Then flames tongued at his clothing, which flared to sear him naked and blacken his unfeeling flesh.

  ‘Dear God in Heaven, save me! I know I been wicked! I done wrong things all my life! Ma! Pa! Mister, please don’t!’

  Gold was back on his feet, gazing morosely at the fire as the flames died and made sizzling sounds while reducing Dwyer’s body moisture to steam: aware that the bills the man had put into his hip pocket were now black flecks among the ashes.

  He went forward, intent upon grasping one of the unburnt feet and dragging the partially cremated body from the fire.

  It was then that the terrified Ketland began his tearful pleas to the Almighty, his parents and Barnaby Gold. And it was as if the dejected young undertaker had forgotten about the survivor of the trio until now. For he interrupted his advance, alongside the man, and looked down at the face which was in profile. Pressed to the ground that was damp with his sweat and tears. Grains of sand were disturbed by expelled breath as he completed his entreaty.

  ‘Please don’t kill me, mister.’

  The Colt was held in just the right hand now, as the hammer was cocked.

  Ketland craned his neck around to stare up in horror at the aimed gun and the face etched with bitterness of the man who held it.

  ‘You cold-hearted... nnnnoooo...!’

  A fifth bullet blasted from the muzzle of the Colt Cracked almost vertically downward for less than three feet and drilled into Ketland’s temple. The head was slammed back to the ground by the force of the impact and now blood dripped to mix with the sweat and tears in the sand.

  Barnaby Gold let out a breath in a low, whistling, sigh. Dropped the gun and continued on toward the fire to do what he had intended.

  Then he stood for a full minute in the heat and glare of the morning sun, as the desert flies zoomed in to feast on the blood of the newly dead. But the expected fit of shaking that had attacked him in the wake of his killing of Floyd Channon did not materialize.

  And he grunted his approval of this, went to the hearse’, drew the sections of the shovel from under the seat and slowly screwed them together. Then dug a four foot deep communal grave, arranged the three bodies decorously in its bottom and shoveled back the displaced sand.

  Still he experienced no reaction to the multiple shootings and the period of high tension that had preceded the explosion violence.

  He dismantled the shovel and replaced it beneath the seat. Retrieved the belongings that he had been forced to drop to the ground beside the hearse, and the tin box which now contained just two cheroots. Next freed the dead men’s mounts from the mesquite and put the team horses in the traces.

  All he took that was not his was a battered and sweat-stained roll brimmed, low crowned Stetson, It was the only one of the three that fitted him and just happened to be black, like the rest of his clothing. Then he climbed aboard the hearse and set it rolling, a freshly lit cheroot angled from the corner of his mouth.

  By this time the three saddle horses had wandered off in search of grazing and water. And the fire was just a heap of grey ashes surrounded by saddles, bedrolls, items of foodstuff and clothing and the overturned cooking and coffee pots: discarded plates and mugs.

  And the desert flies, denied their breakfast of blood, were turning their voracious attention to the greasy remains of bacon and beans in the pot and on the plates.

  Soon they would swarm away and later — maybe today or maybe not — someone travelling the trail would find the abandoned camp and its paraphernalia. By which time the elements could well have disguised the grave under the bluff and obliterated the signs which the hearse left in its wake. In which event the mystery of why three men had apparently left the campsite in such seeming haste was likely never to be solved.

  Whereas, if the grave was discovered and the citizens of Fairfax learned of it. Many would be eager to expound the suspicions they had long held about a founder member of their community. Their wagging tongues providing the verbal mortar to form the foundation of a reputation.

  Such ponderings on what might or might not be the result of the triple killings did not enter the mind of Barnaby Gold as he drove the hearse slowly north along the trail. And neither did he indulge in embittered regret at having lost all his money, except for forty-five cents.

  He was damned hungry again, and scowled because of his failure to realize that this was the way it would be when he was back at the camp under the bluff where there were three saddles hung with bags bulging with supplies.

  Knew he would have to put his aim of getting to Europe at the back of his mind. Devote more attention to his needs for the immediate future.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  COOMBS’ sardonic comment that Barnaby Gold was a fast learner hit the nail squarely on the head

  On his mother’s knee, in the school room and alongside his father in the workshop and at the cold slab, the youngster had been quick to pick up the rudiments of living, the fundamentals of an education and the skills of the undertaking trade.

  But the lessons which had stood him in good stead in dealing with Floyd Channon, the citizens of Fairfax and Dwyer, Coombs and Ketland were not so formalized, were learned out on the mean streets of New York City.

  For a long time after he was of an age and had developed the inclination to go outside the confines of the bounds his mother would have preferred to keep him within, he either took his knocks without retaliation he went far out of his way to avoid confrontation with his tormentors.

  So it was that he soon became known not only as kid whose father robbed poor widows, but also a yellow coward. Until a cold winter’s evening shortly after his father had buried his mother. When he saw his father thrown out of a known brothel and collapse into a drunken stupor in the slush-filled gutter. And three of his classmates came by as he was wearingly attempting to revive his father.

  For maybe a full minute sought to ignore the taunts they hurled at him along with the icy hard snowballs. And then it was as if one of the tight packed balls that hit his head upset some delicately balanced mechanism which controlled his character.

  He whirled, rose and lunged. All three of his fellow eight-year-olds were stunned with surprise. He head butted one in the belly and saw vomit spew from the boy’s mouth as he swung to face the other two. One of these he kicked in the crotch as the other turned to run away, his scream of terror louder than the sounds of pain from the injured kids.

  But he lost his footing on the slippery sidewalk and Barnaby Gold was on him in an instant: kneeling on the small of his back, hands fastened around his neck and banging his forehead on the ice-sheened cement. And might well have killed his victim had not two patrolmen come slithering around a corner in response to the screams.

  Late that night after he was sobered up sufficiently to understand the patrolmen’s version of events, Barnaby Gold Senior took off his belt and beat his son’s rear until his flesh bled.

  The following day and for a few more, the other children at school eyed the tall and skinny son of the undertaker with curiosity instead of the usual scorn. While Barnaby Gold himself nursed resentment toward his father and remained detached from the new situation in which he found himself. Until the school bully, two years Gold’s elder and of matching height but with a weight advantage, was goaded into putting the boy’s new-found reputation to the test, to see if he had simply got very lucky very quickly.

  Every kid in the school except for Barnaby Gold knew what was afoot. So he alone was surprised when the older boy stepped out from behind a pile of rubble on the vacant lot which was on his route between school and home. Then, within moments of the tacit challenge being made, almost every other pupil who knew there was to be a fight converged on the lot to watch it.

  Yellow was something Barnaby Gold had never been. The reason he had tried to avoid fights or been passive in taking his punishment before the recent incident was that he did not consider himself good at whatever skills were necessary to knock an
assailant so hard to the ground that he either couldn’t or wouldn’t get up again. And it was a characteristic of him, even at such a tender age, to dislike doing anything at which he did not excel.

  To a tumultuous cheer, the bigger and older boy came in with fists clenched: in a juvenile imitation of an orthodox fighter’s style. And Barnaby Gold put into practice the lessons he had subconsciously learned in dealing with the three aggressors a few evenings ago. Mixed in with some points he had picked up by always previously being on the receiving end of the punishment.

  He remained passive until the first roundhouse punch was flung toward him, then sprang the surprise. By bobbing under the punch and thudding a knee into the other boy’s crotch.

  The injured boy, shocked by the sudden switch from inaction to counterattack, dropped both hands to the source of his pain and bent double.

  Angry accusation of dirty fighting were shrieked at Barnaby Gold who ignored them as he took hold of his challenger’s curly hair in both hands and used his knee again — to smash it into the pain-contorted face and start blood flowing from the nostrils.

  Against the three boys he had been in the grip of a glowing hot rage. But by instinct he had assaulted those parts of their anatomy where he had been hurt most when he was attacked. This time he was starkly aware of what he was doing and why he was doing it. He had no wish to toy with a superior enemy and nor did he seek self-gratification or acclaim from the audience by emerging the winner. He simply wanted to get it over with and go home as soon as possible.

  He let go of the mop of hair and the school bully fell over on to his back, then rolled on to his side and curled up into a ball, groaning his agony and humiliation.

  Barnaby Gold started to move away. The boy on the ground was able to muster the strength to subdue his pain and hurl a handful of mud at the son of the undertaker. As unemotionally as before, Gold stopped, turned and made to launch a vicious kick at his kidneys. But a burly street car driver on his way to work on the evening shift stepped forward to prevent this.