Shadow of the Gun

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  “Bear, you know Apaches. What do we do?”

  The old man answered without hesitation. “Get everybody in town to the Elliot house. Maybe we can hold them off from there.”

  “Allison told me that’s out of the question. She says the Apaches are our concern, not hers.”

  “That won’t cut it, John. We’ll just march up there and take the house from her.”

  “Men might die doing that.”

  “Hell, a lot more men will die if we don’t. I reckon Miss Elliot has no say in the matter.”

  McBride hesitated a moment before saying, “Bear, tell your lady friends to go back to the kitchen. We need to talk.”

  “Sure, John.” The old man said something to the women in Spanish, pausing every now and then to nod toward McBride. Whatever he told them didn’t go over well because they glared daggers at McBride, then flounced into the kitchen, their noses in the air.

  Surprise at the women’s attitude widening his eyes, McBride asked, “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing much. I said you were a straitlaced, long-faced Yankee from the big city and you hated to see other folks having fun.”

  “Bear, if the Apaches kill me, please don’t write my obituary.”

  “Pity,” the old man grinned. “I’d have written you up real nice.” He swung his legs off the table and flopped into a chair. “Now, what do you want to talk to me about that’s so all-fired private?”

  Briefly, McBride told Bear about his visit to the Elliot house and how he heard Allison talking to a man in the turret room. Then he described how he’d scouted the hill that afternoon but failed to find any evidence of a bushwhacker.

  “The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced the bullet that killed Adam Whitehead was fired from the turret room of the house,” he concluded. “I plan on taking a look at that room tonight.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Bear asked. His sour expression revealed that he didn’t think much of the plan.

  “Allison leaves all the windows in the house open. I’ll climb in a window and then make my way to the turret room.”

  “And get your damn fool head blown off. If Miss Elliot doesn’t do it, her man Moses will or somebody else. Maybe the man you heard her talking with.”

  “You got a better idea, huh?” McBride’s question was edged with irritation.

  “Yeah. You and me walk up to the house and shoot our way inside if we have to. Then we step over bodies and head for the turret room.”

  “Suppose it’s empty? Suppose Allison had nothing at all to do with Whitehead’s death?”

  Bear shrugged. “Then all we’ve done is waste a few cartridges.”

  “I think I’ll do it my way,” McBride said.

  “Suit yourself.” Bear drained his cup. “I need more coffee.” He rose to his feet and glanced toward the kitchen where the fat ladies were giggling. Then he said, “John, do you think you could stable my hoss? I’m feeling right poorly.”

  McBride smiled. “Sure, Bear. I can see you’re feeling peaked.”

  The old man stepped toward the kitchen, then turned and said, “Rub him down real good, John. And feed him some oats, mind.”

  Before McBride could answer, Bear disappeared behind the curtain and the fat ladies squealed with excitement.

  It was now full dark, made darker by cloud and rain. Wearing Bear’s slicker, McBride led his horse toward the livery. He glanced behind him and saw no light in the turret room of the Elliot house. It looked like whoever had been there was now gone. But he could have left evidence of his identity behind and McBride was determined to find it. The mystery man might be the one who enforced the rule, who had murdered so many, including women and children.

  Or he could be just a visitor or a lover, guilty of no more than talking loudly.

  The thought of Allison Elliot with a lover would once have upset McBride. Now it did not and he felt oddly relieved.

  The stable was dark and smelled of damp hay. McBride looked around for a lamp but couldn’t find one. He groped his way forward and led the black into a vacant stall. He stripped the black’s saddle and bridle, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he spotted a piece of sacking hanging over the stall partition. He began to rub down the horse.

  A bullet smashed into the timber divider close to where he was standing, showering splinters. Another split the air next to his head. He dived for the ground, hit the dirt hard and rolled. He stayed where he was, hardly daring to breathe.

  A soft, mocking voice came from the hayloft: Jim Drago’s voice.

  “I told you I’d get you, Miller. You dead yet?”

  Then McBride understood. He was wearing Bear’s slicker, leading his horse. In the dark, the dwarf had mistaken him for the old man.

  “I think you must be dead, Miller. But I’m coming down there to look.”

  Feet scuffled through hay in the loft, stepping toward the ladder. Bear’s Henry was still in the scabbard, strapped to the saddle. Carefully, trying to make no sound, McBride rose to his feet. He felt around the saddle, found the rifle and slid it free. Drago was almost at the stairs. McBride cranked a round and fired at where he guessed the opening for the ladder was. He heard a startled shriek, then the pounding of running feet that sent hay sifting through the cracks of the loft floorboards.

  McBride levered the Henry and fired. He worked the rifle again and again, dusting shots into the hayloft. Then he ran for the ladder and climbed quickly.

  Drago was gone.

  The wooden shutters that closed the loading door just under the roof peak were wide-open. McBride looked outside. The little man must have jumped and then fled into the darkness. There was no sign of him.

  “John, are you alive?”

  Bear had walked into the stable and McBride heard other voices, one of them McKay’s. It seemed that his rifle shots had roused the whole town.

  “I’m here,” McBride yelled. “And I think I’m still alive.”

  He climbed down the ladder into a pool of faded orange light. McKay was holding a lamp above his head. “You hit?” he asked.

  McBride shook his head. “No, he missed me.”

  “Who missed you?” asked another man standing in the shadows.

  “Drago. He mistook me for Bear.” McBride stepped closer to the old man. “I was wearing your slicker and leading your horse. He planned on making good on his threat to kill you.”

  In the lamplight the hard planes of McKay’s face were angled and harsh. “The attempted murder of a town marshal is a hanging offense.”

  “He didn’t know it was me,” McBride said. “I guess he still doesn’t.”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” McKay said. “When we catch him, we’ll hang him.”

  There was a murmur of approval from the other men.

  “If I don’t see him first,” Bear said.

  McBride walked past the old man and into the street. He looked toward the Elliot house. Every window showed light, including the turret room. The racket of rifle shots travels far and Allison and Moses would be alert for trouble. He would not be searching the turret room that night.

  Bear stepped out of the barn, and heedless of the rain, stood next to McBride. He cocked his head to one side, like an inquisitive bird. Listening.

  “Hear that, John?” he asked.

  McBride heard only the steely hiss of the rain. He shook his head.

  Bear glanced behind him. “You, McKay, and the rest of you men. Step out here.”

  McKay led the others outside. They were talking among themselves until Bear hushed them into quiet. “Hear anything?”

  “How can we hear in this downpour?” McKay asked.

  “Damn it, man, listen!”

  Then McBride heard it…the dim throb of drums in the distance of the night.

  Bear read McBride’s face. “Drums, right?”

  The younger man nodded.

  “The Apaches heard the gunshots,” Bear said. “They’re answering us, t
elling us to be patient and not to go wasting ammunition. They want us to know they’ll be coming very soon.”

  McKay had listened with disbelief, his eyes wide, horrified. His sharp intake of breath was palpable in the sudden quiet and the circle of light from his lantern danced on the muddy ground as his hand trembled.

  Chapter 25

  McBride watched Jed McKay fight to regain his composure. There were other men present and he did not want to show yellow. When he did, he laid the lamp at his feet and in his best take-command voice told the others that Apaches were not his immediate concern.

  “Our first task is to hunt down Drago,” he said. “You men get your guns and spread out over town. Find him.”

  It was Nathan Levy, dressed in a tattered robe he’d thrown over his long johns, who voiced the concern of the others. “Jed, in the dark we could walk right into Drago’s gun. The Poison Dwarf has killed his share and I don’t want to end up just another notch on the handle of his Colt.”

  Other men agreed and Conrad Heber said, “Jed, Herr Levy is right. We wait until first light. Then we go after Drago. This is a better plan, ja?”

  Bear had been listening in silence, and now he said, “Listen to these men, McKay. Drago is a snake and he’ll back-shoot you if he gets a chance. Wait until morning. At least then you’ll get a fair shake.”

  McKay looked relieved. He’d shown that he had backbone and now he was willing to let it go. “All right, we wait until sunup. You men gather at my store and bring as many others as you can find. We’ll track down that little assassin and string him up from a cottonwood down by the creek.”

  “You won’t find him, McKay,” Dave Channing said. The pale gambler was still dressed in his frock coat, frilled shirt and string tie. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “I’d guess he’s already tucked up in Allison Elliot’s best guest room.”

  The Apaches still stalked like demons through the dark recesses of McKay’s mind where fear dwelled, and now he pounced on a chance to mention them again. “Marshal McBride, talking about Miss Elliot, did you mention to her about using her home in the event of an attack by the savages?”

  “Yes, I did. She turned me down flat.”

  “Turned me down flat,” Conrad Heber repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “It means if the Apaches attack, we’re on our own.”

  Heber was agitated and his English began to slip. “Dat ist ein outrage! Dat vill not stand!”

  The German looked to others for support and found it from Channing. “Heber is right. It won’t stand. If the Apaches attack, we’ll all be up that hill anyway. I don’t know if Miss Elliot has ever seen drunk, screaming Apaches on the warpath, but when she does she’ll open her doors fast enough. Now, I’m getting out of the rain.” He touched his hat, smiling. “Good night, gentlemen.”

  McBride watched Channing go, wondering about the man. His frock coat and linen were expensive, but much patched and frayed, and his shoes were scuffed and down at heel. The gun he wore showed signs of considerable use and McBride had no doubt he could handle it well when pushed. But there was an air of defeat about the man, as though at some point in his life he’d taken a wrong turn and lost his way. The gambler seemed to have known better times in places where men and manners were very different. He did not belong in a hick town like Suicide. But then, where exactly did he belong?

  Men were saying good night to McBride, and Channing faded from his mind, just as the man was now fading into the darkness.

  He handed Bear the Henry and the two men walked in silence down the rainy street before splitting up, McBride to the El Coyote Azul, Bear to the hotel.

  By the time he reached the door, McBride had made a decision. His brush with Jim Drago had woken him up to some harsh realities about life in the West. From now on he would wear his gun.

  By morning Suicide was on a war footing. Apache smoke was talking among the hills to the west of town and McKay, helped by Bear, had pickets out.

  The hunt for Drago was forgotten as half-a-dozen men took up positions at the creek and several more climbed the hill where they could act as lookouts.

  McBride had no customers for breakfast until Bear stopped by and ordered coffee. “Seen the smoke?” he asked, laying his rifle on the table.

  McBride nodded. “You have any idea what the Apaches are saying to each other?”

  The old scout shook his head as he spooned sugar into his cup. “I never could read smoke, but what it’s saying is plain enough. It’s spelling out trouble for Suicide.”

  “Bear, are you staying or going?”

  “Been thinking about it, John. I don’t owe this town a damn thing and there’s nothing to stop me moving on.”

  “But you won’t.” McBride was reading Bear’s eyes.

  “No, I won’t.” The old man tried his coffee and added more sugar until McBride thought the spoon would stand up in the cup. “One reason is that I don’t want to leave Jim Drago on my back trail. I want to settle with him before I leave.”

  “And the other?”

  Bear jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Them two. They don’t want to leave. They say Apaches are men like any other and living with them can’t be any worse than it is among the blancos.”

  McBride smiled. “I thought you’d convinced them otherwise.”

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

  A shot echoed from the creek, then another. Bear scowled. “Damn fools are so scared, they’re shooting at shadows.” He rose to his feet. “I’d better get down there.”

  “I’ll come with you,” McBride said. He stepped behind the bar and found his shoulder holster and gun.

  “Changed your mind I see,” Bear said.

  “Drago changed it for me. Well, him and the Apaches.”

  The six townsmen, under the loose command of Nathan Levy, were strung out along the creek bank. They were hunkered down and had a fairly uninterrupted field of fire for several hundred yards; then the flat climbed higher into rolling hills cut through by shallow arroyos where piñon and juniper grew.

  A steady drizzle was falling and the clouds were so low they hazed the crests of the higher hills with gray mist. The morning was cold, the wind raw, the air smelling of mud and rain.

  McBride and Bear dropped down into the creek, then splashed across ankle-deep water to the far bank. Levy saw them and rose to his feet. His nose was red, a drip perilously suspended at the end, and his cheeks were pinched, tight to the bone.

  “Levy, who fired?” Bear asked.

  Before he could answer, a lanky man farther down the bank yelled, “I did.”

  “Was it an Apache?” This from McBride.

  “Darn tootin’ it was,” the man said. “He was over there behind that nearest mesquite bush. I think I winged him, because he ain’t made a move since.”

  McBride’s eyes reached out across the distance. The land was dotted with mesquite and cat’s-claw and wide expanses of sand streaked by patches of low grass. He turned to Bear. “I’ll go take a look.”

  “That isn’t wise, John,” the old man warned. “There’s nothing more dangerous than a wounded loco Apache.”

  “If it is an Apache, there will be others close by,” McBride said, “and we can’t hold them here. Bear, you see me waving, order everybody back to the hill, fast.” He glanced beyond Bear to the rise. “Are those lookouts asleep up there?”

  Bear smiled. “If an Apache don’t want to be seen, then you don’t see him.”

  McBride spoke to Levy. “Nathan, tell your boys to cover me. If you see me hightailing it back here, I want to hear rifles killing Apaches.”

  “You can count on us, Marshal,” Levy said. But McBride saw no confidence in his eyes. Close-up, Apaches could put the fear of God in a man. This McBride knew, because he was scared to death himself.

  He turned to Bear. “Keep your rifle handy.”

  The old man nodded. “John, know this—if I see the Apaches carrying you away, I’ll scatter your brain
s with a bullet.”

  “Thanks,” McBride said. “As always, you’re a great comfort to me.”

  “Damn right,” Bear said, pleased.

  Chapter 26

  McBride scrambled up the creek bank and, every nerve in his body jangling, crouched low and headed for the mesquite. He had drawn his Smith & Wesson and he held the .38 up and ready. His mouth was dry, the thud of his heart loud in his ears, and his breath was coming in short, sharp gasps.

  The rain was now heavier and within moments his coat was soaked. He transferred the revolver to his left hand, wiped the wet, sweaty palm of his right on his pants, then took up the gun again.

  He was less than twenty-five yards from the mesquite and out in the open.

  McBride thought about firing into the bush, flushing out anyone who might be hiding in there. But he decided against it. If the Apaches were lurking close, the sound of his gun could bring them running.

  Twenty yards…ten…five…McBride’s skin was crawling in expectancy of a bullet.

  He rounded the mesquite—and found nothing. If an Apache had been there, he was long gone. He scouted around the bush. After several minutes he found a single smear of blood clinging to the underside of a yellowish green leaf. If there had been more, it had been washed away by the rain. Dropping to one knee, McBride’s eyes searched the muddy ground. Then, close to the base of the mesquite where it had been protected by the thick growth of branches, he saw a partial track. It had not been made by an Apache moccasin. The imprint of a boot heel was plain and it had sunk two inches or so into the soft dirt. The heel had been high and small in area, suggesting the boot of a man who rode much and walked little. A Texas puncher could have worn this boot…or Jim Drago.

  The more McBride studied the heel print, the more he was convinced that Drago had been wearing his fancy boots when he jumped from the livery window. Fearing a manhunt, he’d either hid out behind the mesquite or had been making his way back to town at first light when he was mistaken for an Apache.