Shadow of the Gun

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  It didn’t look like the little man had been hit hard, but where was he now?

  McBride rose to his feet. The dwarf was a welcome guest at the Elliot house and if he was wounded, he might seek refuge there. The man was dangerous, especially if he found himself cornered, but McBride quickly made up his mind. He was going after him.

  McBride returned to the creek and told the others what he’d found, and his suspicion that the dwarf had headed for the Elliot house. Levy and the man who’d fired the shots insisted it had been an Apache, but Bear would have none of it.

  “Apaches don’t wear boots,” he said. “Maybe it was Drago, maybe it wasn’t, but I’m walking up the hill to find out.”

  “No, you’re not, Bear,” McBride said. “For what it’s worth, I’m the town marshal. It’s my job to arrest Drago.”

  “Then I’ll go with you. The little man’s handy with a gun and he’ll kill you any way he can.”

  “I’ll go it alone, Bear,” McBride said, a note of finality in his voice. He smiled at the old man. “If the Apaches come this way, we need your rifle right here at the creek.”

  Bear thought it through and apparently found some logic in what McBride had said. “All right, do it your way, John. But if I hear shots from up there, I’ll come a-runnin’.”

  McBride grinned. “Run fast, old timer. Run real fast.”

  When he reached the cantina, the fat ladies stripped off McBride’s wet coat and held it to the stove fire to dry. They giggled as he stood for a few moments, gloomily watching the coat steam. It was all but ruined and he had no money to buy another.

  Since he was making an official visit to the Elliot house he wiped off his celluloid collar with soapy water before attaching it to his shirt. Then he knotted his tie. His coat was still damp and smelled of scorched cloth, but the two women helped him into it, looking proud of themselves. He smiled and said nothing.

  McBride adjusted his shoulder holster, then pinned his marshal’s badge to the lapel of the coat. After he settled his bowler hat square on his head, he decided he looked official, like one of New York’s finest and not the marshal of a one-horse town.

  The giggling of the fat ladies wafted him out the cantina door. He bent his head against the rain and headed for the hill.

  Aware that he was a wide-open target should Drago be waiting at a window with a rifle, McBride increased his pace along the path leading to the house. But he reached the massive door without incident and swung the heavy bronze ring. He heard the hollow boom of metal on wood echoing through the house like the dull tolling of a mourning bell—then a dead silence that echoed louder.

  McBride stood in the rain for a couple long minutes, getting wetter. He was about to try the door again when it swung slowly open, creaking on its iron hinges. Allison Elliot stood there, smiling at him, and McBride’s heart lurched. For all her strange ways the woman had a devastating effect on him. There was a wild, untamed sexuality about her that hinted at boudoir delights a man could only dream about.

  “How nice to see you again, John,” she said with a soft purr that made McBride weak at the knees. “Please, come inside out of the rain.”

  McBride stepped past the woman, smelling her perfume and an undertone of whiskey and cigars. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, Allison,” he said.

  “Ah…that stern tone of voice suggests an official visit by an officer of the law. Am I correct?”

  “I’m afraid so.” McBride suddenly remembered to remove his hat. “I’m looking for Jim Drago.”

  Allison seemed genuinely shocked. “Goodness, whatever for?”

  “He tried to kill me last night. Mistook me for Bear Miller.”

  “I can’t believe that. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

  McBride smiled. “Allison, when a man takes shots at me I remember him real well.”

  Allison’s hand flew between her breasts. “Oh dear, that’s very distressing. Poor little man, he was probably scared to death of this Miller person and that’s why he shot at him—or rather shot at you by mistake.”

  “Allison, Jim Drago can make mistakes, but he doesn’t scare easily. Is he in the house?”

  “Why no. He hasn’t dropped by since you were last here.”

  “He may have gained entry without your knowledge. Mind if I look around?”

  “Normally I would say no to that request, but since this is an official police visit, then of course.” She waved a hand toward the interior of the house. “Where would you like to start?”

  McBride jumped at the chance. “Let’s start at the top and work our way down. I’d like to see the turret rooms first.”

  Allison smiled. “Ah, the servants’ quarters, except I don’t have any servants.” She gathered up her skirt. “Follow me, John.”

  The woman led McBride to the staircase, but when they reached the landing she turned right, away from the turret room he badly wanted to see. An identical narrow stairway angled from the hall and led to a small landing and a door. Allison pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  “I use this for storage, as you can see,” she said. “One day I must get around to throwing out half of this stuff.” The room was littered with boxes of all shapes and sizes; a few pieces of furniture and a thick layer of dust covered the floor. The dust had not been disturbed and McBride guessed this room had not been used in years.

  “I’d like to see the other turret room,” he said.

  “That room has been empty for a long time, John. I doubt Jim Drago would have made his way up there.”

  “Nevertheless, I’d still like to see it.”

  “As you wish.”

  Allison made her way to the other wing of the house, McBride following her. They walked past the bedroom where he’d slept and climbed the stairway. Allison opened the door and motioned McBride inside.

  The room was empty, the window tightly shut.

  McBride immediately noticed two things: The floor was free of dust—and the tiny room entombed a stench that hit him like a fist.

  In New York he’d smelled that smell many times in the course of his career. It was the sweet, cloying stink of rotting flesh.

  Chapter 27

  “My God, Allison,” McBride said. “Do you keep dead bodies in here?”

  For a fleeting moment the woman looked stung. But she recovered quickly and said, “We’re close to the roof, John. It’s probably dampness. Nobody has lived in this room for years.”

  “But I’m sure I’ve seen a light in here.”

  “And I’m sure you haven’t. Sometimes Moses leaves doors open. You probably saw light from the hallway reflected up here.” She smiled. “Shall we continue?”

  McBride nodded, but he walked to the window and looked out. The window had three wide panes that wrapped around the front and sides of the turret. From here a rifleman could cover the entire slope and every corner of the town. A watchful man would see everybody who came and went in Suicide and, if his eyes were keen, far out into the plains in three directions. It was the ideal watchtower. Only to the rear was there no window because the hill itself obscured the view.

  “Shall we continue our search?” Allison asked again.

  This time, grateful to get away from the dreadful stench, McBride crossed the room and stepped through the door. He didn’t breathe again until he and Allison were back in the hallway.

  “I’m sorry the smell disturbed you,” the woman said. “I’ll get Moses to clean the room right away.”

  McBride was watching her eyes. “It smells like something died in there.”

  “Many things have died in this house, including dreams,” Allison said. “Sometimes the death of a dream leaves a foul odor for those sensitive enough to detect it.” She smiled. “Now, the rest of the house?”

  McBride searched the basement last. It was empty but for a couple of dozen stacked barrels. Thick cobwebs hanging from the rafters and corners told him that no one had been down there in a very long time. He had expected to find nothing an
d he had, but still, disappointment tugged at him. Allison walked him to the door.

  “The next time you visit I hope you’ll come as John the good friend and not John the stern marshal.”

  “I’m sure that will be the case,” McBride said, half smiling.

  The woman was silent for a few moments. Then she said, “I will be leaving this house soon. Circumstances—things—are coming to a head and all my reasons for staying in Suicide will soon be gone. I will call on you then, John. I will need your help.”

  “What kind of help, Allison?”

  “When the time comes I’ll tell you. Then you will have to make a choice. I will offer you money, power, influence…and me.”

  “And my other options?”

  “There is only one. If you wish, you can choose poverty, obscurity, a useless life and a meaningless death.”

  “Easy choice to make.” McBride grinned.

  “Let’s hope you choose the right one.” Allison held out her hand. “Good day, Marshal McBride.”

  McBride took the woman’s hand. It was cold—like ice.

  It was not yet noon and the rain, falling hard and smelling of mildew, showed no sign of letting up. The plains around Suicide were shadowed with gray, the clouds hanging so low there was no horizon, only a merging of the dark land and the darker arch of the sky. As he walked away from the creek in the direction of the El Coyote Azul, McBride saw a small herd of antelope trot toward the water, then veer away, frightened by the man smell. They trotted into the murk again, and distance and a shifting mist swallowed them.

  McBride was concerned. The men manning the creek were passing around a jug and a couple of them were already half drunk. It was a bad omen. Drunken men, filled with whiskey courage, should not fight Apaches.

  McBride sat with a cup of coffee in front of him, swearing in a slow whisper. If the Apaches attacked, he’d pull the pickets back to the hill. Hopefully he could save enough of them to mount some kind of defense.

  His thoughts turned to Allison Elliot. What kind of help would she soon ask him to provide, and what did she mean that things were coming to a head in Suicide? And why did the empty turret room stink like a charnel house?

  Try as he might, McBride could not tie it together. All he could do was wait, and see how events unfolded. Maybe then he—

  Bear Miller stepped into the cantina, words tripping over themselves as they tumbled from his mouth. “John, Texas Rangers a-comin’. Carrying their dead.”

  McBride walked outside into the downpour. The Rangers were riding from the creek, seven mustached men sitting hunched on good horses. Several of them wore bloodstained bandages and three others were draped over their saddles, heads swaying with every step of their mounts.

  Bear’s tight face revealed his concern. The Rangers looked like they’d tangled with Apaches and had come off a poor second best in the fight.

  The riders drew rein at the cantina and a big man wearing a yellow slicker looked over the place, lingering for a moment on the painting of the blue coyote. His eyes settled for a moment on Bear, dismissed him, then turned to McBride. “You own this place?”

  McBride nodded and the big Ranger said, “Will you feed my men?”

  “Of course. Step down, all of you, and come inside.” McBride turned to Bear. “Tell your ladies to put on some grub and pour mescal.” His glance moved to the dead men and the Ranger read the question in his eyes.

  “They’re not going anywhere,” he said.

  The big man swung stiffly and wearily from the saddle. He let the reins of his horse trail, stripped off his glove and offered McBride his hand. “Sergeant Ed Walker, C Company, Texas Rangers, out of El Paso.”

  McBride took the man’s hand. “Name’s John McBride, out of New York and other places.”

  Walker shot a glance at McBride, a flash of recognition showing in his tired eyes. “Heard that name back on the trail a piece. Mr. McBride, I’d say you either got trouble headed your way or some mighty interesting kinfolk.”

  Before McBride could question the Ranger, he turned and waved to his men. “Inside, boys, there’s grub and mescal.”

  McBride stood by the door as the Rangers filed past. There were a couple of old hands, men with hard faces and cold eyes, but the rest were very young, little more than boys. One had a bandaged shoulder, a brown bloodstain seeping through. Another had a thigh wound and limped badly and a third had a fat bandage wrapped around his head. All of them looked exhausted, as though they’d been through the mill.

  The fat ladies rose to the occasion and spread the tables with huge platters of frijoles, onions and beef. The women got a lot of attention from the younger Rangers, especially after they got a few shots of mescal inside them, and their giggling and hand-slapping helped lift some of the gloom from what was a crowd of beaten men.

  McBride and Bear sat with Sergeant Walker. After the Ranger had eaten and built a cigarette, the old scout asked, “What happened out there? Were you hunting Apaches?”

  Walker lit his smoke and sipped mescal before he answered. “Yeah, we were hunting Apaches. The Army has pulled out, waiting for infantry and artillery they say, though what good either will do against Mescaleros is beyond me. I was ordered to round up any hostiles we could find and herd them back to the nearest army post.”

  Walker’s eyes wandered to one of the women and held there as he said, “We were ten, twelve miles east of Diablo Plateau when they hit us. That’s broken country back there and we were spread out considerable. I lost two men in the first volley, then a third as we tried to retreat into an arroyo.”

  The big Ranger took off his hat and laid it on the table. He was almost bald, a few strands of black hair brushed back from the widow’s peak on his forehead. “Look at these men,” he said. “A year ago most of them were plowboys walking behind a mule’s butt. They were no match for Mescaleros.”

  “You’re here,” McBride said mildly. “They must have stood.”

  “Oh, they stood all right. But none of us would be here if the Apaches hadn’t suddenly quit the fight and left.”

  “I’d guess that’s because they’re headed for here,” Bear said. “Why fight Rangers when you can loot a town where there’s women and mescal?”

  “Figured that much. We rode right through them in the dark—heard their drums. I reckoned they were working themselves up to attack this place. I rode through here a few years back and I recollected that it’s the only settlement for miles around.” Walker’s speculative eyes tore away from the fat lady to McBride. “Are you kin to the Rentzin brothers, huh?”

  Alarm flared in McBride. “Is that who you met on the trail?”

  “Yeah, the day before the Apaches hit us. The three brothers and a bunch of hard cases riding with them. Ransom said his brother Roddy wired him that he was visiting a man called John McBride in a town south of the Guadalupe Ridge. Ronson says he and the others talked it over and decided it might be fun to join the party. That’s why I had you pegged as long-lost kin.”

  “I’m no kin of the Rentzins,” McBride said stiffly.

  “Glad to hear it. Roddy Rentzin is a mean one and he badly wants to be a heap meaner. Is he here?”

  “No.” Bear jumped in quickly. “We haven’t seen him.”

  “Strange that, because the Rentzin brothers know all about Suicide, it being the only settlement south of the ridge an’ all. They were mighty sure Roddy was headed this way. Seems that one of their hard cases passed through here one time when he was on the dodge from the New Mexico law. The brothers were real interested in millions in gold he said was stashed somewhere in that abandoned old house up on the hill there. They asked me if I’d heard a rumor to that effect. I said I had, but told them not to put any stock in it.” The big Ranger smiled. “Like anybody worth that amount of money would ever have lived in this dung heap.” He looked quickly from McBride to Bear. “No offense intended.”

  “None taken,” Bear said cheerfully. “Only, the house isn’t abandoned. A wom
an lives up there with an old manservant.”

  Walker laughed. “Better tell her to look out for her fortune then.”

  McBride and Bear laughed with the Ranger, joining in the good joke. Then Bear’s crafty eyes angled to McBride. “Where are the Rentzin boys now?”

  “Behind us a ways. Like I said, it’s rough, broken country back there and they had a mule wagon with them. That will slow them down some, even if the Apaches don’t.”

  “Why the wagon?” McBride asked.

  “To carry the gold they hope to find, I guess,” Walker said, grinning. “Hell, I always figured the Rentzin boys were smarter than that.”

  “Well, gold can make a man take leave of his senses,” McBride said.

  Walker nodded. “I reckon so.”

  “I’m the town marshal here,” McBride said.

  “Saw that.”

  “Sergeant, the Apaches can attack this town at any time. Once your Rangers are rested up, I’d like you to deploy three of them at the creek and the others on the hill.”

  “I’d sure like to help you, McBride,” the man said. “But my boys are all used up and they’re in no shape to fight. I’m headed home and I plan to take the long way around. You can get everybody in town together and I’ll escort them as far as El Paso. I could use the additional fighting men anyhow.”

  “Sergeant, as a Texas Ranger your duty lies here,” McBride said.

  “No, my duty lies with my men. I told you they’re in no condition to fight Apaches. Sorry, Marshal, but that’s the way of it.”

  The Rangers had been listening and there were murmurs of agreement, the wounded among them displaying their bloody bandages.

  McBride realized further argument was useless. With a sinking heart he also knew he was honor bound to give the citizens of Suicide the option of leaving with the Rangers.

  How many of them would choose to stay?

  Chapter 28