Shadow of the Gun

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  Bear was right. There was no other way.

  McBride called to Channing to climb the hill, then yelled to McKay, Levy and Kaleen to give him covering fire. The gambler waved and began to make his way up the slope. An Apache leaped to his feet and snapped off a shot at Channing, kicking up dirt at his feet. Bear fired, unbelievably fast, and the Indian was shot high in the chest as he dived for cover. The Apache knew he was hit hard, but he had no intention of dying alone. He screamed and jumped to his feet, rushing at Channing. The Apache fired from the waist, lips bared from his teeth in an enraged snarl. The bullet opened up a crimson slash across the left side of Channing’s neck. Shocked, for a moment he dropped his hands, his guns pointing at the ground. The Apache came on fast, heavy rifle swinging above his head like a club. Channing saw the danger too late. His guns came up but the Apache was on top of him. The rifle chopped downward as the gambler moved to his right. The stock missed Channing’s head by inches, but smashed into his left shoulder. Higher up the hill though he was, McBride still heard the sickening crack of shattered bone followed by Channing’s wild shriek of pain. Beside McBride, Bear’s rifle roared and the Apache’s face disappeared into a crimson mask of blood and bone. The Indian was dead, but his body stood where it was for a moment, then toppled backward and sprawled over a jagged stand of cactus, arms and legs flung wide.

  Apache bullets were hitting the dirt around Channing. McKay and the others were shooting back, but their targets were flitting shapes in the sleet storm that was now quickly gathering strength. A howling wind tossed the trees and brush on the hillside, and sleet splattered venomously against the rocks, soaking everybody.

  “I can’t see a damn thing!” Levy’s voice was panicky, his shouted words torn from his lips by the wind.

  “Damn it, Levy,” Bear yelled, “if you can’t see, neither can the Apaches.”

  Somebody, maybe Kaleen, fired, shooting at a shadow. Then a scowling, sullen silence fell over the hillside.

  McBride’s eyes, stung by sleet, searched the hill, trying to find Channing. It was like looking through a frosty window spiderwebbed with cracks.

  “Channing!” he hollered. “Can you hear me?”

  The wind mocked him, scattering his words. The sleet wheeled around McBride, so thick he could barely make out Bear’s crouched form just a few feet away from him. He moved closer to the scout and yelled in his ear, “I’m going after Channing.”

  Bear nodded. His eyebrows and mustache were white with sleet and he looked a hundred years old.

  McBride made his way down the hill, sliding on his rump most of the way. He could see only a few yards in front of his face, and brush and cactus tore at him.

  Channing was conscious, his eyes strained. The man had always been pale, but now his skin was ashen and he breathed in short, sharp gasps, battling his pain.

  “Dave,” McBride yelled, trying to be heard above the ceaseless roar of the wind, “I’ll help you get up the hill.”

  The gambler nodded, saying nothing.

  “How is the shoulder?” McBride asked.

  Channing moved closer. “Bad…all…busted up.”

  Shouting above the storm, McBride said, “We have to go, Dave.”

  The gambler gritted his teeth as McBride grabbed him by the collar of his mackinaw and began to drag him up the slope. McBride was a strong man but after a few yards he was breathing hard, his heart thudding in his chest. There was no letup in the sleet. If anything it was falling thicker, and the wind was relentless, punishing both men, but Channing worst of all.

  A bullet probed the hillside, followed a moment later by another. Both shots went wide, hitting low and to the right of McBride. But he knew these were not Apache bullets. They were coming from the Elliot house.

  Bear left his place on the slope and helped McBride manhandle Channing the rest of the way. Together they got the gambler into the comparative shelter of the rocks. Channing was in considerable pain, but he managed a weak grin as he spoke to McBride. “Who shot the Apache off me?”

  “Bear did.”

  Channing turned his head, looking at the old man. “Thank you. I guess you saved my life.”

  “Call it professional courtesy,” Bear said. “Men like you and me should die on a barroom floor, like we’re supposed to.”

  “And your friend McBride?” the gambler asked. He was still smiling.

  “He’s not like us,” Bear said. “He’ll die in his bed, or in church.”

  “If the Apaches don’t get me first,” McBride said. He leaned closer to Channing and told him what had happened to Heber. “Dave, I have to get into the house and find out who is shooting at us from the turret room. Can you still handle a gun?”

  “I shoot a rifle off my broke shoulder. But I can still use a revolver.” Talking was an effort, but Channing fought back his pain and said, “While it lasts, this storm will keep the Apaches away. I reckon they’re probably sheltering already. You best get going and find that killer.”

  Bear moved close to McBride, his faded eyes shrewd. “John, suppose it’s Allison you find up there?”

  “I just hope to God it isn’t,” McBride said.

  Chapter 33

  Studying the Elliot house just fifty yards away across open ground, John McBride kneeled behind a clump of thick-growing sagebrush. Marching straight up to the front door would be inviting a bullet from the turret room. Only if he approached the house from the back would he have a chance of getting close enough to gain entry.

  The turret room window was open, but he saw no sign of movement. Without taking his eyes from the window, he broke open the Smith & Wesson and reloaded. He snapped the revolver shut, then moved to his right, picking his way through brush and juniper. The sleet storm still raged unabated and the day was edged sharp with cold. McBride felt tension in the air and the presence of danger.

  Here the slope of the hill was more gradual and, though crouched, he could walk easily. McBride made his way around a tree fall and quickly crossed an open area of grass. Ahead of him, half-obscured by manzanita that still showed a few red berries, were the mounded graves of the five men who had tried to steal Allison Elliot’s gold. McBride felt a chill as he walked past the graves and headed quickly for a barn that backed up to the slope of the hillside. Expecting a bullet at any time, he reached the side wall of the barn and crouched behind a water barrel. All the windows at the back of the house were open, but he saw no sign of life.

  Beyond the barn were some outbuildings and a pole corral. An old surrey, missing a wheel, angled into the dirt, its tattered canopy flapping in the wind. Nearby lay the top half of a broken plaster statue, a woman with large breasts and no arms.

  The back door to the house was to the right of the building. McBride decided to walk behind the barn, then keeping to the shelter of the corral, make a run for the door. He hoped it wasn’t locked.

  Leaving the cover of the water barrel, he backed to the end of the barn, then ducked around the corner. His back hit a solid wall of stone. Startled, McBride turned. The wall facing him was made of gray sandstone and stood about ten feet high. The blocks were neatly cemented in place by a man who knew his business. He stepped back and looked up. The top of the wall curved into a high, arched roof, and that had also been expertly crafted.

  McBride was puzzled. Why build an archway connecting the rear of a barn to the slope of the hill where none was needed?

  His path blocked, he made his way to the front corner of the barn and looked around. He saw and heard nothing but lashing sleet and the howl of the wind. The barn doors were closed, secured by a wooden beam that passed through a couple of massive iron clamps. McBride slid back the beam and stepped inside.

  Away from the roar of the sleet storm, the barn was fairly quiet and warm. The structure creaked in the wind and a single gray shaft of daylight angled from a window in the roof and spread like wood ashes on the floor. Depending on the whim of the passing clouds, the light glimmered from silver to dull slate and ba
ck again, now and then capturing dust motes that danced like fireflies.

  As McBride’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he headed for the back of the barn, walking through the stream of overhead light that gleamed on his shoulders and hat. As far as he could tell, the timber wall was solid. Nails had been driven into the wood where odd pieces of tack and a rusty collection of worn-out horseshoes hung. He moved closer, his probing hands traveling over the rough boards.

  “Push it, McBride.”

  Jim Drago’s voice came from behind him and McBride froze. His .38 was in the shoulder holster and he’d have to draw, turn, find his target and fire.

  The dwarf read his mind. “Don’t even think about it. I’d kill you before you skinned the iron.” After a moment’s hesitation he said, “Push it, damn you.”

  McBride did as he was told and a section of the timber wall swung away from him. It was the door to a concealed entranceway that opened easily on oiled hinges hidden on the opposite side.

  McBride heard Drago clump toward him in his fancy boots. There was a smile in the little man’s voice. “Don’t turn around, McBride. Now, two things: With your left hand shuck your gun and drop it on the floor. Then walk into the tunnel.”

  “Tunnel?” McBride asked, surprised.

  “No questions. Just do as I told you or I’ll drop you right where you stand.”

  Drago was good with a gun and at that range he would not miss. McBride lifted his gun from the leather and let it thud to the floor.

  “Now, into the tunnel.”

  McBride stepped through the door into the arched stone passageway and stopped. A dim light filtered through from the barn but beyond he saw only darkness.

  “On your right, see the lamp on the stone shelf? Light it.”

  “I don’t have a match.”

  “There are matches beside the lamp. Light it, McBride.”

  He found the lamp, thumbed a match into flame and lit the wick.

  “Carry the lamp into the tunnel and start walking. And remember, I’m right behind you and I ain’t sitting on my gun hand.”

  McBride knew Drago wanted to shoot him real bad but for some reason the little man was in no hurry, probably savoring the moments before the kill. But despite the obvious danger from the dwarf’s gun, McBride was intrigued.

  He was walking through a natural cave that burrowed deep into the hill. The sandy floor angled slightly downward, and all around him, weird in the guttering lamplight, stood tall pillars of rock. When he looked upward, McBride could not see the roof of the cave but he guessed it was very high. The air was cool, but not cold, and it was thick with a sharp, acrid smell.

  As though answering an unspoken question, Drago said, giggling, “Smell the bats, McBride? Get used to it. You’ll be sharing the cave with them for a long time, until the water drips from the roof turn your bones into stone.”

  The cave gradually widened out into an open area about fifty feet square. The expanse was surrounded by thick rock pillars that looked like the columns of a Gothic cathedral, soaring upward until they were lost in darkness. But it was the beautiful horse that surprised McBride and stopped him in his tracks.

  Half-a-dozen oil lamps burned in niches around the animal’s stall that was placed in the center of the floor. A silver saddle straddled one of the timber partitions.

  “Miss Elliot’s mare, McBride,” Drago said. “You’ve never seen a horse like that.”

  “Saw plenty of horses like that in New York, hauling coal carts.”

  “You’re pleased to joke,” the dwarf said. “That there sorrel is a thoroughbred racehorse brought all the way from Kentucky. She’s faster than the wind and cost more money than you’ll see in a lifetime.”

  McBride moved to turn his head, but a yell from Drago stopped him. “Look straight ahead or I’ll blow it clean off your shoulders.”

  McBride looked to his front and asked, “Why does Allison keep her horse down here and not in the barn?”

  “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” The dwarf’s voice was venomous. “Well, maybe I’ll tell you after I shoot you in the belly, but maybe I won’t.”

  “You’re a little piece of dirt, Drago,” McBride said. “Did anyone ever tell you that?”

  The little man sniggered. “You talk big McBride. Let’s see how big you talk a few minutes from now. Move! Into the tunnel over yonder.”

  McBride crossed the open area and stepped into a narrower, lower cave that would allow the passage of a man on a horse with only a few inches to spare. Here the walls showed traces of being mined and the floor dropped at a sharper angle. After walking for several minutes McBride felt a cold blast of air and knew the tunnel must end on the other side of the hill, probably at its base.

  Someone had used the natural cave to get deep inside the hill, then had blasted and dug the rest of the way.

  And suddenly he knew why.

  “That’s far enough, McBride,” Drago said. “I’ll kill you here.” The dwarf stepped close to McBride, revealing himself for the first time. He wore a black cloak, the hood pulled up over his head, and his face was in shadow. Shoving the muzzle of his gun into McBride’s belly, he said, “Sit down and put your back against the wall. Place the lamp at your feet.”

  In the lamplight Drago read something in the tall man’s eyes. “Do it or I’ll kill you now,” he said.

  McBride thought about going for it, but the dwarf was ready and the muzzle of the Colt dug into him deeper. “All right,” Drago said, “then I’ll shoot you now.”

  “We can talk,” McBride said, desperately playing for time. He moved away and sat, placing the lamp beside him.

  Now he saw Drago’s grin in the orange glow of the lamplight. The little man’s teeth were wet, stranded with saliva. “I’m glad you decided to talk for a while,” he said. “It’s good for a man to talk before he dies.”

  The dwarf took a seat on a low rock shelf opposite McBride. His gun was up and ready. He was still grinning, enjoying this. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked. “I’d say there’s about five minutes of oil left in the lamp. That’s plenty of time for talk.”

  “Allison Elliot used this tunnel to leave Suicide without being seen,” McBride said. “She rode that fast horse, killed any of the originals trying to leave and got back here to the cave before anyone noticed.”

  “Close, McBride. But you’re wrong. I killed some of them myself. Take Manuel Cortez now—I killed him. I got gold from Allison for that killing even though it was real easy.”

  “That’s what you used to buy the boots you’re wearing, huh?”

  “Thanks to you, I paid too much. That’s why I’m going to shoot you in the belly and not in the head, merciful like.”

  McBride played for time. Keep the little man talking. “And John Wright and his wife? Did you kill them?”

  “Nah, that was Allison.”

  “Years ago, the young man and wife who were killed with their children? What was their name—?”

  Drago sighed, letting McBride know he was getting bored. “Peacock. Allison and me did that. She gunned the adults and I took care of them caterwauling kids.”

  “And John Whitehead? And today, Conrad Heber?”

  “Enough talk of killing, McBride.” The dwarf’s voice brightened. “The mare you saw in the cave? That will be mine one day very soon.”

  “Why all the murders, Drago? What is the rule and why was it made?”

  The little man pouted. “See, you’re making me angry. I said no more talk of killing, but you did. Now I’ll have to shoot you.”

  McBride fought back a rising panic. Keep him talking, keep him talking.

  “I’m sorry. Tell me about you and Allison.”

  The dwarf smiled, his face wicked in the shifting yellow lamplight. “Allison, yes…Allison. She takes me to her bed, you know, when she feels like it. But she won’t tell me where her gold is hidden. When this is all over and there’s no more need for the rule, I plan on taking her away fr
om here. She doesn’t eat, says she’s too fat, so she can’t live much longer. When we’re in bed I tell her she’s too fat, and when she stops eating completely and dies I’ll have all the gold.” Drago giggled. “If I don’t beat her to death first one fine night.”

  “What about Moses?”

  “After I kill you, I’ll kill him. The Apaches will get the blame.” He paused. “And there is one other I have to kill.”

  “Who is that?”

  The dwarf shook his head. “This grows tiresome. I told you, no more talk of killing. Now I’ll shoot you in the belly and we’ll hear how you scream, huh?”

  Drago’s gun came up, leveled.

  McBride threw himself at Drago, knowing he was too slow, already a dead man.

  But the dwarf didn’t fire.

  Something very fast, long and thick as a man’s wrist, struck like a bullwhip from out of the darkness. The fangs of the rattlesnake hit Drago in the corner of his right eye. The little man dropped his gun and shrieked with fear and pain.

  McBride saw the strike, and threw himself away, rolling on the floor of the tunnel.

  The dwarf sprang, screaming, to his feet. But the snake hit again in a blur of speed. This time the bite was lower, thudding into Drago’s neck. The dwarf’s shrill screech echoed through the cave, bounding among the stone pillars. Startled bats fluttered on the roof and the frightened mare was whinnying.

  Drago staggered back along the tunnel in the direction of the house. He stumbled a couple of yards, then fell flat on his face.

  McBride picked up the oil lamp and watched the nine-foot-long diamondback slither swiftly for the end of the tunnel. The rattler had hoped to find a warm, dry place to hole up for a spell. Instead it had found Jim Drago.

  When McBride used his boot to roll the dwarf on his back, the little man was still alive. His eyes were wild as he felt numbing death draw closer to him. “I should have killed you when I had the chance,” he rasped hoarsely, all the evil in him corrupting his voice.