by Tim Champlin
“Then or now?”
“Either.”
“I meant to do it then, but I was in a blind rage and I missed killing him.”
“Did you intend to kill your wife?”
He shook his head slowly, his eyes staring into space outside. “No,” he almost whispered. “It has haunted me every day since then. I was drinking and my aim was bad. Much later I was told by a friend who was in the cantina that night that when she refused money Rankin offered—dollars we desperately needed—he forced her into the back room with a knife and took her against her will.”
“Can this friend be your witness in court?”
“He has since died.”
Charvein had only an inkling of the pain such a situation would bring.
“Not a day goes by that I do not grieve for her and for my terrible sin. Her unmarked grave is near my cave.” The criminal aspect of the killing apparently didn’t concern him. “I went to confession later in Virginia City, and the priest told me I was not to blame because it was an accident. Still, I cannot undo what I did. It eats at me every day. One day my guilt will kill me.”
“If God holds you blameless, then you are blameless. Why can’t you accept that?”
Sandoval drew a long breath. “I was not blameless. I was drunk and I had murder in my heart when I shot at Rankin. My punishment is that I killed my beloved wife instead. Maybe someday… I have spent my purgatory here. It will continue until my bones rest in this desert.”
The crucial part of Sandoval’s past had finally been revealed. At least some of the mystery of this recluse was solved.
“She is buried nearby where I can go and visit her grave and ask her forgiveness,” Sandoval was saying.
“I’m sure she knows how you feel,” Charvein said, trying to console him. Mental anguish had to be even worse than many types of physical pain. He glanced toward the sanctuary of the old church and saw where the altar had been covered with a white cloth. Two candles thrust into the necks of wine bottles stood on either end of the altar. A small crucifix hung on the wall behind. Evidently, Sandoval had fashioned his own place of worship in this crumbling building.
He turned his attention back to business. But he was a fraction too late to prevent Sandoval from stepping out the open doorway into the bright sunlight of the street. “Sandoval! Get back here!” Did he have a death wish?
Sandoval threw his poncho back over his right shoulder, freeing his gun hand that still gripped the lever-action rifle at his side. “Buck Rankin!” he shouted. “You sniveling, wife-stealing bastard, show your cowardly hide.”
A few seconds of silence ensued, then there was movement in the shadow of the boardwalk, and the ex-marshal stepped out into the bright light, Colt thrust forward in a big fist.
“How’s your leg?” Sandoval taunted. “You think of me every time you try to stand up from a chair? That leg give out when you dismount from a horse? Does the pain keep you up at night—give you an excuse for another drink?” An oily laugh sent chills up Charvein’s back. “You ever see my wife’s blood in your dreams? Well, take a good look at me!” He thumped his chest with his free hand. “At me—the man who shot you.”
“Should have known a half-breed snake would someday come crawling out from under a rock,” Buck snarled. He seemed to have recovered his addled senses. “So this is where you went to ground. It’ll give me and my leg great satisfaction to finally leave your rotten carcass for the buzzards.”
Charvein was fascinated by the deadly drama that was playing out before him. As the lone, unwilling audience member, he seemed paralyzed to interfere. Was this old animosity destined to end here and now?
The hammer of Sandoval’s downward-pointing rifle was cocked, and his forefinger was inside the trigger guard. But he could never bring it up and fire before Rankin could cock and squeeze off a shot from the pistol he held at waist level. The two men stood thirty feet apart. The silence of eternity stretched between them.
EIGHTEEN
“Sandoval!”
All three heads snapped toward the woman’s scream.
“Lucy, stay back!” Charvein yelled. But the bare legs continued flashing toward them in the sunlight, her black hair flying, torn blue dress flapping.
The taut thread of deadly tension snapped. Rankin stepped back, mouth agape at this apparition, gun hand falling to his side.
Charvein glimpsed all this in a second and leapt out the door, grabbing Sandoval by the arm and jerking him back inside.
Within seconds, Lucy dashed in to join them, gasping, breasts heaving, eyes wide.
A pistol roared, and a slug tore splinters from the big door frame as Rankin recovered too late from his shock.
“I heard shots,” she panted. “Had to find out if Sandoval was all right. And now you’re here, too.” She reached out for Charvein.
He gave her hand a quick squeeze. “That couldn’t have been better timed if you’d been the ghost of Schooner Douglas,” he said, pulling her farther behind the protective front wall.
“Who?” she gasped.
“Never mind. I’ll explain later.”
Sandoval’s hands trembled. He nervously licked his lips. “I would have shot him… I would have killed him,” he muttered. “I haven’t changed at all.”
“More likely he’d have killed you,” Charvein said, eyeing his friend. What was Sandoval’s mental state? Did he have a good enough grip on his nerves to see this thing through? Charvein knew it was up to him to protect the other two. He had to do something about getting rid of Rankin. But how? If Sandoval hadn’t interfered when he did, Rankin would be gone on the mule by now. True, Sandoval would have lost his animal, but they still had the burro and food and water. The three of them could have managed, somehow.
“You’re all right?” Lucy’s question was not routine; the concern in her voice was genuine.
“Except for a bump on the head and lack of sleep, I’m fine,” Charvein assured her.
She let out a long sigh and her breathing began to steady. “I was so worried.” She stepped forward and gave him a convulsive hug.
Charvein was embarrassed, but pleased, by her sudden show of affection.
“I’m in good shape,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and gently pushing her away from him. “But now we have to deal with our next problem—how to capture or run off that ex-marshal across the street.” He went on to give her a brief summary of what had transpired. In the meantime, Sandoval was keeping watch on Rankin’s hiding place.
“Any sign of him?” Charvein asked, stepping to Sandoval’s side.
“I heard him moving around, but he hasn’t shown himself.”
“Well, we’ve got to do something. We can’t stay here from now on.”
“Neither can he.”
“Look, why don’t you slip out through the sanctuary and go find your mule. Lucy and I can keep an eye on Rankin.” It would relieve Charvein to have his agitated friend out of the way for now. Maybe he would calm down while he was rounding up the animal.
“That mule won’t go far. Probably grazing near the cavern right now,” Sandoval said.
“Best round him up, yank that saddle off, and give him some grain. He carried me a long way today.”
“Verdad.”
“When you get back, we’ll try to outflank Rankin. Bring a gun back for Lucy.”
Sandoval nodded.
“Rankin’s not in the best of shape, physically or mentally. The three of us should be able to capture him.” Charvein tried to sound confident, but Sandoval was obviously having none of it.
“He’s one mean… !” Sandoval spat out something in Spanish Charvein didn’t understand, but he was just as glad he didn’t. Sandoval eased the Henry’s hammer down and tossed the rifle into the crook of his arm. His hands no longer trembled. He seemed to have regained control of himself.
“I know he’s no pushover, but I think we can figure out a way to get hold of him without any of us getting hurt.”
&nbs
p; Sandoval headed toward the side door off the sanctuary.
“By the way, is there a way to reach the belfry?”
Sandoval stopped and turned, hooded eyes probing. “Why?”
“If I can get a higher angle, we can catch him in a cross fire. He won’t be looking for anything coming at him from up there.” He shrugged. “Possibly wing him. The Buck Rankin I knew won’t give up without a fight.”
Sandoval glanced up toward the bell tower, then back at Charvein. “Why is he even fighting us?”
“Because you’re an old enemy who gave him that leg wound.” Charvein thought it better not to mention the wife.
“The stairway was falling apart and wasn’t safe. I tore it down and used it for firewood last January.”
“Well, it was just an idea.”
“But I built a wooden ladder to replace the steps,” Sandoval continued. “It’s over in that far corner. I nailed it in place, but you have to be careful. Not sure it’s real sturdy. Haven’t used it for months.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be back after I take care of the mule—sooner if I hear gunfire.” He ghosted past the makeshift altar, toward a rear door leading to the alley.
NINETEEN
Buck Rankin was still feeling muzzy in the head. His thinking seemed dull. All he wanted to do was lie down and close his eyes. But no time for that now. His confrontation with Sandoval had been interrupted by some crazy woman who came screaming out of nowhere. Lodestar must be crawling with ghosts—or with more live people than he ever expected. Where in hell had she come from, and who was she? She sounded terrified, shouting Sandoval’s name, as if he were about to be cut down by a bullet. And he likely would have been, Rankin thought, fingering the warm steel of the Colt in his hand.
Sandoval’s new wife. That was it. The greaser had found himself another woman, and they’d been hiding out in this ghost town. Then why am I still fighting Sandoval over his first wife, Linda—a woman long dead? As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he knew that wasn’t it. He didn’t know if Sandoval had intended to kill her, but one of the bullets from the Mex had sure as hell ruined Buck Rankin’s career as a deputy marshal.
Good thing Sandoval had taken off without waiting to defend himself in court. It could’ve gotten messy for Rankin if the story about the seduction had come out. No good for a lawman’s reputation. He and Sandoval were the only ones who knew exactly what had happened in the back room of that cantina. And if he could kill those three across the street, no one else ever would. He had a vague recollection of the man who called himself Charvein. He’d run into him a time or two years before.
Sitting on the floor to ease the strain on his leg that was paining him more than usual, he leaned back against the wall. Normally in full control of himself, he now felt an unsettling mix of emotions. It had started in the night with the appearance of Schooner Douglas, or something that looked and sounded like Schooner. Perhaps it was his own imagination or conscience he’d been shooting at. It was this dust—this damned dust and wind—that caused a man to doubt his senses, to lose his grip on reality. The heaviness in his chest reminded Rankin he was carrying a load of powdery soil from that dry playa. He wasn’t yet dead, but he felt as if he’d been buried from the inside out.
If he killed Sandoval, the man who’d given him this never-healing wound and ended his career, he knew he’d feel much better. The leg would not be one whit less painful, but the satisfaction of laying low that damned greaser would make up for it.
A horse snorted. Rankin jerked out of his reverie. He’d heard nothing from across the street for a time; were they trying to sneak up behind him? Surely they’d be coming afoot—not on horseback. He crawled to the open door and peered out. A horseman was halted eighty yards away, the man’s face hidden in shadow under a wide hat brim. Although the town was silent, the rider must have sensed something, as he sat quietly surveying the empty street, a rifle resting across his pommel. He was riding a mule and trailing another with a pack saddle. Neither of the animals was the same one Charvein had. The man was tall—not a member of his posse.
Another damned stranger. The man looked wary, and he was armed. Buck instantly abandoned thoughts of killing Sandoval. With surprise on his side, he felt he could waylay this man and take both his mules. Becoming mobile again took precedence over everything else. With transportation, he could find food and water and then get back on the track of those two escapees who represented his reward. Revenge would have to wait.
Gripping his Colt, he eased back until he could barely see the rider through the wavy glass of a nearby window. After a long minute, the rider urged his mount forward at a walk, scanning the buildings on either side as he came. How to take him? Buck knew he couldn’t expose himself, for fear of being shot from across the street. He’d wait until the rider passed, then use him as a shield against the church where Sandoval, Charvein, and the woman were hiding. It was risky, but worth the chance; he had to have at least one of those mules, along with any water the man might be carrying.
On came the mule and rider, and Buck used the wall to push himself erect, gingerly putting weight on his painful leg.
As the stranger passed him, Buck stepped into the street. “Stop right there and drop that rifle!” he commanded in a throaty voice.
The rider stiffened and, without turning, began to lower his rifle.
A shot blasted the stillness and a bullet clipped Buck’s boot sole. “Ahh!” He jumped back. Smoke drifted from the bell tower of the church. They were above him.
The rider’s mule reared as a second shot zinged past the animal’s ear. The rider dove off, still gripping his rifle, turned a somersault in the dirt, and both he and Buck dashed for the shelter of an open door.
Two more bullets slammed into the wall as they tumbled inside. The mules plunged away up the street.
Buck managed to get the drop on the startled stranger. “Just set that long gun down, easy-like,” he said, earing back the hammer on his own gun.
The man laid the rifle down, and Buck reached forward with his left hand and removed the Colt from the man’s holster. He shoved the gun under his own belt. “Stay away from that door and window. Some folks across the street are gunning for me.”
“So it was you they were shooting at,” the man said. “I thought they were mighty poor shots, or were just trying to scare me.”
Buck nodded, eyeing this rugged-looking man. “Who’re you?”
The man hesitated slightly, glancing at Buck’s leveled handgun. “Denson Boyd,” he replied.
The name struck no chords with Buck. “How’d you come to be in this deserted place?”
“Look, I have no quarrel with you,” Boyd said. “You can put the gun down. If it’s money you want, I have a few dollars in my pocket. You’re welcome to whatever I got.”
“I don’t want your money. I wanted one of your animals so I could get the hell outta here,” Buck replied.
“Looks like we’re both out of luck on that score,” Boyd replied, glancing outside.
“You didn’t answer my question. What’re you doing in Lodestar?”
“Give me your story first. You got me disarmed. We can talk. Who are you?”
Buck instinctively liked the confidence of this man. “My name is Buck Rankin. I was leading a posse after two escapees from the Carson City prison—men name of Marty Stepenaw and Glen Savage, known as the Weasel.”
“What?” Boyd’s eyes flew open. “I’ll be damned. You know why they busted out of prison? They were coming after me. I was pardoned by the governor, but they thought I knew where the money was we took from a train a few years back. Even if I knew where it was, I wasn’t about to touch none o’ that stolen gold. No siree!”
Buck had dealt with enough lying criminals to know this last statement was only for the record and contained no truth.
Boyd squinted at him. “So you’re Buck Rankin, the famous deputy marshal?”
“I’m Rankin, all right. But har
dly famous. You heard of me?”
“Who hasn’t?”
Buck began to feel better about himself than he had for months. Maybe his career as a lawman hadn’t been completely in vain.
“You’ll never believe what happened to me today.”
Buck arched his eyebrows.
“Before I tell you, let’s have a drink. I want to be able to say I had a drink with Buck Rankin.” He very slowly reached into his side jacket pocket and drew out a metal flask. “Can’t never tell when you might fall off your horse, so it’s not a good idea to carry glass bottles around in your pocket.” He unscrewed the cap and held out the big flask.
Buck hesitated, not sure if he could trust this ex-convict. Why was the man being so friendly?
“It’s okay. If you’re a drinking man, this is pretty good stuff.”
Buck finally reached for the flask, tipped it up, and took a small swallow. Boyd had told the truth. Eyes and gun muzzle still locked on Boyd, Buck took a longer pull. The liquor went down smooth, then exploded silently in his gut, spreading warmth. He handed the flask back.
“Might as well put the gun down. Looks like we’re both in the same fix.”
“You could walk out of here and they wouldn’t shoot you,” Buck said.
“Not so sure about that. Why they after you?”
“Me and that fella, Sandoval, over there, got some old personal business to settle.”
“Where’s your posse?” Boyd took a swig from his flask.
“If you want the truth, I ditched’em’cause they were city softies got forced on me. I figured to make the arrest and collect all the reward money myself. But then that dust storm caught me and I lost my horse. Wound up here and found an old enemy instead of the two I was hunting.” He took the flask from Boyd and had another swallow. The liquor was working its magic already. Even his leg was less painful. Now if he just had some food… “So, why are you here?” He coughed and spat dirt on the bare floor. Holstering his Colt, he backed away several feet, remaining wary in case this Boyd was trying to lull him into letting down his guard to jump him.
