by Jeff Guinn
—
MAJOR MULKINS’S ATTENTION was still focused down the cut. The Apache remained there, he was sure, and might charge any moment. Then there was something coming up behind, hoofbeats in a rhythm different from the pounding of the storm, and then even before Mulkins could completely turn, a horse was on him and then past into the cut, there was an Apache riding it, where had he come from? It happened too quickly for Mulkins to react—before he could shoot, the Apache on horseback was well past. Now the Indians on the other end of the cut were reinforced. More things were happening behind Mulkins; he briefly tore his eyes from the cut to look. But the storm was so powerful that the raindrops seemed to comprise one solid, constant block of water hammering down. Mulkins couldn’t see what was going on in the canyon. Run back there to his friends and leave the cut unguarded against the Indians? He wasn’t sure. But Mulkins had learned through combat experience that indecision inevitably led to disaster. One or the other. Well, he’d come all this way to save C.M. from Brautigan, and C.M. and the big man were back in the canyon. Mulkins turned and ran in that direction.
—
GOYATHLAY NEARLY bowled over John Tiapah and Datchshaw. He didn’t bother dismounting. “Get on your horses, we’re leaving,” he told them. “Where’s Tawhatela?”
“He ran down the path toward someone shooting at us and didn’t come back,” Datchshaw said. “Did you see him there on the other side?”
“No, Nantee and I were fighting a bad spirit,” Goyathlay said. “It lives in the big white man. It’s angry now and might be coming after us. We need to get away.”
“What about Nantee and Tawhatela?” John Tiapah asked.
“The bad spirit has them. Now let’s ride.” Goyathlay began galloping north. John Tiapah and Datchshaw mounted and rode after him. There would be no great stories to tell back at the agency.
—
WITH ONE APACHE DEAD and the other gone, Brautigan didn’t know or care where, the giant turned his attention back to the girl and McLendon. In two quick steps he towered over them.
—
GABRIELLE FRANTICALLY HACKED at the rope around McLendon’s wrists with the clasp knife and finally cut through it; his arms were free. Just then she was grabbed by the hair and yanked in the air. It hurt so much, strands and curls were ripping out at the roots, but most of her hair held firm and she dangled on tiptoe at the end of Brautigan’s arm.
“I warned you,” he said.
Gabrielle ineffectively slashed at him with the clasp knife. Brautigan swatted it out of her hand, then drew back his fist.
—
JOE SAINT HAD seen everything happen, the one Indian running to Brautigan with his horse to no apparent effect, the second Indian being killed so easily. He’d heard the shots fired from the direction of the cut between the mountains. He’d felt the pounding of the rain. All of Saint’s faculties were fully functional except his ability to move. It was very odd. He wanted to but couldn’t. Then Brautigan had his hands on Gabrielle, he was suspending her in the air by her hair, and now back went his fist, he was going to kill her, and because Joe Saint couldn’t let that happen, he finally moved. He grasped the shotgun by the barrels and, reaching up, swung the heavy stock against Brautigan’s side. The force of the blow would have knocked almost anyone down. Brautigan blinked, dropped Gabrielle, and grabbed Saint by the front of his shirt. The handful of saturated fabric tore free. Saint staggered back a step. Brautigan snorted; without looking, he kicked at Gabrielle where she lay on the ground. The side of his boot struck the top of her skull, not a killing blow but enough to render her dizzy. Then in a single graceful motion he whirled and kicked Saint hard, driving the steel boot tip deep into his left armpit. It seemed to Saint that something ruptured inside; molten agony surged through every inch of his body. Brautigan reached for Saint again. Saint tried to shift the grip his right hand still held on the shotgun. He got his finger through the trigger guard and feebly attempted to aim and fire, but Brautigan was too close and quick. He got both massive hands around Saint’s neck and began squeezing, because this skinny one had struck him hard enough to hurt and choking seemed the right way to kill him.
—
MAJOR MULKINS, running through the rain, slipping sometimes, saw Saint in Brautigan’s grasp. He stopped and aimed his Winchester, but his friend and the giant were locked so close together that he was as likely to hit Saint as his intended target. Mulkins dropped his rifle and threw himself on Brautigan. Without releasing his two-handed grip on Saint, the giant drove an elbow into Mulkins’s face, breaking his nose and knocking him out. Brautigan resumed squeezing Saint’s throat. Saint’s eyes bulged. The shotgun dangled helplessly from his fingers.
With his arms finally free, Cash McLendon was able to build some momentum as he charged Brautigan from behind. This time he plowed into the back of the giant’s knees. They bent only a little. Brautigan took his left hand from Saint’s throat—his right was sufficient to hold Saint in place, though not to completely throttle him. With his left hand, Brautigan caught McLendon by the shoulder and pulled him close. Their faces were pressed together. Brautigan’s teeth were bared, his breath erupted hard and hot from his nostrils. McLendon’s fingers scrabbled for the shotgun. Saint, wheezing badly, tried to raise it again. Brautigan let go of Saint’s throat and wrapped his long arms around him and McLendon, clamping them both in a double bear hug. McLendon felt certain that his ribs were snapping. His left arm was trapped at his side, but the right one was free. Both of Saint’s arms were pinned. He almost dropped the shotgun but McLendon got it, he had his hand around the trigger guard and tried to get his finger on the trigger. Brautigan sensed the danger and then saw it, McLendon with the shotgun in his right hand, and he stepped back, carrying both men with him, shaking them back and forth, trying to loosen McLendon’s grip on the weapon. McLendon gritted his teeth against all the pain he felt—Brautigan’s lethal embrace was tightening, it was hard to draw breath—and tried to pull the gun up, forcing it between his body, Saint’s, and Brautigan’s. Saint seemed almost unconscious. Brautigan tottered just a little, the rock beneath his boots was slick, and that provided McLendon with the most fleeting of opportunities. He tried to jam the shotgun barrels against whatever lower part of Brautigan’s body it could reach, but his right elbow was still weak and gave a little as Brautigan squeezed hard again, and McLendon’s finger twitched reflexively on the trigger. There was fire from both barrels, and at such close range the buckshot tore the toes off Joe Saint’s left foot. Saint screeched, a keening, high-pitched wail. Brautigan flung him away, tore the shotgun from McLendon’s hand, and threw McLendon down in the mud.
Brautigan paused a moment and looked around as best he could in the deluge. There was little movement anywhere in the canyon. Major Mulkins lay unconscious, Gabrielle was down and trying to gather herself, Joe Saint sprawled nearby with blood pumping from of what remained of his foot. All three would be easy to finish. First would come another killing, a satisfying death delayed too long. Brautigan didn’t think of the boss now, didn’t take into consideration Rupert Douglass’s obvious preference to witness this execution. Professional pride was involved. This was the right moment. Only Cash McLendon had ever escaped Patrick Brautigan. His perfect record would now be restored.
Brautigan walked to where McLendon lay and nudged him in the ribs with a steel-toed boot. “Your time’s up.”
McLendon groaned. His whole body hurt. He tried to think of some way out but couldn’t. Gabrielle was down, the Major, too, and Joe Saint was shot, no one was left between him and the giant.
Brautigan kicked McLendon in the ribs, first lightly and then harder. All McLendon could do was roll away. Brautigan let him roll a little, then, as McLendon tried to stand, kicked his feet out from under him. McLendon fell hard, skidding on wet rock. As Brautigan stepped toward him McLendon tried to roll away again, but stopped short when his left arm flopped into spa
ce. He was on the edge of a crevice with an abrupt drop-off. He looked down, saw it was seven feet deep, maybe eight, some water in the bottom and a gentler slope on the other side. If he rolled in, it would momentarily put him beyond range of Brautigan’s kicks. Even staying alive a few more seconds seemed worth whatever pain resulted from the fall. But the giant stepped over him, placing a foot between McLendon and the edge.
“You can’t get away from me. You never could. Good-bye, McLendon,” Brautigan said, and raised a boot high above McLendon’s head.
For years, McLendon had involuntarily imagined this moment, when Brautigan had him and there was no escape. What will Killer Boots do to me? he’d wondered. Now he knew. In this final moment, he thought not of himself or Gabrielle, but of how little bits of mud stuck to the sole of the boot that was about to come down and crush his skull. He raised a hand to try and block the boot, a gesture as futile as standing on a track trying to stop a speeding train, and took a long, last breath.
—
GABRIELLE THREW her empty pistol at Brautigan. She was on her knees and couldn’t throw very hard, but it glanced off his shoulder and surprised him. He instinctively twisted to look back at her as McLendon’s hand caught his raised foot. The boot Brautigan had planted on the ground lost traction on the wet rock. It slipped out from under him. McLendon was able to push up just hard enough on the other boot for Brautigan to lose his balance completely. The big man toppled and disappeared. McLendon wondered, What happened to him?, then realized Brautigan had fallen into the crevice. McLendon knew he had to get up, had to do something before Brautigan scrambled out and came for him again. He staggered to his feet and looked for something to hit the giant with, saw only the empty pistol glistening in the mud. Back in Mountain View, he’d watched Sheriff Jack Hove buffalo a miscreant by grasping the barrel of a Colt and using the butt as a hammer. It probably wouldn’t work on Brautigan, but if nothing else it would be a way to die fighting, which McLendon found that he wanted to do. He grasped the pistol by the barrel and braced himself for the big man to come roaring up from the crevice, but Brautigan didn’t. For a moment McLendon was aware of the smacking noise the rain made striking the rocks, and Joe Saint keening where he lay in a mixed pool of water and blood. Then there was Gabrielle’s voice: “Go down and kill him.”
McLendon’s glance darted about. Brautigan had to be coming.
“Go kill him,” Gabrielle called again. She was back on her feet and pointing toward the crevice. “He fell down there.”
McLendon gingerly walked to the edge and looked down. Brautigan lay on his back, not moving. His right leg was bent at a hideous angle. Even through the curtains of rain, McLendon could see that a thick, jagged end of bone had torn through the flesh of the giant’s thigh.
“He’s hurt,” McLendon shouted to Gabrielle. “His leg is broken.”
“So kill him,” Gabrielle said for the third time. “I’ve got to see to Joe.” She limped over to where Saint lay bleeding and moaning. Gabrielle pulled the sodden bandanna from her neck and fashioned a tourniquet on his ankle, above the missing toes and arch of his foot. She leaned over and whispered in Saint’s ear.
McLendon looked down again at Brautigan. It seemed impossible that the big man was really helpless. He might spring up even on one leg. McLendon didn’t want to go near him. He went over to Mulkins instead. The Major was sitting up and holding his head in his hands, spreading his fingers so they wouldn’t press against his smashed nose.
“Where’s Brautigan?” Mulkins asked.
“He took a fall and his leg’s broken. I think we’re safe from him for the moment. How are you? Can you let me see your face?”
Mulkins moved his hands and McLendon gasped. The Major’s nose was completely flattened, spread out along his cheekbones. Blood and snot seeped from both nostrils, but the rain washed a lot of it away. The area around Mulkins’s eyes was puffed, and they were completely shut.
“I can’t see, but it’s just from swelling,” Mulkins said. “That’ll go down soon enough. Is everyone else all right?”
“Gabrielle is. Joe was shot, some of his foot’s gone.”
“Attend to Joe, then. I can sit here all right while you do.”
McLendon went over to Gabrielle and Saint. She had inserted a stick under the bandanna tourniquet and twisted it tight.
“We’ve got to get Joe to a doctor soon, or he’ll bleed to death,” Gabrielle told McLendon. “Did you finish off Brautigan?”
“No, I—”
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t sure how. All I had was the empty gun you threw at him.”
Gabrielle gestured. “Go over there and pick up the shotgun. Use that.”
“That’s what shot Joe. It’s empty too.”
“There are more shells. I think Joe has them.” She said softly to Saint, “I have to get something. I’ll try not to hurt you as I do.” Saint groaned as she reached in his pocket. McLendon noticed that Saint’s glasses had fallen off. They lay beside him, jumping a little as they were struck by the rain.
“Here,” Gabrielle said, thrusting two cartridges into McLendon’s hand. “Load and go shoot him.”
McLendon didn’t move. “Let’s just get Joe and the Major and get out of here. I don’t think Brautigan can move. If we leave him, he’s as good as dead.”
Gabrielle glared. “We’ve got to get Joe out of here. You’re afraid to go near Brautigan, aren’t you? All right, you hold Joe’s tourniquet in place and give me the shotgun. I’ll do it.”
“You don’t want to kill someone.”
She held out her hand for the shotgun. “Brautigan has to die, and we have to know it for certain. If we don’t, all of us will be afraid for the rest of our lives.”
McLendon thought, Gabrielle’s right. This is my fault, and it’s on me to finish. “I’ll go.” He cracked the shotgun, ejected the used shells and inserted two new ones. “Back soon.”
He cautiously made his way back to the crevice, expecting Brautigan to appear at any moment. But the giant still lay apparently senseless at the bottom. McLendon walked around—the crevice narrowed enough to step over a few dozen yards away—and slid down the more gradual slope on the other side. The dirt there had been churned to sludge by the rain; the bottom of the crevice was solid rock under six inches of water. The water rose as the rain continued. McLendon wondered for a moment if he couldn’t just clamber back out of the crevice and leave Brautigan lying there unconscious. If it kept raining and the water rose high enough, the giant would drown instead of McLendon having to shoot him. But Joe Saint was badly hurt and there was no time to be lost.
McLendon moved within a few yards of Brautigan and stopped. He raised the shotgun, aiming at the big man’s head. But what if he missed? The body was a bigger target. McLendon shifted his aim, but still was uncertain. If he only wounded Brautigan and left assuming the giant was dead, what if he somehow survived and came back again for McLendon, or, worse, Gabrielle? She was right. McLendon had to make certain, and to do that he had to get closer.
He forced one foot after the other in increments of inches. McLendon could hear Brautigan’s ragged breathing now. What if he blasted him with both barrels and Brautigan still got up? He’d always thought about Brautigan killing him and not the other way around.
A little closer. Brautigan was still on his back, eyes shut, raindrops bouncing off his body. Two steps away, McLendon raised the shotgun again, squinted down the barrel, sighting on the giant’s face. His finger tightened on the twin triggers. Almost, almost . . .
Brautigan’s eyes opened. Still flat on his back, he swiveled his head and looked directly at McLendon, who nearly dropped the shotgun.
“I— You—” McLendon stammered. He was very afraid.
Brautigan didn’t speak. His eyes shifted in one direction, then another, analyzing, measuring, and then returned to McLendon.
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“You can’t get up,” McLendon said, speaking more to reassure himself than inform the big man. “Your leg’s hurt too bad.”
Brautigan still didn’t say anything. He grunted with effort and rolled over on his stomach. The protruding thighbone scraped against the rock. Brautigan began crawling toward McLendon, who retreated and mumbled, “Stay back.”
Brautigan kept advancing, long arms extended in front. McLendon, mesmerized, watched the giant’s hands, the huge splayed fingers, each looking almost as thick as a normal man’s wrist.
“Get away from me,” McLendon said.
“Kill you,” the big man muttered, and McLendon’s gut spasmed. He tasted bile at the back of his throat.
“Get away,” he repeated, his voice trembling.
Brautigan continued crawling on his belly, left foot pushing forward, right leg dragging. He was almost close enough to grasp McLendon by the ankle. “Kill the girl too,” he said.
McLendon swallowed. “No, you won’t.” He aimed the shotgun, pulled the double trigger, and blew Patrick Brautigan’s head completely off.
—
IT TOOK TIME to climb up the mud-slick slope. Back on even ground he saw Major Mulkins on his feet, waving his hands in all directions like a man swatting at dozens of flies and missing. “I’m over here, Major,” he called. “Stand still and I’ll come to you.” He took the Major’s arm and began leading him to where Gabrielle still knelt beside Saint.
“The shotgun blast,” Mulkins said. “What happened?”
“Wait until Gabrielle and Joe can hear.” He guided Mulkins over. Gabrielle took the Major’s hand and helped him sit. “Brautigan’s dead,” McLendon said.
