“Ma’am . . . ?” Sam asked, the Colt still in hand, fresh smoke curling from the tip of its barrel.
“I’m all right,” Erin said, rubbing her wrist where the bartender had gripped her tightly. She stepped back from the body lying bloody on the ground.
“I’m sorry I had to shoot with you standing so close,” Sam said, still scanning the street for any more guns that might be pointed at him. “I saw I only had a second. I had to take the shot.”
“I—I understand,” Erin said, appearing not too badly shaken by the sudden turn of events. “He might very well have killed me if you hadn’t shot him when you did.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “I owe you thanks for saving my life.”
“Ma’am, it’s I who owe you the thanks,” the Ranger said, lowering the Colt as he thumbed bullets from his gun belt to reload. “The bartender might have killed you. But it’s certain either one of these men would have killed me had you not warned me both times.”
The two turned from the dead bartender and looked down at Matten Page. The outlaw lay dead, his eyes wide-open, staring down at the dirt as if engrossed by the spreading puddle of blood beneath him.
“I take it you know this man,” Sam said.
“Yes, I do—or I did know him,” Erin corrected herself. “He rode with the gang you’ve been trailing. He’s one of the Gun Killers.” She stared at Sam, wondering what to expect from him.
Sam began to recognize that something had motivated her warnings.
“Go on,” he said, encouraging her to continue.
She started to speak, saying, “My brother, Bram, has been trying to ride with the gang—”
“No, wait,” Sam said, cutting her off as soon as he saw Three-Hand Defoe and several other men step out of the cantina and start walking their way.
“I see them,” said Erin, her eyes following Sam’s toward Defoe. “Can you take me away from here, to the livery barn? My brother is there.”
Sam looked at her warily. The dun plodded up closer and stopped beside him.
“Am I going to have trouble with your brother?” he asked Erin. He had reloaded the Colt and kept it in his hand.
“No, he’s unconscious,” she said. “He’s snakebit. I’m keeping him in the barn loft until he’s well enough to ride.”
Sam didn’t need to consider it any further. He reached around with his empty hand, took the dun’s reins and brought the horse around in front of them.
“Hop on,” he said to her. “I’m right behind you.”
Defoe stopped in his tracks when he saw the Ranger swing up behind Erin Donovan, the big Colt still in his right a hand, a wooden rifle case under his bedroll between himself and the saddle. Defoe eyed the rifle case. A sharpshooter rifle ... ?
“Easy does it, everybody,” he said over his shoulder. “Let him clear out of here.”
“What about him killing Freddie?” a Mexican asked with a hard stare toward the Ranger as the dun turned and bounded away along the dusty street. “Freddie was one of us, nuestro amigo!”
“Our friend?” questioned Defoe, shooting a hard stare at the Mexican. “I’d hardly call Freddie a friend. Did you ever smell him?”
“Yes, he was an odorous man—it is true,” said Hector.
“That’s putting it mildly,” said Defoe.
“I will not speak ill of the dead,” Hector said, “especially one of our dear amigos.”
“Freddie Loopy tended bar for me, Hector,” Defoe said bluntly. “Let’s not make him out to be more than he is—or was,” he added, gazing toward the bloody body lying in the dirt.
“Still,” said the Mexican, “do we let this man ride in and shoot one of us down?”
“This lawman will get what’s coming to him soon enough,” said Defoe. “If you’re just itching to do something, go get your horse. I’ll pay you to do an errand for me.”
“Yes, right away,” Hector said, keeping his excitement at bay. He’d been hanging around in Wild Roses for a week trying to find a way to earn some money. It looked as if Freddie’s death might be just the break he needed.
Chapter 4
As the Ranger rode the dun off the street and along an alleyway to the livery barn, Henri Defoe and some of the men from his cantina stood staring down at the two bodies. Meanwhile, Hector Pasada ran back to the cantina and unhitched his big paint horse from the iron hitch rail.
“Where’s the Frenchman got you running off to, Hector?” Glory asked. She and three other doves were lounging on the boardwalk, watching with curiosity.
“Mind your own business, all of you putas!” the Mexican said over his shoulder to the giggling women. He ran along the street, leading his horse behind him.
“Hector,” Glory called out, “if you’re in a hurry, why don’t you ride that cayuse?”
In his excitement, Hector almost stopped in his tracks and climbed up onto the horse, but hearing the doves giggle louder behind him, he stared back with an angry, embarrassed look on his face and kept running.
When he and his horse stopped beside Three-Hand Defoe, the Frenchman looked back at the laughing doves out in front of the cantina.
“What is so funny to those whores?” he asked Hector.
“It is nothing,” Hector said, out of breath from running in the pressing heat. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to ride out to High Pass,” said Three-Hand, his dummy right hand always stuck down into his coat pocket, his real right hand resting on his holstered Lefaucheaux.
“Pase Alto?” Hector said. “That is an overnight ride from here.”
“Yes, it is,” said Defoe, “so you’ll need to get going right away.” He gave a thin smile. “Tell Sonora Charlie to get himself back here fast, pronto, extra-hurry. Tell him it’s important.”
“Sonora Charlie, the asesino? How will I find him?” Hector asked. “Where do I look?”
“Don’t let me down on this,” said Defoe, wondering for a brief moment if he’d made a mistake. “You won’t have to worry about finding him. All you must do is show up in High Pass. He and his man Clyde will find you.”
“All right, I go,” Hector said. Then he stalled and added, “But will I not need some food to take with me, some coffee, something?”
“Damnez-le, Hector!” said Defoe, cursing in French. “Must I do this myself?” He stared pointedly at the Mexican. “You see that Freddie is dead. I need someone I can count on to take his place. Are you the man who will do that?” As he spoke, he leaned down and picked up the discarded, sawed-off shotgun from the dirt. Wiping it off, he thrust it into Hector’s hands.
“Sí, I am that hombre,” Hector said, looking down at the shotgun, seeing the leather reload pouch hanging from its stock by a short length of rawhide. As he spoke, he turned to his horse and climbed quickly up into his saddle.
At the livery barn, Sam stepped down and reached a hand up to assist Erin out of the saddle.
She appeared almost taken aback, unused to such a courteous gesture, but then she smiled, took his hand and swung down beside him. She straightened her dusty, disheveled dress.
“Why, thank you, Mr. . . .” Her words trailed.
“Samuel Burrack, ma’am,” he said, his Colt still in hand. “Arizona Territory Ranger Samuel Burrack, that is,” he added. He tipped his sombrero with his free hand.
“I am happy to make your acquaintance, Ranger Burrack,” she said. “I’m Erin Donovan. Please call me Erin.”
“I’d be honored to, ma’am—I mean, Erin,” he said correcting himself. “Feel free to call me Sam.”
She smiled. “Sam,” she said, as if testing out the sound of it. “I like that.”
They walked into the barn, the Ranger leading the dun behind him, his Colt still out, should he need it.
“He’s up there in the hayloft,” Erin said, lowering her voice a little, as if afraid she might disturb her brother. She stopped at the ladder to the hayloft, turned to Sam and said, “Bram can be difficult, Sam, especially with the s
nakebite keeping him so feverish and ill. I hope you can overlook any rudeness?”
“I’ll certainly try,” Sam said, staring up the ladder toward the hayloft.
“Thank you. That’s all I ask,” Erin said. She climbed the ladder ahead of him. With good manners, the Ranger looked away until she had stepped over into the hayloft. Then he followed, Colt in hand, eyes upward.
Standing side by side with the Ranger on the hay-strewn plank flooring, Erin gestured a nod across the loft toward a banked pile of loose hay where her brother lay partially visible on a worn blanket. His two bare feet stuck out, one purple-veined and the color of old ivory, the other one swollen over twice its size, the purple-green color of fruit gone bad.
“Bram . . . ?” she called out quietly. “It’s me. I have a lawman with me. But he’s our friend. Please don’t shoot.”
She looked at Sam and squeezed his forearm reassuringly.
“Don’t worry. I don’t think he can even lift a gun,” she whispered.
Sam caught the smell of fever and sickness as they stepped forward.
They stopped and looked down at the young man’s pale drawn face and saw a fly crawling across the tip of his nose. Erin immediately threw her hands to her mouth and let out a muffled gasp.
“Oh no, Bram . . . ,” she whispered into her cupped hands.
Sam saw the big Starr revolver lying close to the side of the young man’s head, his right hand lying near it. He saw the streak of blood and brain matter lying splattered across the hay and on the plank wall three feet away.
He put an arm around the grieving woman’s waist and gently turned her away from the grisly scene.
“Stand over here, Erin,” he said in a lowered voice. “I’ll cover him up.”
He stepped toward what was left of the young woman’s brother and pulled enough of the blanket from under the body to lay it over the dead man’s face. Reaching down, he lifted Bram’s gun hand away from the side of his head and tucked it to his side. Then he picked up the gun, checked it and shoved it down into his belt.
When he stepped back over to Erin, he glanced out through the open loft window and saw Defoe and his band of drinkers walking toward the barn, but he saw no raging anger in their demeanor. Their leader, Henri Defoe, knew that gunfighting in the street was bad for business. He must have decided to settle the men down before more trouble erupted.
That’s good, Sam thought. The woman would need some time to bury her dead brother properly. Riding out after the Gun Killers would have to wait until tomorrow. Until Bram Donovan was in the ground. He sighed to himself and lowered his Colt into its holster. Behind him Erin cried quietly into her hands.
All right . . . he could do that, for the woman’s sake.
The Ranger and Erin met Defoe and his drinkers at the barn doors. Defoe held his real right hand hidden inside his coat on the holstered Lefaucheux pistol. His false right arm hung loosely down his right side.
“Here he is, men, just like I thought,” Defoe said as the Ranger and Erin stepped out of the barn.
“Back off, Defoe,” Sam said menacingly. He wanted peace, but he didn’t want to appear that he had to come asking Defoe for it, hat in hand. “The killing is over in Wild Roses, unless you’ve come looking for more.”
Defoe noted the Ranger’s Colt standing at rest in his holster.
“The only killing here has come from your hand, Burrack,” Defoe said. “If you want more we can certainly see that you get it.”
Sam knew the Frenchman would posture a little for the benefit of his cantina crowd, but he saw no danger now that everybody had taken some time to cool their tempers and take their bark off.
“I came here looking for the Torres brothers and their Gun Killers, Defoe,” he said. “I drew a Gun Killer out and I killed him. He tried to ambush me.”
“You also killed poor Freddie Loopy, a man who worked for me—a man greatly admired by all, both Americano and Mexicano alike,” Defoe said, pointing at Sam with his right finger from beneath his swallow-tailed coat, taking his hand off his gun in doing so.
Sam caught the gesture. Yes, the trouble was over, he thought. For now anyway.
“He came upon me with the double-barrel, Defoe,” Sam said, “the same gun he was ready to pull on me in your cantina. If I were to think on it long enough, I might decide that you put him up to it.” He stared hard at the Frenchman.
Defoe stared ahead, not backing an inch. The Ranger had let him know it was over. Now it was up to Defoe to look good for his followers. Sam would give him that much.
“But I don’t have time to think on it,” Sam continued, gesturing toward Erin, a step behind him to the side. “Her brother is lying dead up in the loft. Is Wild Roses going to see to it she gets him buried proper?”
Defoe continued to stare at the Ranger for a moment, as if in consideration.
“Yes, of course,” he said finally, letting out a sigh. Behind him, the men appeared to settle down even more.
“Miss Erin,” Defoe said, reaching up and taking off his battered silk top hat, “you have my deepest sympathy.”
“A snakebite is a terrible way to die,” a crusty old Texan in buckskins cut in. “I’ve seen men’s tongues turn inside out, blacken and burst before they can—”
“That’s enough, Yancy,” Defoe said, cutting the old border rat off. “Why don’t you and Zerro go bring the poor fellow down and take him to the barber?” He glanced around and asked, “Where is Walden anyway?”
“The barber was with one of the doves a while ago,” said one of the villagers.
Defoe chuffed. “If it has been over a few seconds, he is all finished. Someone go get him. Have him meet Yancy and Zerro at his tonsorial shop.” He turned back to the Ranger with a smoldering glare.
“Obliged,” Sam said, on behalf of Erin.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Defoe,” Erin said in a grief-stricken voice. “I will find a way to repay you and the town of Wild Roses someday, when I get on my feet.”
“Oh . . . ?” Defoe studied her face for a moment, her eyes reddened by her tears. “Are you looking for work, then, young lady?”
“I—I don’t want to—”
“She’s not looking for that kind of work, Defoe,” Sam cut in sharply.
Ignoring the Ranger, Defoe tipped his silk hat toward Erin.
“Pardon me for asking,” Defoe said. “But that is the business I’m in, coarse though it may appear to some.”
“I understand,” Erin said, humbly. “Thank you for asking. But I’ll be going back to Ireland as soon as I can find a port and make passage. I still have kin there.”
“I see,” said Defoe. He turned to the Ranger and said, “So, you and I are going to try to be civil to each other, for the sake of this grieving young woman?”
“Yes, as far as I’m concerned,” Sam said. “I have no problem with you, unless you’re a part of the Gun Killers I’m hunting.” He gazed evenly at Defoe, convinced that the shifty Frenchman was on good terms with the gang, if not actually a member.
“As you can see, I run a cantina here in this Mexican hellhole,” Defoe said, spreading his hands, his right hand still behind the lapel of his long dusty coat. “But you have my word that this is all I do.”
Sam nodded, pretending to be satisfied, but he knew better. He’d already seen too much for Defoe to convince him otherwise. Besides, how could he take the word of a man who wore a third arm in order to shoot someone by surprise?
Chapter 5
Hector Pasada didn’t stop until the sun had sunk completely out of sight behind the mountain line to his right. Luckily, just before dark his horse had whinnied and veered away from a large bull rattler as the deadly reptile coiled up and let out its spine-chilling warning.
Quickly getting his horse under control, Hector spotted the big snake as it continued making its presence known, its tail standing erect.
“You fat diablo, you!” Hector shouted, shaken by the snake’s sudden appearance. “I will pick my
teeth with your fangs!”
As the snake uncoiled and made its way toward deep rocks on the other side of the trail, Hector jerked the shotgun up from across his lap and fired, before the snake managed to slide out of sight.
“There,” he said in a spiteful tone as the blast sent the big snake flopping and falling limp on the ground. “That will teach you to frighten my caballo.” He patted the settled horse’s withers and stepped down from his saddle. Retrieving the dead snake, he held it at arm’s length and looked all around the rugged terrain for a good place to make camp.
“And now, to cook and eat you, you diablo gordo,” he said aloud to the blood-dripping snake.
By the time darkness set in, Hector had cleared himself a campsite amid a stand of tall rocks and built a fire of dried mesquite brush and downfall juniper. With the big rattler skinned and impaled on a long stick, he roasted it above the flames until it was ready to fall apart. Then he stripped the white meat off the stick onto a flat rock he’d dusted off with his palm.
Sitting beneath a large, yellow, three-quarter moon, he ate half the snake, washing it down with tepid canteen water. Before he’d finished his meal, he heard the horse chuff nervously, and he eased up into a crouch and sidled over beside the animal.
“What is it you hear out there, mi amigo?” he whispered close to the horse’s muzzle. He rubbed its nose with a calming hand and examined the shadowy terrain.
In a moment, he spotted a dark wispy silhouette moving slowly toward him beneath the purple starlit sky. Whoever it was, they were in no hurry and they didn’t mind showing themselves in the grainy night. Silently, he slipped over and picked up his freshly loaded shotgun, eased down beside a rock for cover and waited.
When the silhouette was close enough, he rose slowly and raised his shotgun to his shoulder.
“Whoever you are, you must be a fool, riding up on my camp this way without first announcing yourself!” he called out to the grainy darkness.
He heard no reply, just the steady plop of slow-moving hooves, which turned eerie after a moment of tense listening.
Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) Page 3
