City of Widows

by Loren D. Estleman

  “If he could not lead he would not come. I think you suspected this when you sent me for him.”

  “I’ve never been one to stand in the way of a man who likes to ride up front,” I said. “That’s where the bullets are.”

  “Nor I, señor. And yet no man calls us coward, and you and I count four arms between us.”

  Whiteside intercepted the wagon and stepped out of leather to supervise the unloading of the dynamite crate. Moments later there was more shouting on his part. I cantered over.

  “The fight’s that way.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder.

  The rancher was red-faced. “You tell him, jackass. I’m still deciding whether to send you home or tie you across a mule and point you toward that barn.”

  Wendigo, the mule skinner in charge of the wagon, stood with his hat in his hands. He had a beetled brow and black moustaches that folded like crow’s wings over the entire lower half of his face. “Some caps got wet crossing the Pecos. You know the railroads won’t ship that kind of freight. I had the box marked, but I forgot and taken it instead of one of the others.”

  “Blasting caps, goddamn it!” Whiteside waved one under my nose from the box standing open on the tailgate. It was green with mold and burst at the seam, leaking powder in damp clods. “We got a whole case, and not one of them fit to blow the pus out of a pimple. Dynamite’s no good without them. You can set fire to it, Christ, shoot at it all day, and all you will get is a ringing in your ears. I wish to hell I could get just one of them to go off. I’d shove it up his ass and send him straight to China.”

  “There’s a way,” I said.

  After he heard my proposition, Whiteside left me to it and busied himself deploying the men. Francisco translated his orders to the vaqueros. Ortiz, who had donated cartridges to the cause, watched me opening the ends of the sticks with my knife and poking the lead noses inside, leaving the brass primer ends exposed. The shooting from the barn had fallen off.

  “You have done this before?”

  “Couple of times. Someone is always going off and leaving the caps at home.” I laid the finished sticks, dirty green and as long as Christmas candles but twice as big around, on the tailgate and selected a fresh one from the open end of the crate I was sitting on.

  “It worked, sí?”

  “Not even once.”

  “Mother of God.” He crossed himself.

  22

  “BARN OR HOUSE?” I was shoving the finished sticks into a burlap sack.

  Ortiz said, “The barn. It is closer to us and commands the best view of the house. The man who takes it has carried the day.”

  “How is your throwing arm?”

  “I have been known to hold my own at horseshoes. How is your marksmanship?”

  “Better than my arm.” I grasped his when he bent to pick up the sack. “Leave your horse behind. If we clean out the barn, whoever makes for it will have to move fast or get shot out of the saddle by that rifle in the tower. You’re too fat.”

  His face looked tragic. “You are not a politician, señor.” But he tethered his gray to a low piñon before lifting the sack.

  Wendigo, eager to redeem himself for the incident of the blasting caps, climbed into the seat of the wagon and snicked the mules forward to provide cover. Ortiz rode sitting on the tailgate with the sack of dynamite cradled in his lap. I rode the claybank behind, dismounting as we drew within range of the barn and ground-hitching the horse. One of the repeaters in the loft splattered fire. Wendigo, unhitching the team, slapped both mules on the rump and sprinted for cover as they bolted. He didn’t seem quite as ready to join his dead wife and children as Whiteside thought.

  Ortiz hopped to the ground and together we lifted the back of the wagon and swung it sideways to the barn. A bullet splintered one of the top-bows near the Mexican’s head.

  “A man could get killed at this work,” he said.

  “Throw one in front of the doors.” I rested the barrel of my Winchester across the seat. “On three.”

  Crouched on his heels, he selected a stick from the sack, counted, “¡Uno, dos, tres!” and sprang upright, bringing it over his head in a great loop. The stick spun end over end, catching the light on the brass butt of the .44 cartridge stuck in one end. When it landed and stopped rolling I sighted in on the brass. I tugged the trigger.

  No explosion.

  “Miss?” Ortíz, back in his crouch, stared at me.

  “Let’s hope.” I levered in another shell and fired again.

  No explosion.

  On the third try I swore I heard the bullet strike metal. The stick spun sideways and rolled to a stop at the base of the barn. I hung my head.

  “The fourth time is lucky,” Ortiz said. “It was as this when Serafina and I conceived Arturo.”

  I chambered and fired. The roar lifted the wagon’s front wheels an inch off the ground, banging my elbow with the wooden seat. There was white light and a spray of smoke and dust and splinters. One of the big doors swept open and tore loose from its top hinge. It leaned drunkenly for a moment, then the bottom hinge gave and it fell headlong to the ground.

  In the great ringing silence that followed, nothing happened. Then the repeater in the loft spoke. The wagon shuddered from the hits.

  “Can you put one upstairs?” I asked Ortiz.

  “¡Uno, dos, tres!”

  I followed the stick’s cartwheeling motion with the iron sights. Brass glinted just as it entered the square opening. I squeezed. Boards flew and the sky rained shingles. A cheer went up from the men surrounding the house and barn.

  “Destroying buildings is much more fun than building them.” Ortiz produced another stick. “Shall I throw this one in the same place?”

  “Not just yet.” There was movement inside the opening to the loft, which was no longer square now, canted left and beribboned with shreds of torn siding. A rifle barrel nosed its way out. I drew a bead.

  “Hold your fire!” Whiteside.

  I lowered the Winchester. A dirty white rag fluttered from the barrel in the barn.

  “Throw it out!” called the rancher. “I have four dozen rifles trained on that hole, so mind what comes out with it.”

  The rifle emerged out of the shadows inside, attached to a hand and an arm in a pale sleeve. The sleeve was soaked clean through. Streaks of what had soaked it forked down the back of the hand and stained the weapon.

  “Colt’s revolving rifle,” I said.

  “Morgan Rood,” corrected Ortiz. He was standing now with a fresh stick of dynamite in his hand, watching around the end of the wagon sheet. “I have not seen one in ten years, and with good reason. Perhaps he has shot his own hand.”

  The rifle dropped then, turning end over end before landing in the dust.

  “How many are you?” Whiteside wanted to know.

  The answer was barely audible.

  “Three. One’s in a bad way. I think Hatch is dead.”

  “Climb down and use the door. We’re shooting at anything that moves fast.”

  This information was greeted with a feeble laugh.

  Ortiz made a noise of revelation.

  “I know this laughter,” he said, when I looked at him. “It is changed, but still I know it.”

  Five minutes went by that could have passed for as many hours. At length something stirred inside the blasted-open doors at ground level. Another long space of time, and then all was motion.

  It had to be one hell of an animal not to have bolted in the face of two explosions. Whatever had held it, it wasn’t lack of spirit. The big American stud roan shot through the opening at full gallop, forcing its rider to duck his head to avoid the top of the door frame. In a flash I recognized the corduroy shooting jacket, the black plug hat with a feather in the band, the neat dark beard and big graceful handlebars, the brown jersey gloves with the fingers cut out; details noted in a lump and sorted out later. At the time there was no opportunity to sum them up, because the bloodstained hand that had surrendered
the rifle now held a horse pistol and the muzzle was stuttering fire as fast as the hammer could be tipped back and released and tipped back again. He rode straight for the wagon, his mouth gaped in a rebel yell, his torso swiveling to right and left as he sprayed lead in every direction.

  I centered my sights on the thickest part of his body, but by the time I fired my first shot, every rifle and carbine in Socorro County was barking. Dust flew off the corduroy jacket in spouts, each hit rocking him in the saddle, and still he came, pumping his trigger finger and directing his fire this way and that. At the end he was so close I heard his hammer snapping on empty shells, for he had spent the cylinder in less time than it took to count the shots. Then the roan threw up its head and turned back upon itself, breaking in half, and horse and rider wheeled over, struck the ground, and slid for several yards, dragging a plume of dust.

  Again Whiteside called for a cease-fire.

  The roan struggled to rise, snorting and blowing dust out of its nostrils. Its hindquarters, no longer connected to the rest of the animal except by meat and muscle, lay motionless.

  “¡Cuidado, señor!” cried Ortiz. But I stepped around the end of the wagon and walked up to where the man lay trapped under his squirming horse. He had lost his hat. Rivulets of sweat had etched tributaries through the skin of dust on his face. He was bleeding in several places. A shard of bone, startlingly white and polished smooth, protruded from a tear below his left elbow. He was supporting himself on his right hand, which still held the empty revolver.

  “Are you Ross Baronet?” I asked.

  “Kill my horse, mister.”

  “Are you Ross Baronet?”

  “Yes! Please, mister. His back’s broken.”

  “Did you kill Dave and Vespa Spooner?”

  “Who?” His face was a mask of pain. Sweat was stinging his eyes. He didn’t know me from his raid on the Apache Princess. I was just something between him and the light.

  I repeated the names. “In Lincoln County,” I prompted.

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Yes! I killed them both. Frank said—Please, mister! He’s just a poor dumb animal.”

  “What did Frank say? Did he send you to kill them?”

  His arm bent then and he turned his face into the crook of his elbow. He was breathing as heavily as the horse. Sobbing.

  I exhaled, placed the muzzle of the Winchester against the hollow behind the roan’s left ear, and fired. Its head dropped. Air shuddered out of its lungs.

  Cradling the carbine along my forearm, I bent to take hold of Ross under the arms. He was pinned solidly. I straightened to call for assistance. Something thudded against the horse’s carcass near the shoulder. The report, coming from the house, was deep and hoarse. I racked in a cartridge and returned fire, backing up as I worked the lever and trigger. Other rifles rattled from the circle around the house and barn and I sprinted back behind the wagon.

  “That was no light repeater,” Ortiz said.

  “I was wondering what became of Ross’s Springfield.” I looked at Ross. He was lying as still as the expired roan.

  “Dead, probably,” said the Mexican, reading my thoughts. “He will remain in that condition this time, I think. I intend to miss him. A man is not responsible for his choice of brothers.”

  “Forget him. He was a woman-killer.” I paused in the midst of reloading to meet his tragic gaze. “Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Está bien. I shall meet up with him in hell and we shall relive the Battle of Chupader Mesa over tequila.”

  I finished reloading. “You can shoot at the house all day from this distance without hitting anyone inside. I’m going to try to make it to the loft. Can you reach the porch from here with that dynamite?”

  “How close need one come, señor? It is dynamite.”

  “I’ll require as much cover as you can lay down. Hitting a moving target with a long-range gun like the Springfield is tricky, and he’ll have to reload between shots. Even so, he has the range.”

  “I have faith in your marksmanship.”

  It was a curious thing to say. As I was turning his way, he made two long strides, grasped the horn of my saddle, and mounted the claybank. He moved fast for a fat man. For any man. Gathering the reins and thrusting his Henry into the scabbard, he looked down at me. “My arm is tired from throwing, señor. It is your turn.” And before I could respond he raked his spurs hard. The claybank whinnied and shot forward, grazing my shoulder as it passed the end of the wagon.

  I recovered myself in time to send a stream of bullets in the direction of the tower containing the man with the Springfield. The men of the Slash W and the Diamond Horn took my lead and stepped up their fire at the house. Ortiz, hunched low over the claybank’s neck, bounded the horse over the corpse and carcass on the ground and galloped directly inside the barn without slowing. A volley came at him from windows on the first and second story of the house, but they were lighter arms than the Springfield and fell short. No shot came from the tower, which was beginning to look as if it had been out in the hail for a year. Pieces of siding hung down like tattered guidons and daylight showed through holes as big as a man’s fist.

  In less time than I would have thought possible for one of his bulk, Ortiz appeared in the opening to the loft, waving his Henry. Lowering himself to one knee and bracing an elbow against the shattered frame, he snugged the butt of the repeater into his shoulder and waited.

  I leaned the Winchester against the wagon, selected a stick from the burlap sack at my feet, made sure the cartridge I’d inserted was secure, drew it back behind my head, and hurled it in the direction of the gingerbread porch, following through with my body. It pinwheeled in a long arc, steeper than I’d intended, and landed in the short feathergrass ten feet this side of the wooden steps.

  The Mexican showed no disappointment. He took his time aiming. The Henry coughed. Dust spurted, the stick jerked and rolled a foot closer to the house. As soon as it stopped he fired a second time. It went up, taking a piece of the porch with it. I waited until debris stopped falling, then threw another. The trajectory this time was flatter and longer. It thumped on the boards and skidded to a stop against the threshold. When he hit the primer, on his third attempt, the porch flew apart in a cloud of shattered planks and amputated pillars. Again the men outside the house cheered.

  The third stick came to rest near the foundation to the left of the ragged hole where the front door had been. Ortíz was sighting in on it when a shout came from inside.

  “Don’t shoot! We’re coming out!”

  Some fifty guns posted on that side of the house leveled on the opening. Inside, the first grasping fingers of flame clambered up the curtain to one of the windows and scratched at the casing.

  One by one, obeying Whiteside’s shouted instructions, seven men stepped down from the ruins of the porch, weaponless, hands high. Their faces and clothing were smeared with burnt powder. Two of them were limping, their trousers slicked with blood. Another two supported a third man between them with his chin on his chest, half his head apparently blown away.

  There was someone missing, and with Ortiz in possession of the barn there was only one other place he could be. I checked the load in the Deane-Adams five-shot and contemplated the distance I had to cross to reach the house, burning steadily now and spilling gouts of black smoke out through the bullet-shattered panes.

  23

  I CAST AROUND for the pair of mules Wendigo had unhitched from the wagon. Mules are smarter than horses and rarely stray far from men and the comfort and security they represent. I spotted them, still joined by the double harness, grazing in the feathergrass a hundred yards upwind of the noise and smoke. I found a coil of rope in the wagon and strolled their way, taking my time to avoid spooking them. They were skittish, but not nearly as much as untrained horses would be under those circumstances, and the breeching prevented them from employing most of their best evasions. I threw the loop over the head of the near an
imal, jerked it tight before it could duck out, and set my heels. After the standard test of wills, and with strokes and whispered words I never used with any woman, I got them calm enough to let me walk them to the wagon.

  The cowboys and vaqueros had meanwhile taken charge of the desperadoes from the house, inspected them for arms, and begun trussing them for transportation to Socorro City or a serviceable cottonwood, whichever was closest. All seemed peaceful, and I was wondering if I weren’t being overcautious when the man with the Springfield opened fire once again from somewhere inside the burning house, scattering the men who had ventured too near in their eagerness to claim the prisoners and sparking a crackle of return fire from the posse. And now I knew beyond doubt the identity of the rifleman.

  I pointed the mules at the house and straddled one. Grasping its collar and reaching across to grip the other, I slipped down between them. It was a close fit and they didn’t want me there; their restless whickers rumbled like growls from their ribs to mine. But nervous was good. I raised my feet, filled my lungs, emptied them in a high-pitched yell, and sank my teeth into the neck of the animal to my right. I tasted salt and blood. The mule brayed and they bolted, jolting my arms nearly out of their sockets. Hoofs drummed, the wind lashed my face, cold then hot as we neared the flames. Smoke stung my eyes but I didn’t dare close them. If I calculated wrong they could wire me back to Montana in a Western Union envelope.

  Through the water I saw the ruins of the porch come up and the instant before the mules turned to avoid a collision I let go. Splinters of pain shot up from the soles of my feet when I struck down. My knees buckled and I nearly fell in the terrified animals’ path, but recovered myself on the run and bounded up and over the shambles of broken lumber, drawing the Deane-Adams in midair and landing on my chest and elbows inside what used to be the front door.

  For a second I lay there, floor-burned and slightly stunned, the revolver clamped in front of me between both palms. Then I rolled to the side. It was a time-tested tactic, but wasted. I was alone in the room.