The Killing Shot (15 page)

The artesian well at Gonzales's ranch turned this patch of desert into a verdant oasis, and the water looked like paradise. While Pardo picked out six mounts, Reilly cupped his hands in the pond near the large corral to drink, but his reflection stopped him. Gunpowder and dirt blackened the beard stubble on his face, except for around his eyes. He looked like a raccoon in reverse. His hair resembled a bird's nest. Reilly ran the back of his right hand across his beard, dipped his hands into the water, and began to scrub his face.

He thought of Pontius Pilate, washing his hands, remembered a preacher back in Indiana when he was a kid saying that Pilate was in hell now, washing his hands for all of eternity. Reilly pictured himself beside Pilate, at some washbasin, trying to wash off their sins, but the vision was quickly shattered by Pardo's voice.

Pardo had the horses—two blacks, a bay, a roan, and two pintos—ready and had mounted one of the blacks and held a rope in his left hand to pull the roan behind him. Looking up, finally slaking his thirst with the cool, sweet water, Reilly saw Gonzales and Marshal McCutcheon standing in front of the revolver Pardo held in his right hand. When Pardo thumbed back the hammer, Gonzales dropped to his knees, clasped his hands, and began begging for his life in Spanish. McCutcheon tried to stand up straight, but his knees began to tremble.

“I wouldn't do that, Jim,” Reilly said calmly, patting his face dry with his dirty shirtsleeve, then putting on the bullet-riddled hat he had picked up in the dry riverbed.

“You ain't me,” Pardo said.

“Yeah, but those posse members will hear your shots. A gunshot'll carry a long way in the desert, in the morning. They hear that, they'll know what's happened, and they'll come charging back.”

Pardo looked skeptical.

“He's right,” Swede Iverson said.

The skepticism transformed into irritation as Pardo glared at the dynamite man. “Who the hell invited you into this conversation?”

“I don't want that Yavapai on our trail,” Reilly said.

Pardo turned back toward him. Gonzales had buried his face into his hands and was bawling like a newborn kid.

“You think that injun's heading back to Wickenburg with them others?” With a mirthless chuckle, Pardo waved his gun barrel toward the hills across the dry riverbed. “That injun's out yonder. Waiting, likely watching us.”

“You shoot those two men,” Reilly said, “and the Yavapai won't be alone.”

“I ain't afraid of that injun,” Pardo said.

“I am.” Reilly stared hard at Pardo, and let out a short breath as the gunman shook his head and slowly holstered his revolver.

“You're soft, Mac,” Pardo said. “I don't know why I like you. All right, you take care of these two hombres. But just for that, you ride the two pintos.”

“That's all right,” Reilly said. “I like paint horses.”

Pardo shook his head. “No self-respecting white man likes a paint horse. Mount up, Swede. Mount the bay. Lead the black.”

As Iverson went toward the horses, Reilly drew the Smith & Wesson—Iverson still had the American Bulldog—and motioned McCutcheon toward the adobe house beyond the corrals. The marshal helped Gonzales to his feet and walked steadily toward the open door. It was a nice building, solidly built, but inside, Reilly found the furnishings spartan. He took a rope hanging off a peg and tied Gonzales's hands behind his back, not too tight, and next bound his feet together. After securing the horse trader, he motioned for McCutcheon to put his hands behind his back, and Reilly took another rope from another peg—that's about all Gonzales had in the place, a table, a chair, and plenty of lariats, saddles, and bridles—and worked on tying the marshal's hands.

While he tied, he spoke, “Marshal McCutcheon, just be quiet for a minute and let me talk. My name's Reilly McGivern. I'm a deputy United States marshal.”

“You're a damned crook.”

“Shut up.” Reilly pulled the rope tight, burning the marshal's wrists. “Let me talk.”

“I know who you are. I got the telegraph after you helped break the Kraft brothers out of—”

He jerked harder, and this time McCutcheon grunted in pain.

“That jailbreak was K.C. Kraft's doing, and Deputy Marshal Gus Henderson's. Not mine. W.W. Kraft locked me in the back of the prison wagon to bake to death, and the next day Bloody Jim Pardo happened along. They'd robbed, or tried to rob, a Southern Pacific train.”

“I heard about that, too.”

“Yeah, well, Pardo took a woman and her ten-year-old daughter hostage. You hear about that?”

The lawman didn't answer. Reilly took that as a “no.”

“He's got them back in his camp in the Dragoon Mountains. With Wade Chaucer and his other men. Oh, yeah, if you ride down the Hassayampa to the Gila, then turn east and south for about five miles, you'll come to a series of buttes. There you'll find what's left of one of Pardo's men, a sharpshooter they called The Greek. Pardo killed him.”

“Killed his own man? What on earth for?”

Reilly eased the marshal to a seated position, then started tying his feet. “They don't call him ‘Bloody' for nothing.” He looped the rope around the marshal's ankles. “Listen—”

“Hurry up in there, Mac!” Pardo yelled. Reilly heard the horses' hoofs pacing outside.

“When you get back to Wickenburg, I want you to wire Marshal Cobb, Kenneth Cobb, in Tombstone. Tell him what I told you. Tell him…hell, I don't know what to tell him. Tell him I'm working on it.”

“If you're on the level, give me a gun,” McCutcheon said. “We can take Pardo and Iverson down now. While they ain't expecting it.”

Reilly shook his head. “I can't leave that woman and her kid. Not in that camp. Not with those cutthroats. They saved my hide. I have to get back to the Dragoons, and I need Pardo alive. I go back there alone, or with a dozen posse members, you know what they'll do to that woman and her kid.”

The town marshal frowned. Reilly tied a final knot and stood, staring down. “You do this for me, Marshal?”

McCutcheon looked up, studying Reilly's face.

“Mac!” called Pardo.

The lawman nodded.

“Shouldn't take you too long to get out of that,” Reilly said. “I appreciate this, Marshal.” He looked at the scabbed line across McCutcheon's forehead. “Sorry about what happened back at the Jail Tree. I'd left a note on a cigarette paper. Pardo was picking it up. I had to do something, or he'd have started gunning you, Dunlap, and me down.”

That seemed to satisfy McCutcheon. Likely, the lawman remembered the Mexican handing him the paper.

Reilly touched the brim of his hat, and turned, leaving the door open behind him. He swung into the saddle, and took the rope pulling another saddled paint horse.

“What took you so long?” Pardo snapped.

“Wanted to make sure they were comfortable,” Reilly said. “On account that I'm soft. Remember?”

They rode back to the pond, where Pardo reined in and let the black drink. As Iverson and Reilly let their own horses slake their thirsts, Pardo handed the lead rope to Reilly and turned the black around. “I forgot something,” he said, and spurred the horse into a gallop, riding back toward the adobe house. He pulled up and swung down, then was swallowed by a cloud of dust.

Reilly's stomach knotted. He touched the butt of the Smith & Wesson, but stopped when he heard Swede Iverson mutter something. Slowly, Reilly turned to stare down the barrel of the Bulldog .44 Iverson pointed at his head. “You aren't thinking of doing nothing, are you?” Iverson asked, with a wicked smile.

Big Swede Iverson had developed a great deal of confidence since he was free, no longer chained to that mesquite tree back in Wickenburg, no longer facing a hangman's noose.

“What's Pardo doing?” Reilly asked.

“He ain't making no noise to alert that posse,” Iverson said, and Reilly's heart sank as Pardo emerged from the doorway, wiping blood off the blade of his knife. He closed the door, sheathed the big bowie, and swung into the saddle, loping back toward the pond. He let the black drink some more.

“Did you have to do that?” Reilly asked.

“Not really,” Pardo answered as he took the lead rope from Reilly, “but it made me feel better.”

“We'll see how you feel when the posse comes back here and finds those two,” Reilly said, trying to keep control, but his temper was flaring. “They'll alert every county sheriff, every town marshal, the U.S. marshal, and the United States Army. The whole territory will be looking for Bloody Jim Pardo.”

Pardo cackled. “The whole
country
has been looking for me for better than twenty years, Mac. They ain't caught up to me yet.” He pointed north. “That Yavapai, I'm betting he'll be waiting for us downstream. We'll ride north a ways, then cut over to the Verde River, follow it a spell, pick our way into the high country. Be cooler up there. We'll ride down to Globe, and follow the Arizona Narrow Gauge tracks to Mesaville, pick up the San Pedro River and ride down to Redington, where I got me a date. Then we'll head back to camp. See Ma. Make sure Ma's all right.” He spurred the black into a lope.

 

They made their way through a deepening canyon, out of the heat, the clopping of the shod horses amplified. A raven's
kaw
sounded overhead, and Pardo reined up, drew his gun, pushed back the brim off his hat. He looked up the walls, pinched his nose, and frowned. For five minutes, he stared, then tugged his hat down, and turned, suddenly smiling, and gestured with the gun at Reilly.

“Too tight a spot,” he said. “We'll have to ride single file. You go first, Mac.”

Reilly drew the Evans from the scabbard, laid it across the pommel, and nudged the little piebald mustang into a walk. Pardo gave him a good lead before he kicked the black and started to follow.

The canyon's rocks were black lava, lined here and there with twisted juniper. Ahead, part of the canyon had caved in, leaving behind a rocky slope. He looked over the pinto's head and gave the mustang more rein to pick its own path over the fallen rocks and prickly pear. When the horse's ears pricked forward in interest, then flattened against its head, Reilly eared back the hammer on the Evans.

He spotted the white bandage encasing the top of Henry Dunlap's head and leaped from the saddle as the deputy jerked a rifle to his shoulder and fired. The bullet whined off a rock, and the echo bounced across the black rocks. The two paint horses took off down the canyon, and Dunlap cocked the rifle, but didn't duck.
Damned fool
, Reilly thought, watching Dunlap's bandaged head explode as Pardo's Winchester roared. Another figure appeared on the top of the canyon, and another ran out to try to catch the two runaway paint horses.

Suddenly, Reilly saw a flash above him, and rolled over, raising the Evans to fend off the Yavapai's slicing machete. The blade nicked the barrel, glancing off with a whine. The Yavapai grunted, and Reilly kicked up, flipping the Indian over his head. Bullets ricocheted all around him, and his ears rang from the fusillade. The Yavapai was on his feet, machete still in his hand, but Reilly had rolled to his own feet, and now the Yavapai approached cautiously, black, malevolent eyes boring a hole into Reilly's soul, both men ignoring the chaos around them.

The Yavapai feinted to the left, but Reilly didn't fall for it. They circled each other. A bullet pulled at the shirt hanging loosely under Reilly's right armpit, and the Yavapai charged, grunting, swinging. Reilly ducked as the blade whooshed over his head, and shoved the barrel of the Evans as if thrusting a sword. Easily, he could have pulled the trigger, killed the Indian, but he didn't want to do that.

“Listen—” he began, but had to duck again.

This time the Yavapai grabbed the rifle barrel with his left hand, jerked it forward, pulled Reilly close. He had to drop the rifle and grip the right wrist of the Indian, then fell backward, the lava rocks ripping the back of his vest and shirt, cutting his shoulders. The Evans clattered on the rocks. The Yavapai's left hand found Reilly's throat, squeezing.

Reilly kept his own right hand locked on the hand that held the machete but moved his left and grabbed the Yavapai's throat. His lungs burned for air, yet he tightened his grip. His hands were slippery with sweat, but the Yavapai's eyes began bulging.

A riderless horse leaped over them, the hoofs just missing both the Yavapai's and Reilly's heads, and the men broke free, rolled over, came up. The Yavapai was quick, and Reilly had to leap backward to avoid the blade of the machete, which ripped through his shirt just above the waistband, catching the Smith & Wesson, jerking it free, sending it bouncing across the rocks.

The Yavapai charged, thrusting the machete, pulling back as Reilly stumbled and fell. He rolled to his right, heard the blade strike the dirt, then gripped a small chunk of rock and flung it at the Indian's head. The Indian tilted his head, let the rock fly past his ear, then moved the machete to his left hand, nodding in respect at Reilly.

“Listen,” Reilly tried again, but jumped back as the blade swept up, down, and across. Reilly backed up until he pressed against the canyon wall. The sounds of battle were slowly receding, the echoes dying down. Reilly held up his right hand but jerked it from the menacing blade to keep all of his fingers.

The Indian charged, and Reilly ducked, spun, stepped away from the wall. The Yavapai fell against the wall, and Reilly stumbled again, looked up, saw the blade rising over the Indian's head, saw the Yavapai step closer, start to bring the machete down, saw a purple hole appear above the nose of the Yavapai and a pink mist spray the canyon side.

Reilly never heard the gunshot.

The Indian dropped the machete and sank into a seated position, then slumped to his side, eyes staring at the raven circling overhead, but not seeing a thing.