The Killing Shot (22 page)

“Look at that,” he whispered. “Ain't that a work of beauty?”

Pardo stepped closer. It was stuffy in here, the heat almost unbearable. The jar held two sticks of dynamite, brown, bent. White crystals had formed on the sides of the sticks, and Iverson removed his hand from the glass, extending a finger at the syrupy clear liquid at the bottom of the jar.

Pardo tried to swallow, but his mouth had turned to sand.

“How?” Sweat poured down his face. “How do we get it out of that jar?” he asked in a low whisper.

With a snort, Iverson answered, “Very carefully.”

Sweat matted Reilly's hair, streamed down his face, soaked his shirt. He held his breath as Iverson slowly unscrewed the lid of the jar, and carefully set it on the table.

Iverson had been prepared, stocking the cabin with crates, beakers, blankets, a doctor's black satchel, and plenty of cotton wadding, all of which they had moved outside underneath a mesquite tree. Iverson ran a tongue over his lips, reached inside the jar, and carefully pinched one of the dynamite sticks. Reilly's eyes locked on the bottom, watched it rise as Iverson lifted it, watched the syrup slowly roll off the stick, into the bottom pool of liquid nitro. His heart pounded, echoed in his head. He realized he wasn't breathing, and slowly sucked in a lungful of torrid air. He blinked sweat from his eyes, drew in another deep breath, watched the crooked stick of dynamite come out of the jar.

“All right, Pardo.” Swede Iverson's voice was barely audible.

Pardo took a tentative step closer, holding an old saddle blanket in both hands. Carefully, barely even moving, Iverson lowered the dynamite onto the blanket. “Stand still,” he whispered, and his fingers reached inside the Ball jar, took hold of the second, and final, stick inside the glass, and began lifting. It came out of the pool, stopped, rose another quarter inch, half inch.

“Stop!” Reilly's warning came out as a hoarse breath. Swede Iverson stopped.

A bead of liquid had sprouted from the dynamite's wrapper, held there for a moment, then slowly rolled to the bottom. Reilly tried to swallow. Couldn't. The bead formed a pear shape, suspended, then let go. Reilly shut his eyes tight. Tried to think of a prayer. He thought he heard a small
plunk
as the drop hit the pool. He opened his eyes. Breathed again. Wiped the sweat off his face.

Sweat dripped off Iverson's cheeks, and he smiled and resumed his removal of the stick. Slowly turning, he placed the second bent stick several inches from the first he had placed on the blanket Pardo held. Now he straightened. Reilly moved over to fold the ends of the saddle blanket over the dynamite, his eyes meeting Pardo's, neither man saying a word.

“All right, Pardo,” Iverson said. “Take those babies outside. Behind the cabin. In the shade. Keep them covered with the ends of the blanket ever so gentle, my friend. These sticks are still sweating, so watch your step.” Pardo barely seemed to be moving, his eyes focused on the folded blanket in his arms. Reilly and Iverson watched him, balling their fingers into fists as Pardo stepped through the threshold. When he turned around the corner, Iverson reached for the jar, stopped, withdrew his right hand and wiped his slick palms on his trouser leg, then took the jar in his hand and made his way gingerly to the mesquite tree.

He had rigged a beaker inside a bucket of water, the water coming from their canteens since Iverson's well was dry. He set the Ball jar on a smooth rock next to the canteen and backed away until he was at the satchel, sitting on top of a crate. He opened the crate and withdrew a long eyedropper, which shook in his hands.

“I could use a drink,” he said, and let out a hollow laugh.

“When the boys get back with the wagons, I'll have them ride back to Total Wreck.” Pardo had returned from disposing the dynamite. “Get some whiskey and a couple barrels of water.”

“You want me to ride into town now, boss man?” Duke called. He stood by the buckboard, about thirty yards from the cabin, allegedly keeping watch on Dagmar and Blanche.

“I want you to shut the hell up,” Pardo said. Looking back at Iverson. “We're fifty miles from Texas Canyon. This is gonna take forever, Swede.”

“You can't rush perfection, Mr. Pardo,” Iverson said, the eyedropper still jiggling in his hand.

“We've got to be at Texas Canyon before that Army train,” Pardo reminded him.

“We will be. We will be.”

The eyedropper fell to the dirt, and Iverson turned, smiling at Pardo, shrugging. “My…hands.” He wiped perspiration off his brow. “I forgot what a…thrill…this is. Forgot…” He wet his lips. “I need somebody, somebody steady, to take the nitro from this jar, and put it in the beaker.” He held out his trembling hands. “I…I…can't.”

“Jesus!” Pardo exploded. “I thought you were a nitro expert. You've done this how many times? We ain't never touched the stuff.”

“It's real…” Iverson swallowed. “Real easy. Just takes…more nerve…than I got today. Without a little whiskey to steady…these hands.”

Pardo whipped off his hat, slapped his thigh. “You best buck up, Swede. We've got three crates to fill.”

“If I only had some whiskey,” Iverson pleaded.

“After Phil and Harrah get back,” Pardo said.

Iverson clenched his fists, which shook uncontrollably. He laughed. “Well, I'll do it, Mr. Pardo, but don't blame me when this cabin and all these rocks land on your head.” He pried open his fingers, bent, reaching for the eyedropper.

“Hold it,” Pardo barked, and put his hat back on. He looked at Reilly, then at Duke, back at Reilly. “How about it, Mac?”

Reilly's Adam's apple bobbed. He rubbed his hands over his trousers.

“I'll do it,” Blanche called out, and ran from the buckboard, ignoring her mother's shouts.

 

“Easy,” the lawman whispered.

Blanche smiled crookedly, and eased the eyedropper out of the Ball jar and moved it to the beaker in the bucket of water. She drew a breath, held it, exhaled, and squeezed the liquid nitroglycerine into the beaker. Smoke, or maybe steam, rose from the beaker. Iverson had told them nitro would do that, that there was nothing to worry about. It didn't stop either Blanche or Reilly McGivern from worrying, though. When the last drop had fallen, she carefully removed the eyedropper and tiptoed back toward the jar.

“I thought,” she told the lawman in a whisper, “we could blow up Pardo.”

Reilly's eyes looked past the girl, over toward the buckboard, where Pardo, Duke, and Iverson waited with a sobbing Dagmar Wilhelm. His eyes fell again on the kid. “Let's just not blow ourselves up,” he said, smiling.

“Maybe we can sneak a little vase of our own.”

“No,” he said forcefully.

She looked up at him, glaring. “I'm starting to think maybe you don't want me and my mother to go free. Starting to think maybe you like riding with Bloody Jim Pardo. Maybe I should have left you in that jail wagon. Maybe I should tell ol' Jimmy about that deputy marshal's badge I pulled off your vest.”

He started to say something, but instead just shook his head, wiped his sweaty forehead, pursed his lips.

She had the eyedropper in the jar, filled it, lifted it, started for the beaker, angry, mad at herself, mad at this so-called lawman, hating the world. She was moving a little too fast, then Reilly was yelling, “Look out.”

Her eyes locked on the drop of moisture hanging precariously from the end of the dropper. Then it broke free, and gravity took it toward the rocks.

Blanche's scream was wiped out by a loud pop that kicked up grit and a thick, blinding cloud of dust. Something struck her in the center of the forehead, knocked her backward.

She held her breath. Time stood still. She landed on her backside, still clutching the dropper with both hands, waiting to be blown to bits. But…nothing happened, except, over the ringing in her ears, she heard her mother screaming her name. Blood rolled down the bridge of her nose. Swallowing, she looked up, and as the cloud of dust passed, found the marshal standing above her, his eyes wide, his mouth open.

They both let out heavy sighs.

“You all right?” Reilly asked.

She felt as if she might start crying, but quickly stopped that.

“Y'all all right?” Pardo yelled, his shouts echoed by her mother's screams.

“I'm all right!” she yelled back at them. Then, softer: “I'm all right.”

The marshal had leaned over, took the eyedropper from her hand, told her that a piece of rock had cut her forehead. She lifted her hand, gingerly felt the nick, wiped the blood away, watching as Reilly McGivern put the eyedropper in the smoking beaker, and let the nitroglycerin fall.

He rose, sweating profusely, and walked toward her, stopping, pointing with his hand that didn't hold the eyedropper. “You get back to your mother,” he said, and the tone of his voice told her not to argue.

She climbed over the rocks, and hurried across the yard, falling into her mother's arms. She couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop the tears no matter how hard she tried while her mother hugged her tightly, almost crushing her spine, rocking back and forth, kissing her hair, telling her everything was going to be fine, that everything would be all right.

Pardo was there, too, muttering something that sounded like an apology, saying he never should have let a little ten-year-old girl do a man's job, that he thought it was a funny joke, but she had done well, especially holding that beaker so steady when she fell. “Hell, you could have blowed us all to kingdom come.” Then he backed away, turned hurriedly, unable, Blanche figured, to withstand the look her mother was giving him.

 

Now that Phil had returned with two barrels of water and a jug of prime rye whiskey, they worked as a team. At the cabin, Swede Iverson removed the dynamite sticks, which Pardo carried out to the hillside in blankets, covering them before returning to the cabin. Phil and Reilly removed the liquid from the jar and transported it to a beaker, which, when filled and stoppered with a cork, Harrah would set in a crate on one of the three buckboards.

Each beaker was wrapped in wet cotton and put in a crate that was filled with water. Each crate, resting on blankets, its sides wrapped with tarpaulins, would hold only twelve beakers.

Duke kept his distance, guarding Blanche and Dagmar.

At dusk, they took a break, eating salt pork and beans that Dagmar had cooked, washing down the grub with rye and water. Their clothes were soaked from sweat, and the entire camp smelled sour. They ate and drank in silence, while Blanche cleaned the skillets, and Dagmar prepared coffee. The air began to cool.

They had filled only four beakers.

Iverson brought the jug to his mouth, took a long drink, swallowed, and started to lift the jug again.

“That's enough whiskey, Swede,” Pardo said.

The explosives man nodded, and set the jug aside.

“We should rest,” Iverson said. “Get some sleep. Start up in the morning.”

“No.” Pardo shook his head. “We work through the night.”

“But—”

“No buts, Swede. We got a lot of miles to cover. How's that coffee coming, Dagmar?”

“Be ready in a minute.”

“Good. Good.” He kept looking at her, liking the way she moved, how her clothes conformed to her body. Even that bratty little kid of hers was earning her keep, scouring the skillets with sand.

He picked up the greasy salt pork with his fingers, tore off a mouthful with his teeth, chewed, washed it down with a cup of water. He watched her bring the coffeepot over, filling each man's mug, saving him for last. He stared at her, unblinking, as she filled his cup, wanting to say something to her, wanting, really, to grab her, and pull her down on him. She was everything Three-Fingers Lacy never could have been. She wouldn't look at him, though, dared not make eye contact. He smiled at her anyway, until she turned back, and asked Mac if he wanted a refill.

Pardo glared, but Mac had the good sense to shake his head.

She headed back to the fire, stopping when Swede Iverson called out, “I'll take a little more, sweetie.” He saw her stiffen. Then her shoulders sagged, but she turned, and carried the pot over to that cad.

Pardo set his cup down, scratched his palm against the hammer of his holstered Colt. Maybe, he thought, Swede Iverson could blow himself up once they got the nitro to Texas Canyon, once they had those Gatling guns and that howitzer.

Accidentally, of course.

 

The last of the beakers was loaded onto the third buckboard shortly after dawn, and Pardo wasn't waiting. He ordered Harrah to drive the first wagon, Mac the second, Phil the third. The girl and the woman would ride with Mac. No. Make that Harrah. He didn't like the way Dagmar had looked at Mac last night when she asked him if he wanted more coffee. Harrah wouldn't try anything, and, hell, Dagmar despised Harrah.

“Duke,” he said, “you watch our back trail. Make sure nobody's following us. Swede, you and me, we'll ride point.” That sounded right. He'd keep well ahead of all of those wagons, just in case one—or all three—decided to blow up. Yeah, he'd ride point. Keep Swede out of harm's way, too. He still needed Iverson to cause that avalanche and trap those soldier boys at Texas Canyon.

“What about the dynamite in those blankets behind the cabin?” Mac asked.

“What about them?” Pardo was growing a little impatient. He had to be back at Texas Canyon in a matter of days.

“Those sticks are still sweating. They could blow up.”

“Not
could
, Mac,” Swede Iverson said. “They
will
. At some point, they will go boom.” He laughed heartily. Man was fine now, Pardo figured. He'd been almost worthless until he got some rye to settle his nerves.

“Just what the hell do you want to do about them?” Pardo demanded, and swung into the saddle. He turned his horse, saw Mac just standing there, without an answer.

“That's what I figured. The sticks stay all wrapped up in their blankets. Now let's ride.”

He spurred his horse, and loped over the hill, getting as far away from the cargo he was escorting as he could.