The Killing Shot (8 page)

“Apaches ride what they can steal.”

“Them dead marshals wasn't scalped.”

Reilly tried to match Pardo's grin. “You know Apaches. You know they don't take scalps.”

“But they wouldn't have left you alive, Mac. Not no Apache. They would have had their fun on you, my friend.”

Now, Reilly chuckled. “I don't speak Apache,” he said, “but from what I heard, those Apaches seemed to think they were having some fun. Leaving me in that can to bake.”

Lying had always come pretty easy to Reilly. It helped him win more than he lost when he sat down to play poker, and it had gotten him a deputy's job when he had told Marshal Tidball that he had never spent time in jail.

“Nice story, Mac.” Pardo raised the rifle to his shoulder. “But Major Ritcher would have told me if Apaches was on the prod.”

Reilly dived off the horse just before a shot left his ears ringing. He hit the ground, rolled, hearing another shot, and another, hearing the sickening wail of a dying horse, then Pardo's cursing. More gunfire. Even a man with an Evans couldn't shoot that fast. Horses running, wild yips like those of coyotes, only…Reilly looked up and found Pardo's leg pinned underneath the dead roan. Bullets kicked up dust around Pardo, the horse. Another tore off Reilly's hat. The sorrel was galloping due south, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.

Across the desert floor charged a half-dozen Apache riders.

He stood, stepped, and dived, practically in one motion, feeling a bullet's tug on his bandana. As he landed beside Pardo and grabbed the Evans rifle, the thought struck Reilly:
Second time in a week I've found myself pinned behind a dead horse.
Quickly, he aimed, let out a breath, squeezed the trigger.

A horse went down, throwing a young brave into the dust. Reilly jacked the hammer.

Beside him, Pardo cursed, his leg stuck under the weight of the dead horse. The battered old Colt lay just beyond his reach. Reilly didn't have time to fetch it for him.

He swung the rifle around, found his mark, pulled the trigger, levered another shell into the Evans, swung back, fired. He hated killing the horses, but they were bigger targets than the riders. A bullet sliced his shirt, somehow missing his flesh but spoiling his next shot, yet he worked the Evans, felt the kick of the big rifle.

Before he could cock the Evans again, they were on them.

An Appaloosa and rider leaped over their make-shift redoubt, the hoofs of the big stallion barely missing Reilly's head. He started to turn, but the next Apache leaped from the saddle, slammed into Reilly and the Evans. Another shot, from where, Reilly couldn't tell, echoed, but the bullet must have gone wide. The Apache was on top of him, black, malevolent eyes unblinking, dirty hands gripping the Evans, trying to rip the gun from Reilly's hands.

He let the Apache lift the rifle off his chest, felt the freedom in his right leg, and kneed the young brave savagely in the groin. The black eyes closed in pain. The Apache's grip loosened, and that was all Reilly needed. He shoved the warrior aside, rose, spotted the Apache on the Appaloosa levering a cut-down Yellow Boy rifle, and ignored the Indian writhing near him. Another shot boomed behind him. Sharps, from the sound of it, but the rifleman missed whatever he was aiming at. Reilly had to fire from the hip. The stallion buckled, fell, throwing the mounted warrior to the ground.

Reilly spun, reversed his hold on the Evans, slammed the stock savagely, crushing the skull of the warrior he had kneed in the groin. Spinning while working the lever, Reilly fired again from the hip, missed. The Apache scrambled for the old Winchester he had dropped when he leaped clear of the dying Appaloosa. Reilly cocked the Evans, this time made sure of his aim, and shot the brave through the chest.

A scream came behind him, and Reilly spun. Another Apache came charging, armed with only a knife. Reilly brought the rifle to his shoulder. The Evans barked, and the running Apache staggered, dropped his knife, kept on running, weaving, and as Reilly chambered a fresh round into the Evans, he finally fell, started to rise, and sank, shuddering, into the dust.

At last, he filled his lungs and sank behind Pardo and the dead horse, scanning ahead of him, looking behind him. Three Apache horses lay still, two in front of them, plus the dead Appaloosa. The piebald gelding trotted about, surprisingly patient, easy, about ten rods behind them. Another horse, a blood bay Reilly had shot, stood over its motionless rider. None of the Apaches moved.

“Get me my damned pistol,” Pardo said. “And get me from under this horse.”

“Quiet,” Reilly said, trying to catch his breath. “Keep your head down. There's somebody else out there. Somebody with a long gun. Sharps, from the sound.”

“I know that, Mac. It's The Greek. Now give me a hand.”

Reilly turned, his eyes steady, his voice controlled. “Give you a hand? A minute ago, you were about to shoot me.”

“A minute ago, I didn't believe you about Apaches jumping the reservation. Now get me up, damn it.”

He pondered his chances, thought about Dagmar Wilhelm and Blanche. He thought about how much he could use a shot of rye just about now. Softly, he lowered the hammer on the Evans, leaned the rifle against the dead roan, and helped pull out Pardo.

The first thing Pardo did was grab his gun and blow grit from the cylinder. After checking the barrel, he eared back the hammer. “I'll take that rifle, Mac.” He aimed the Colt at Reilly.

“I just saved your hide, Pardo,” Reilly told him.

“Put in for the Medal of Honor if you want. You saved your ass, too.”

Reilly lifted the Evans, and tossed it to Pardo, who caught it in his free hand. The killer pitched the rifle behind him, removed his hat, and waved it over his head for several seconds, yelling, “Greek. Come on. It's over.” Then, to Reilly: “Better make sure it is over.” Limping slightly, Pardo moved to the Apache lying facedown near the Appaloosa, and shot him in the head.

Reilly stepped over the roan's legs, found his hat, stuck his finger through the hole in the crown, then slapped it against his thigh as he walked toward the other Apaches. A rider, The Greek, appeared from the rocks, started trotting easily toward them. Reilly knelt beside another Apache, and jumped as Pardo fired another coup de grâce into another Apache.

The fall from the horse Reilly had shot had killed this young brave. Slowly, Reilly reached over and closed the unseeing, dark eyes. He let out a snort, part laugh, part sigh, and shook his head. These Apaches, maybe, had saved his life, coming as they did, after jumping the San Carlos reservation. Saved his life, and he had killed them for it. Of course, they would have killed him.

He looked down, saw the pearl grip sticking out of the warrior's breechclout, and he reached down and withdrew the derringer. It was an over/under .41 Remington, nickel plated. He didn't have time to see if the hideaway gun was loaded, but quickly shoved it down into his left boot top, and stood. The Greek was about fifty yards away when he suddenly stopped, raising the big Sharps. Reilly wet his lips, thought the man planned to kill him, but The Greek was looking beyond Reilly.

Quickly, Reilly whirled. Pardo stood in front of one dead Apache, his back to another who was still alive, lifting his head, raising an old musket, aiming at Pardo's back.

The Greek waited.

The Apache cocked the rifle, started to squeeze the trigger.

The Sharps boomed, spitting dust a yard behind the Apache, who didn't flinch.

Reilly jerked the derringer from his boot, firing as Pardo whirled. The Apache rolled over, and Pardo emptied his Colt into the dead man's chest, then quickly reloaded while limping toward Reilly.

He stopped a few yards in front of Reilly and holstered the Colt. “Reckon you saved my life again, Mac.”

Reilly lowered the smoking Remington. “Maybe I'll put in for another Medal of Honor.”

Riding up to them, The Greek still carried the big Sharps with the telescope, but he looked scared as he reined up. “I am sorry, Jim,” he said. “I missed.”

“You missed quite a lot, Greek,” Pardo said, but he kept looking at Reilly, sizing him up. “I thought you never missed.”

“The first shots, I feared I would hit you. The last one, I just rushed.”

“It's all right, Greek. We all have our bad days. Besides, Mac here came through. That's a damned good shot, Mac, with a derringer. Not to mention how you handled that rifle. Like you was born to shoot them. Where'd you learn to shoot like that?”

“I've had plenty of practice.”

Pardo held out his left hand, palm up. “Still,” he said, “I reckon I'll take that little peashooter.”

“Still don't trust me?” Reilly handed him the Remington.

“I'm starting to, Mac,” Pardo said, only now his eyes drilled on The Greek. “But I tend to trust men who ain't heeled a lot more than I trust them that is. Catch up them horses, Greek. See if that bay's fit to ride. I'll scalp these bucks and we can sell them in Mexico next time we cross the border.”

 

Pardo filled the mugs with whiskey and raised his own. “A toast,” he said, “to Mac. God gave him a pair of eyes, and a steady hand. Wasn't for Mac, Bloody Jim Pardo would be burning in hell.” He drank, and the others followed his example.

It was mescal, not rye, but Reilly liked the way the liquor burned his throat, even how it exploded in his stomach. They were all drinking that evening, all but Dagmar and Blanche, who remained in their little corner of the camp. Three-Fingers Lacy quickly held out her cup for a refill. Often Reilly had wondered how the leathery woman had gotten her name, for she sported all of her digits.
Three fingers?
Reilly thought.
More like four or five.
The woman could drink more whiskey than anyone Reilly had known.

Feeling generous, Pardo refilled the mugs, giving Three-Fingers Lacy a generous pour. Quickly, Pardo drained his mug, and tossed the cup aside.

“I can use a sharpshooter like you, Mac. We have need of a new man. If you're game enough to ride with me.”

The Greek's swarthy face went ashen. “Pardo…” he began.

“Rest easy, Greek. We lost Rafael. Not sure when Soledad will get back. And I trust you, Greek.” Pardo's face said he didn't trust The Greek at all. “Just don't let it happen again.”

“I won't.” With trembling hands, The Greek raised the cup to his mouth.

“You trust me,” Reilly said, “enough to let me have a gun?”

Pardo laughed. “Don't rush me. In time. Now, you want to ride with me?”

“I'd be delighted.” Reilly killed the mescal in his own cup.

“Glad to hear that, Mac. Ain't you, Ma?”

“Delighted,” Ruby Pardo said, her voice mocking, her cold eyes flaming hatred in Reilly's direction. She trusted Reilly about as much as her son trusted The Greek. “How's your leg, son?”

“Bruised. But a bruised leg is better than being dead.”

Reilly rose. “If you'll excuse me, it's been a hard day.”

“A lot harder on those Apache bucks you killed, my friend.” Pardo cackled. “But it was a profitable venture, or will be, when we get to Mexico. Mighty profitable.” He was looking over Reilly's shoulder, at Dagmar Wilhelm.

“Let's eat,” Pardo said, and began filling bowls with stew. Reilly picked up the first two filled.

“Thought you was turning in?” Pardo said.

He tilted his neck toward the captives. “I am. I'm a little off my feed.” That wasn't a lie. He'd been sick most of the day. “This is for the woman and her kid.”

“All right, Mac,” Pardo said, his tone now wary.

Silence greeted him as he handed Dagmar and Blanche the steaming bowls. He didn't tell them it was horse-meat stew. Uninvited, he sat down anyway. Hell, he almost collapsed.

“You're the talk of camp,” the kid said.

He let out a weary sigh.

“You saved his life.” Blanche's voice was bitter. “
His
life. Some damned lawman you are.”

Dagmar added, “Those men killed my husband, Blanche's father.”

“He wasn't my pa.” Blanche turned her wrath on her mother. “Just because you—”

“Listen to me.” Reilly hooked a thumb toward the celebrating killers. “I saved my own hide, and feel like hell for doing it. But you two need to keep in mind that right now Jim Pardo's keeping us alive. If Wade Chaucer had his druthers…” He shuddered. Damn, but he was worn to a frazzle.

Blanche had heard enough. She kicked over her bowl and stormed into the night. Dagmar closed her eyes, let out a sigh, and looked at Reilly.

“I'm sorry,” she said, tears welling.

“Don't be.”

“I've lost my hold on her. Not that I ever had one.” A tear escaped, but she quickly wiped it off her cheek. “I'm not as tough as Blanche.”

“You're tougher,” he said, and he meant it. “She's all bark. You've got grit.” He meant that, too. It took a lot of grit to be a woman, a good-looking woman, with a daughter, and hold her own while a captive of a gang of black-hearts. “Don't worry about Blanche. She'll grow up, come around.” He wasn't sure about that, though.

“Pardo was going to kill you today,” she said.

He nodded.

“Good thing you knew about those Apaches.”

He couldn't contain the laugh. “Would have been,” he said, “had I known about it.”

Her beautiful eyes widened. “You mean…?”

“Luck,” he said, and frowned, thinking about the dead Apaches and dead horses. The bay he shot had managed to get them into the Dragoons before it played out, and Pardo had slit its throat and ordered The Greek and Reilly to butcher it for their evening feed.

“Do you know what they're planning?”

He shook his head, though he had a good idea. Pardo had given him that much. At some point, they'd ride down to Mexico, turn in the Apache scalps for the bounty the Mexican government paid, and, likely, sell Dagmar to…he didn't want to think of that.

“Do you have a plan?” she asked.

He pictured Frank Denton dead, remembered W.W. Kraft pulling the boots off Slim Chisum's feet. “Last plan I had,” he said in a dry whisper, “got two good men killed.”

Her eyes widened, looking over his shoulder, and he heard the footsteps. Slowly, Reilly rose and turned, facing Jim Pardo.

“Thought you was all tuckered out,” Pardo said icily.

“Just talking to the lady.”

“Well, don't. I don't like nobody talking to Dagmar, except me. Maybe Ma. You'd best turn in, Mac. We got a busy day come first light. You and me is going for a ride.”

Reilly straightened, tense. “Another ride?” He tried to make it sound like a joke.

“That's right.” There was no humor in Pardo's reply.