Gut-Shot (11 page)

The afternoon sky tinted red when Horn Tate and Willie Litton met O'Hara on the bend of a small creek midway between Dripping Vat Mountain and the eastern slope of Bobcat Ridge.

“We seen your smoke just like you laid it our fer us, O'Hara,” Tate said. He shoved a pint bottle of whiskey in the breed's face. “Want a slug or three?”

The breed grunted, ignored the bottle, and poured water from his canteen over his small, signal fire.

“You will kill McPhee and Flintlock today?” he said finally.

“Just lead us to them,” Tate said. “We'll get the job done.”

“It should be easy. They're sick,” O'Hara said. “Both very sick.”

Tate frowned. “Sick with what?” he said.

O'Hara shrugged. “Bad food, maybe. Tainted water. Both bring on the fevers.”

O'Hara's fingers moved to his throat. “Flintlock has a thunderbird here. The thunderbird is the messenger of God and it carried bad medicine to him, maybe so.”

“Here, it ain't catchin', is it?” Litton said, his simian face worried.

“No. But now you can kill McPhee and Sam Flintlock as they lie abed.”

“They're asleep, like?” Litton said. “Down with the fever?”

O'Hara nodded. “Asleep all the time. You can cut their throats”—he drew a forefinger across his neck and smiled—“and they'll never wake up.”

Tate and Litton exchanged glances.

“We caught us a break, Horn,” Litton said. “Now we don't need to stake out the cabin until we can get a shot.”

“Injun, are you sure Flintlock is sick?” Tate said. “You wouldn't be joshing me now, would you?”

“He will die soon, and McPhee with him,” O'Hara said.

Tate's gaze searched the breed's face, but the man's features were set and hard, like chiseled stone. “Then let's get it done,” Tate said. “We can be back in Open Sky by dark and hit the saloons one by one.”

“With two thousand dollars to spend,” Litton said. “Man oh man, we'll be like kings.”

“Add another five hundred added to that, Willie,” Tate said.

“You be real careful when you do it to me, Horn,” Litton said. “I don't want plugged too serious with all that dough to spend.”

“A scratch, Willie. That's all. I promise. You know I can shoot real good.”

Litton smiled and nodded. “Yee-hah!” he yelled. “Then let's go an' cut some throats.”

O'Hara pointed the way and the two thugs, whooping and hollering, kicked their horses into a gallop. Then they broke into song, bellowing “Dirty Dolly and Her Mama” at the top of their lungs.

 

 

There was no breeze and smoke rose straight as a string from the cabin chimney. The day was shading into evening but inside the lamps remained unlit and the glow of burning logs cast scarlet shadows on the windows .

“Not too sick to light a fire,” Horn Tate said, his face sour. “I don't like the look of that.”

“I guess McPhee lit the fire,” O'Hara said. “Flintlock is so sick he can't get out of his bunk. He lies there hoping for death to take him.” He placed a hand on his belly, bent over and made retching sounds. “Flintlock sick as a poisoned pig.”

The three men sat their horse within the pines and Tate, always careful and suspicious, studied the cabin.

“I don't see any sign of life,” Litton said.

“Me neither,” Tate said. “But the smoke still bothers me.”

“You can deal with McPhee if he's still on his feet,” O'Hara said.

“Damn it. I'll say it again: Are you sure about Flintlock?” Tate said. “Is really as sick as you say? I don't want to bust in there and find him standing.”

“He's a dead man,” O'Hara said. “Don't let a dead man put the crawl on you, Tate.”

Tate's anger flared and his eyes got ugly. “Nobody, and I mean nobody, puts the crawl on Horn Tate,” he said.

He swung out of the saddle and drew his Colt. Litton, his grinning face eager, followed suit.

“Hell, I'm gonna enjoy this,” Litton said.

“Yes,” O'Hara said. “Enjoy it well.”

 

 

O'Hara, still mounted, rode after the two men at a discreet distance, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth. He watched Tate and Litton step quietly to the door.

As far as O'Hara could tell, they hadn't been seen.

The sky was hung with red, jade and amber bunting and among the pines an early owl hooted and fussed. The thin air smelled of wood smoke and the coming night.

Horn Tate held his Colt at shoulder level, the muzzle pointed upward. He leaned back, raised his booted right foot and kicked in the cabin door. Roaring, he rushed inside and Litton followed.

A second ticked past . . . then another . . .

O'Hara smiled. He recognized the emphatic statement of a Hawken. It was a devastating weapon in the close confines of a cabin.

Inside furniture crashed and glass shattered. A man yelled. Then followed the rapid, racketing roar of revolvers. A shriek of pain . . .

And afterward a hollow silence.

 

 

A few moments passed and a mist of gray gunsmoke drifted out of the cabin door.

Horn Tate emerged clumsily from the smoke like a man with his legs entangled in a rope. He clutched at his belly and his eyes moved to O'Hara.

“Gut-shot,” he said, black blood in his mouth.

Tate dropped to his knees, his face a twisted mask of agony, his eyes still on O'Hara. “You sold us down the river,” he said. “You damned, lying half-breed.”

“Never trust a part-Pawnee,” O'Hara said. “His Indian half will lie to a white man every time.”

Tate cursed and tried to raise his Colt but the effort was beyond him. He pitched forward and fell onto his face, all the life that was in him gone.

Sam Flintlock stepped out of the cabin, gun in hand. He saw O'Hara and scowled. “You in on this?” he said. “Say you are and I'll drop you right where you stand.”

“I led them here, Flintlock, to open the ball,” O'Hara said. “I figured even you could finish it.”

“Damn you fer a low-down skunk, O'Hara. You could have gotten me killed,” Flintlock said. “Those two boys busted in without a howdy-do hunting for my scalp.”

“Seemed like, when I spoke to them,” O'Hara said. “They seemed quite keen to put a bullet into you. Where's the other one?”

“Inside, dead. When I saw his drawn iron I scattered his brains with the Hawken, then I done for t'other with the Colt.”

“Is McPhee hurt?”

“Yeah, he's hurt, hurt that the chessboard got upended when he was winning for a change.”

“So that's why you were so quiet,” O'Hara said. “Playing checkers while you should have been out scouting around.”

“It was chess. Who hired them, O'Hara?”

“I'm tired of saving your skin, Flintlock. I think you should get out of the bodyguard business. I think you might prosper in the hardware business, selling nails and stuff.”

“Who hired them?” Flintlock's eyes hardened.

“I can't tell you,” O'Hara said. “My treachery toward a paying client only goes so far.”

“Who were they?” Flintlock said.

“The one you gut-shot went by the name Horn Tate and—”

“The other is Willie Litton. I've heard of them, a couple of dark alley back shooters. Why does your client want me dead?”

“He don't really give a damn about you, Flintlock. It's McPhee's scalp he wants. You're just in the way, that's all.”

“You gonna try and give McPhee to him, O'Hara?” Flintlock said. His Colt was still in his gun hand and he had the kill glitter in his eyes.

“Hell, isn't that just like a white man,” O'Hara said. “I've saved your life twice and you're still ready to throw down on me and shoot me down like a dog.”

“Like you, I'm protecting my client.”

“I wasn't hired to kill McPhee, only to lead Tate and Litton here. I told them you were abed, as sick as a colicky pup. That's why you took them boys so easy.”

“It wasn't easy. Tate was good with a gun and he come mighty close.”

“So you got mad because he shaded you and shot him in the belly for spite.”

“Something like that. Light and set and have a cup of coffee.”

“I'll pass. I'm not your enemy, Flintlock, but I'm not your friend.”

“Then stay the hell away from me, O'Hara.”

The breed smiled. “Yup, that's all the thanks I'm going to get for saving your hide twice.”

“The jury is still out on that,” Flintlock said. “Just remember this—”

“I eagerly listen for the wise white man's words,” O'Hara said.

“After I plant these two I'll have four men buried on this property,” Flintlock said. “But there's always plenty of room for a fifth.”

O'Hara's smile was as fragile as it was fleeting. “Know your real enemy, Flintlock,” he said. “I think old Barnabas is right.”

“About what?”

“That you're an idiot.”

O'Hara turned his horse and rode into the shadowed evening.

Flintlock watched him go, his face thoughtful.

“The trouble with you, McPhee, is that you don't know your real enemy,” Sam Flintlock said.

“You mean the man who hired these two,” Jamie McPhee said, nodding to the bodies that lay on the ground beside the graves he and Flintlock had almost finished.

“Yeah, that's what I mean. How come he wants you dead so badly?”

“The whole town of Open Sky wants me dead,” McPhee said.

“When a man goes to the trouble and expense of hiring two killers, he particularly wants you dead.”

“Who could he be?” McPhee said.

“See, you don't know your enemies.”

“Do you, Sam?”

Flintlock grinned and shook his head. “Hell, no, I don't,” he said. “That is, if you leave out everybody in Open Sky.”

A lantern flickered between the open graves and spread a strange amber light. Night birds pecked at the first stars and heat lightning flashed to the north over distant mountains. The air smelled of burning lamp oil, damp earth and dead men.

After Tate and Litton were in their graves and covered with earth, McPhee said, “Have you anything to say?”

“No. Do you?”

“Well, may they rest in peace,” McPhee said.

Flintlock nodded. “And I'm sure sorry for the gut-shot,” he said. “I should have aimed higher. Amen.”

“That about does it,” McPhee said, slapping his hands together. He gathered up the shovels and the lantern.

As Flintlock reached the cabin he stopped.

Old Barnabas sat cross-legged at the peak of the roof, juggling three bright red balls.

“Visitors coming in, Sam,” he said. “Strange folks.”

The old man let the three balls thud into his right hand, and then he was gone.

“What do you see up there, Sam?” McPhee said, glancing at the roof.

“Just looking at the sky. I don't see any sign of rain.”

“No rain,” McPhee said. “We'd smell it by now.”

“We sure would,” Flintlock said. Then he tilted his head and listened into the night. “What's that?” he said.

From the distance among the trees, the atmosphere carried a dim clanking, tinkling, chiming, jingling sound and Flintlock's skin crawled.

“What the hell is that?” he said.

“Look!” McPhee said, his voice breathless and urgent.

Two great, green eyes shone in the darkness, bright as stars, and relentlessly approached closer . . . and closer . . .

 

 

Flintlock stepped into the cabin and reappeared with his Winchester. He pulled the Colt from his waistband and tossed it to McPhee. “I don't know what that thing is, but if it comes this way just fire in its general direction,” he said. “Got it?”

McPhee swallowed hard then nodded. “Maybe it's another infernal machine,” he said.

Flintlock heard the thud of his heart in his ears. “Stand fast,” he said, realizing how old-timey mountain man that sounded. He wiped his sweaty trigger hand on his pants but his mouth was as dry as mummy dust.

The eyes drew closer . . . brighter . . . and the chiming got louder, like a vibrating stack of cheap tin trays.

“What the hell is that?” McPhee said.

Flintlock made no answer. He didn't know. Slowly . . . noisily . . . the strange presence closed the distance . . .

Then, as though the darkness had parted like a stage curtain, it appeared in a space between the pines . . . an apparition the like of which Flintlock had never seen.

It was a wagon, vaguely Chinese in appearance, and large, round paper lanterns shimmered with green radiance on either side. The wagon seemed loaded inside and out with pots and pans and other kitchenware that clattered and clanged with every turn of the wheels.

A big gray draft horse, its tufted hooves as large as soup plates, strained mightily in the traces and a small black-and-white dog trotted silently alongside.

Flintlock made out the dark silhouettes of two people up on the seat and he raised the muzzle of his rifle.

“You in the wagon, stop right there and state your purpose!” he yelled into the gloom. “There's a passel of shooting going on around here.”

“We're merely passing through,” a man's voice answered. “No need for such hostility, old chap.”

“Then come on in, real slow,” Flintlock said.

“That's the only speed my horse has, I'm afraid,” the man said.

“Deuced impertinence if you ask me.” This from a woman, the voice young, high and pleasant but obviously irritated.

“Now, now, Ruth,” the man said. “The gentleman is within his rights to demand information from traveling strangers. For all he knows we could be desperate brigands.”

“He should be horsewhipped,” the woman said. “Threatening his betters with violence is unforgivable.”

Flintlock's anger, always on a hair trigger, exploded. “Git the hell in here,” he yelled. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Do as he says, Father,” the woman called Ruth said. “We're obviously dealing with a violent ruffian.”

“Walk on,” the man said to the gray, and the big horse lurched into motion.

Flintlock turned to McPhee. “Get the lantern,” he said.

But when the wagon stopped outside the cabin with a reverberating clangor the swaying paper lanterns at the four corners of the dray splashed pools of green-tinted light that lit up the night for yards around.

The little dog planted his feet and barked at Flintlock, not liking what he saw and obviously considering some ankle biting.

But McPhee held his own lantern high, the forgotten Colt hanging loose at his side, and his jaw dropped as he beheld what he would later describe as “a wonder of the age.”