Shotgun Charlie (19 page)

The cool, steady snow pelting his face brought Charlie around, dragged him up out of his deep torpor. He tried to stretch his arms and legs, as was his custom when he awakened, but he hurt something fierce, and he couldn't move his limbs. He was leaned against a log; that much he was pretty certain of.

The fuzzy feeling in his head began to pull apart enough that he was able to recall snatches of all that had happened to him. Once again the river washed over him—this time in his mind, feeling that pain from the rocks wrenching his legs, the water slamming him this way, then that, filling his mouth.

Then he remembered being dragged . . . a rope up out of the river by someone . . . a horse? Then there was mud, lots of mud.

“Charlie? You okay now, boy?”

Someone called his name—Charlie forced his eyes open, tried to run a hand over his face, but something held his arm down.

“Charlie? Can you hear me?”

He tried to speak, felt as if he had gravel in his throat. He swallowed and tried again. “Yeah, who's there? Who's that?”

“Charlie, it's me, Marshal Wickham. You in your right mind now?”

“Marshal . . . you found me. Oh, I'm coming around now, I suspect, but I tell you . . .” He swallowed again, ran his thick tongue around his dry mouth. “I reckon I've felt better. What in blue blazes happened to me?”

Wickham laughed. “That's a long story, Charlie. Time enough for all that once you've waked up enough to take a drink of water. You're dry as a cork, I'd wager.”

Charlie nodded slowly, kept his eyes open. “You're right. I could use a cool drink. Thank you.” He focused through the steady snow on the bright, dancing shape before him, past his feet. It was a campfire. It felt good enough by his feet—which he noticed weren't in their boots—but he wanted to crawl forward and put his face right by that fire. He tried to shut up again, but found he couldn't. “What's going on here, Marshal?”

Wickham brought a tin cup full of water. “That's a long story. Lemme untie your hands so you can drink.”

“Who tied my hands?”

“I did,” said Wickham as he worked the knots free. “You was trying to kill me, so I had to do what I had to do.”

“What's that mean?”

The rope came free and Charlie slowly raised his hands before him, rubbed the wrists gently. He reached for the cup with one big paw, gulped it gratefully, then reached for his head with the other hand.

“Easy on your bean, there, son. You've taken a mighty wallop.”

“I remember.”

“You do?”

“Yep, the river. That was one hard ride.”

The marshal slowly made his way down to Charlie's feet, began working on the ropes there.

“You tied my feet too?”

“Yep, as I said, you were a mite worked up.”

The firelight reflected off the old man's face. Charlie saw a swollen nose and purpled cheek, and the eye above was half swelled shut. “Marshal, what on earth happened to you?”

The old man finished untying the rope, dragged it free from Charlie's ankles, and sighed. “You did, you big galoot.”

Charlie sat up too fast, got a case of the dizzies, and held his head. “I . . . I did? Marshal, I don't know what you think, but I wouldn't do that to a man. Not unless he deserved it.” He peered at the marshal.

“Relax, Charlie. You wasn't in your right mind. I had to yarn you out of the river and revive you by whomping on you to get you breathing again.”

“That don't sound like something I'd beat on you for.”

“Well, like I said, you weren't in your right mind.”

Charlie sat in silence for a minute, then said, “You mind me asking how you got the better of me?”

Wickham laughed, then reached up and held his jaw. “Oh, that hurts. Charlie, seems to me you'd make a pretty good politician. I mean that as a compliment.” He took a pull on his flask. “I did the only thing a man in my position—and condition—could do. I beaned you upside the head with a length of driftwood by the riverbank yonder.”

Charlie looked into the dark. “So that's what that sound is. I thought maybe I was all fuzzed up in my head.”

“No, we ain't made it all that far in the last day and a half, Charlie.”

“Day and a half?” He said it too loudly, sat up too fast. His head throbbed like a cannon booming.

“Yep, but you needed the time to recover. I think you're better off for staying put.”

“But Haskell,” said Charlie. “He's . . .” Then he sagged back against the log. “Oh, he'll be up there, waiting for us at his little shack. I reckon we're not but a day or so from him.”

“Charlie, Haskell's likely got a whole lot of stolen money and a couple of horses to lug it. He'll be long gone over the pass up there. Best thing we can do is head on back to Bakersfield. We've given it a good lick, but there isn't much more we can do.”

Charlie spoke, his voice coming out bigger than he anticipated. “You do what you need to, Marshal Wickham, and I'll do the same. I'm heading on up into the mountains.” He leaned forward. “Hey, how's Nub? He make it okay?” Charlie swiveled his head around, as if he could see through the snow and into the dense dark surrounding them.

“Relax yourself, boy. He's fine. Off yonder with my Missy, picketed and as well as I can make him. He has a sore back leg, but I think it's a bruise. He should heal up in fine shape. Heck of a horse, that one. Nub, you say?” Wickham chuckled. “Good name.”

Charlie leaned back, closed his eyes. “He was a gift. From a good man, a good friend of mine.”

Wickham nodded, said nothing.

Soon Charlie roused himself. “I tell you, I could eat a small elephant, Marshal. No offense, but you didn't send me packing with much food.” Before the marshal could answer, Charlie said, “And while I'm talking on it, I reckon you trailed me awhile, huh?”

“Yep, since town.”

“Then you saw what happened to Ace?”

“I saw what you did for him, if we're talking about that man on the trail. The one I assumed Haskell killed.”

“That's what happened all right. Ain't no reason Haskell should have done that.”

“No man deserves to be murdered.”

“So where's the posse, Marshal?” Charlie wiped the snow off his face. “And why in blue blazes didn't you build a shelter?”

“Well, pardon me all to heck, Charlie Chilton!” The marshal sounded half ticked off. “I been a little busy tending to you and your ailing hide and then there's the matter of my own whomped-on head.”

“Oh, Marshal Wickham. I'm sorry about that.”

“You are a prize package, Charlie Chilton. But tell me more about why you think Haskell will be waiting on us, up ahead on the trail.”

Charlie sighed. “Only if you tell me why you let me go free from the jail. And what you're really doing out here.”

Haskell sat upright, not knowing where he was. It was dark, cold, and he felt sort of numb—then that much at least came back to him—he'd polished off the last of the whiskey he'd had in his own saddlebags.

It wasn't enough to lay him low all the next day, but it was enough to dull him up for the next few hours of sleep. Which was something he should have known better than to do. Especially given his jitters over being eyeballed by Dutchy. He didn't think the man was lurking around, had been mostly convinced he wasn't, in fact, which was why he'd tucked in to the whiskey.

But there was a little bug, burrowed deep in the back of his brain somewhere, that kept on digging, making him think that he should be paying attention. And that was what woke him up. That and the sound of a disturbance somewhere close by.

“Coulda been a mouse,” said Grady to the small, dark room. Where he was at was coming back to him, the miner's shack, above the little cluster of buildings, the remnants that had at one time been a mine camp. But Grady was glad there was only this one left. He didn't need other folks around. Never had and never would.

Instinct had driven him to snatch at his rifle, the worn stock cool in his hand. His other held the haft of his skinning knife. He held his breath. Focus, boy, he told himself. Something had awoken him. Something had made a noise, a scuffing sound that set his instincts to jangling as fast as a finger snap.

Had to be that rascal Dutchy. Ain't no way any posse could have gotten here this fast, even if they knew where to go—and the only one who could have told them was the big kid, Charlie boy. He'd have blabbed all right.

But Grady had sent the first batch of do-gooders back home to Bakersfield, crying into their hands with at least one dead man among them. They'd lick their wounds and the fool young lawman who'd been leading the charge would have a time whipping up lather enough for a new batch of posse members.

Haskell knew he had a couple of days on them—and that was before the storm. So who could it be? Likely it was Dutchy. He'd been a lippy one, and too uppity for his own good. Should have shot him when I had the chance. Right there in the bank when he'd started haranguing me about popping that old man. Too annoying by half.

Part of Haskell wanted Dutchy to show up. Might mean he was dumb enough after all, to wander in expecting his share of the loot. But more than likely he would be sniffing around for all of it.

There it was again! Grady tensed, eased his right leg down off the bunk. He shouldn't have slipped his boots off. Now his feet were cold, especially the big toes ticking through the holes in the ends of his socks. Ought to trim those nails, else they'd keep on and eventually work their way through his boots too.

Wouldn't matter once he got to some city where he could hole up. He'd have a Chinese whore trim his toes, feet, and tend to everything else that needed it. But first, it was time to gut whatever was roaming out there. Didn't sound like a mouse to him, sounded like a Dutchy. . . .

He gently shoved the seven bank bags off him—he'd used them as a partial blanket, and found it was true, cold cash that could keep a body warm—and slid the rest of the way off the bunk. He paused when a plank popped from his weight. He shoved upright and padded across the room to the window.

Earlier he'd managed to cover the thing with an old flannel shirt. It managed to keep much of the snow out, save for twin drifts along the floor where the wind whistled on through.

The stove had chewed up most of the wood he had managed to scavenge, but there was little point in keeping it going. Save for the coffee and beans he'd warmed, there was little heat in the paltry affair. He had initially thought to give it a day or so, make sure he wasn't being followed. But the cold was helping convince him that his plans might not have been the best to begin with.

There—had that been a shadow? Not hardly, not with all that cloud in the sky. Again he heard something. By the door this time? He bent low, cat-footed to it, and peered out through a gap between boards. Dark . . . the snow had slowed to a lighter flurry, and . . . there! A long shadow fled by!

Haskell poked the snout of the rifle hard between the boards, pried to make the gap wider, but he was too late. Whoever had made the shadow was gone from range. Haskell held still, heard nothing but his own breath and the wind beginning a soughing sound through the ragged top of the tin chimney pipe.

He tugged on the rifle. It was stuck, wedged tight between the boards. For the moment he forgot the intruder, the fleeting shadow that wanted his money. Grady tugged on the rifle, yanked harder. The door bucked back and forth on its strap hinges, sounding violent and out of place in the windy, dark canyon.

He paused, his teeth grinding, cursing himself for the noise, for jamming the rifle in there, for finishing the whiskey—he could have used a few swallows about now—for not having much tobacco left, for the cold night, for his foul plans. It was all building up to a big headache.

And then another sound, beyond his huffing and his under-the-breath growling, came with a fresh round of eerie soughing from the stovepipe. The new sound was a shade different, rose with it, reached a higher pitch, then split from it. And that was when Grady heard it for himself, the unmistakable sound of a man's chuckle, a dry, wry sound rising above the shack, spinning there in the breeze, then peeling apart and blowing away. But as soon as it vanished from his hearing, another round descended, seemed to swirl around the outside of the cabin.

Grady stood, wrenched free the rifle, snatched up his boots, tugged them on, and kicked open the door, bellowing, “Show yourself, you howling cur! Might as well, 'cause I am Grady Haskell and there ain't no escaping my wrath!”

The cackling laugh pinched out, but the wind kept right on building blustering snow into his eyes, pelting like cold sand. He held up his forearm, shielded his eyes, even though there was precious little to see save for snow, the shadows of the peaks surrounding him, and the bulk of the cabin to his back. And that was where the laugh came from once again. He spun, peered into the gloom of the single room, saw nothing.

From behind, a soft swishing sound as though someone was running through the granular snow. Grady spun again, completing a circle, snow pelting his face, catching in his eyelashes, his mustaches. There! A dark shape disappearing around the far corner of the shack.

It was not a large structure and Grady covered the span in three strides. Scowling, he looked down at his feet, bent low as she shuffled forward. The snow had drifted deeper on this side of the shack. Sure enough, there was a ragged trail, as though someone had run along before him.

“Come and get it, you dog!” Grady howled his seething rage into the wind's own snapping bite. All he received for his efforts was more laughter trailing to him from the far side of the shack. Grady bellowed wordless oaths, growled as he drove forward through the snow, stumbling and spitting snow.

Before he made a full circuit of the shack, he thought he saw movement far off to his right, where the land dipped low and away to a narrow wash, the site of many rummagings in the past by old dirt hounds looking for color among the rocky outcroppings of the jumbled landscape. And leading back to him from that far-off point of motion, a thin trail through the snow was visible.

In a flash, he realized what it meant. Already running around the last side of the shack, Grady let out a long, thin moan and lunged for the gaping doorway. Snow had been kicked in. Had to be more than he'd let in when he exited. . . .

But his main concern led him to the bunk, to the sacks of money. There had been seven when he left—the three he'd ridden off with, plus two each from Ace and Simp—and as he groped, his heart pounding, clawing its way up out of his throat, he felt two, then two more, then . . . “No! No, no, no!”

Grady swept the bunk free, the four sacks thudding to the floor, his blankets and saddlebags flopping down by his feet. He kicked them, clawed at them, scrabbled on the earthen floor, seeing almost nothing, but knowing, after seconds of fruitless searching, the truth.

“Gaaaah!” His shouts as he bolted from the shack drowned out the storm's whistling winds. He kept up the shouts as he bolted, half tripping, half lunging down the trail. Not easy to see, but plain enough for a dedicated, haunted man, the footprints were spread far apart, made by a man in a hasty retreat.

Haskell ran, falling every few feet, driving his knees into hidden wedges of rock. The pain bloomed sharp and searing, but he didn't care. It was all he could do to lift a revolver and crank the hammer back. But he did. “Dutchy!”
Blam
! “Dutchy, I will catch you!”
Blam
! “And I will gut you!”
Blam
!
Blam
!

Soon he lost all sense of direction, realized he'd likely strayed from the trail. Breath came in stuttering gasps. He couldn't pull it in fast enough, and when he did, it only trickled. His heart pounded like the fists of ten angry men against his chest, neck, and throat. Grady bent over, rested his palms on his knees, and gasped, spittle stringing from his mouth.

The snow swirled about him, and the entire time he shouted, “Dutchy!” over and over. But soon he realized he wasn't really shouting, rather chanting the name of the cursed thief. He was sure there was humor in that somehow. A thief who steals from thieves. But not now. Now there was nothing funny in this.

When Haskell's breath had begun to dribble back into his throat, a new thought seized him, stopped the breath in his throat. The money, the rest of the money.

He was barely aware of the desperate whimpering noises rising out of his mouth as he scrabbled in the snow, sometimes on his hands and knees, looking for his own trail back to the miner's shack. As he rummaged in the snow, following his own blustering false trails, a far-off sound stilled him for a moment—a cackling laugh.

He looked toward where he thought the sound might be coming from, a ridge across the ravine down which he'd stumbled, and, yes, there it was, a flare of light as if a match had been struck. A match for one purpose—to taunt him.

Haskell sagged into the snow, his teeth grinding into powder. As the laughter whirled away on the wind, he staggered to his feet and slowly made his way back up the hill down which he'd stumbled. Yes, of course, he thought. That's the direction. And he made his way back as fast as he was able.

The four remaining sacks were still there. And though he was too tired to rage, Grady managed to slowly put the mess back to rights once again. He retrieved his rifle from the floor and checked it over. Fine, just wet from the snow. Then he sat on the bunk, rifle across his lap, and gritted his teeth, listening to the storm and waiting for a second attack. Sure that Dutchy now felt he was an easy target.

Most of all, Grady Haskell stewed over the fact that Dutchy the thief now had three more bags of cash to add to his initial two, giving him five. That left Grady with only four. Only four, blast it!