Showdown at Gun Hill (11 page)

“I know who you mean, but I'm afraid he's dead, Ranger,” the colonel lied. “I will show you his body, or what's left of it. Max Bard and his saddle trash ambushed him and two other of my men. Their remains are twenty miles back along the main trail.”

“Dead, huh?” Sam said.

“Dead indeed,” the colonel said.

“Have your men sit real still, Colonel,” Sam said, putting the dun forward. He walked the horse slowly among the mounted men, looking in turn at each saddle boot for the scoped rifle. When he finished he rode back and stopped, facing the colonel.

“Satisfied, Ranger?” the colonel asked.

“For now,” Sam said quietly. “I will take a look at those three bodies along the trail.”

“Be my guest, Ranger,” the colonel said. “It may interest you to know that the scoped rifle now belongs to another of my detectives. You
will
see it somewhere along the trail if you're around when he catches up to me. We're headed across the border right now to flush out Max Bard and his guerrillas for once and for all.” He looked around at his men, then back to Sam with a smug expression. “I would not welcome a lawman like you coming along to see how we conduct this mission. You might get squeamish.”

“Who you hang in Mexico is between you and the Mexican government, Colonel,” Sam said. There was more for him to say, but he held it back. It went without saying that if he found out the colonel was lying about the men who ambushed him and the sheriff and their prisoners, he would be back to arrest the colonel himself.

“Oh? So nice of you to say so, Ranger,” Colonel Hinler said with sarcasm, his men gathered behind him to back his play.

Sam had seen many men like the colonel, men who professed a love for the law, yet who threw the force of their power and influence into bending or breaking it as it suited their interest. Yet for now he'd said enough. The colonel and his men would keep. He still had Sheriff Stone and his prisoner, Rudy Bowlinger, to consider—not to mention the town of Resting if anyone showed up wanting Bowlinger, either to hang him or to set him free. Without another word he backed his dun a few steps, turned it and rode away.

The colonel only sat staring for a moment. Then he turned to the wounded detective, whom Foley had helped to his feet. The two limped toward Devoe's horse, Devoe sticking his retrieved Colt down into its holster.

“French,” he said sternly, “I trust you told this lack-legged lawman nothing about Bo Anson or what happened.”

“Colonel, he didn't even ask,” said Devoe. “Besides, I couldn't have told him anything anyway.”

“Very well,” the colonel said. “Foley, dress this man's wound and catch up with us on the trail—”

“Colonel, if it's all the same with you,” said Devoe,
cutting in, “I'd sooner have somebody else bandage me. This man can't even hold his biscuits when gunplay is involved. I don't want him around me.”

The colonel snapped his eyes to the sickness on the ground, then to Foley.

“Is that true, Detective?” he asked.

“Colonel,” Foley said meekly, “I keep saying I ain't cut out to be a detective—”

“Nonsense!” the colonel shouted. “You
will
dress his wound. You
will
keep your food inside your stomach!” He signaled his men with the wave of a hand and swung his horse away from Foley and Devoe.

Devoe and Foley stood watching as the colonel led his column off along the trail.

“You heard him, Foley,” said Devoe, cocking his Colt as he drew it and pointed it at the young detective's belly. “Dress this wound and get it right. If you wretch on me again, I'll leave you for the coyotes.”

It was in the afternoon when Sheriff Sheppard Stone first put the bottle to his lips. Sheriff Colleen Deluna had been called out of town to help deliver a baby—an additional duty a
woman sheriff
might be called upon to do. She had been gone all day, having left Stone convalescing on a cot in the corner of her office. She'd left Rudy Bowlinger and his anvil shackled to an iron ring sunk deep into the lower wall. A blanket covered a pallet of straw for him to sleep on.

Stone took the bottle away from his lips and handed it back to the old Indian lying sprawled on the ground, leaning against the side of the livery barn, across the alley from the rear of the cantina.

“Gracias,”
he said, noting that the taste of the liquor was boosted by a mixture of mescal and something else his tongue failed to identify.

The drunken Indian held an open palm toward him, welcoming him to help himself to more. Then he just lay staring at Stone, flat-faced and flat-eyed. Stone drank. And he drank again.

What the hell? I can handle it. . . .

Anyway, he hadn't gone looking for a drink, not really, although admittedly he had awakened with a slight tremor in his gut that he knew a taste of alcohol would wipe away like a soft warm cloth. But drinking was not what he'd set out to do. He'd felt the urge to drink and overcome it most of the morning. It was only when he'd walked into the cantina and limped to the bar for . . .
well, no particular reason,
he told himself.
Just being sociable
. Yet before he could even say
Howdy, bartender
, he was told straightaway that Sheriff Deluna had left strict orders not to sell him anything to drink.

Who does she think she is?

The drinking had leveled him out; he felt better now than he'd felt for days. His mind was sharper, clearer. Was that so bad?
No, not at all
—leastwise not if he kept control of it, which of course he would. He emptied the bottle and let it fall from his hands, sitting beside the old Indian now, leaning back against the livery barn.
And this feels good,
he told himself. He'd come to realize perhaps for the first time that livery barns were made to lean against in the afternoon heat—that drunken old Indians were here for a man to drink with, be
friends with
, he decided, wondering only vaguely why he had never realized any of this before.

He saw the old Indian's weathered hand again. This time it lay palm up toward him. The fingers wiggled a little. Stone glanced at the ground and saw three empty bottles lying at his thigh. He looked back at the upturned palm.
Oh. . . .
He understood; he reached into his trouser pocket for money as he looked at a bony
donkey standing with a bundle on its back less than twenty feet away.

“Un-kay-cha,”
the old Indian said as Stone dropped the money on his palm. He sat watching as the Indian ambled to the donkey and came back with another dusty bottle and wiped it on his forearm.

“Let me ask you something, while I can,” Stone said. “Do you know anybody who changes into creatures, wolves maybe?” He saw interest stir in the old Indian's eyes as the cork pulled up from the bottle. The cork looked long, much longer than usual, he thought—seven, eight inches,
a foot
? He didn't know.

But yes, the old Indian had known men who changed into not only wolves, but owls, coyotes, all sorts of animals. As it turned out, he himself had changed into animals on several occasions, he said at some point in the swirl of conversation.

“Is that a fact?” Stone replied, taking the bottle offered to him. “Let me tell you what happens to me sometimes. . . .”

*   *   *

Afternoon hung on the cusp of darkness when Rudy Bowlinger saw the front door open and a young Mexican boy in yellowed-white peasant clothes walk in carrying a tray of food. The shackled outlaw stood up quickly and stepped out to the end of his anchor chain, waiting eagerly for the food.

“It's about time,” he said, his hand cupping his bandaged wounded shoulder. “Where's the sheriff? I mean, the woman sheriff.” He looked all around as if noting for the first time that he was alone. “Where's
Stone? Who's going to empty this bucket?” He gestured a nod toward an oak bucket standing in the corner ten feet away. “It smells like hell in here.”

The boy laid the tray on the edge of the sheriff's desk and calmly went down the prisoner's list of questions.

“Sheriff Deluna is out helping deliver a baby,” he said in mission school English. He pulled the cloth from over a large wooden bowl of beans with chunks of goat meat and peppers in a thick broth. Rolled tortillas lay beside it. A wooden spoon stood up in it. A cup of coffee swirled steam upward to the ceiling.

“The wounded sheriff is gone,” he said. “Someone saw him and a donkey walking out toward the flats.”

Bowlinger, barely reaching the desk with his leg outstretched on the chain behind him, let go of his wounded shoulder and tore into the food like a rabid dog. The boy watched.

“Ha! Drunk as a one-eyed rooster, I'm betting,” he said with his mouth stuffed, broth oozing down his chin and his bare upper chest.

“
Sí
—I mean, yes, I think so,” the Mexican boy said. “Why else would any man walk out onto the flats in the heat of the afternoon? The man drinks a lot. Sheriff Deluna told the cantina owner to not sell him whiskey. But perhaps he finds the whiskey anyway,
mi madre
says.”

“Yeah, well, good for him,” said Bowlinger, hurriedly, not missing a bite. Steam forked at his nostrils and rose as he drank the hot coffee without a flinch. “What about this bucket? I'm going to be needing it again soon.”

“I will be back for it when I come for the tray,” the boy said.

“What about a key? Who's got a key, in case of emergencies?” he asked, fishing for any information he could get.

“Emergencies . . . ?” the boy repeated.

“Yeah, you know,” said Bowlinger, “say a raging fire, something like that?”

“Only Sheriff Deluna has the key, I think,” the boy said. He crossed himself as if to ward off something so terrible as a raging fire.

“That's plain loco!” said Bowlinger, getting cross and excited at the dire prospect. “It shows no regard for human life.” He stuffed the end of the tortilla in his mouth as he spoke. “You ask around some, see if somebody has an extra key, just for that reason.”

The boy backed up a step and said, “Let us hope and pray no such thing as this happens.”

“Yeah, well, it could,” Bowlinger said. “Somebody else ought to have a key, is what I'm saying here.” He chewed and swallowed and took another hurried bite. “Another thing—”

But before he could say anything else, he saw the boy turn and walk out the door.

“Little bastard,” he grumbled, unable to find out anything useful from the boy.

As soon as the young Mexican closed the door behind himself, Bowlinger looked all around, searching for anything he could reach that might aid him in making an escape. He saw nothing. There were rifles and shotguns standing in a closed rack across the office, but
they appeared to be there only to tease a man—a man dangling on the end of a chain, he thought. He continued eating.

Moments later when the front door swung open again, he started right in.

“Did you ask around?” he said to the open doorway. “I don't mean to sound pushy, but my life is—”

“Your life ain't worth a plug of wet-chewed tobacco, Rudy,” said Bo Anson, cutting him off, stepping inside. In his cheek a large plug of tobacco stuck out, a sliver of brown stain streaking down to his chin. Bowlinger looked stunned as Anson's recent recruits stepped inside beside him, spreading out, filling the small office.

“Bo . . . ?” Bowlinger glanced all around. “What—? I mean
who
? I mean
where
 . . . ?”

Bo Anson gave a dark chuckle and glanced at the men standing around him.

“I can see the cat's got your tongue, Rudy,” he said. “But better the cat than the hatchet, I always say, don't you?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Bowlinger said ponderously, touching on all manner of terrible consequences that might accompany these men facing him. “What brings you here?” he managed to ask, summoning up a casual shrug.

“Business,” said Anson bluntly. “I come to kill the Ranger—”

“And Sheppard Stone, in mine and Lyle's case,” Ignacio Cady cut in, giving a nod toward his brother beside him.

His words caused a tense silence among the men. Anson turned his head slowly toward him.

“You'll not want to barge in like that again, Iggy,” he said in a low warning tone. “Here's a case where rudeness alone will get you straight-up killed.”

Both Cadys lowered their eyes in apology. Anson turned back to Bowlinger.

“As I was saying,” Anson repeated, giving the Cadys a harsh, glaring look, “we're here to kill the Ranger, Sheriff Sheppard Stone, the woman, Sheriff Deluna, and anybody else who needs killing here tonight.”

“They're none of them here, Bo,” said Bowlinger. “Leastwise if they are, I'm being told they're not.”

“Oh?” Anson eyed him closely. “So you're here all alone,
resting
in
Resting
, I take it?” He smiled at his play on words.

“That's my understanding,” said Bowlinger. “The woman is gone to help birth a child. Stone was seen wandering around drunk with some medicine man and a donkey.”

The Cadys gave each other a guarded look, taking note of Stone's whereabouts.

“The Ranger left to track down the man who shot me and Sheriff Stone.”

“Good luck to him on that.” Anson and the men chuckled. “I can't kill them if they're not here,” he said, letting out a breath. He shook his head as if disappointed. “Anyway, we're all riding for the colonel now, Rudy,” he said with a dark twisted grin. “Never thought you'd hear me say that, did you—any of us ol' boys, for that matter?” He gestured a hand toward the others. Bowlinger swallowed hard, looking from face to face, recognizing the men as rogues and killers all.

“Jesus . . . riding for the colonel?” he said, wondering where that put him.

“No, Rudy, not
Jesus.
” Anson chuckled. “Just us ol' boys, is all.” His little joke caused a slight ripple of laughter. “But here's what I know you're wondering right now,” he added, touching a finger to the side of his head under his hat brim. “You're thinking, ‘Oh my goodness, they're riding for the colonel. The colonel wants Max and all of us dead. Does that mean he wants Bo here to kill us?'”

Bowlinger just stared, frozen, stunned, waiting for an answer, knowing Anson was only dragging this out in order to torment him.

“And the fact is he
does
want us to kill all of you, Rudy,” Anson said, finally. “Is that the damnedest thing or what?” He grinned and chewed against the lump of tobacco in his cheek. The men stared in silence.

“You shot me, didn't you, Bo?” Bowlinger said, the notion of it just then springing to mind. “You shot me, and you shot Sheriff Stone.”

Anson raised a finger for emphasis as he spoke.

“It's true, I did,” he said. “But the thing is—”

Without warning Bowlinger leaped over to the slop bucket in the corner, jerked it up with both hands and drew it back, ready to empty it forward on the gunmen.

“Nobody move, Bo,” he shouted, “or you'll get it right in the face!”

Bo Anson tilted his head a little to the side and stood giving him a curious stare. The men looked bewildered, waiting for an order from him. Anson ignored the bucket and the threat and went on.

“As I was saying, Rudy,
yes
, I shot you. But note that you're still alive. I needed to make a showing for the colonel's
segundo
. If I wanted to I could have splattered your head all over hell's half acre.”

Bowlinger held on to the oak bucket but thought about it, feeling the sloshing weight of the bucket's contents. The smell nearly staggered him.

“Now set the bucket down, Rudy, before I change my mind and take your head to the colonel in a pickle jar.”

Rudy considered it some more, then eased the bucket down to the floor and stepped away from it along the wall.

“I've—I've felt like hell all day, Bo, this wound and all,” he said.

“Were you really going to throw that mess on me?” Bo asked pointedly. “Because you know if you had I would have killed you boneyard dead.”

“I was scared you was here to kill me anyway, Bo,” said Bowlinger.

“I can see how you might be,” said Anson. He grinned and spat a stream of tobacco juice. “But the fact is, I want you alive. I want you to go tell Max what a good job I'm doing here. Tell him this is what we talked about doing—I'm what you call taking the
initiative.
He'll understand.”