Snake Eyes (9781101552469) (28 page)

Authors: Jory Sherman

THIRTY-SIX

For several miles, Brad thought he was either on a wild-goose chase or looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack. But the trackless mud began to show signs of hoofprints,Â small watery depressions in the trail made by four-footed animals packing weight. Soon, these turned into legible hoof marks that told him he was getting close.

The tracks were still blurred, but they were definable, even so. He rode on, ever more wary, his pulse racing. He saw a few head of cattle on the small hillsides, slipping and sliding to keep their footing on the soggy slopes.

Rocky outcroppings began to appear alongside the trail, which now showed a host of indecipherable gouges from the cloven hooves of cattle. The horse tracks were overlaid on these muddy hieroglyphics.

A jagged streak of lightning illuminated a man sitting atop one of the rocky cairns off to his left. He saw the back of a horse behind the rock. The man sitting there was wearing a gray slicker, and his hat was dripping rain from its brim. Thunder rumbled from out on the plain, and Brad thought he could see the dim streetlamps of Denver in the misty distance.

The next time the lightning flashed, Brad saw that the man was standing up. And he had a pistol in his hand. He was looking uptrail in his direction.

Brad slid off his horse and slapped Ginger on the rump so that the horse would continue on its path.

Then he walked on the opposite side, matching the horse's gait. He knew the man on the rock could not see him since he had ducked down below his saddle.

When he drew close, Brad tugged on one rein. Ginger halted, its head twisted toward Brad.

Brad pulled out his rattles and shook them. He peered under his horse's neck and saw the man's head jerk toward the sound.

The man muttered something under his breath.

“You looking for somebody in particular?” Brad said.

“Huh? What's that?”

“Schneck send you?” Brad said.

The man swung his pistol toward Ginger.

Brad drew his Colt and hammered it back to full cock.

The man on the rock raised his arm to take aim at somebody he could not see.

“Big mistake, feller,” Brad said. He lined up his sights and squeezed the trigger.

The pistol roared, and the man flew off the rock like a lizard blown off by a sudden gust of wind. His arms flailed and his pistol went flying. He hit the ground with a thud. Brad ran over to the other side of the rock and looked down at the stricken man.

Purdy's mouth moved, but no sound came out. Instead, there was a liquid gurgle in his throat. His eyes rolled back in their sockets as if he were trying to look inside himself. Â The gurgle turned into a faint rattle and his eyes turned glassy. A sound of air issued from his throat. He quivered all over and died.

Brad ejected the spent cartridge and replaced it with another full round.

“Is this all you've got, Schneck?” he said and mounted Ginger. He stuck his pistol back in its holster and pulled the shotgun, Snake Eyes, from its sheath. He cracked it open and saw the two shot shells seated in the firing chamber. He laid the sawed-off over his lap and rode on.

He saw the campfire and heard voices. He also saw the steep overhanging rock. There was another just below it, slightly off the trail, and it stuck up at an acute angle in another direction. It was much smaller than the rock that overhung the campfire.

Brad counted three men who were standing there, warming their hands over the fire.

He rode above the large rock and dismounted. He was sure that none of the men had seen him. And they had probably not heard his shot since there was still the peal of thunder that masked many lesser sounds.

He walked back down to the trail where he could see the three men.

He spotted Schneck. He did not recognize the otherÂ two men.

They were still talking. Brad hunkered down and watched them.

The fire burned low. One of the men walked away. He met another man, and they walked down to where Brad could see a bunch of cattle huddled in a tight bunch. They walked past them and climbed onto horses. They rode off and disappeared behind slanted slashes of rain.

Finally, the man who was still with Schneck said something and walked out from under the overhang. He walked down the trail and when Brad next saw him, he was on horseback, heading toward the gathered herd of cattle.

Brad shook his rattle.

Schneck whirled and grabbed for his pistol.

Brad rattled again.

Schneck pulled his pistol from his holster and ran from under the rock. He ran across the trail and clambered up the other rock.

“Who's that?” he called out.

Brad shook the rattles again, then ran up behind the overhanging rock. He ran to its edge and looked down at Schneck on the smaller outcropping.

Once again, he shook the rattles and he saw Schneck's head turn and then tilt back to look up.

A flash of lightning silhouetted Schneck and made Brad's form stand out like a sore thumb.

Schneck pointed his pistol at Brad.

“You bastard,” he said.

Brad cocked both hammers of the shotgun.

“See this, Schneck?” Brad held the shotgun slightly to oneÂ side, the barrels pointing directly at Schneck.

“You got a shotgun. But you came to the wrong place, Detective.”

“What does it look like?” Brad asked. “Look close at the two barrels.”

“So, it's a sawed-off. So what?”

“You're looking at snake eyes, Schneck.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“Snake eyes. That means you lose, Schneck.”

Schneck took deadly aim with his pistol. He squinted as he lined up his sights.

Brad tugged at one trigger of the shotgun and then the other in rapid succession.

Double-ought buckshot spewed from both barrels following the loud duo of explosions. Shots whistled through the air like a swarm of angry bees. The buckshot smashed into Schneck's torso, riddling him with holes from the lead pellets.

Schneck danced like a human contortionist for a half second.

He screamed like a woman.

He fired his pistol, but the bullet shot off at a crazy angle and smacked into a puddle of rainwater.

Schneck screwed himself into a tight, writhing ball and tumbled from the rock. He landed on his head, and Brad heard the crack as his neck broke.

Just as if he had been hanged from a gallows.

Brad cracked open the barrels of the Greener and the shells ejected, striking the rock with a brassy clatter. He reached in his pocket and took out two more shells and loaded them into the empty barrels. Then he snapped the shotgun closed and waited.

Three men rode up and saw the body of Schneck lying there with his neck broken, his shirt and trousers bristling with tufts of torn cloth.

The men looked up at Brad. He stood there with the shotgun as if he were out bird hunting.

“Schneck was a murderer,” Brad said, as the rain lessened. “If he had surrendered to me, he would have been tried and hanged. Any questions?”

The three men shook their heads.

“Then, get back to your cattle, and if you want my advice, you'll drive them back to Wyoming. They won't be welcomed up in sheep country.”

One of the men, Loomis, opened his mouth to say something in protest, but thought better of it and remained silent.

Brad watched them all turn and go back to the herd.

He hefted the shotgun and walked off the huge rock and down to his horse. He wiped the barrels.

“Snake Eyes,” he said as he slipped the Greener back in its case.

He rode toward Denver as the black clouds sailed past the city and brought rain to the long prairie. He was finished with the Denver Detective Agency. He would see Pendergast in the morning, and then he would ride home. Home to Felicity and his own cattle.

Home. The sweetest sound in the English language.

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