The Killing Shot (25 page)

Duke had to let that chore sink in.

“Yeah, boss man!” His head bobbed like a toy. “I'll do it!”

“Good! Good, Duke. Good man!” His voice dropped. “You better do it. And do it right.” Louder: “Get out of here. Ride hard. Ride fast. You got to get to Texas Canyon in three days. Savvy?”

“I savvy, boss man!” Turning, Duke disappeared behind the rubble.

When Pardo turned, he faced the smoke-, blood-, and dirt-stained faces of Harrah, Mac, Dagmar, and Blanche. Swede Iverson whistled at his handiwork.

“Poor Phil,” Harrah said, and crossed himself.

“Poor Yankee soldiers,” Pardo said excitedly. “When we bring Texas Canyon down on their heads. This stuff's great, Swede. Great!”

Swede Iverson smiled, but Pardo saw no humor in the man's face.

“What…what caused the wagon to blow?” Dagmar asked in a measured voice.

Shrugging, Swede Iverson replied, “Who knows? Could have hit a bump. Clouds passed over, could have dropped the temperature. Who the hell knows? It's nitroglycerin.”

“What the hell is that over yonder?” Blanche blurted out, and Pardo's eyes followed the line of her pointing finger.

He walked to the rocky, ragged wall, bent over, and picked up something between his thumb and forefinger. Grinning, Pardo returned to the edge of the road, and dug a small hole in the soft sand with his boot heel. Next, he held up the tip of a pinky finger, a shard of bone sticking from the bloodied, burned end, for everyone to see.

Dagmar and Blanche turned their heads. Harrah shut his eyes. Swede Iverson laughed. Mac just shook his head.

Pardo planted the fingertip in the hole, spread the dirt back over it with the foot of his boot, and removed his hat.

“Ashes to ashes, Phil, and dust to dust.” The hat went back on his head. “Let's ride.”

All right, Reilly McGivern, you've done a lot of crazy things in your life, broken I don't know how many laws—even as a federal peace officer—but this time…

He stared at the beaker of nitro in his hands, drew a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and heard Swede Iverson calling him. Reilly looked up at the towering walls of Texas Canyon, saw Iverson waving his cap, standing atop a boulder. “Bring it up, Mac. Just watch where you put your feet. Don't trip, my friend.”

He stepped away from the wagon, parked in the shade at the southern side of the canyon, and began picking a path up the slopes toward the explosives expert who stood waiting with twine and cotton padding.

If you don't blow yourself up
, he thought,
the Territory of Arizona no doubt will hang you.

They had arrived at Texas Canyon the night before, without any incident since the explosion that had killed Phil. Luck had been with them. No rain, just clouds dumping their contents to the east and south. Few travelers on the road, just a couple of Mexican laborers, a stagecoach, and a couple of vaqueros searching for cattle they thought had been stolen by Apaches.

Reilly hadn't slept since Phil's death. He had tried to get some shut-eye last night, but kept tossing and turning, trying to figure out how he could get Blanche and Dagmar to safety. He had to hope Gwen had delivered his note to somebody in Tombstone, maybe Fort Lowell, and that—and this might be the hard part—somebody actually believed what he had written.

Twenty-three minutes later, he knelt underneath a rocky outcropping and gently placed the beaker on a bedding of ripped cotton sheets Iverson had crammed into a hole he had dug. Finished, Reilly leaned back and watched Iverson wrap the twine six times around the beaker, after which he wet it down with water from a canteen.

“How do you plan on detonating this?” Reilly asked.

Iverson didn't answer until he had backed out of the outcropping, unspooling the twine as he went. At last he sat down, took a slug of water from the canteen, and wiped the sweat off his brow.

“Needs to go almost simultaneously,” he said. “We'll plant three more on this side, have them all looped together with this here twine. When I jerk, they'll all explode. We need to plant two more beakers on the other side. No, better make it three. That'll do the job, for sure. Maybe Harrah or one of them Krafts, if they ever show up, can jerk the twine there.”

Reilly considered this for a moment. “And for the eastern entrance to the canyon?”

“Same deal,” Iverson said, nodding. “Pardo's over there now, looking at things. Like he knows a damned thing about where to put a bunch of nitro. But…” Iverson grinned. “I ain't gonna argue with that crazy bastard. Anyhow, we'll have three, four batches on both sides of that end.”

“And two men pulling the twine to detonate it?”

“Yep.”

“Four men altogether.”

“You're good at math, Mac. But before you volunteer to be a twine-puller, I got to inform you. Pardo says you're our backup detonator. If something happens to this here twine, like, say, a rat chews it up, and when I yank it nothing happens, that's where you come in. You and that fancy repeating rifle you got. You get to shoot into the rocks, hit one of these little bottles. Chances are, that'll cause all of them to blow.”

“That's fine with me. But I can't see the other entrance. If something happens over there—”

“Pardo's got that covered, too. He'll put one of the Krafts on that end. Or do it himself if the Krafts don't show.”

“Nice of Jim to let me in on all this, me being his partner and all.”

Swede shrugged, offered the canteen to Reilly, who shook his head. “I best water that one down again. Getting hot. You go back down and bring up another batch.” He pointed toward a huge, angular boulder that looked as if it might slide down the canyon side on its own accord. “I'll have a hole dug for it by the time you bring it back up. Now—uh-oh.” He peered down the canyon, and pursed his lips. “Rider coming.”

Reilly turned, kneeling, spotted the dust first, then a hatless rider on a big black horse, heavily lathered with sweat. The man was about to ride that horse to death, whipping its sides with the reins. He pulled harshly on the reins when he saw the wagon, almost toppled from the saddle, practically dragged the horse to the rear wheel, and wrapped the reins around a spoke.

“Christ a'mighty.” Iverson seethed. “That damned fool might blow up our cache.”

Below, leaning against the wagon, the man cupped his hands and yelled, his voice echoing across the rocks. “Pardo!”

Par-do…Par-do…Par-do…

“Pardo!”

Par-do…Par-do…Par-do…

Then Blanche appeared in front of one of the massive, round boulders over on the southern edge of the canyon. “Shut up you damned fool! And get away from that wagon!” Her voice echoed, too.

The man ran, stumbled, regained his feet, charging toward the camp where Blanche and her mother waited.

Reilly swore softly, and said, “It's Major Ritcher.”

“And he looks like hell,” Swede Iverson added.

 

His lips were cracked, tongue swollen. It had hurt like blazes just to shout Pardo's name. Dried blood caked his over-baked head, coated with dust from the trail. He tried to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, peering through the haze, looking into the nest of boulders at someone yelling at him. It looked like…no, it
was
…a damned kid. A girl. Didn't appear to be even in her teens.

Ritcher remembered. Pardo had taken a girl and her mother captive after derailing the Southern Pacific train. He caught his breath, took a few steps, collapsed, dragged himself to his feet, and staggered. The girl disappeared behind the boulder. Delirious, parched, Ritcher careened his way toward the boulder. He had to warn Pardo.

For a moment, he thought maybe this girl had been a mirage. An apparition. A haunt. No, he told himself, she was real. Had to be flesh and blood. When he reached the boulder, he leaned against it, trying to summon enough energy, felt the coolness of the rock in its shadows, wiped his brow, lurched, using the giant boulder for support. He eased around the edge into a rock-strewn clearing, and saw the girl, her head wrapped in a torn sheet, sitting on a white rock with another girl, an older, adult woman, between two dead mesquite trees and a Spanish yucca.

His worn boots clopped on the stones. The woman whispered something to the girl, and rose, stepping in front of the mesquites. Ritcher staggered toward her, but when he saw the canteen, he forgot all about her and rushed to it, dropping to his knees, the rocks ripping his trousers. He pulled the canteen, uncorked it, sloshed it around and heard the water. Greedily, he drank. Drank until the rocks began spinning around him, and he almost passed out.

“Sir…”

The woman's voice revived him. Feeling that he might throw up, he dropped the canteen, now empty, and reached for the smooth boulder in front of him, managed to pull himself up, and looked around. The sky was blue, and beyond this fortress of boulders rose the rocky walls of Texas Canyon's northern side.

“Pardo,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“You're a soldier,” the woman said, a touch of hopefulness in her voice.

He turned toward the voice as the kid said, “Ma, he's a traitor.”

Blinking, he stared at the woman. Her face had been burned by the sun, badly bruised, a scab forming over her chin. Her lips parted, and she took an involuntary step back.

He let out a mirthless chuckle. He must look like some monster, but he looked a lot better than he would had those Apaches caught him at McCoy's Well.

“Vere's Pardo?” he asked, and repeated the question, louder. The water had revived his voice, and he was desperate to warn Pardo.

When she didn't answer, Ritcher charged, grabbed the front of her blouse, pulling her savagely toward him, hearing the cloth rip, hearing his own haggard yet roaring voice: “Vere is Pardo, damn you? I must find him.”

The girl, whom he saw shoot to her feet out of the corner of his eye, said, “You leave my ma alone.”

Ignoring the kid, he shook the woman again. “Vere's Pardo? I must see him. Tell him about Reilly McGivern. About the Apaches. Vere is he, damn you?”

He saw the woman's eyes, filled with fright, watched the girl reach down and pull up her britches leg. He shook the woman, whose lips quivered, but formed no words.

Holding her by the throat with his left hand, he released his hold with his right, drew it back, slapped her. Blood spurted from her nose. “Pardo. I must find him, damn you, you wretched bitch.”

 

Pardo and Harrah eased out of the shadows as soon as the rider had passed, and rounded the bend in the canyon.

“Hey,” Harrah said, “wasn't that…?”

“Yeah,” Pardo said. He tested his Colt in the holster before turning back to Harrah. “You stay here. I'll see what Major Ritcher wants.” He moved down the canyon, sliding, kicking up dust, feeling his pants rip, looking east, from where Ritcher had ridden, but seeing no signs of any other rider. When he reached the buckboard, parked in the shady edge of the canyon, he heard Ritcher's echo, calling out his name.

With a curse, Pardo found his horse, swung into the saddle, and galloped down Texas Canyon as another echo bounced along the canyon. This time, Pardo managed a guess, it was Blanche's voice:

Wa-gon…wa-gon…wa-gon…

He reined in beside the rocky fortress on the southern side of the canyon, heard Blanche shouting, heard a ruction beyond the rocks. Ritcher's voice boomed, and Pardo swore, swung from the saddle, spotting Mac and Swede Iverson kicking up dust as they came down from the canyon's northern rim.

Pardo didn't wait for them. Drawing the Colt, he ran around the giant boulder, and stopped, taking it all in. The kid, Blanche, was trying to get something out of her boot. Ritcher was shaking beautiful Dagmar savagely, screaming something. He slapped her hard, caused her nose to bleed.

“Pardo,” Ritcher was saying. “I must find him, damn you, you wretched bitch.”

Pardo cocked the Colt, saying, “Unhand her, you damned dirty, stinking, miserable rat.”

Ritcher turned. Damn, he looked like he had been mauled by a mountain lion. He shoved Dagmar aside, forming a crooked smile, and reached inside his tunic. “Pardo,” he said. He pulled out a woman's purse. “I must—”

The .44-40 bucked in Pardo's hand. He stepped away from the smoke to see Ritcher be driven backward, purse falling onto the rocks, and spun around, his hands reaching out, grasping a mesquite branch for support.

“Par—” Ritcher said, and Pardo shot him in the back.

The impact of the slug drove him away from the mesquite, and to his knees. As the Colt's roaring echo faded, Ritcher shook his head, muttering, “
Nein. Nein.
” And pitched over, his face falling into the razor-sharp yucca.

Once he holstered the Colt, he rushed to Dagmar, whose knees were beginning to buckle, her eyes locked on the dead form of Major Whatever-his-name-was Ritcher. The kid was quickly pulling down her britches leg, running over to Pardo's side.

“Are you all right, Dagmar?” Pardo kept asking, but the woman just stared at the blood pooling underneath Ritcher's body.

“Don't you worry about him, Dagmar. He won't mistreat another woman ever. He won't never lay a hand on you.” He wiped the blood off her nose, eased her into the shade. Footsteps and hoofbeats sounded, and moments later, Iverson, Mac, and Harrah ran into the clearing.

“It's all right,” Pardo said. “I took care of Ritcher, the damned rapist.” He removed his hat, started fanning Dagmar's face. The woman just stared blankly. Pardo looked up at Mac. Mac would know something. Mac would tell him what to do.

But Mac had squatted by the mesquite, had picked up the purse Ritcher had dropped. He was staring at it, his eyes misting over, lips trembling; then his fingers managed to open the purse, and he pulled out a piece of paper, which he wadded into a ball, and rose.

“Mac…” Pardo pleaded.

By then, Iverson and Harrah had dragged Ritcher's body out of the yucca, Harrah was going through the man's pockets. “All right!” Harrah exclaimed, and held up a little watch in his right hand. “This'll fetch us a whiskey or two next time we get to Dos Cabezas.” Iverson pulled out a sawed-down, small-caliber Colt, which he shoved into his waistband.

Mac exploded. Pardo had never seen him like this before. “Damn you!” he screamed, and kicked the major's lifeless face, which the yucca had sliced to ribbons. “You son of a bitch!” Another kick, this time to Ritcher's chest. “You son of a bitch!” Kicking and kicking, driving Iverson and Harrah away. The ribs of the dead major began to crack, and Pardo turned quickly to Blanche, saying, “Take care of your ma, kid,” and racing, grabbing Mac, pulling him away, telling him everything was all right.

Mac broke away, whipped off his hat, slammed it against the giant boulder, and let out a mournful wail. Sinking to his knees, hands balling into fists, shaking his head, Mac said, “No. No. No. No.”

Pardo knelt beside him, perplexed. He didn't know how to comfort a woman. He damn sure didn't know what to do about a crazy partner. He just said, his voice tense, “Easy, Mac. Easy there, pard. It's all right, kid. Everything's all right. I killed the major. He didn't hurt nobody. Won't ever lay a hand on a woman again.”