Breen grinned. “We figure you can catch them up. You’re the wrangler of this bunch.”
“Two horses,” McCulloch said. “Four people. If that actor’s still breathing, five.”
“He can’t be alive.” Keegan shook his head. “He’d be moving around in that tin suit if he was alive.”
“He was a good actor,” Breen said. “A great actor. We should bury him.”
“He was crazy as a loon,” McCulloch said.
“The horses.” Breen nodded at the Ranger. “You’ll fetch them.”
“I will.”
“And you won’t try to ride away? Without us?” Keegan said.
McCulloch shook his head. “You’ve got a long-range Sharps and a Springfield. I wouldn’t get far on two horses, boys.”
Breen nodded again.
“Two horses. We’ll ride double,” Keegan said. “It’s not that far to Hueco Tanks. We can get extra horses there or wait till the next stage comes in.
Breen shook his head as he stared down at the dead killer. “That was one reward I would have liked to have collected.” He raised his eyes and smiled at McCulloch. “From one profession, I salute you, McCulloch.”
“Speaking of rewards, there’s one thing you boys should know,” McCulloch said.
“Yeah?” Keegan asked. “What?”
McCulloch jutted his jaw toward the rocks, the wagon, the shining knight still not moving on the cactus, and Gwen Stanhope. “That woman’s heading for the Apache’s horse—with both carpetbags.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Gwen Stanhope streaked across the desert floor. Breen shouted out a curse and bolted after her.
McCulloch yelled, “I’ll see if I can catch up Hawkin’s horse.” He ran the opposite way.
Keegan started running after Breen, but soon gave up, and slowed to a leisurely walk. He was a horse soldier, he told himself, not a foot soldier. Retired or not. And he was not going to run anymore on that day. His feet hurt.
* * *
“Easy, boy,” Matt McCulloch whispered as he approached Jake Hawkin’s mount. “Easy.” He smiled, began humming “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” and raised his hand, letting the horse catch McCulloch’s scent.
Behind him came Breen’s shouts. “Stop! Stop! Stop, damn you, woman. Stop!”
The horse snorted, but McCulloch was beside it and he put his left hand under the animal’s nose, letting it take in the scent, while his right hand grabbed one loose rein, then reached under the animal’s neck, and found the other. “You’re a good—” He did not finish. He stepped back, studied the horse again, and moved past the saddle where he could read the brand.
It was a brand he knew well. After all, it was his old brand. He had to smile that an outlaw like Jake Hawkin would still be riding an M/M horse. It must have been swapped four years ago. The horse looked to be eight years old.
He put one moccasin in the stirrup and swung into the saddle, patted the scabbard to see it held a repeating rifle. He wet his lips and kicked the animal in the side.
He covered about a hundred yards before he reined up. “This nightmare just won’t end,” he said, and pulled Jake Hawkin’s Winchester rifle, a big Centennial model, from the scabbard.
* * *
Gwen Stanhope stopped running, turned around, dropped the carpetbags and started to cock Keegan’s big .44 in her right hand.
Jed Breen wasn’t looking at her, however. He was focused on something behind her.
She was about to tell him that she was no fool, that she would not fall for such an amateur’s trick, when she heard the thundering hooves. Quickly she spun back and caught the hackamore to the dead chief ’s brown mare. Four riders galloped toward them.
“Oh, my God,” Stanhope whispered. “It can’t be. It just can’t be.”
Breen had moved up to her side. “You know them?” he asked. He counted four riders.
“I recognize the palomino. And the big white hat.”
“The sheriff ?” Breen guessed.
“Yeah. Charles Van Patten. Brother of the sidewinder I killed.”
Breen took the horsehair-braided hackamore from her hand, climbed into the Apache saddle, and held out his free hand. “Grab hold. Swing up behind me.”
“You’re saving my hide?” she asked, but she accepted and let him pull her up.
“Not really, but if they shoot at me, they’ll hit you first.”
“But the money!” she said.
“You can’t spend money if you’re dead.”
He turned the horse around, and the first shot kicked up dust about fifteen feet to his right. The Apache’s horse needed no more encouragement. It struck out at a high lope back toward the wrecked wagon and the rocks.
* * *
A bullet shattered a stone about six feet from McCulloch’s shoulder, and he helped Stanhope off the back of the Apache’s horse. “Get the horse over there.” He nodded to where he had tied Jake Hawkin’s mount in the rocks.
“Four men,” Breen said.
“I can count,” McCulloch snapped.
“One of them’s the county sheriff.” Breen spurred the brown into the rocks.
McCulloch glanced at the woman. “Van Patten?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “That explains it.”
“He’ll kill me,” she said.
“I expect that’s his plan.” McCulloch shoved her toward the wrecked wagon.
The riders were about two hundred yards from them when Keegan’s Springfield boomed. The four men split into two pairs.
When they reached the crashed wagon, McCulloch held open the door. “Get inside,” he told the woman.
“No,” Stanhope said.
“Inside,” McCulloch insisted.
“I’ll be trapped.”
“Where’s the carpetbags?” McCulloch asked.
“Where we left them.” Breen pointed. “Inside.”
She crawled in and the door slammed shut, just as a bullet whined off the iron tire of the rear wheel.
In the rocks, Breen lined up one of the riders in his sights and squeezed the trigger, then felt the stock slam hard against his shoulder. One of these days, he thought, he might buy a rifle that didn’t bruise his shoulder or come close to breaking the shoulder blade on the other side.
One of these days.
The rider was on the ground, and he wasn’t moving. Few people moved an inch after having a .50-caliber Sharps slug tear through his body. The horse turned and galloped off toward the other set of hills where they had made their first stand after Sir Theodore’s wagon had crashed.
Breen opened the breech, pitched the spent cartridge, and reached into his pocket. “Damn it all to hell.” There were no cartridges left. If he hadn’t shot them all, maybe one or more had fallen out of his pockets. He had been doing a lot of running lately.
A bullet smashed another rock just above, blinding Breen, who dropped the Sharps, staggered a few feet, and fell onto the ground.
“I’ve got him, Mr. Blue!” someone shouted.
Breen tried to get to his feet, but another bullet punched off the heel of his right boot. He dived a bit farther and heard a bullet whine off a rock. Rolling onto his back, he heard the sound of hooves, a horse whinny, slide to a stop, and then the softer noise of a man’s footsteps on the hard, rocky ground.
Breen reached for his Lightning, but it wasn’t there. It must have fallen out when the wagon crashed.
He was unarmed, with no place to hide, when the man rounded the corner and squeezed off a shot. The bullet caught Breen in the left shoulder just as he threw the stone that caused Mr. Black to rush his shot and flinch.
The rock caught him in the lower lip and jaw, and he staggered back. Spitting out blood and teeth, he cocked the hammer and touched the trigger again. That bullet flew over Breen’s back as he lowered his head and rammed his bleeding, burning, aching shoulder into Black’s gut. Breen kept churning his feet and rammed Black’s back against the rocks. The gun slipped
from the killer’s fingers and dropped into the dirt.
Breen straightened and felt punches tearing into the bloody bullet hole in his shoulder. He didn’t care. Fury blocked all pain. He grabbed a fistful of Black’s hair, jerked his head forward, and shoved it hard against the rock. Hearing Black groan, Breen pulled the head toward him again and rammed it even harder. When Black’s head came forward, Breen saw the blood dripping from the rock. He smashed the head again. And again. And again. And . . . then he let the man fall, quivering and soiling himself, then twisting over and moaning.
Breen picked up the revolver the man had dropped. He started to put a bullet between the killer’s eyes, but stopped, holding his fire. More bullets were ringing out beyond the rocky place, and Breen didn’t know how many shots remained in the revolver. He simply stepped on Mr. Black’s throat and pushed his boot down hard.
* * *
Hiding in the rocks, Keegan aimed the Springfield toward the clopping hooves and waited. The horse came into view, and Keegan swore, leaping back and looking up. Nobody was in the saddle. He had been duped by one of the oldest tricks in West Texas. He blamed it on the wounded arm. A man didn’t think that clearly when he was bleeding like a stuck pig.
He figured the rider was on his left.
But Mr. Blue leaped from Keegan’s right.
The soldier dropped the rifle as he was slammed against the rock. Mr. Blue tried to club him with the barrel of his gun, but Keegan had spun around and blocked the hired killer’s arm, hand, and big Schofield. 45 with his right hand. His left knee came up and slammed into Mr. Blue’s groin. The man staggered back, groaning, but recovering quickly. He fired.
But Keegan wasn’t there anymore.
Keegan crawled through the narrow defile in the rock. He heard Blue’s curse and his footsteps, but then those stopped. He had reached the narrow spot and had to crawl.
Light appeared, and Keegan crawled out. His left arm really hurt. It was bleeding hard again, and he had to fight off dizziness. He caught his breath, pushed himself up onto the rocks, and waited for the killer’s head to pop out of the opening. When it didn’t, Keegan spun around and bolted toward the other side.
He did not slow down. Reaching the side, he leaped, slamming into Blue’s back as he was running toward his horse. The killer fell. The gun flew from his hand. He tried to get up, but Keegan planted his knee in the small of Blue’s back.
Something stung Blue’s nose. Something crawled across his face. Ants. Another bit him. Painfully. Keegan pushed the killer’s head deeper into the mound, and more ants attacked. Blue screamed, twisted, tried to breathe. The knee dug deeper against his spinal cord as the ants attacked with fury.
When Blue no longer felt Keegan on top of him, he pushed himself to his feet and brushed the ants off his face. He snarled. His cloudy vision cleared, and he saw the cavalry trooper standing before him. Blue brushed off another ant then saw the gun—his gun—in the soldier’s right hand. He saw the smoke and flame explode from the revolver’s barrel. He felt the bullet slam into his chest and drive him back into the ant mound.
But he did not feel the bites of the attacking ants.
* * *
Charles Van Patten laughed as he levered a fresh cartridge into his rifle. He shot the door to the overturned wagon. Inside came the muffled scream of the woman.
“You like that, bitch?” he yelled gleefully. “How about this?” He sent two more rounds, splintering the wood.
Gwen Stanhope shrieked again. He fired once more. Then another. Around him, he heard his hired killers likely finishing off the fools who had tried to assist the killer of his brother. He aimed the rifle at the door, but realized he hadn’t heard more screams. He started to lower the rifle, then thought better of it and shot twice more through the wood. Nothing. The woman inside never cried out.
“Hey, Gwen,” the sheriff yelled. “What’s the matter? You should be happy. The Apaches didn’t rape you. And you won’t live to hang in El Paso. I bet you’re burning in Hell right now. But isn’t this grand? You can be with Kirk for all of eternity. Burning in the fiery pit.”
Laughing, Van Patten leaned the rifle against the wagon, found the handle to the wagon door, and lifted it up. He got it halfway, then shifted his hands, pushed it up, and looked inside. He saw Gwen Stanhope lying there.
Her eyes opened. She rolled over. And the Colt Lightning revolver she held punched two holes in his belly.
The door slammed shut.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Matt McCulloch, Sean Keegan, and Jed Breen stopped at the wrecked wagon. Sheriff Charles Van Patten lay on the ground, both hands gripping his bloody stomach, his mouth open as though he were laughing, his eyes staring at the sky, not blinking, not moving at all, and not seeing anything on this side of the hereafter.
Gwen Stanhope held the dead man’s Winchester. It was pointed at the three of them. Breen’s double-action. 38 was shoved in her waistband.
“I take it,” Jed Breen said, “that you’re dissolving our partnership.”
“You could say that.”
“Taking the money for yourself ?” Matt McCulloch asked.
“It seems the logical move.” Stanhope waved the barrel. “Drop your hardware, boys.”
“You plan on leaving us here afoot?” Keegan asked.
“No,” she said. “I plan on leaving you here dead.”
The three men just stared at her.
“It’s not personal, boys, but Breen’s a bounty hunter. He’d be coming after me at some point.”
“Hell,” Keegan said. “If that’s all that’s troubling you, go ahead and kill him. We won’t stop you.”
“I aim to,” she said. “But he’s a Ranger.” She nodded toward McCulloch.
“Was a Ranger,” he said.
“Once a lawman . . .” the woman argued.
“And what am I?” Keegan asked.
“What you would be, is a witness to two murders.” She sighed. “Like I said, boys, it’s nothing personal. I like all three of you. But I like fifty thousand dollars a hell of a lot better.”
She stepped back, aimed at Keegan, and touched the trigger.
It snapped empty. She cursed, worked the lever, and fired again.
“No!” she screamed. Dropping the rifle, she jerked up Breen’s Lightning she had discovered in the wrecked wagon. Slipping her finger into the trigger guard, she turned.
Three guns roared. Three bullets struck Gwen Stanhope in the middle, and she fell back, covering the dead sheriff’s face. Her mouth moved once, and her eyes lost their focus.
“I know she was in custody, on her way to hang,” Jed Breen said as he picked up his revolver that she had dropped, “but do you reckon there’s still a reward posted on her?”
* * *
“How do you get this thing off?” Sean Keegan asked.
“Twist it,” McCulloch said.
“Which way?”
“I don’t know. Twist it and turn it and pray.”
It took several tries, but the helmet was dragged off Sir Theodore Cannon, whose eyes shot open and were immediately blinded by the sweat that poured into his eyeballs.
“Get this damned stove off me before I’m cooked like the Christmas goose,” he said, breathing heavily.
“You’re alive, Sir Theodore?” Jed Breen said.
“Indeed. I was playing the greatest death scene of my career.”
“It was almost the last death scene any of us played.” Breen helped up the heavy man in the weighted armor but quickly dropped him back onto the ground, luckily missing the cactus, and began waving his hands in pain. “Hell, this tin is hot after lying in the sun.”
“Just get me out of here, boys,” the actor said.
Keegan fingered the side of the armor. “That derringer put two holes in you. Are you hit?”
“My good man,” the actor said, “I informed you men earlier that this is a jousting suit of armor, meant for the fairs—like what Sir Walter Scott wrote about in
Ivanhoe—not for battle. The lance would have struck this side, so this side is thicker. Yes, yes, yes, the two slugs penetrated this Scottish armor, but were spent after passing through such thick metal. I have two small bruises on my side. And if you can figure out how to get this tin bucket off me, I’ll even let you see the sons of bitches.” He stopped, panted, and let Sergeant Keegan give him a sip of water from the canteen.
Sir Theodore Cannon looked around. “I say, where is Miss Stanhope?”
Matt McCulloch shrugged. “Well, Sir Theodore, nobody lives forever.”
* * *
“Let me get this straight.” U.S. Marshal Devon Cody pushed back the bourbon he had poured for himself in his El Paso office. “You’re telling me that the county sheriff’s dead. That old Holy Shirt’s dead. That the woman that was to be hanged here is dead. That Jake and Billy Hawkin are dead. That a number of gunmen under certain aliases are dead. That the man who worked at the Sierra Vista bank is dead, the same man who is suspected of helping the Hawkin boys on that job. That at least two members of Hawkin’s gang are dead. That many Apaches from Holy Shirt’s reservation breakers and some of that crew that came up from south of the border are dead. That Petey and Rourke from the stagecoach line are dead, along with the paying passengers on that Concord. And that Alvin J. Griffin Number Four, editor and publisher of the Purgatory City Herald Leader, that he’s dead, too. Hell, men, is there anyone left alive?”
“We are,” Sean Keegan said, rubbing his arm in a sling.
“Kind of,” Matt McCulloch rubbed his neck.
“There’s an actor up in the hotel room,” Jed Breen added as he massaged his shoulder. He also had an arm in a sling. “He’s alive, too.”
“He can confirm everything we’ve told you,” McCulloch said.
“But you don’t want to get him started,” Keegan said, “Or he won’t shut up.”
Devon Cody twisted both ends of his mustache, frowned, grabbed the glass, and killed the bourbon. He found his hat and his gunbelt, and nodded at the front door. “All right, gents. Let’s see what this actor has to say.”
* * *
When no one answered the knock, Keegan took the key from McCulloch, turned the key in the lock, and pushed open the door to the hotel room. He saw the bed, unmade and empty of one Sir Theodore Cannon. Immediately, he looked at the dresser.
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