by Ralph Cotton
“No, I—I—He—!” Wright pointed at Kiley as he used his free hand to swab blood from his eyes. “The gun went off! Oh God! Margolin, this is one of Plantz’s men! Do you understand me? This is the one they call Kid Kiley.”
“What did he expect, Herbert?” Margolin asked. “Prowling around at night in his underwear? What did he want anyway?”
“He wanted clothes, Margolin,” Wright said, a snap of impatience in his voice.
“Where’s his?” she snapped back at him.
Wright just shook his head. “Please shut her up,” he said, referring to the hound.
Margolin gave a silencing kick toward the hound. The animal turned, tucked its tail and shot under the porch. A chorus of pups whined softly. “Then what do you suppose Ruddell Plantz is going to say about this?” she asked, the two of them looking down at the smoking gourdlike hull that had been Kiley’s face.
They stood in silence, staring at Kiley’s body, the pups whining and stirring gently beneath the porch. “What will you tell him?” Margolin said finally.
“I don’t know yet,” said Wright.
“The truth, maybe?” Morgolin suggested softly, just to see what he thought of the idea.
“Maybe . . . I just don’t know,” said Wright, shaking his bloody head. “After what happened to Delbert Reese, the hanging and all. There’s no telling what Plantz will do if I lead this man into town, his head blown off.”
“He’ll just have to understand that accidents happen, Herbert,” said Margolin, reaching out, wanting to put a hand on his shoulder, but thinking better of it and stopping at the sight of all the blood.
“No, Margolin,” said Wright, “accidents don’t happen. Not in the mind of men like Plantz and the parson. If I take this man to them, they will think right away that I had something to do with this.” Thinking aloud, he said quietly, “I can tell them I found him on his horse wandering around out here . . . act as if the Wilder woman might have had a hand in it.”
“Not if you ever expect to spend another night under this roof, you won’t,” she said, propping a hand on her hip. “That poor girl has had enough misfortune to last her a lifetime.”
“All right, dear! I was only considering the consequences,” said Wright.
“I just told you the consequences,” Margolin said firmly. “The best thing you can do is pitch him over his saddle and get him away from here before daylight. We’ll clean up this mess right now and act like nothing ever happened here.”
“Yes, that’s what we better do,” said Wright. “I’ll take him a long way from here and give him a shove. Nobody ever has to know.” Behind them inside the house, a lantern glowed as their daughters’ bare feet padded hastily across the wooden floor. “Dear God, Margolin,” Herbert Wright whispered, “please go keep them inside!”
“All right, little ladies, back inside,” Margolin said, hurrying in between her daughters and the body lying on the ground.
“We heard a shot, Ma,” Herbert Wright heard one of his daughters say behind, her words moving away from him as his wife shooed the children back inside and latched the door.
“Jesus,” Wright whispered, staring down at the mangled corpse. What had he been thinking, ever getting involved with men like Plantz.
In moments, Wright had dragged Kiley to his horse and pushed him up over the saddle. Remaining blood rushed down from the open cavity and splattered heavily onto the dirt. Oh God . . . Wright hurriedly washed himself in a bucket of water he’d drawn from the well. Then he dressed, saddled a horse for himself and, anxious to get the body away from his home and family, led the dead man’s horse away by a lead rope.
For the next hour he rode straight out across the rolling plains. Even on the vast empty grasslands he looked all around, making sure no one saw him when he topped a wide knoll, stopped and unhooked the lead rope from Kiley’s horse. Never again, so help me God . . . He vowed to himself as he gave Kiley’s body a shove, knowing that once it fell into the tall grass, the odds of it ever being seen again before being picked clean by buzzards were slim.
Buzzards circling were commonplace out here, he told himself, watching the body fall, hearing the solid thud. Nobody would investigate. If they did, so what? This was a long ways from his home. He reached out and slapped the horse soundly on its rump. There was no reason for anybody to think he had anything to do with—Oh no!
The horse shot out through the tall grass. Wright sat stunned, staring in wide-eyed disbelief. When he’d shoved Kiley’s body off the saddle, somehow as it slid down the horse’s side, an arm slipped though a stirrup, twisted at a sharp angle and stuck there. Jesus, no . . . ! Wright could only sit and watch transfixed as Kid Kiley’s faceless corpse went bouncing and skipping out across the dark plains.
Standing on the boardwalk out front of the saloon, Plantz threw back a shot of whiskey and pitched the glass out into the street. He eyed the glass in the grainy morning light as he took a sip of cool foamy beer. Beside him the parson said, “I don’t like the way things feel around here anymore.”
“Oh? Have a drink then. You always feel better after breakfast.” Plantz smiled, raising his big Colt from its holster. “I thought you did a hell of a job telling these pumpkin heads what I told you to last night.” He fired a shot and the glass disappeared in an upward spray of dirt. “If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought you and me gave a damn about Delbert here pulling hemp.”
In a wooden chair leaned back against the front of the building sat Delbert Reese’s body. His eyes stared blankly straight ahead, his lids and cheeks having turned the color of rotting fruit. Someone had shoved a lit cigar into Reese’s mouth and propped a mug of beer in his gray hand. A fly walked around on the bridge of his nose.
“It’s all in the delivery,” the parson said, proud of himself for a job well done. “Leaving the blame for Reese’s death on their shoulders was a good idea. It sets the stage for us squeezing these folks a little bit harder if we choose to.”
“Yes, and we choose to, Parson,” said Plantz, tipping his beer mug toward his comrade. “I’m glad to hear you starting to talk like your old self. Go on, have yourself a good eye-opener. Maybe it’ll help settle the rest of your willies.”
The parson nodded and jiggled the bottle of whiskey hanging from his fingertips. “I don’t have the willies. I’m just practicing caution. I can’t deny my premonition. That would be foolhardy.”
Plantz shook his head, chuckled under his breath and dismissed the matter. “I told Kid Kiley to be back here at daybreak.” He sipped his beer and stared out along the street leading out of town. “The son of a bitch is late already,” he said.
“What if he doesn’t show?” the parson asked.
“You already know the answer,” said Plantz. “I’m not going to fool with this woman. If I have to ride out there and put a bullet in her head . . . well, I suspect that’s how life will have to end for her.”
No sooner than he’d spoken, the sound of horse’s hooves resounded along the empty street. “Who’s this?” said the parson, squinting into the silver gray of morning.
“Kiley, is that you?” Plantz asked, catching only a glimpse of Kid Kiley’s horse in the silvery mist. It took a second longer for him to see that the saddle was not only empty, but hanging loosely down the horse’s side.
The parson saw the body dragging alongside the horse, on its side, its arm tangled and flopping up and down with each step. “My God,” said the parson. “She’s blown his damn head off.”
The two stepped down from the boardwalk and walked to the horse, stopping it on its homeward journey to the livery barn a block away. “Shotgun,” Plantz said flatly, staring down at Kiley’s faceless body.
“You think that frightened woman did this?” the parson asked.
“I don’t know what to think,” said Plantz. “Get the men ready to ride. We’re heading out to the colonel’s and getting rid of her for once and for all. It’s time I move in anyway, take that place for my own
.”
The parson turned and started back onto the boardwalk to the saloon. But seeing Buell Evans and Carl Muller standing in the door, he said, “Get Conlon and Macky. We’re riding out.”
“Get them, hell, they’re gone,” said Evans.
“Gone where?” the parson demanded.
“Gone to hell, far as I know,” said Evans. Gesturing a nod toward the body in the street, he said, “They walked over here, took a look at that mess; the next thing I knew they was shoving one another to see who got out the back door first!”
“I’ll kill the sonsabitches,” said the parson.
“Let them go,” said Plantz. “There’s still four of us. I’d hate to think us four can’t handle one scared woman. Especially one who’s got no fight in her.”
“No fight in her?” said the parson. He looked down at Kiley’s body. “This is the woman in my premonition, make no mistake about it.”
Chapter 27
At the end of a good night’s sleep, Julie had gotten up, fixed herself breakfast and eaten it on the front porch, watching the first light of day grow into morning on the far horizon. After coffee and target practice, she returned to the porch and cleaned her guns while she had a second cup of coffee. Then she emptied the morning grounds from the coffeepot, washed it and put it away.
She kept track of the time and estimated how long it should take for Plantz and his men to arrive after Kiley met them in town. She thought about it as she cleaned house, brought in kindling for the cookstove, made the bed and brought in fresh drinking water from the spring.
When noon arrived, Julie walked to the corral, saddled the black and rode off toward the woods line, her rifle, revolver, bolo and throwing knife close at hand. She rode all the way through the woods and stopped at the far edge where she had a good view of the trail from Umberton. She stepped down from her saddle, canteen in hand, and waited.
Nearly an hour had passed when she first spotted the four riders come up into sight over a grassy rise. She watched a full ten minutes until the riders swung off the main trail and onto a thinner path running through the tall grass toward her house. “Here we go,” she said to herself, standing and dusting the seat of her trousers. She mounted the black, hung her canteen from the saddle horn and rode quietly back through the woods, catching glimpses of Plantz and his men through the trees, keeping the four ahead of her.
At the front yard, Plantz raised his hand, stopping the other three cavalry style, as if leading an entire battalion. “Take a look at this,” he said as the parson and the other two gathered around him.
“Yeah, that’s Peerly’s horse,” said Muller, his hand going instinctively to the pistol on his hip and resting there. “What do you suppose this means?”
Evans looked all around, as if searching for Peerly. “I think it means he’s turned traitor on us, over this woman.”
“You stupid bastard,” Plantz growled at him. “Don’t say anything else, if that’s the best you can do.”
“This woman wouldn’t have anything to do with Peerly,” said the parson. “Any woman he ever had, he had to take her by force.”
“It looks like there’s nobody here,” said Plantz, his eyes moving across the yard, going to the front door, then across the shuttered windows.
“Or, if she is here, she doesn’t want to come out and be sociable, like before,” Muller said with a hint of a smile on his broad bearded face.
“Good then. I’m not here to be sociable either,” said Plantz.
The parson nudged his horse forward slowly, seeing the tin targets lying in the side yard. “What have we here?” he asked idly. Plantz nudged his horse alongside him; the other two followed.
“Looks like this young woman has been doing some serious target shooting,” the parson said, stepping down and holding up a target riddled with bullet holes.
“How much target shooting does it take to blow a man’s face off with a shotgun?” Evans asked.
“What did I just tell you, Buell?” Plantz said in a sharp bristly voice.
Evans brooded in silence, his face red with embarrassment. Beside him, Muller looked away, stifled a laugh and shook his head. “Dumb goat-fucker,” he said under his breath.
“Take a look at this, Ruddell,” said the parson, stepping back from a wide spot on the ground. “Something was dragged away from here.”
Plantz swung down from his saddle, still looking all around. Then he looked down on the spot where Peerly had fallen with the throwing knife in his heart. “Yeah, I see,” he said in a guarded tone. “Either something or somebody.”
“What do you say?” the parson asked.
“I say this situation has Baines Meredith written all over it. This woman ain’t the type who’d blow a man’s face away, but that’s exactly Meredith’s cup of tea. He brought her to Umberton when she was down. I can see that sonsabitch sticking his nose into this . . . especially if he figured he could get her to wiggle out of her trousers for him.”
“Jesus, Baines Meredith?” said Evans, looking all around again.
“Keep your stool from slipping out on you, Buell,” said Plantz. “If he’s around here he’s only human.” He drew his pistol and cocked it, the slightest look of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Everybody spread out; see what we can find lying around,” said the parson, seeing Plantz grow preoccupied with the thought of a killer like Baines Meredith lurking nearby.
“This is starting to interest me all over.” Plantz said. He pulled his horse over to the hitch rail, spun its reins and stepped up onto the porch.
From inside the cover of the woods line, Julie watched Plantz pound his fist on the door, still looking back over his shoulder and all around the yard. Raising the rifle to her shoulder, she took close aim on the center of his back. A good wide full target, she told herself. But then she lowered the rifle and decided against the shot. Plantz was the leader, the one who had put all the killing into motion.
She didn’t want to kill Plantz this way. She wanted to look into his eyes, up close, the way she’d done with Peerly and Reese. This went against all Baines Meredith had taught her. He’d taught her to take the best shot while you had the opportunity; yet, that was exactly what she did. Sorry Baines . . .
She moved her sights over to the parson, then to Evans, then to Muller. They fit the description Reese had given her before he died. These were the ones; if by some fluke they weren’t her attackers, her father’s killers, too bad, she thought. If that was the case, they had simply picked the wrong day to come calling.
Her sights homed onto Muller, the one farthest away, the one most likely to get atop his horse and make a run for it. She rested the sights there and waited, breathing slowly, calmly.
Strange, she thought, how not long ago she had looked for the slightest reason not to kill these men, these men who had violated her, who had taken her father’s life, and in that sense destroyed hers. But that had changed. Now, if they fit the description, or matched the names, or came close to doing either, she wanted them dead.
The killing had begun. The quicker they were dead, the sooner she could live in a home of her own—something she’d never had. And more than that, she could hold her head up and live there in peace, like regular everyday folks—something she’d never known. A tear glistened in her eye, but there was no time to wipe it away. She wouldn’t let it affect her aim.
In the yard Muller stooped down and touched his fingertip to a dark spot on the dirt. Looking a few feet in front of him, he saw another dark spot on the ground, then another. “Captain Plantz!” he called out toward the porch where Plantz stood. “There’s spots all over the ground here; looks like blood.” He stood up and held up his middle finger up toward Plantz. “See this?”
“Is he trying to get me to kill him?” Plantz asked the parson, who came stepping up onto the porch.
The parson looked back over his shoulder at Muller, then said to Plantz, “Hell, don’t waste your bullets. It’s hard to tell which one
of them is the most stupid—”
Suddenly Muller went flying backward before their eyes, a hole opening up in his chest and a spray of blood exploding from his back as the rifle shot resounded from the woods line. “Up there!” shouted Evans, pointing toward the smoke along the edge of the woods.
“Get down, you damn fool!” warned the parson, both himself and Plantz leaping from the porch and taking cover around the corner of the house.
But his warning came too late. A rifle shot hit Evans in the center of his back as he turned to run, causing him to stiffen and freeze in his tracks. He didn’t move until the next shot hit him an inch higher. Then he stumbled forward, blood gushing from his wounds, and fell dead on the ground.
“We’re going to be stuck here if he decides to go for our horses!” said Plantz, hugging his back against the house.
“He?” The parson gave him a strange look.
“Meredith, damn it!” Plantz shouted at him. “Who do you think? This is no scared woman shooting at us. This is a killer! It’s Baines Meredith!”
“You couldn’t be more wrong, Ruddell,” said the parson, shaking his head. “This is the woman . . . my premonition. Her day is at hand! She’s going to kill us all before she’s through! I see the end now! I see it clearly! She will be victorious! She will kill us both!”
“You’re dead wrong there, Parson, you crazy son of a bitch!” Plantz raged. He turned his pistol toward the parson and shot him. “There now, satisfied? She didn’t kill you; I did!”
“Damn you!” The parson staggered backward, seeing his wound and knowing it was mortal. He raised his pistol toward Plantz, but as he fired, he staggered back another step, out of the cover of the house. Just as his shot went off, a rifle shot from the tree line hit him in the left side of his neck, sliced down and came out the side of his chest in a blast of blood.
Spinning, he hit the ground and gagged and choked until he caught his breath and struggled to form his words. Plantz stood in the same spot, protected by the corner of the house. He held his gun aimed at the parson. His other hand squeezed the bullet hole down low in his belly where the parson’s shot had hit him.