by Will Keen
‘You find her?’
McClain nodded, turned to watch the buckboard rock as a thickset man in a black suit stepped down into the dust.
‘And?’
‘And now your friend will be transporting two bodies, one alive – maybe – but one dead for sure.’
For a moment there was silence. Carter’s face had tightened. A muscle bulged in his jaw. His eyes were on McClain, unfocussed, and McClain knew damn well that what the Red Creek marshal was seeing was an old woman, an old friend, who had offered hospitality to two men and for that kind gesture had paid with her life.
The moment passed.
Carter looked at the black-suited man standing waiting by the buckboard.
‘Two of ’em, Sol,’ he called, ‘one out here, one inside.’ Then, to McClain, his face as bleak as a Montana winter, ‘Don’t go away. You and me have got some serious talking to do.’
Chapter Nine
The talking was done in the Red Creek lawyer’s office taken over by Carter all those years ago when he’d first pinned on the badge. The big marshal was a taut figure in the swivel chair behind his desk. McClain perched uncomfortably on a straight-backed wooden chair jammed into a corner between a filing cabinet and an iron locker. Carter had dragged open the locker’s door before dropping onto his chair. Stiff hinges said it had been little used. It contained a variety of guns.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke and tension. A cracked brown jug of bootleg liquor stood close to Carter’s elbow. Two glasses were stained but empty.
‘They’re heading east, then south,’ Carter said with conviction. ‘Why would they go west? Out that way they murdered your wife, came down from the hills and murdered Jed Crane. I don’t say they’re running scared, but sure as hell they won’t be wasting time.’
‘Which is what I’m doing sitting here talking.’
‘No.’ Carter shook his head. ‘There’s a difference between speed, and haste. And what you need to remember is I’m town marshal, with arrangements to make before we leave.’
McClain nodded thoughtfully. ‘We? Well, I’ve heard your story, so I guess I should have expected company now there’s a chance they’ll get clean away. But what arrangements can you make to cover for your absence?’
‘Well, this being such a wild town,’ Carter said with heavy sarcasm, ‘I’ll admit leaving it to my deputy, Jim Wild, is a mite risky. Wild by name, but Jim’s more than sixty years old. Bright as a button, movements somewhat impaired, so I’m hoping if the need arises he can remember which hip his six-gun’s settin’ on.’
Carter’s smile was thin, but McClain was only half listening.
‘So this killing here, Ma Thom’s death,’ he said. ‘That’s jolted you into doing something you’ve been putting off for all those years?’
‘Wasted years, you mean? Well, yes, but I never had proof those two were behind my troubles in Texas. Now I don’t need it. Like you said, I’ll take ’em down for the killings we know for sure they’ve done, for Ma Thom’s in particular—’
The door banged open. The black-suited doctor, Sol Levin, stamped in. He looked at McClain.
‘Your friend’s alive – just. The cold light of dawn may bring a different story. Bullet went in and out. He’s lost blood, though that fancy work you did with his clothes stemmed the flow somewhat. But they were filthy, and infection’s a worry at the best of times.’
‘Frank Norris will fight. And I’ll be praying,’ McClain said.
‘But Ma Thom,’ Carter said grimly, ‘is an entirely different matter.’
Levin nodded, his face grim. ‘Throat cut. Bled out white. Who would do that to an old woman?’
‘To any woman, to any living person,’ McClain said, recalling that a dead man’s horse had brought him to Red Creek. ‘I’ve been asking myself that question ever since I came over the mountains and had the misfortune to fall foul of the pair of crazies who murdered my wife.’
Sol Levin’s head shot round, his face registering shock at what to him was news. Carter was up out of his seat behind the desk, rubbing his hands as if a decision had been made.
‘Sol,’ he said, ‘I want you to go call on Jim Wild before you get your head down—’
‘Head back down, for what’s left of the night,’ Levin said drily.
‘Yeah, well, tell him as of right now I’ll be gone for some while so he’ll be the strong arm of the law. If he needs help, there’s that young Wilson kid who’s always hanging around the office.
‘Reckless, but got his head screwed on . . .’ Levin’s voice trailed off, he was already nodding acknowledgement and turning away. The door banged behind him, rattling the window.
McClain eased his stiff bones off the hard chair and massaged his back.
‘We’ve lost what already, two hours? A man on horseback – on that good roan of mine, let’s say – pushing hard, they’ll have made close on twenty-five miles.’
Carter, still standing, slopped drink into the two grimy glasses, draining the last dribble from the brown jug. He slid one glass to the corner of the desk, downed his own drink in a single swift throw.
‘I’ve got me an idea,’ he said, his voice rasping.
‘Be good to hear it before those two reach the border. And it doesn’t help that they’ve got a couple of choices.’
‘Let ’em go.’
McClain touched his drink, pulled a face and pushed the full glass away.
‘All right, let’s hear it.’
‘They’re going home.’
‘South Texas? The Gulf Coast? That’s one hell of a ride, Carter. For them and for us.’
‘Lo Tranquilo,’ Carter said, ignoring the comment, his eyes distant. ‘Apt name for a settlement lazing in the sun, acres of white sand on a beach you could believe stretches all the way from Mexico to Louisiana. A permanent resident there called Elizabeth Kent – Liz – who was thin as a reed when I knew her but could charm the rattles off a snake. Living in perpetual feud with not too distant neighbours who will have something to say about our possible violent apprehension of the two Skelton boys.’
‘Because?’
‘Hedrick and Marty have an extended family. Uncles, cousins. A varmint of a grandpa, name of Joel Skelton. Got a cluster of shacks inland, in rough scrub. A still back in the trees turns out the wickedest whiskey I ever tasted.’
‘And your place?’
Carter shook his head. ‘Not there, no. The saloon in La Tranquilo is still standing, far as I know. Rankin’s Place, back to the sea, got a rotting gallery all the way round so a man drinking can sit outside looking east or west, watch the town, or the ocean. My place was a mile or so further to the east.’
‘And too close to the Skeltons?’
‘You could say that. Liz Kent always figured they saw the better class of whiskey I sold as competition, so Rankin Skelton decided to clear the field for the rotgut moonshine poison comes trickling out of their still. Their ma would have been behind Rankin, egging him on. Hedrick and Marty lived with her. She was a widow woman, as old as Liz Kent, but while Liz was the one who charmed snakes, Ida Skelton was the woman who gave ’em their venom.’
And now Carter looked straight at McClain, and grinned.
‘What was that you asked earlier, something about South Texas?’
McClain nodded. ‘You said, “going home”. I added two and two.’
‘And got it right,’ Carter said. ‘South and east of Laredo, hot as Arizona but sticky, and, yeah, you’re right: it is a hell of a long ride. The beauty of it for me is that I’m heading south to see old friends.’
Chapter Ten
By McClain’s reckoning it took them another hour to hit the trail, never mind put the last of Red Creek’s ramshackle dwellings behind them. Carter had been hoping for the best but planning for the worst. So from the metal locker in his office they took time to choose weapons: a Winchester for Carter, an old Henry for McClain, shells for both weapons and more shells for their six-guns, which were both
of the same calibre.
Carter had then climbed the steps and hammered on the door of the general store down the hill, got a grumbling bewhiskered storekeeper named Will Jennings out of his bed and packed their saddlebags with food, coffee, full water canteens, and – at McClain’s suggestion – rolled bandages, creams and unguents.
‘An unguent being. . . ?’ Carter had asked quizzically.
‘Something my wife mentioned that might be needed in battle,’ McClain said, and grinned crookedly to hide his sadness.
Their horses were fed and watered. It occurred to McClain that he and Carter should also have filled their bellies before setting out, but when the thought came to him the raw-boned marshal was rattling away a hundred yards down the sloping main street, pushing his horse towards the nearest stand of trees at the first bend in the trail.
‘The plan,’ Carter said, when McClain had caught up with him a couple of miles out of Red Creek, ‘is to ride far enough east to get past the hills barring the way, then head south across open country into Mexico.’
‘Cutting off a pretty big corner,’ McClain said. ‘Avoiding the whole of New Mexico, the chaos of El Paso, the deathly stillness of the Llano Estacado if we drifted too far east – and shaving Lord knows how many miles off that long ride.’
‘What I’m hoping,’ Carter said, ‘is that the Skeltons have the same idea, but take a wider swing.’
‘If they do, and we do some hard riding, we could cut them off. Finish this before pushing too far into Mexico – hell, before even crossing the border. There’d be no need for that long ride, and we’d avoid the possibility of getting waylaid by Mexican bandits.’
‘Yeah,’ Carter said, ‘when you mentioned unguents I remarked on your turn of phrase, and you’re doing it again. Waylaid? What are you, McClain, some sort of education professor?’
McClain grinned. ‘A simple soul who got orphaned, rode all the way south from Montana, got married in Yuma, widowed in Macedo’s Flat, and ended up on a manhunt with a cynical marshal from south Texas.’
‘Cynicism,’ Carter said, ‘is a characteristic born out of bitter experience. I thought I’d mellowed somewhat after years in Red Creek. But the notion of sorting out the Skelton problem before the Mex border appeals to me, so how about we pick up the pace?’
And with that he was off again, putting fifty yards between himself and McClain without obvious effort or use of spurs.
They covered another four or five miles without seeing any clear way south to the border. The chain of mountains blocking their way seemed unending. Forced to continue riding east, the going was easy but the flat country spread before them looked for all the world like rusty corrugated iron sheeting as the low light of the approaching dawn cast shadows exaggerating every rut and every gopher hole. For McClain, it made the passing of every tall saguaro like riding beneath the shadows of a scaffold.
In that early morning light their first warning of trouble was a blossom of red flaring away to their right. They’d clattered through a shallow arroyo and emerged with Carter still leading the way. The muzzle flash at once sent their eyes snapping towards the foothills. The sound of the shot reached them next, the deep crack confirming McClain’s instant assessment: the bullet that had whistled over his head had come from a rifle. A second came instantly, then a third. Their instinctive reaction was to urge their horses onwards, get themselves out in the open with clear space. But when a fourth shot cracked and whistled ominously close, Carter twisted in the saddle and flapped a hand urgently.
‘Hit the ground,’ he yelled.
McClain, who’d felt the wind of the bullet, was already taking evasive action. He kicked his feet from the stirrups and tumbled from the saddle, landing in a heap. The stony ground was hard enough to rattle his teeth and jar his bones. He saw his horse, stirrups flapping, swing away and trot into the growth to the left of the trail. Then, spitting dust, McClain was rolling off the trail and into the parched scrub, clinging to low sandy mounds that gave him some cover. Thorns raked his cheek. He cursed softly and fumbled for his six-gun, all too well aware that the gunman was out of pistol range.
Carter was down some twenty yards away. He’d clung on to his horse’s reins as he fell, held the leather twisted in his fist. Still down low, squinting narrow-eyed beneath his horse’s belly at the rocky outcrop betrayed by the muzzle flash as the gunman’s position, he now reached up and jerked his rifle out of its saddle boot.
Only then did he release the reins and wriggle like a snake through the crackling scrub to join McClain.
‘Seems the Skeltons had the same brainwave,’ he said. ‘They knew we’d hunt them down. They wanted the showdown before crossing the border into Mexico.’
‘We got suckered. An ambush from the cover of those rocks, men with rifles hunkered down on the high ground, which is always an advantage – hell, we rode straight into it. Now they’ve got us pinned down.’
‘That shooter,’ Carter said, ‘couldn’t hit a barn door.’
‘With this handgun,’ McClain said, waggling his six-shooter, ‘I couldn’t even reach it.’
Carter chuckled. ‘So we wait, see what they come up with. My bet is they had this one idea, figured a couple of shots would put us down and out. That didn’t happen, so now they’ll be scratching their heads.’
‘There may be only one man up there with any brains, but they’re both armed. Exposed like this we’ve nowhere to go. What we should have done is pulled back soon as we heard that first shot. The arroyo was excellent cover.’
‘But just the one way in, one way out,’ Carter pointed out drily. ‘Two rats in a trap.’
‘Live rats.’
‘We’re here, we’re alive. These bushes ain’t bulletproof, the dirt under ’em too low for comfort, but they can’t see us and, like I said, they’re at a loss what to do next. However,’ he added, sudden tension in his voice, ‘if it was me up there with a rifle and looking for a big target. . . .’
While talking, Carter had rolled onto his side and was searching for his horse. As soon as he’d let go of the reins it had walked across the trail. It was now alongside McClain’s mount, peacefully grazing.
‘Yeah,’ McClain said, sensing the big marshal’s unease, recognising the danger. ‘Did I mention I’ve still got blisters and sore feet?’
‘Goddammit,’ Carter said softly, ‘out in the open, not a damn thing we can—’
The rifle cracked again. This time, the shooter had a standing target. A big one. He didn’t miss. McClain heard the solid thump as the bullet hit living flesh. Without a sound, Carter’s horse crumpled and went down.
Instantly, McClain was on his feet. Ducking, twisting, he ran out on to the trail and made for his horse. His foot turned on a rock, twisting his leg. He lurched sideways. The stumble saved his life. A bullet plucked at his shoulder, grazing flesh and drawing blood. The mare had stopped eating. It was stock still, nostrils flaring. To a western horse the sounds of gunfire were unthreatening, part of daily life – but Carter’s dying horse was bleeding, and the scent of blood was in the still, warming air.
McClain had mere seconds until his horse took flight. He reached it in a bound and grabbed for the saddle horn. His noisy approach had further alarmed the animal. When it felt his weight, it moved, and fast. McClain was dragged off his feet. He felt the crack in his elbow as his arm was snapped straight, clung on, kicked off the ground and swung into the saddle. Even then he had to fight to control the panicking horse, but now he was a moving target and the gunman was less of a threat. Using reins, knees, words of encouragement, he brought the horse around in a wide circle and yelled to the marshal.
‘Up and ready,’ he shouted, and rode into the thick scrub and straight at where Carter was still prone.
It was touch and go. The big man, tall and long of limb, came up off the ground awkwardly. McClain was moving fast. Letting go of the reins, he held the saddle horn in a fierce grip and bent to extend a crooked left arm. Rifle in one hand, Carter
reached up. Their arms linked. The marshal was a dead weight. McClain was almost torn from the saddle. He clung on. Using the momentum that dragged him around and hard against the horse, Carter swung up behind him. The rifle was knocked from his hand. He wrapped his arms around McClain, losing his hat as he tucked his head in against McClain’s back.
‘Not the arroyo,’ he roared, his voice muffled. ‘Rats in a trap—’
But McClain was not listening.
He had already decided the best course of action was to ride fast and hard. He lay flat along the racing horse’s neck, its mane in his face, vaguely aware that the cracks he could hear above the machine-gun rattle of the horse’s hoofs were the sounds of the gunman’s last, despairing shots.
Or maybe triumphant, a volley of jubilant shots fired into the Arizona skies. The ambush had worked, for sure, though not in the way the Skeltons had planned or expected.
Then there was nothing but dust, and the increasing heat of the Arizona day – and Marshal Don Carter – warming McClain’s back as he slowed the horse to a steady canter and headed back to Red Creek.
Part Two
Eleven
Four weeks later
Far out over the Gulf of Mexico, streaks of lightning were bright threads flickering against purple storm clouds that met the dark waters with only the faintest line of demarcation. Closer in, nearer the shore, the sun was beating down on the vast expanse of the Laguna Madre where pelicans flew low and fast, skimming over calm blue waters.
Exceptionally salty waters, McClain recalled, because on the ride down from Red Creek, through a big chunk of Mexico and a slice of southern Texas, Don Carter had all the time in the world to extol the virtues of his home territory. How the Laguna Madre, upper and lower, stretches a full 130 miles along the Texas coastline, separated from the open Gulf by Padre Island. About the sand dunes, prickly pear, century plants, about an area on the mainland so dry it’s often known as the Wild Horse Desert.