“See anything?” John shifted his weight a bit and spit out a wad of chew juice; the brown liquid threw up a small puff of dust when it hit the hot ground. From the moment he told Paul he’d help him rob the stage, John regretted his decision. A voice inside screamed at him to change his mind, to back out, but he refused to listen to that voice. Instead he had helped Paul plan their mode of attack, and now John was perched high on a bluff with his rifle, ready to gun down two innocent men. The end justifies the means, he told himself for the thousandth time. The end justifies the means. If only he could truly believe that.
Paul looked from one end of the bluff to the other, straining to see the valley floor through the heat. “Nope.”
John took his hat off and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, his blond hair smeared with sweat and dirt. He looked at his brother. “Can’t believe how damn hot it is.”
“This’ll be over with soon enough.”
“I hope so.” John checked to make sure his rifle was next to him and took another look at their horses; both were tied loosely to heat-blasted trees and he wanted to make sure they hadn’t worked themselves free. John’s right hand twitched from nerves.
Paul continued to look down at the valley, pulling his hat low to shield his eyes. The back of his neck was sunburned and his clothes were caked with dirt and rings of dried sweat. They’d been out in the desert for three days now and both men stunk of sweat and dirt.
“It’ll be here,” said Paul.
“I still think Jacob might have been lying.”
“This bluff was here, just like he said it would be.”
John pushed himself up off the ground, stirring up a small cloud of dirt in the process. “I need to take a piss. I’ll--”
Paul grabbed John by the arm and pulled him back down. “Hold on. Look over there.”
John followed Paul’s gaze down into the valley. Off in the distance a plume of dust rose up off the desert floor.
“Think that’s it?” John said.
“Has to be. Your rifle ready?”
John reached over and pulled the rifle toward him. After making sure the barrel was clear of dirt, he looked back at the approaching stagecoach. “Right here.”
“Make sure you hit them fuckers. I don’t want any surprises.”
“I’ll do my job, you do yours.” Just a few more minutes, John told himself, a few more minutes and then this would all be over and he’d never have to do anything like this again. He forced himself to think about their father, the look on his face when the bank foreclosed on the farm. Their father hung himself a short time later. That damn bank. The men on this stage worked for a bank, just like the one that evicted them. They deserved what was coming.
Paul slowly backed away from the edge of the bluff, toward the horses. John lifted his rifle and aimed it at the stage, his hat pulled forward to keep the sun from blinding him. Just a bit closer, he thought, his eyes already distinguishing the two figures at the front of the stage. Just a bit closer. From behind him John heard Paul leading one of the horses down the bluff, toward the trail.
#
The Western National Bank stage rattled around as it traveled down the scorched trail, the horses working hard. Bubba looked at Danny, the driver, with disgust. Danny held the reins limply, beads of sweat rolling down his face. He couldn’t put his finger on the reasons why, but Bubba felt nothing but a fierce hatred for Danny. The small driver was just one of those people Bubba instantly disliked: small and weasel-like, always hanging around, forcing conversation, always the last to volunteer for the heavy lifting, never around when there was real work to be done. They had worked together for three months now and Bubba had hated every minute of it. Bubba shifted his rifle and briefly fantasized about blowing Danny’s head off. Just one little tug on the trigger was all it would take. Hell, the wind was even right, blowing away from Bubba, toward Danny’s side of the wagon. He could probably do it and not even get any of the piss-ant’s blood on him. Bubba returned his gaze to the bluffs surrounding the valley.
“See anything?” Danny asked.
“Nah. There ain’t nothin’ out here.”
“Damn, it’s hot.”
“Shut up and let me concentrate.”
#
Paul reached the valley floor, being careful to stay out of sight. He opened his canteen and poured some water in his hand and smeared the moisture over his horse’s mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could spare right now. Paul strapped the canteen to the side of his saddle and swung up onto his horse.
#
John slowly inched his way toward the edge of the bluff, negotiating into a large crevice, the lip of which provided a natural firing stand. The stage was getting closer, and John could clearly see the two figures at the front of the stage; one of them held a rifle. He fought the urge to put his gun down. This would all soon be over and he’d be back in Nebraska, in charge of his own farm, a farm that no one would ever be able to take away from him. John aimed at the rifleman.
#
Bubba looked toward the nearest bluff, squinting his eyes to fend off the sun. Danny looked at Bubba, then up at the bluff.
“What is it?” asked Danny.
“Not sure. Thought I saw a reflection.” Bubba slapped the side of the stage with one of his big, meaty hands. A huge bald head emerged from the stage’s interior.
“Yeah?” the bald man said. His scalp was shiny from sweat and his neck was a tree trunk of muscle.
“Look alive down there.”
The bald man nodded and disappeared back into the stage.
Danny looked at Bubba, noting the concentration etched across his face. No one would be stupid enough to try something out here, in the middle of the desert. “Probably just a mirage,” Danny said. “This heat can fuck with your head something fierce.”
“Maybe,” Bubba said, his eyes still scanning the bluffs for movement. Sweat ran down his face; he wiped it away before it could reach his eyes.
“You want me to stop?”
Bubba shook his head. “Nah, it was nothing. Probably the sun bouncing off a rock or--”
The sound of the shot echoed across the valley and Bubba’s face imploded from the bullet’s impact. Blood, bone, and brain splattered across the front of the stage. Bubba’s body sat there for a moment, a fountain of blood hissing from the wasteland that used to be his face.
“Holy mother of fuck!” Danny yelled. He kicked Bubba’s body off the stage, gripped the reins as tightly as he could, and whipped the horses hard, forcing them to move faster, his eyes desperately searching the bluffs for a sign of movement. Danny panted, unable to catch his breath. His head felt light and black splotches danced in front of his face. A ball of ice settled into his gut and Danny desperately fought to think of a way out of this mess. He looked over the side of the stage, at the blurry ground, at the sage brush and rocks and dried tree trunks that the stage was flying past. They were really moving and the fall would hurt like hell, but it would be better than dying. Yep, the only way out was to jump and lay low, wait for this mess to sort itself out.
There was another crack and Danny felt a bullet tear past his head. It crashed into the stage and pieces of wood rained against the back of Danny’s head and neck. Danny instinctively whipped the horses as hard as he could, his mouth open in a silent scream. The hot air burned his lungs. A third report echoed out of the bluffs and Danny took this bullet in the chest, a ribbon of blood erupting from the wound. He slumped forward and dropped the reins, struggling for breath. Blood spread across his chest in a sheet of red and Danny felt the hot desert air worm its way into his chest through the wound.
The horses continued their breakneck pace, racing through the valley at full speed.
Danny hung precariously over the edge of the stage, both hands covering the gaping chest wound. There was another shot and half of Danny’s face vanished in a mist of red. His corpse slumped forward, fell off the stage, struck one of the wheels, and disappeare
d.
The stage rushed past Paul, its horses throwing up huge clouds of bone-dry dust. The stage wobbled dangerously, its wheels barely able to stay on the trail, the wood groaning from the pressure.
Paul kicked his horse and it ran out in pursuit of the stage, quickly reaching full speed. Paul could barely see the stage for all the dust; every few seconds he’d catch a glimpse of the faded wood and he’d use those openings to guide his horse closer. The stage horses began to slow, the heat already wearing them down. Paul silently cursed and hoped they didn’t suffer heart attacks; two healthy horses would fetch a fair price from a livery.
Paul gently urged his horse closer. After pulling up next to the front of the stage, Paul swung his right leg out of the stirrup, checked the distance one last time, and jumped onto the front of the stage. Paul’s horse kept pace with the stage for a couple more seconds and then dropped back, disappearing into the storm of dust and dirt.
The horses veered suddenly to the right and nearly threw Paul off the stage. Paul fought to regain his balance and grabbed for the reins, which had somehow managed to stay on the seat.
The doors on the right side of the stage blew open and the bald man climbed out, his body one long, tightly wound band of muscle. He looked at Paul for a moment and climbed up onto the side of the stage, slowly working his way forward.
Paul sat down and pulled back on the reins as hard as he could. Wads of froth flew from the horses’ mouths and splattered against their sides, which were already streaked white with the salt of their sweat.
The bald man reached the front of the stage, his bulk blocking the sun. Paul looked up in time to see a boot come crashing into his face.
The kick sent Paul flying back, toward the edge of the stage’s seat. His head throbbed from the impact and his vision blurred. The bald man loomed over Paul, seemingly unaffected by the jarring movement of the stage.
“You’re going to die slowly, you son of a bitch,” the bald man said, his speech hard and slow. He was the biggest man that Paul had ever seen.
“Fuck,” Paul said. Blood dribbled from his mouth and he felt a tooth floating around somewhere in the back of his mouth.
The huge bald man reached down and grabbed Paul by the shirt, pulling him up with his left hand. Paul head-butted the man square in the face, smashing the bald man’s nose. He looked at Paul for a moment and blood ran down his face and dripped over his thin smile. The bald man began to punch Paul repeatedly in the face, and the horses, which were spooked by all the commotion, once again ran at full speed.
#
John chased the stage, whipping his horse in an effort to get a bit more speed out of it. Something was wrong; Paul should have had control of the stage by now. John moved out to a better angle, so the dust wouldn’t obscure his view. He saw the bald man beating his brother senseless. Paul dangled in front of the man like a rag doll. John reached for his rifle.
#
The bald man held Paul with his left hand, his right hand poised in front of Paul’s face. Blood ran from the bald man’s knuckles. Paul tried to focus, clear his head, but it was too hot, his brain too muddled from the punches. He was only dimly aware of what was happening.
Without any visible effort, the bald man swung Paul around and dangled him over the front of the stage. Paul’s head suddenly cleared, a distant pounding swarming in on him from all directions. He looked down at the tornado of earth below him, at the kicking hooves, the churning wheels. Realizing what was happening, Paul struggled to free himself from the bald man’s vice-like grip.
The bald man pulled Paul close; his breath smelled of cabbage and bacon.
“Goodbye, asshole,” the man said. Paul looked at him and noticed that the man hadn’t even broken a sweat.
#
John closed on the stage, adjusting his horse to get the best firing angle. The bald man’s head was clearly visible. John swung his rifle around with his right hand, his left hand still holding the reins to the horse. This was going to be damn tricky. If his horse diverted from its present course, John would probably miss and his brother would plunge under the stage.
John sighted in on the man holding his brother. The man was obviously savoring the moment, shaking Paul like a lifeless doll, slapping him across the face. It was now or never.
#
Paul saw his brother riding alongside the stage, the sun reflecting off his rifle’s barrel. He had to get back onto the stage before John fired; there was no way he’d be able to keep from falling under the wheels if the bald man was shot. Summoning every ounce of strength he could, Paul punched the bald man in the face as fast as he could, swinging both arms with reckless abandon. The bald man continued to smile despite the fact Paul’s punches were driving him back. Paul managed to get his feet onto the front of the stage just as his brother fired.
The bald man’s head blew open like an overripe melon, spraying Paul with blood and flesh and skull fragments. The huge body stood upright for a moment and then fell backward, hit the top of the stage, and bounced forward before coming to rest across the seat.
Paul lost his balance and fell off the stage, his hands grabbing the front lip of the stage. His feet slapped the underside of the stage and his hands cramped from the pressure of holding on. The horse’s legs churned just inches behind him and the wind from their movement brushed against Paul’s back.
Paul swung his right leg out to the side and placed his foot on the right wheel’s support block. He pushed himself up with his right leg and slowly climbed back onto the front of the stage. His body was covered with sweat and blood, and every bone in his body ached. His lungs burned.
Paul collapsed for a moment and wiped the blood and flesh from his face. He glanced at the bald man’s body with disgust. Fucking asshole, Paul thought, wishing he could kill the bald man again and again.
He reached down, grabbed the reins, and pulled back. The tired horses didn’t struggle this time. “Whoa,” Paul said, “slow down.” The horses slowed to a trot, then to a walk, and finally stopped. Both horses panted with exhaustion. Paul hopped down from the stage and walked over to them. They’d be damn lucky if the horses survived; if a heart attack didn’t claim them, heat exhaustion would be waiting for its chance. Paul walked to the front of the horses. Foam and spittle dripped from the horses’ mouths. Paul stroked the closest horse.
“It’s okay,” he said, “calm down. It’s okay. We’ll get you some water.”
John rode up, his horse skidding to halt a few feet from Paul. John put his rifle away and looked at his brother. Paul’s face was bruised and swollen from the punches and he was covered from head to toe with blood and sweat.
“You okay?” John asked as he got down from his horse.
“I think so. That was a helluva shot.”
“I thought you were dead for sure.”
“Me too. Hand me your canteen. These horses are about ready to drop.” John removed his canteen and tossed it to Paul. Paul poured some water into a cupped hand, let the closest horse drink it, and repeated the process with the other horse. He wanted to give them more, but he had to save some for himself and John. It might be a couple of days before they reached a town.
Paul handed the canteen back to his brother. “Well, let’s see what we got.”
The brothers headed to the rear of the stage. Two large trunks sat on the rear platform, secured with leather straps. Paul freed one of the trunks and swung the lid open. The trunk was filled with neatly bound bundles of money.
“Hot damn,” Paul said. He looked at his brother. “We’re fucking rich.”
John looked into the trunk, a look of disbelief stretching across his face. There it was, laid out before him. The gateway to his new life. John looked toward the front of the stage, at the blood-splattered wood, and wondered if it had really been worth it. He looked back at the money and forced himself to smile. He’d be able to get the farm back and that was all that mattered.
Paul leaned against the rear of the stage.
His face hurt like hell and left arm was growing numb. “Let’s clear the hell out of here.”
“I’ll get your horse.”
#
It took John and Paul two hours to reach the cave, and by the time they got there the sun was already low in the sky. Situated in the side of a bluff, the cave was hidden from view by a large rock outcropping and a cluster of cacti. The stage sat a few feet from the mouth of the cave, all four horses stripped down, tied up to a dead tree. Paul had sliced open a couple of the cacti, giving the water to the horses.
Paul and John unbuckled the two trunks and lowered them to the ground. Without saying anything, they grabbed one of the trunks and carried it into the cave.
The cave was lit with torches, pieces of wood John had torn from the stage. The interior was cool and dry. The brothers reached the rear of the cave and dropped the trunk into a large hole.
A moment later the second trunk joined the first in the hole. Paul bent, opened the lid of one of the trunks, and scooped out a handful of money. He looked at his brother. “Just a little traveling money.”
John stuck out a hand. “Give it to me. After that incident the other day I ain’t letting you handle our money.”
“You worry too damn much.”
“Give it here.”
“You’re an asshole.” Paul handed John the money. John stuck the money into his pants pocket.
Paul picked up two shovels, handing one of them to John. John took the shovel and the two of them began to fill in the hole.
“When do you want to come back?” John asked.
“Don’t know. Month or two, I guess. This is a big score, and every fucking lawman within a hundred miles is going to be looking for this money. Best if we lay low for awhile, maybe take a job somewhere and see how it all shakes out.”
“You just keep your ass out of trouble.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. The way it stands now folks might think those three fellas up and stole the money. You don’t need to be giving anyone a reason to think otherwise.”
Dead or Alive Page 4