The Killing Shot

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “That’s good. That’s a fine woman. Yes, sir, a real fine woman. Ten times the woman Three-Fingers Lacy ever was.” His face clouded in anger, but only briefly.

  “Where you gonna get my nitro?” Iverson asked.

  Pardo cackled. “I’m gonna steal it. There are plenty of mines out here.”

  “That stuff’s deadly,” Iverson warned. “Slightest touch could set it off.”

  “They say the same about Bloody Jim Pardo,” Pardo said. “All right, Duke. You got your orders. Have the boys wait for me in camp. Me and Reilly got us a chore to do.” He drew the Colt, flipped open the loading gate, and spun the cylinder on his arm, checking the loads, then holstering the revolver. “Which way did Chaucer go when he left camp?”

  Duke was slow to answer.

  “Which way?”

  “He just left, boss man,” Duke said. “We didn’t follow him or nothin’.”

  “But Lacy went with him?”

  “Yeah. That was Phil’s doin’, boss man. He told Wade to take her with him, and they vamoosed. That’s what Phil told him. On account that it was Lacy who shot—”

  “Shut up,” Pardo barked.

  The wind kicked up a dust devil a few yards away.

  “Nobody leaves camp till me and Mac get back,” Pardo ordered. “Come on, Mac. Let’s go pay a call on Wade Chaucer. And Three-Fingers Lacy.”

  They rode out of Texas Canyon, Swede Iverson and Duke heading east, where they’d soon cut their way south and ride for the Dragoon Mountains, Pardo and Reilly heading west, riding in silence, in the heat of the day, on the trail to Benson until they turned south.

  Reilly knew this country, knew it well. Off to the west, he heard the chugging of a locomotive, the train to Benson on the Southern Pacific’s spur.

  “You ever been to Contention City, Mac?”

  “A few times,” Reilly answered honestly.

  They rode a few miles south before Reilly chanced a question. “What makes you think Chaucer will be in Contention?”

  Pardo waited maybe a quarter mile before answering. “I ain’t rightly sure he will be.”

  The horses covered another thirty yards.

  “But I’m certain we’ll find Lacy there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Friday afternoon, and the streets of Contention City were filled with people. Spotting a lawman crossing the street just ahead of them, Reilly pulled his hat down low, and was thankful he hadn’t had time to shave off that rough beard back in Redington. Pardo didn’t seem to give a damn, but the lawman never gave either rider a moment’s consideration, and disappeared inside The Western Hotel.

  South of town, well beyond the train depot, stood the three stamp mills—the Contention, the Head Center, and the Grand Central—that processed the silver ore from the Tombstone mines for smelting. It wasn’t a big town, maybe between one hundred fifty and two hundred people, but it was crowded today. An empty ore wagon rumbled past them, the driver giving them a polite nod, and almost every hitching rail was full. Music banged out of John McDermott’s saloon as they rode past, and a woman hurried in front of them, carrying a basket of bread. Out on the field at the edge of town, before the stamp mills, a baseball game was being played, but they didn’t ride that far. Pardo turned down an alley, and Reilly followed.

  Pardo, Reilly observed, knew Contention better than he did.

  They rode past a Chinese laundry and headed into the red-light district near the banks of the San Pedro River. Reilly frowned when Pardo stopped and swung down in front of an adobe building. There was no sign, but everybody in Contention—hell, everyone in southern Arizona—knew this place was Maggie Fairplay’s brothel. He knew it pretty well himself.

  The door opened as Reilly swung down off the paint horse, and a burly black man flung an overweight gringo through the threshold, then disappeared for a moment before sending a derby hat after the man he had just thrown out. Reilly adjusted the saddle girth while the black man stared briefly at the two men, although he couldn’t see Reilly well, then pointed a large finger at the man in the sack suit, who was standing on wobbly legs near the well, brushing the dirt and dung off his pants and coat.

  “Don’t come back here, bub,” the black man said.

  “You don’t have to worry about that, sir,” Sack Suit said, and, fetching his derby, he staggered past Reilly and Pardo. The black man spit over a hitching rail and stepped back through the door, but he stopped when Pardo called out to him.

  “Hey, boy.”

  Taking in a deep breath, Reilly peered over the saddle.

  Little Rick Dixon, who weighed two hundred and forty pounds and stood six-four in his stocking feet, filled the doorway, angry eyes drilled on Pardo, who had tethered his horse to the hitching rail.

  “I’m looking for a whore,” he said.

  “You come to the right place,” Little Rick said, adding, “boy.”

  Pardo smiled, respecting the bouncer’s spunk.

  “I got a specific whore in mind. She’s bony, rail-thin, but she’s got tits the size of cantaloupes.” Jiggling both hands in front of his chest to show the bouncer, who wasn’t amused. “Hair the color of a raven’s wing, kinda messy, needing a curry comb and brush, like it’d take a groomer a month to comb out the tangles. Talks through her nose half the time. And drinks like a sieve. When I had her last, she went by the name Lacy, but, well, you know whores. They change names as quick as they change customers. But I thought she might be here.”

  “She’s here. Same name. Last room down the hall to the left.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Want me to announce you?”

  Pardo’s head shook no, and he hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. “I’d like to surprise her.”

  “Suit yourself. But you gotta pay a dollar. In advance.”

  Pardo’s left hand left the gunbelt, and fished out a couple of coins, which he flipped across the yard. The two dollars landed at the bouncer’s feet. Then Pardo pulled out another dollar, and sent it sailing, too.

  “There’s three bucks,” Pardo said, his voice filled with amusement, a forced friendliness. “One for my pard here.” He hooked a thumb toward Reilly, who ducked to work on the latigo. “One for you. To make yourself scarce.”

  From underneath the pinto’s belly, Reilly saw Little Rick’s massive hands collect the three coins. As the big man disappeared, Reilly led his horse to the hitching rail.

  “I told you she’d be here,” Pardo said, but the friendliness had left his face. “She just couldn’t stay away, damn her soul.” His fists clenched, and he stood there, shaking, staring through the entrance. “Let’s go,” he said hollowly, and walked inside.

  The inside smelled of sweat and stale beer. The back door was open, and Reilly saw no sign of Little Rick. No sign of anybody. Pardo turned down to his left, his spurs jingling as he walked down the narrow hallway, his hand resting on the holstered Colt. Reilly shot quick glances down the other hall and across the parlor, before following.

  Pardo reached the end of the hall and put his left hand on the brass doorknob, half turning, watching the door with one eye and Reilly with another. A door opened, and a woman stepped out. She wore a gathered skirt of blue calico, black hose and no shoes, and a corset cover, trimmed with lace, with the ribbon drawstrings loose, revealing ample cleavage. Her auburn hair hung loosely, and the bruise that had blackened her eye had faded away. She recognized Reilly immediately, and started to call out his name, when Reilly grabbed her, pulled her to him, and kissed her.

  He looked up over her shoulders, and pushed her gently back into her room, staring at Pardo while he asked, “You need me for anything?”

  Laughing, Pardo shook his head and opened the door.

  Reilly quickly stepped inside, shut the door behind him. He wanted to kiss Gwendolyn Morgan again, but he hadn’t enough time.

  “Reilly!” she shouted, and leaped into his arms, kissing him again. He decided he’d make time.

  Gently, he pushed her away. S
he looked confused, but happy to see him.

  “Reilly, what’s going on?” she asked. “They say you teamed up with the Kraft brothers, say you busted them out of the prison wagon. There’s a wanted poster of you tacked up at the town marshal’s office.”

  He was out of breath. “Yeah, well, it’s a long story. Have you seen Ken Cobb?”

  She frowned. “Reilly, he don’t come here till the end of the month, when he says he’s working. Working. Yeah, he’s working to get away from his wife. And when he comes here, he don’t see me. He prefers our resident Celestial.”

  Laughing, he walked to her bed, found a bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey, three-fourths full, and thumbed out the cork.

  “I need you to get a message to him,” he said. “Can you do that for me, Gwen?”

  “Of course, Reilly. But what’s going on?”

  He filled a tumbler, held the bottle toward her, and when she nodded, he handed her the glass, then poured a shot for himself. The whiskey warmed him, calmed him, and Gwen sat on the bed, holding the glass in both hands, but not drinking, just staring.

  “Busting the Krafts free was Gus Henderson’s doing,” Reilly said. “We got ambushed by K.C. and his men. They killed Frank Denton and Slim Chisum. Then W.W. Kraft blew Henderson out of the saddle with a shotgun. K.C. didn’t like that, but it was too late to do anything about it. They had captured me—my rifle jammed, and Henderson got the drop on me—threw me inside that prison wagon, left me there to bake to death. And I would have, had not Jim Pardo and his gang happened by.”

  “Pardo?” Gwen drank half the tumbler, coughed slightly. “Bloody Jim Pardo.”

  Reilly nodded. He thought about pouring another drink, but instead, set the bottle and glass on the table. “You got paper and pencil?”

  “Sure, Reilly.” She finished her whiskey, and fetched a notebook and pencil, and Reilly began writing.

  Ken:

  Haven’t much time. I’m with Bloody Jim Pardo, who freed me from the prison wagon in the Sulfur Spring Valley. Gus Henderson set us up for the ambush, paid for his sins with his life. Will explain later. If I’m still alive.

  Pardo plans to attack an Army wagon train bound for Ft. Lowell at Texas Canyon. Train’s bringing Gatlings & a howitzer. Get word to the Army. We You can hit Pardo there in ten days or so.

  Pardo has a woman and child held captive, taken from raid on the S.P. That’s the main reason I haven’t tried to capture Pardo myself.

  That, he thought, and because I don’t want to get killed.

  He signed his name, then added a postscript:

  Please trust me. You’ve know me long enough to know I didn’t have anything to do with the Krafts’ escape.

  Then, he thought of something else.

  Swede Iverson with Pardo. Plans to use nitro in Texas Canyon ambush.

  And something else:

  Get word to 2nd Lt. Jeremiah Talley, escorting the Army train with his cavalry troop. Talley can also explain why I took the Krafts toward Ft. Bowie.

  He folded the note, wrote on the paper, Ken Cobb, Marshal, Tombstone, and handed it to Gwen, who stuck it between her breasts. Their eyes locked, and Reilly reached for her, but pulled short when something banged on the door.

  “Come on, Mac!” Pardo’s voice.

  “I’ll explain everything later,” he said, and kissed her. He turned to the door, opened it, and saw Pardo standing in the hallway, holding the big bowie, the handle of which he had slammed against the door.

  “You don’t give a man much time,” Reilly started, but stopped, staring at first at the bloody blade, before taking a tentative look down the hallway. The door to Three-Fingers Lacy’s room remained opened, and from inside came a low yet agonizing moan. He watched Pardo wipe the blood on his pants, then sheathe the knife.

  The Irish whiskey soured in the pit of his stomach. The low moan became a sniffling, then a piercing wail.

  “I didn’t kill her,” Pardo said. “But from now on, she won’t have to explain why she’s called Three-Fingers Lacy.” He laughed, and headed down the hallway. Other doors opened, but no one dared enter the hall as Pardo’s and Reilly’s boots thudded on the earthen floor. Suddenly, Little Rick blocked their way, and as Pardo drew his pistol, Reilly shoved him aside, moved hurriedly toward the bouncer. Little Rick’s eyes flickered in recognition. Then the big black man tried to bring up a baseball bat-stick, but Reilly had pulled the Smith & Wesson and slammed it against Little Rick’s head. The bat-stick bounced along the floor, and Reilly tried to catch the giant, but couldn’t, and the bouncer crashed against the wall, slid down, fell over on his side.

  “I’m sorry,” Reilly whispered. Little Rick wasn’t out, but his eyes wouldn’t focus, and blood rolled down his close-cropped hair, pooling behind his left ear. His eyes fluttered, his fingers tightened into balled fists, and he let out a low groan.

  A door down the hallway swung open. A woman gasped. The door closed.

  “You’re soft, Mac,” Pardo said. “Should have let me plug the black bastard.”

  “Didn’t want to risk a shot,” Reilly said, as he rose. “Bring the law down on us.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t make the mistake of shoving me when I’m drawing a gun, Mac. Next time, I might shoot you. Just to teach you some manners.”

  Maggie Fairplay, the madam of the establishment, came charging out of one of the rooms down the right hallway, and Pardo and Reilly quickly stepped outside, into the bright light of the afternoon.

  As they swung into their saddles, Wade Chaucer rode into the yard.

  “Damn!” Chaucer yelled, and palmed the Remington.

  Pardo dived, drawing his pistol, landing and rolling as Chaucer’s first shot thudded in the adobe wall of the whorehouse. Reilly was trying to draw the Evans, but the pinto started bucking, and he dived off. Chaucer ignored him, shot again at Pardo. A bullet dug into the soft dirt by Reilly’s leg, and he rolled over, jerking the Smith & Wesson from the waistband, putting a bullet in the door frame, knocking Maggie Fairplay onto her ample backside. Reilly gathered his legs, leaped behind the well.

  The pinto kept bucking, stirring up a thick cloud of dust. Pardo’s Colt roared twice. The door to the brothel slammed shut. The Remington barked again. Reilly tried to find Chaucer, but couldn’t see him for the dust. Pardo emptied the Colt, reloaded. Chaucer’s gun spoke once more. The gunman cursed. Suddenly, he turned the blood bay gelding and galloped down the alley, almost running over a Chinese woman who had stepped out of the laundry to see what was going on.

  Pardo leaped into the saddle, kicking the roan’s sides, shoving the Colt into the holster, yanking the Winchester from the scabbard. “Keep the law off me, Mac!” he yelled, and was swallowed by the dust as he galloped after Chaucer.

  Reilly leaped to his feet, ran into the cloud, broke free, saw the bucking pinto, and he lunged for the reins dragging on the ground. He missed. Damn near got his right hand smashed by a hoof. Tried again. Missed. The pinto bucked and squealed, but on his next try, Reilly’s hand gripped the rein. The leather burned his palm, his fingers, as the horse reared, but Reilly, grimacing, held tight. His knees dragged across the dirt. He saw the Chinese woman staring at him. Heard Maggie Fairplay cursing behind him. Heard gunshots on Contention’s main street. Thought he heard the sound of breaking glass. And people screaming.

  He had pulled himself to his feet now. He had dropped the Smith & Wesson. Didn’t know where. Didn’t care. He cursed the bucking horse, then put his right hand on the saddle horn. A moment later, he was in the saddle, holding on for dear life. The Chinese woman screamed and dived back into the laundry, as Reilly and the pinto bucked past. Finally, the horse finished its bucking and settled into a high lope, cutting down the alley, into the main street.

  Reilly pulled on the reins, the pinto sliding to a stop. He jerked the Evans carbine out, eared back the hammer. The town marshal had appeared in front of The Western Hotel, and Reilly shot his hat off, the bullet smashing the plate-glass window behind
the lawman, who dived back inside with an oath and a grunt.

  He saw the dust, leading south, and he spurred the pinto, galloped past the butcher’s shop and a couple of mercantiles, hitting the pinto’s side with the rifle barrel, chasing Pardo, chasing Chaucer. On past the stamp mills. Thundering over the railroad tracks, riding east into the desert, toward the Dragoons.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A quarter mile out of town, Reilly pulled hard on the reins. He stood in the stirrups, looked ahead, left, right. Nothing. The pinto snorted, pawed the dirt with its front hoofs, wanting to run, but Reilly tugged on the reins again, saying, “Easy, boy.”

  Seconds later, he heard the shots.

  He turned in the saddle, swearing, looking back toward Contention City. Chaucer wouldn’t have doubled back, would he? Even if he had, would Pardo be mad enough to ride back there, as busy as town had been? More shots rang out.

  “Hell,” Reilly said, and turned the pinto around, raked its sides with his spurs, galloped back toward Contention, holding the Evans in his right hand, feeling the wind blast his face until he reached town.

  The paint horse slid to a stop, and Reilly leaped from the saddle, levering a fresh round in the Evans. A woman screamed. Then, Reilly saw her. The same woman he had seen earlier, carrying the freshly baked bread in a basket. She rounded the corner, her face ashen, eyes wide, mouth open but no sound escaping it now. She plowed into a column, spilling four loaves of bread and dropping a newspaper, then hurried across the street and through a side door, which slammed behind her and was bolted shut.

  Across the street, horses bucked at their hitching rails. Reilly secured the pinto to the wooden column the woman had hit, pushed himself to the back of the adobe wall. Curses rang out. More shots. Dogs barked.

  Reilly peered around the corner. A man drove a buckboard, whipping the mules furiously, turned the corner on the other side of the street, the wagon leaning on two wheels, almost flipping over, almost spilling the driver, then righted itself.