The Killing Shot

by Johnny D. Boggs

  The marshal stood again in front of The Western Hotel, long-barreled Colt in his left hand, waving his black hat—the one Reilly had shot off just a few minutes earlier—over his head with his right, yelling, “Get off the streets! Everybody, get off the streets!”

  It seemed that everybody was listening. Except for Bloody Jim Pardo and Wade Chaucer.

  They remained mounted, about a block apart. Pardo stood in his stirrups, fired the Winchester. Chaucer leaned over in the saddle, snapped a shot from his Remington. Then both men spurred their mounts into the alley. The marshal spun around in the street, set his hat back on his head, pointed the pistol first at Chaucer, then toward the disappearing Pardo, unsure who to shoot at.

  Reilly wet his lips. Stared down at the Evans.

  Tried to remember how many rounds he had left. Four? Maybe? The Redington mercantile hadn’t had any cartridges for an Evans .44, but that hadn’t surprised Reilly. That was one of the drawbacks of shooting an Evans repeating rifle. Few merchants carried that ammunition. He remembered the extra cartridge, the one he had stuck in his new vest pocket. Patted the pocket, felt the bullet, decided to leave it there. Reached for the Smith & Wesson, then remembered he had dropped it, lost it, back outside of Maggie Fairplay’s brothel.

  Pardo and Chaucer emerged, still on horseback, riding down the boardwalks, crouched, firing. A bullet splintered a wooden column. Pardo’s head knocked a lantern swinging. Horses at the hitching rails bucked, screamed, kicked. One broke free, took off toward the Contention Mill. A cowboy ran out of McDermott’s saloon, grabbed the reins to his buckskin gelding, swung up, rode out of town. Another cowhand started, then dived back through the saloon doors.

  The marshal spun, aimed at Chaucer, ducked as Chaucer’s Remington roared. Answered by Pardo’s Winchester. Windows broke. Then horses kept moving across the boardwalk. Reilly watched the marshal decide to let those two fools kill each other. The lawman dived through the busted front window of the hotel.

  A horse went down, tripped the big dun by its side, which ripped free of its tether, rolled across the bay horse, gathered its legs, tripped once, then rebounded, loped toward the San Pedro River.

  Reilly had to marvel at both men, Pardo and Chaucer, as their horses stepped off the boardwalks, and both men kicked their mounts into lopes across the street, back around a corner. He could see Pardo rein up, turn around, spin the Winchester’s stock forward, then jerk it back, levering a fresh round into the chamber, and spur his horse again.

  He smelled bread. Looked down, saw a loaf, squatted, picked it up, his teeth tearing savagely into the bread. He was starving.

  Pardo wheeled the roan, kicked it into a gallop, charged down the street. Like a jousting knight out of that Walter Scott book—what was the name? Ivanhoe, Reilly remembered, yes, Ivanhoe—Chaucer came out on his blood bay, rode to meet the challenge.

  “Jesus!” came a shout from The Western Hotel. “Would you look at them two fools!”

  Flame and smoke leaped from the barrels of Remington revolver and Winchester carbine as both men fired simultaneously. Pardo’s hat went sailing over the horse’s back. Chaucer flinched, fired again as Pardo charged past him. A horse across the street dropped dead. The others tied to the hitching rail, pulled out the post—a scene much like the one Reilly had caused in Wickenburg—and they galloped toward the railroad tracks.

  The air smelled heavy with dust and gun smoke. Reilly took another bite of bread, chewed, shoved the loaf inside his vest, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and raised the Evans again. Down the alley on the other side of the street, he spotted Gwendolyn Morgan, Maggie Fairplay, Little Rick, and the Chinese laundress. Little Rick pressed his left hand against his bleeding head, held his right hand to keep the ladies back, out of danger. Maggie and the laundress were trying to get past the big man’s oak-sized arm. Gwendolyn had spotted Reilly, and she just stared.

  He looked back up the street.

  “Fifty dollars!” came a voice inside McDermott’s saloon. “Fifty dollars says the man in black comes out alive!”

  “I’ll take that!” a Scottish voice shouted from the mercantile.

  Oddly enough, music started again inside the saloon. Reilly groaned. “Oh, My Darling, Clementine.” He hated that damned song.

  Pardo and Chaucer turned their horses, charged again, leaning forward, low, Chaucer holding the reins in his left hand, Remington in his right, Pardo using both hands on his Winchester, reins in his teeth. Both guns spoke again. This time, Chaucer lost his hat. They thundered past each other, wheeling their horses, Pardo’s rearing, Chaucer’s kicking, bucking, then galloping back down the street.

  He could see the grim determination on Chaucer’s face, see the bloodstain on his left shoulder. The Remington roared, and Pardo’s roan went down hard on its forefeet, throwing Pardo over its head, into the dirt, the Winchester rifle arcing stock over barrel through the air, landing in the street twenty feet away, bouncing another thirty.

  Pardo came up, his face and hands bleeding, clawing for the Colt. Chaucer jerked the blood bay to a stop, turned, fired. Dust flew up at Pardo’s side, but now Pardo was rising, shooting, and the bay horse was screaming, falling on its side, kicking, while Chaucer kicked free of the stirrups, leaped off, landing on his feet, staggering. Pardo shot again. The bullet sliced across Chaucer’s right leg, and he went down. Came up. Snapped a shot.

  Pardo had to roll out of the way of his horse, struggling to get to its feet. The roan staggered off toward Reilly. Pardo went the other way.

  They ran, shooting, heading to the same side of the street, Pardo dove and fired, flying into the alley next door to McDermott’s saloon; Chaucer took cover behind a water trough. The horses there had long ago pulled free from the rail and taken off to parts unknown, leaving behind broken reins dangling from the rails in front of The Western Hotel.

  Chaucer lifted his head, aimed, snapped a shot. Ducked as Pardo’s bullet sent water splashing in the trough.

  Thankfully, the piano player inside the saloon ceased “Oh, My Darling, Clementine,” the noise replaced by the barking dogs, all of them keeping a respectful distance from the two gunmen. The front of the Contention Mill overflowed with spectators, too. A window slid open on the second story of the hotel, and a buxom redhead hung out, looking up and down the street.

  “Marshal!” a man yelled down the boardwalk. Reilly turned, saw it was a preacher. “Why don’t you stop this violence?”

  “Why don’t you, parson?” came the lawman’s reply. “Or get the hell off the street!”

  The preacher stiffened at the rebuke, then, clutching his Bible, went back inside the café.

  Reilly had a good view of Pardo, saw his back pressed against the saloon’s wall, wiping his bloody hands, torn up from the sand and gravel on the road, on his pants, then reloading his pistol. As soon as he had snapped the loading gate shut, he spun, fired, hitting the water trough low. Water sprayed out of the hole. Chaucer returned fire, blasting off a chunk of adobe brick that showered Pardo’s hair.

  Then Pardo turned, sprinted down the alley, disappeared around the rear corner of the saloon. Reilly looked down the street. Almost immediately, Chaucer rose, dived, fired, landed on the boardwalk, and rolled onto the other side of the hotel.

  “Hell.” Reilly frowned. He couldn’t see either man.

  Above the din of the barking dogs, a train whistle blew.

  Reilly looked across the street, saw Gwen still staring at him. Maggie Fairplay had dropped to her knees, and crawled under Little Rick’s big arms, and now was looking up, asking the big bouncer a question. The Chinese woman stood twisting her hair around a finger, letting it fall, then twisting it again.

  The roan horse limped past Reilly and kept going. Reilly didn’t bother trying to stop it, knew it would never carry Pardo out of Contention City. If Pardo survived.

  Reilly turned, collected a few other loaves of bread and the rolled-up newspaper, and moved to the pinto. He opened the saddlebag, and
stuffed the bread and paper in it, gathered the reins, and swung into the saddle. He nodded at Gwen, and at the bouncer, Maggie, and the laundress, who had turned their attention toward him, and rode down the side street, turned behind the assayer’s office, rode along the eastern edge for two blocks, cut down the alley. He stopped across from The Western Hotel, saw Chaucer climbing the stairs, taking the steps easily, softly, coming up, eyes focused below, not seeing Bloody Jim Pardo appear at the other corner of the hotel.

  Slowly, almost casually, Pardo raised the Colt’s barrel, but he kept walking, keeping time with Chaucer as he climbed the steps. When Chaucer reached the top, he looked over the balustrade, and started for the side door. That’s when he saw Pardo.

  That’s when Pardo fired.

  The bullet caught Chaucer in the small of his back, slammed him against the door. Almost as a reflex, he pulled the trigger on the Remington, his left hand still gripping the doorknob. Then as his left arm slammed into his right arm, the Remington flew out of his hand, over the balustrade, bouncing off the corner of the water trough, splashing into the water.

  Chaucer spun, left hand still holding onto the knob, as Pardo’s second bullet caught him in the shoulder, pushed him into the corner. He grunted, and his left hand released the knob and hung limply at his side.

  The white shirt above his empty holster exploded red, and Chaucer almost folded in half, somehow straightened, staggered forward a few steps, dragging his feet. Both arms dangled at his side. His head was bent, chin against his shirt.

  Another bullet drilled him over his left breast pocket, and Chaucer sank to his knees, right hand stretching, reaching, grasping for the railing to the stairs, missing. Then Chaucer was tumbling down the stairs, tearing down a section a few feet from the bottom, landing on his back at Pardo’s feet.

  Reilly had seen enough. He dismounted, led the pinto into the street, gathered the reins to a dun horse in front of Avery’s Mercantile, and, pointing the Evans toward the hotel window, walked across the street.

  “What’s happening?” came a question from the butcher’s shop.

  “Hell if I know,” a man answered from the saloon.

  The dogs stopped barking.

  The redhead on the second story of the hotel yelled, “The little runt killed the gent in black!”

  “Hell’s fires!” a voice called from the saloon. “That bastard cost me fifty bucks!”

  The Scotsman in the mercantile cheered.

  Reilly stopped in front of Pardo, who looked down at the dying Wade Chaucer, calmly ejected the empties from the Colt, and just as casually reloaded.

  The locomotive chugged toward the depot, coughing thick, acrid black smoke, steam hissing.

  “We best light a shuck out of here,” Reilly said.

  “In a minute,” Pardo said. He thumbed back the hammer and pulled the trigger. Chaucer’s body jerked. Kept jerking as Pardo emptied the cylinder.

  Reilly looked across the street, saw the face of the railroad engineer and firemen, their mouths hanging open, then looked back at Pardo, who plunged the empty casings, letting them fall on Chaucer’s lifeless, bloody body, and reloaded again. This time, he holstered the Colt and knelt over the dead man.

  Pardo reached into his vest, pulled out something. Reilly felt sick, tried to swallow, couldn’t, and turned away as Pardo pried open Chaucer’s mouth and shoved inside the fingers Pardo had cut off Three-Fingers Lacy’s hand.

  “That’s for Ma,” Pardo said, and he stood, nodding in satisfaction. “That’s for Ma, you miserable son of a bitch.” He nodded at Reilly, took the proffered reins, and mounted the dun. “Thanks for keeping the law off me, Mac. I’m hungry. You got anything to eat?”

  The dogs started barking again. The train whistle blew, and the engine belched out steam as it reached the depot.

  “I rounded up some bread,” Reilly said.

  “Good. Hope it’s sourdough. Ma always liked good sourdough bread.” He jerked out the Colt, put a final bullet in Wade Chaucer’s brain, and spurred the dun. Only he didn’t ride out of town. He rode down the main street, leaped over Chaucer’s dead horse, and dismounted, picked up his hat, slapped the dust off his thigh, and yelled at The Western Hotel.

  “The man I killed shot down my ma. Don’t y’all give him no Christian burial. Wade Chaucer don’t deserve that.”

  He swung into the saddle, and spurred the dun north out of town. Reilly didn’t look back. He just followed Pardo out of Contention City.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “If you steal nitro from some local miner, you might tip your hand,” Swede Iverson told Pardo. He pointed a cigar for emphasis. “Laws might start wondering what’s going on, because it’s gonna take maybe two crates of nitro to bring down them canyon walls. Besides, lots of mines these days, they don’t use nitro anymore. Not even dynamite. They been using gelignite, on account that gelignite don’t sweat, don’t leak nitro the way dynamite will.” He stuck the cigar back in his mouth, leaned back, and stretched.

  They were back in the Dragoon Mountain stronghold, gathered around a campfire, everyone: Pardo, Iverson, Phil, Harrah, Duke, Soledad, Reilly, Blanche, and Dagmar. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the skies kept darkening. It was monsoon season, and Reilly expected an afternoon downpour within the hour.

  “What do you suggest?” Pardo asked. He took a long pull from a bottle of mescal, and passed it to Phil.

  “We could make it ourselves,” Iverson said.

  “Make it?” Duke exclaimed. “Make nitroglycerine?”

  “Ain’t it dangerous?” Harrah asked.

  Pardo looked irritated, but said nothing.

  “Oh, it’s a handful, nitro, making it, carrying it, doing anything with it. My daddy was in California in the spring of sixty-six when they was shipping three crates of nitro for the Central Pacific to use while they was building the Transcontinental Railroad. One of the crates blew up. Tore apart a Wells Fargo office in San Francisco, killed fifteen people. My daddy said you could find bits of brains and other organs, plus people’s various appendages, all over the block.” He laughed, and flicked ash from the tip of the cigar. “After that incident, the state of California outlawed any transportation of liquid nitro.”

  “It explodes on contact, right?” Phil asked.

  Iverson shrugged. “Contact, sure. But it’s so volatile, temperamental, like a woman.” He winked at Dagmar. Pardo’s eyes turned to slits. “But it could blow up if the temperature dropped or rose just one or two degrees. Blow up whenever it’s a mind to.”

  “That’s a problem,” Reilly said. “It’s going to cool down significantly in an hour when this monsoon hits.”

  “Yeah,” Duke said, “and how do we transport this nitro out of these mountains? That could blow us all to hell.”

  “Possibly,” Iverson said. He accepted the bottle of mescal from Harrah’s hand. “Downright probable.”

  “What would you need, Swede?” Pardo asked. “To make us some nitro?”

  He removed the cigar. “Nitric acid. Sulfuric acid. Glycerin. Bicarbonate of soda. Some beakers. Ice.”

  “What the hell do I look like to you, Swede?” Pardo said. “An apothecary?”

  Iverson grinned. “Well, there’s another way. Probably a little easier, but just as dangerous. We could sweat some dynamite.”

  “Steal the dynamite,” Reilly said, “and, like you said, you might tip Jim’s hand.”

  “We ain’t got to steal it, Mac,” Iverson said. “I got a couple boxes hidden over by Total Wreck. And as hot as it’s been, it should be leaking out that liquid beauty by now. Should have enough to pack four or five crates of the juice.”

  Pardo said, “Then why the hell did you suggest we make some if you already got some?”

  With a shrug, Iverson returned the cigar back to his mouth. “Well, I was hoping to save that nitro to blow up something else, but that’s all right. It’ll wait. You can use mine.”

  “All right,” Pardo said. “It’s settled. W
e all go. But not until Dagmar reads me the newspaper Mac fetched for us while I was filling Wade Chaucer’s body with some holes. Grab that paper, Mac. Miss Dagmar, if you’d be so kind…”

  Reilly rose, went to the corral, and took the newspaper out of the saddlebag. It was the Tombstone Epitaph, and, after knocking off the bread crumbs left from the loaves he and Pardo had eaten after they’d left Contention, he scanned the front pages for any items about him, saw nothing, then looked at the back cover, finding only advertisements. He flipped open the page, looked at the headlines, again, finding nothing that interested him, that was about him, and closed the paper, and handed it to Dagmar before taking his seat by the fire.

  Thunder rolled. Closer now.

  Dagmar Wilhelm began reading. Beside her, Blanche leaned forward and poked the fire with a walnut stick, just to give her something to do. Still smoking his long nine cigar, Swede Iverson stared at the young mother. Pardo stared, too, scratching the palm of his hand against the hammer of his holstered Colt.

  She read about a flood at one of the mines, about a performance at the Birdcage Theater, about the weather, about a Mexican matron giving birth to triplets. She turned the page. She read more about the weather, an editorial about the town council’s lack of action about removing the myriad beer barrels from the streets, a story about the Apache outbreak, something about the delicious cream soda available at Yaple’s, and a piece about a wagon accident on Toughnut Street that left a miner paralyzed. She read about how the Cochise County baseball team fell, 42–28, to the Pima County baseball team in Tucson, but how the boys from Cochise had led after the sixth inning and did our county proud.

  Under the headline NEWS FROM THE SOUTH, she read about a gunfight in Nogales that left Special Deputy Marshal Kenneth Cobb dead.

  Reilly sat up. “What?” he asked.

  Everyone was staring at him. Blanche stopped playing with a stick in the fire. Dagmar swallowed, and repeated: “‘Reports from Nogales, A.T., inform us of the tragic death of Kenneth Cobb, special deputy for United States Marshal Zan Tidball, who has resided in Tombstone for the past thirteen months, at the hands of K.C. Kraft.’”