What are they doing? he wondered.
Both grabbed spare blankets, came back, and knelt beside the right front wheel, shoving the blankets into what appeared to be a hole. They started to climb back into the wagon, but Harrah quickly shook his head, pointed ahead, and the girl and her mother hurried up the road maybe fifty yards before they stopped, turned, and watched. Ever the protective mother, Dagmar stepped in front of her daughter, but the girl dropped to her knees, and peered around Dagmar’s leg.
Harrah removed his hat, wet his lips, wiped sweat on his thighs, and slowly reached for the brake.
“This,” Iverson whispered, “is gonna be a mite ticklish.”
Pardo started to say something, then found his hand reaching for the saddlebag, unfastening the buckle, dipping inside, withdrawing a Ball jar of rye. He unscrewed the lid, drank his fill, then offered some of the whiskey to Iverson, who accepted with a nod of thanks.
The big bay horse took a step forward. Pardo’s eyes fell on the wheels, watched the wagon dip as it crossed the hole, then rose, moving only inches, then a foot, slowly, easily, Harrah looking to his right, over the edge of the wagon, watching the rear wheel hit the hole, dip, and come up.
Pardo took the jar from Iverson’s outstretched hand, finished it, pitched it over the side, hearing the glass smash against a boulder. The woman and her kid turned, started walking up the road, ahead of the wagon. Harrah started to reach for his hat, thought better of it, and kept both hands on the reins, both eyes on the road.
Reilly pulled hard on the reins as he neared the blanket-lined hole, set the brake, and looked behind him. He removed his hat, waved it over his head, warning Phil to halt, and waited until Phil had stopped his buckboard. Far behind him, keeping a more than respectful distance, Duke swung off his horse and stepped on the other side of the gray animal, using it as a shield, the gutless coward.
Drawing a deep breath, Reilly held it for the longest while, slowly let it out. His head lifted, studied the sky, saw the storm clouds forming to the southeast, other dark clouds scurrying across the sky toward the noonday sun. Wet his lips. Tried to dry his hands on his vest. Pulled his hat down low and reached for the brake.
The big dun horse snorted, and, once he had released the brake, took a step forward as Reilly flicked the reins. He felt the wagon lurch, the right wheel dipping into the hole, measuredly coming out. Flicked the lines again. “Easy, boy,” he whispered, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. The wagon moved slowly. The rear wheel hit the hole, came up. Reilly didn’t bother stopping, just let the big dun pull the wagon, feeling better now, though he didn’t know why. They still had many miles to travel before they reached Texas Canyon.
He shot a quick glance behind him, saw Phil’s wagon starting to move. Looked back up the road. Clouds passed over the sun, and the air immediately felt cooler. He filled his lungs again, looked at the Evans repeater leaning against the driver’s box.
From behind him came a tremendous roar, and he turned again, almost blinded by a brilliant white flash, heard himself cursing, saw his left arm reaching for the brake, felt the wind rush from his lungs as the whole mountain behind him came down, felt the concussion knock him off the seat, felt himself flying over the side of the wagon.
The surrey wheeled off the main train and headed down the hillside to the shade, where the land flattened briefly before buttressing against a rugged ridge. There, Ritcher tugged on the reins, stopping the wagon, and smiling at Gwendolyn Morgan. “Best vater the horses here,” he said pleasantly. “Get out of the sun for a few minutes.”
He pulled the brake lever, hopped down, and offered to help Gwen out of the rig. She gave him a pleasing smile, stopped, turned, and picked up her purse. When she turned back, he took her hands, soft, delicate, pleasing underneath his gauntlets—not like the hands of the whores he had known—and eased her out of the buggy. She bumped against him. He liked that, too, but she quickly pulled away.
“Dere’s a spring over dere.” He pointed at the ruins of an old stone house. “Behind those. Near the big valnut tree.”
She looked, nodding favorably. “I wish I had known of this place when I was coming to Fort Bowie.” Turned back to him. “It’s lovely.”
“Ja,” he said, eyes fixed on her bosom. “It is. Most definitely.” He looked up, saw her hard stare, and forced a grin. “Forgive me, Gwen.” He gestured toward the ruins. “This vas an old stagecoach station, but the owners quit. Apaches ran dem off. But the spring should be full of vater after dese latest monsoons. And it’s a long vay to Contention. Go ahead. I’ll grain the horses. Ve’ll vater dem later. Dey are too hot to drink now. Don’t vant dem to get colicky.”
“Thank you, Major,” she said.
He stared at her, shaking his head, saying, “Armin. Please call me Armin.”
“Armin,” she said, but she spoke his name as if it were a filthy word.
He watched her walk off, watched how her hips swished beneath that violet dress, and made himself turn, find the grain sack. His big black stallion, tethered behind the surrey, snorted. His saber rattled against his side. He looked back as Gwendolyn Morgan disappeared behind the crumbling walls and started walking away from the wagon and two horses, loosening the black silk bandana around his neck until he held it in his right hand. His left hand gripped the saber, to keep down the noise, as he carefully picked a path to the edge of the ruins.
She knelt beside the giant walnut, purse at her side, cupping her hands in the pool of water, splashing her face. She had removed the boat hat, too, and her long auburn hair hung past her shoulders, wet with perspiration.
He looked behind him, up the road, for any signs of travelers, but saw nothing but a bleak expanse of desert. He looked back at Gwen, her back still to him, moaning with pleasure at the coolness of the sweet-tasting water. He imagined her moans and smiled. Ahead of her, behind the spring, cicadas sang, and a bird chirped in the brush.
Running his tongue over his cracked lips, Ritcher stepped down the path, slick with moisture, let go of the saber, and took both ends of the black necker-chief in his hands, twisting the silk cloth tightly, wrapping the ends around his gauntleted hands, trying to control his breathing, feeling his heart pounding against his ribs.
She must have heard him, or felt his presence, because she stopped drinking the water, started to turn, her right hand reaching for the purse that contained the letter Reilly McGivern had written her.
Quickly, he brought the silk bandana over her head and yanked back savagely, dropping her to her buttocks, hearing her muffled shout. Instantly, as the ends of the bandana crossed, he switched hands, pulled tighter, moved around her, jerking her into the shallow pool. She was on the ground, arms splashing, face under the water. He could let her drown. It would be so easy.
But that wouldn’t be much fun.
He pressed his knee against the small of her back, pulled her head up, heard her trying to catch her breath, but the black silk was biting into her neck. He let her up. Playing with her. Saw her try to get to her knees. Then he pulled her back down. On her back. He liked the way the black silk cut into her neck. Liked how her hair was plastered across her forehead. He sank onto her stomach. Liked the way she squirmed underneath him.
He looked deeply, longingly into her bulging eyes. Her lip was busted, blood mixing with the water on her face, running down her cheeks, into the spring. Her tongue started to protrude. Her left arm was pinned underneath her back, her right splashing, clawing for the bank. Ritcher’s gaze followed the arm. He had wondered why she didn’t try for the bandana that was strangling her. Or why she didn’t try to claw his face with those wonderful fingernails.
Most women did.
That’s what killed them.
But, no, this stupid whore was reaching for her purse. As if that letter she had written Reilly McGivern could save her. He choked back a laugh, and looked again at her, pulled tighter, trying to crush her throat, pressing tight against her stomach, watching the light fade fro
m her eyes, blood began seeping from her nostrils.
Not so fast, he told himself, and loosened his hold on the bandana. He liked the mark it had left on her throat.
She swallowed, filled her lungs, tried to buck him off.
Cackling, he slapped her, picked up the rolled end of the bandana he had dropped, and pulled tighter. She bit her tongue. He leaned forward, wanting to breathe in her last gasp of air, wanted to smell her last breath. Her eyes started to still, yet her right arm still slapped savagely against the water and stones.
He was staring at her, watching her die, savoring the moment.
Again he stopped. Watched her breasts rise as he let her breathe again. Then his eyes fixated on the gold watch, and he reached down, dropping one end of the bandana to snap the watch off its chain, put it into the pocket of his blouse. He always liked trophies, like the scalp of the Apache woman he had taken three years earlier, or the amethyst earrings from that dressmaker in Bisbee.
“Dere, dere,” he said, as if soothing a child, his face just inches from hers. “Are you all right, my sweet?”
Her lips met, and she spit in his face.
He jerked up, found the bandana again, pulled harshly, almost pulling her head out of the water, felt himself rising off her. He’d had enough. Needed to kill her now. Get rid of the horse and buggy. Ride off to the Dragoons or Texas Canyon to find Pardo. Warn him.
He sank back on top of her, pulling hard, watching her face and lips pale, watching the eyes begin to still. Her right arm had stopped splashing. Her resistance began to slacken.
She was bringing her right arm up. To attack him.
“Too late, my sweet,” he whispered. “You are much too late to fight me now.”
He saw her hand rise. She held something in it.
His head turned. His mouth opened.
“Damn!” he screamed, and let go both ends of the bandana. Staring down the barrel of a sawed-off .36-caliber Colt, he started to fall off her torso as he raised both hands in defense, yelling, “Don’t—”
The pistol’s roar silenced his scream at the same instant he saw a brilliant flash of white light and felt his head explode.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Reilly McGivern tumbled over the side of the wagon, but held tightly to the lines with his right hand. Then both hands. Hearing the big draft horse scream, Reilly ground his teeth. The seventeen-hand dun started to run, but Reilly had, miraculously, managed to set the brake. Yet the buckboard lurched forward, rear wheels digging into the road, dragging Reilly on his knees, until he scrambled to his feet, bounced off the rock wall, almost fell, almost dropped the lines, but righted himself, running along the narrow road, between the rolling wagon and the rugged wall.
“Whoa!” he shouted hoarsely, amid the smoke and choking dust that enveloped him. Furiously, he pulled on the lines, coughing, screaming at the horse to stop. The cloud of dust passed, carrying with it the heat of a furnace, and thick, acrid smoke. A second later, bits of rock and stone began falling like hail, bouncing off the brim of Reilly’s hat, which, somehow, remained on his head. He looked at the buckboard, still moving, saw the stones hit the tailgate. Saw debris strike the blankets lashed atop the crate of nitro, bouncing off.
“God,” he said. “Come on, horse, stop.”
He blinked. Scraped his back against the jagged wall of the rising mesa. Saw the wagon turn, saw the unmoving right wheel, rise on a little mound, and slip off the edge.
Reilly closed his eyes, mouthing a prayer, preparing to die.
The explosion knocked Blanche Gottschalk onto her back. She caught a glimpse of something sailing over her. Blinked. Realized it was her mother. She turned just as her mother struck the rocky edge of the road, bounce off, land hard in the dust.
“Look out!”
She rolled over, saw the big bay draft horse pulling the wagon, its eyes laced with fear. Harrah stood in the driver’s box, drawing hard on the leather lines, trying to stop the rig. Beyond that, Blanche saw a mountain of dust, smoke, and flame shooting into the clouds, blocking out the blue sky that stretched below.
Dust, smoke began drifting behind the wagon. She looked at the bay animal’s churning hoofs, tried to move, couldn’t. Harrah’s curses rang out. Her ears were ringing. The horse stopped a yard or two from her, snorting, then lowering and angrily shaking its head. She found her feet now, rising, falling, rising again, weaving.
Instantly, she remembered her mother, and turned, saw her slowly sitting up, leaning against the side of the wall, blood leaking from a gash along her chin. Her mother’s mouth kept moving, and she read her lips, knew she was calling Blanche’s name. She cried out, “Mother!” and started for her, but stopped when something struck her head. And back. And neck.
“Oh, hell!” screamed Harrah.
Turning, Blanche realized that the sky was raining rocks. Harrah, who had sunk onto the driver’s seat after stopping the horse, his left hand squeezing the brake lever for all that it was worth, looking behind him, watching the rocks shower on the crate of nitro in the back of the wagon.
Without thinking, Blanche ran, past the bay horse, to the side of the wagon, her brogans sending rocks and gravel sliding down the rolling slope. Her right hand gripped the side of the buckboard, then her left, and she lifted herself, hurdling over the railing, into the back. A jagged rock struck her ear. She flung herself atop the blankets covering the crate, held her breath, felt sharp stones pound her back, her buttocks, her neck, her head. A heavy rock drove her head into the blankets, and she saw a flash of orange, felt blood trickle down her head.
She groaned, but kept her body on the crate, until the shower of rocks had passed. She tried to open her eyes, but couldn’t. Suddenly, she felt her body convulsing, heard someone’s terrible cries, realized those strange, savage noises were coming from her. Thought she heard hoofbeats, but couldn’t feel the wagon moving.
“Blanche! Blanche! My God, where’s my daughter?” Her mother’s voice.
Next, Bloody Jim Pardo’s: “What the hell is that kid doing?”
“Saving our lives, Jim,” came Harrah’s frazzled reply.
Major Armin Ritcher landed on his ass, rolled over, dipped his head into the spring water. He rose, screaming at the fire that burned his head. Dazed, he rolled back, saw the woman, Gwen Morgan, staggering to her feet, smoking Colt in her hand. She fell, coughing, pointing the revolver in his direction. Pulled the trigger.
The bullet whistled past his ear.
Blood spurted down his head. The first bullet had carved a furrow, damned near parted his neatly shorn hair.
Pain nearly blinded him, but he knew he had to get that wench. Had to stop her. She stumbled again, making her way to the shore, tripped on a rock, busted her nose.
He stood, slipped. Saw her raise the gun and pull the trigger, but this time the bullet dug into the ground just inches from the water, not even close. He blocked out the pain, found his water-soaked hat, slapped it on his head. Gwen Morgan, still coughing, breathing deeply, bounced off the Arizona walnut tree, tripped over its protruding roots, and crawled a few rods before she regained her feet, staggered up the rock-lined path.
She had left the purse. And dropped the sawed-down Colt.
Ritcher reached for his revolver, stopped. No, he thought, the saber.
Standing, weaving, he drew the saber from its scabbard, and half-ran, half-stumbled after that damned little whore.
He envisioned running her through. Slicing her to bits.
Only first…he had to stop her.
“Hell,” he swore. “The horses.”
With a savage scream, he charged, boots sloshing through the water, slipping on the wet stones. He tripped over the same damned root that had knocked Gwen Morgan off her feet, but he didn’t fall. He clawed and slashed, came up the slope. Gwen had stopped by the adobe ruins, sitting on the sandy edges smoothed by wind and rain, running her fingers over her bruised throat, trying to swallow, chest heaving, gasping for breath.
His saber sank into the three-foot high wall, bit deep into the old adobe, and vibrated with such ferocity that he let go, and stumbled into the ground.
“Damn,” he said, blinking and wiping the blood out of his eyes with his balled up fists. “Damn you, you stinking trollop.” He swore again in German, English. She regained her feet, scrambled over the smaller walls, the back of her dress torn to shreds, revealing her corset, also ripped, staining with blood.
She ran for the surrey. He rose, pulled himself to his feet, grabbed the still-quaking saber, and jerked it free.
She was trying to climb into the rig, sobbing, shaking, but unable to lift herself, as the draft horse pawed the earth, panicking at the noise, the fear in Gwen Morgan’s eyes, the smell of blood heavy in the air. Turning, she saw him, and gave up. Ran up the road, then back, returning toward the spring and the mountain that rose behind it.
He stopped, caught his breath, and, after again wiping the blood off his forehead, charged after the screaming whore.
Gwen Morgan remembered the gun. The one she’d dropped on the banks of the spring. She knew she had to get it, knew she’d never escape Major Ritcher without it. She charged down the slope, felt her right ankle give way, twisting on one of the rocks, throwing her to the ground, busting, maybe breaking, her nose.
Groaning, she dragged herself toward the gun, cursing herself for wearing those high-heeled boots. Then again, she hadn’t expected to be assaulted by an officer and a gentleman of the United States Cavalry.
I’ll never reach the gun.
The Killing Shot Page 21