by Jory Sherman
“This place gives me the shivers,” Marylynn said.
Lew nodded. Even in the glare of the hot sun, he could feel a chill.
“This is where it will all happen on Thursday,” Blackhawk said. “That morning, the Concord will pull up and the escort assemble. Two men will arrive in a wagon with a strongbox filled with gold and silver coins in the amount of five thousand dollars. These are symbolic, only. The remaining thirty-five thousand dollars will be in bank notes, negotiable anywhere. The box will be locked with a heavy padlock. There will be a brief ceremony as the money is transferred to the stagecoach. Lopez de Vega will give a speech. A small band will play the Mexican national anthem and the song they play at bullfights, something to do with ‘no quarter.’ Then, the coach will leave, with the charros carrying rifles, wearing their bright costumes. People will cheer, and this place will go quiet again when everybody leaves.”
“And this is where Wayne Smith is going to make his move?” Lew said.
“He purchased dynamite two days ago, ten sticks of DuPont 60/40, and blasting caps. He’ll kill a lot of people to get that money.”
“The police will stop him?” Lew said.
“Follow me. I’ll lay the whole scheme out for you, Lew.”
They rode back to the deserted street. The wind blew a tumbleweed down its center and whined in the empty adobes.
“There will be constabulary in some of the buildings. I’ll be on the roof of that adobe, with my rifle. Smith and his men will ride through here to the freight yard.”
“And you’ll shoot him?” Marylynn said.
“It won’t be that simple,” Blackhawk said.
“Nothing ever is,” Lew said.
“We think Smith will have innocent people with him. And when he comes through here, the fuses will be lit on those sticks of dynamite.”
“Can’t you find out who he’s bringing with him and warn them not to come?” Lew asked.
“That part of it is unknown to me and the police here. But he pulled the same stunt in Denver when he robbed Horace Tabor.”
“What did he do?” Marylynn asked.
“He invited a number of important dignitaries to come and tour the Tabor Opera House. They were in the way, and innocent, so Smith got away while the dignitaries got in the way of any pursuit.”
“Pretty smart,” Lew said.
“Oh, he’s smart all right. I just don’t know what he has planned for this robbery. But he won’t be alone.”
“So how will you get him?” Lew asked.
“That’s where you come in, Lew. You and Marylynn, if she’ll do it.
“I don’t like the sound of this, Horatio.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be covered. See that first adobe there? Not much left of it, but enough to keep you hidden until the right time.”
“What’s the right time?” Lew asked.
“I’m betting that Smith will want you dead as bad as he wants the money. Those fuses are timed. He’ll likely light them as soon as he passes that first building. We’ve got to stop him before he gets that far. If there are no people in the way, no innocents, we can shoot. We have to separate him from those people.”
“And I’m the bait,” Lew said.
“Yep. ’Fraid so. When I see Smith coming, I’ll give you a signal from that roof over there. You’ll be able to see me, but Smith won’t see you. Until you step out. Marylynn will let out a scream from her hiding place just as you do. That’ll get Smith’s attention. When he sees you, he’ll try and drop you. But you’ll duck back in real quick, so that he has to come after you. Marylynn will scream again after you’ve taken cover. He’ll have to shut her up.”
“Sounds way too complicated,” Lew said.
“It’ll work, because I know how Wayne Smith thinks. He’s greedy, but you are a witness to murder, and you had something to do with his wife. He’s got a temper raw as a boil. He’ll come after you. That’s when we’ll get him.”
Lew dismounted and walked into the ruined adobe, while Blackhawk and Marylynn looked on. He emerged a few minutes later.
“Pretty skimpy,” Lew said.
“Enough,” Blackhawk said. He looked at Marylynn. “How about you? You game to play a part in this, young lady?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said.
Lew stared at her as if she were addled.
It could work, he thought. Blackhawk seemed to have thought it all out pretty carefully. But in such a situation, a lot could go wrong, and probably would.
Still, if that was the way to stop Wayne Smith and either kill him or arrest him, he had to try.
He nodded to Blackhawk.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
“I knew you would, Lew,” he said.
In the distance a quail called, its fluting cry sounding solemn in the stillness, as if it were warning its brethren to beware. Death was there in that lonesome place, and the wind carried the memory of what had happened there years before, and perhaps knew what was going to happen there on Cinco de Mayo.
Lew shivered in the afternoon sun.
28
LEW BRUSHED THE SLENDER STRANDS OF SILK FROM HIS FACE. Cobwebs clung to his trousers, mingled with the dust on his boots, while spiders crawled along the wind-blasted wall of the damaged adobe. Dust filled his nostrils, danced in the rays of sunlight streaming into the dilapidated adobe while he stood in concealment, waiting. In the corner next to him, Marylynn sat on adobe bricks she had stacked there for that purpose.
“One thing, Marylynn,” he said. “When you go to screaming, like Horatio asked, don’t just scream. Call out Wayne’s name. That’ll surely get his attention.”
“You want me to yell out ‘Wayne’?”
“Yes. He might think it’s the ghost of his murdered wife.”
From his position in back of a window, Lew could see Blackhawk atop a two-story building just across the street. Rather, he could see the crown of his hat and the tip of his rifle barrel. Policemen were stationed in the other adobes along the street, men who had been there since shortly after dawn.
Blackhawk had said the ceremonies would start early, around eight o’clock, since the stage driver wanted to leave while it was still relatively cool.
“The wagon with the strongbox should be here about fifteen minutes later,” he said, “and Smith will come along pretty quick after that.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself, Horatio.”
“I know what makes Smith’s pony gallop,” he said.
They heard the band tune up, and a few minutes later, they began to play “La Macarena.”
“Must be getting close,” Lew said.
“My stomach’s full of butterflies,” Marylynn said.
“Just remember to stay where you are when the shooting starts.”
“I will. But I’m keeping my pistol right here in my lap. Just in case that mean old Wayne comes busting in here.”
“He won’t get this far. Either Horatio will shoot him, or I will.”
A wagon rumbled down the street. Lew watched it pass by. Two men sat on the buckboard seat, a third, with a rifle, was in the back, facing the rear. The top of the strongbox was just barely visible. Lew felt his stomach roil. He hadn’t eaten breakfast. He had drunk some coffee, just enough to pry open all his senses and tune them up, like the men had done with their guitars, the trumpet, and the tambour.
The wagon stopped, and so did the band. Lew heard someone call the spectators over to hear the speech by Lopez de Vega. As soon as he began speaking, Lew saw Blackhawk give the signal that Smith was approaching. He looked over at Marylynn, who still sat on the stacked adobe bricks, holding her pistol in her lap.
“Here he comes,” he whispered.
Marylynn sat up straight and held the Smith & Wesson ready.
Lew listened, his ear close to the window.
What he heard made his heart pound faster, sweat break out on his forehead.
Children.
He heard
children laughing and talking as they marched toward him. He walked away from the window and stood next to the door. He put his face close to the jamb and edged it outward so that he could just barely see the odd assemblage walking toward him. No, they were not walking. They were jumping up and down, skipping, jogging back and forth in their ranks. Three nuns, wearing severe habits and gull wing headgear, flanked the children. Their rosary beads glistened in the sun and silver glinted off their crucifixes.
Lew’s heart plummeted in his chest when he saw the sisters from Our Lady of Guadalupe Orphanage. They looked like angels.
Angels of death in their black habits.
He looked up at Blackhawk.
No sign of him.
Lew got ready. As soon as the first children passed the window, he looked out again. Behind the children, he saw Wayne Smith and two other men. Two of the men were holding sticks of dynamite in their hands. Wayne was riding just behind them, a rifle lying across the pommel. His hands held on to it, and his fingers were inside the trigger guard.
“Now,” Lew whispered to Marylynn and stepped out into the street.
“Hey, Wayne, you son of a bitch,” Lew yelled. The two men stopped their horses.
Lew drew his pistol.
Wayne started to bring his rifle up.
Marylynn screamed at the top of her lungs, “Waaaaaayyyyyyyne.”
The effect of her voice on Lew was bone-chilling.
Wayne looked startled.
The two men in front reacted. They stuffed dynamite in the pockets of their dusters, leaving one hand free. Both drew their pistols. Wayne brought up the rifle.
Then Lew ducked back inside the adobe.
“Again,” he told Marylynn.
Marylynn screamed again, “Waaaaaayyyyyynnnne.”
Wayne turned his horse toward the adobe and put the spurs to its flanks.
The two men in front started firing their pistols.
Bullets smacked into the adobe. One came whooshing through the window and struck an old rusted can in the back corner.
“I’ll get him,” Wayne shouted to his men, Crisp and Danvers. “Don’t shoot no more.”
The children started screaming. They scattered like chickens when Smith galloped past, their high-pitched voices turning shrill as they fled.
“Light ’em,” Wayne yelled as he charged toward the adobe where Lew and Marylynn were hiding.
Blackhawk stood up and leveled his rifle at Smith.
Smith leaned over to the side of his horse and snatched up a little girl who was frozen to the ground and screaming in terror. He plunked her on his lap, and Blackhawk lowered his rifle.
“Lew, look out,” Blackhawk called.
Crisp struck a match and lit a fuse on one of the sticks of dynamite. Sparks made a small orange fountain.
Danvers fumbled for a match.
“Up on the roof, Earl,” Danvers yelled. He reined his horse in a tight turn.
Crisp twisted in his saddle and saw Blackhawk. He drew back his arm to throw the stick of dynamite straight at him. As he started to throw, Blackhawk squeezed the trigger.
The rifle barked, spat flame and smoke.
Crisp never completed the toss.
The bullet sliced through the top of his left shoulder, burning a furrow in his flesh. He didn’t cry out, just winced with the sharp pain. But he had to draw his arm back for another try at throwing the stick of dynamite.
Blackhawk levered another cartridge into the chamber. The empty hull flew out and clattered atop the building.
Reed Danvers thumbed back the hammer on his six-gun and fired off a shot at Blackhawk. But his horse was moving and his aim was off. The bullet missed Blackhawk by a foot. He heard the air swish in his ear as the bullet passed while he was drawing another bead on Crisp.
Marylynn stood up and went to the window to see what was going on. People down the street were screaming now, adding to the noise the children were making.
Lew stepped to the doorway as Smith, holding the little girl, reined to a halt a few feet from the adobe. He shoved the barrel of his pistol against the girl’s temple.
“Step out, Zane, or I’ll blow this little girl’s head clean off.”
Marylynn gasped when she saw what was happening.
“Lew,” she rasped, “do something or he’ll murder that child.”
A thousand thoughts rambled through Lew’s brain. They tripped over one another, got tangled up, floundered. A lifetime seemed to pass in the space of a split second. He saw the girl’s terrified face, the tears leaving tracks on her cheeks, her eyes wide with fear.
And he saw the slitted eyes of Wayne Smith, the taut expression of hatred on his face, the cocked hammer of his single action Colt, his finger curling around the trigger.
Another lifetime passed in the space of a half second. The screams and the cries of the people down the street seemed to fade as if he had cotton in his ears. His pistol was cocked, his finger on the trigger.
Time stopped dead in its tracks.
Blackhawk fired his rifle again just as Crisp started to hurl the stick of dynamite with its hissing fuse.
The bullet from his Winchester hit Crisp square in the breastbone with the force of a flung hammer multiplied a hundred times. There was the crack of bone, and blood spurted from Crisp’s chest like wine gushing through a bunghole in a cask. Blood bubbled up in Crisp’s throat, strangling him, drowning him. The dynamite smacked against the wall of the adobe just below where Blackhawk stood on its roof. A nun and three children saw the sputtering fuse and eyed it as they would a wriggling snake, frozen in fear. Then the nun recovered her senses and started herding the children away from the dynamite. She looked like a giant bird with her chicks.
Danvers raised his pistol, took dead aim on Blackhawk.
A thousand lifetimes collapsed in a heap, occupying the space of a single second in time.
Lew had no target. The girl in Smith’s lap completely blocked Smith’s body. Only his face showed, next to the pistol in his hand, a face that mirrored the hatred inside the man. The girl no longer struggled. She just stared down at Lew with terror crawling across her face, lighting her wide eyes with the gleam of imminent death.
“I said drop it, Zane,” Smith said. “Or this girl is wolf meat in two seconds.”
It was then that Lew made his decision. He could die there without a fight. He knew if he dropped his gun, Smith would turn his pistol on him and shoot him dead where he stood.
Or he could shoot through the girl and hope to hit Smith in the heart, killing them both.
He had just one chance to save the girl and himself.
Smith’s face loomed large in Lew’s eyes. It was a target. He was no more than ten feet away.
Was he that good a shot?
There was no time to reason it out. Two seconds wasn’t very long for a man to make up his mind.
The wind came up, that same deathwind that always seemed to arrive when Lew was in a fight and about to kill or be killed. It blew down the street and made dust swirl in spidery gyrations all along its path.
Lew summoned up all of his courage and confidence and extended his arm. The action was so fast, his motion was only a blur. And he sighted across the blade sight and saw that face of Smith’s, bigger than an elephant. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger.
There wasn’t even a look of surprise on Smith’s face when the bullet smashed through his forehead and blew his brains to a pulpy mush. The back of his skull blew off and sailed through the air like a small pie plate. Blood spurted all over the little girl’s hair.
Smith’s arm went limp and the girl slid from the saddle, squirming out of his grasp. She hit the ground and crumpled up, folding her arms over her head for protection.
The pistol slipped from Smith’s grasp. His eyes glazed over in the frost of death and turned dull in the sunlight before he tumbled over and fell to the ground on the other side.
Danvers heard the shot and turned around.
> Lew didn’t even hesitate.
He shot Danvers out of the saddle, his bullet striking him high in the chest, just below his throat. Danvers fell to the ground in a heap.
The dynamite stick exploded.
A cloud of smoke billowed into the adobe and out into the street and up in the air. Adobe sand flew in all directions, filled the street with a brown haze.
Blackhawk felt the building shake, and spread his legs to keep from falling down.
Marylynn screamed.
A thousand lifetimes faded into memory.
The wind died suddenly.
There was a silence as the dust settled to the ground like brown snow, so fine it disappeared, became part of the earth once again.
“Blackhawk didn’t even get a chance to thank you for your help,” Marylynn said to Lew as they were riding away from Santa Fe, heading south into the blazing afternoon. “I didn’t even have a chance to see about all those children.”
“Horatio would have arrested me,” Lew said. “He was duty bound.”
“Are you always going to be a fugitive from the law, Lew?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll see how we do in Socorro.”
“Isn’t there trouble down there?” she asked. “I heard Mr. Blackhawk say something about a marshal going there.”
“There’s trouble everywhere, Marylynn. I told you not to come with me.”
“Where you go, I go,” she said.
The sun played tricks on Lew’s eyes. He saw a shining lake in the distance, its waters shimmering in the sunlight like fountains of pure silver. It was a beautiful sight to see, and like all good or worthwhile things in life, it would vanish as soon as he got close enough to stop and drink his fill.