Drifter 3

by Jake Henry

  ‘Are … are you sure?’ he stammered.

  Ellis nodded. ‘I checked him myself before I came here.’

  A heavy silence descended over the room as Craig Vandal struggled with the devastating news of his son’s death. The tick of a clock sounded deafening in the extended quiet.

  Then Vandal asked, ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Outside the jail, waitin’ for the undertaker.’

  More silence.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Ellis asked.

  Vandal got up from his chair in silence. He walked towards the door and opened it. Then he went out onto the street. Steadily, one foot after the other, he trudged towards the sheriff’s office. Seeming as though in a sleepwalking trance, he stared ahead at the corpse still draped over the horse outside the jail.

  Onward Vandal walked, his boots scuffing along in the dirt of the street, his gait rigid. As he drew nearer his son’s body, he slowed and when he was no further than ten feet from his boy, he emitted a low keening sound from somewhere deep within. It grew louder until a wail erupted from his lips.

  Vandal turned to face the jail and shouted, ‘I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch!’

  Rawhide Allen spat on the ripening corpse of a scalped man with an old, bloodstained rag wrapped about his hand. His eyes were gone; the birds had taken them first and the small critters had started their work too. Not that food was at a premium. There were other corpses scattered about for them to feed on.

  ‘It would seem our friend leads a charmed life,’ Allen murmured. He looked over at Connie who was tied to the saddle of a bay horse he’d found unattended in Bad Tooth. As they’d been walking away with it, the horse’s owner had appeared.

  The man had tried to protest but Allen was in no mood to bandy words. With a total disregard for the niceties of ownership, Allen shot him where he stood.

  ‘I do love the thrill of the hunt,’ he said, smiling coldly.

  ‘I hope he kills you,’ Connie growled defiantly.

  Her words brought the pain of his wounds to the front of his mind. They throbbed nonstop, eating away at his insides. Allen had the telltale sheen of sweat on his brow and his face was already turning a pasty color. He looked about the surrounding landscape, bathed in the bright morning sunlight. Then his gaze shifted back to Connie.

  ‘If I die, it won’t be him who’ll kill me,’ he said to her.

  Savage walked outside the jail holding the Yellow Boy across his body, hammer cocked and ready to use.

  Craig Vandal looked at him through tortured eyes.

  ‘You murdering bastard.’ He snarled. ‘I’ll kill you for this.’

  ‘I didn’t kill your boy,’ Savage told him. ‘I was takin’ him to Albuquerque for trial when a bunch of fellers jumped us. They were the ones responsible.’

  ‘No. No, they weren’t. It was you. Ever since you came here, you’ve been nothing but trouble. His death is on your head. You should have kept your nose out of it. Now, it’s about to get cut off.’

  Ellis stood beside him and Vandal made a desperate lunge at the gun he wore on his hip. The gun in Savage’s hands swung about and he snapped off a shot. The roar of the Yellow Boy and the fountain of dirt that spewed up near the distraught man’s feet stopped his reckless move.

  ‘The next one will kill you,’ Savage warned him. ‘I’ll let this one slide for the fact he was your boy. Even if he was no good. I won’t be so forgivin’ next time.’

  Vandal stood there, visibly shaking with rage.

  ‘Go home, Craig,’ McArdle said quietly. ‘Take your boy and bury him. You know he got what was comin’ to him.’

  ‘He was my son!’’ Vandal roared.

  ‘Who was no good,’ McArdle said. ‘Take him and bury him. Just let it go.’

  There was a drawn-out silence and then Vandal nodded. ‘You’re right. He should be buried.’

  ‘Now you’re thinking clear,’ McArdle said.

  Vandal’s hard-eyed stare burned into Savage and he growled, ‘When it’s done, I’ll be back for you. And if I have to tear this town apart to get to you, I will.’

  ‘I’ll be waitin’,’ Savage said to him. ‘But if you do, don’t expect to walk away. I already told you, the next time, I’ll kill you.’

  Vandal tried to stare Savage down but he wouldn’t be drawn. Instead, the Drifter turned away and walked back inside the jail. Blazing eyes burned into his back as Vandal stood there, plotting how to kill him.

  I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch. Even if it takes until my last breath, I’ll kill you!

  When Savage and McArdle went back inside, the doctor had finished with Malavai.

  ‘How’s he doin’?’ Savage asked.

  The doctor looked at Savage through tired, gray eyes and shook his head.

  ‘Damn it. How long?’

  ‘Maybe a couple of days.’

  Savage nodded. ‘Thanks, doc.’

  After his departure, a long silence ensued that was eventually broken by McArdle.

  ‘Do you want a deputy to help you out?’ he asked. ‘Might be a wise move.’

  ‘Would you be able to find someone?’ Savage asked him.

  A thoughtful silence hung in the air as McArdle wracked his brain to come up with a name.

  ‘Yeah, thought as much,’ Savage said.

  ‘I could try,’ McArdle said, hopefully.

  Savage shook his head. ‘I’ll deal with it. I don’t want anyone gettin’ killed on my account.’

  ‘But you won’t stand a chance on your own,’ McArdle said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘I’ll get by,’ Savage assured him. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Thirteen

  Craig Vandal presented a forlorn figure, standing over the open grave of his son, as rain poured over him and into the hole at his feet. The leaden clouds had moved in on cue and the storm arrived to mark the somber occasion. He was the only one there. He didn’t want others. He’d organized with the undertaker and preacher to have the service done as soon as possible.

  Bobby’s body had arrived back in town that morning and his burial was held by midafternoon.

  Many would question the rush. Craig Vandal now had things to take care of and they wouldn’t wait. Lightning brightened the afternoon gloom and a crash of thunder sounded overhead.

  Vandal’s face was set like stone, cold, unfeeling. He just stared down into the void that had swallowed the rough-hewn plank coffin containing his son.

  Then suddenly he turned away and walked back toward town. By the time, he reached the main street, the downpour had stopped. Vandal’s boots squelched through several inches of mud that had replaced the dusty surface of earlier in the day.

  When Vandal entered the Down and Out saloon, he found the few that remained of his crew, waiting for him. He crossed the floor to the bar, his soaked clothes leaving a trail of water droplets on the dusty planks as he went. Breasting the bar, he looked at the barkeep expectantly.

  ‘Get me a bottle of whiskey,’ Vandal demanded.

  The barkeep reached under the counter and brought out a nearly full bottle of brown liquid. He placed it on top and sat a glass beside it. Vandal poured himself a drink while the barkeep stood there waiting for payment.

  Vandal looked at him sardonically then threw the drink back, ignoring the man’s stare. Then he turned away and sought out Ellis. He caught the man’s eye and said, ‘Get them together. It’s time.’

  McArdle was in the middle of an early supper when they found him in the café. The rain had stopped as he’d headed along to eat and the late afternoon air felt crisp and clean. His order of steak and potato had arrived, and he was looking forward to the pie he’d ordered for dessert.

  As McArdle slopped up the last of the gravy with a slice of bread, Vandal entered with three of his men. The boss’ gaze settled on the judge and he nodded in that direction. ‘There he is. Go get him.’

  They rushed forward before McArdle could react. He was grabbed by the arms and dragge
d, protesting loudly, from his seat.

  McArdle began to struggle in earnest. He broke one arm free and lashed out at the man holding his other one. It was a feeble effort and the men regained control and soon had his arms pinned again. Short of patience, Craig Vandal stepped forward, a six-gun in his fist. To the shock and surprise of most of the witnesses in the diner, the gun rose and fell and the judge’s struggles ceased.

  ‘Get the old bastard out of here,’ Vandal snarled.

  ‘Now wait a minute,’ a man said in protest as he stood up from a nearby table. He moved in front of them before they could take McArdle outside. ‘You can’t just beat a man and take him like that.’

  Vandal’s demeanor was becoming fouler and he was in no mood for defiance. He raised his eyebrows and said, ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  The gun in Vandal’s fist came up. He cocked it and shot the man in the head. The sound of the shot slammed loudly against the walls and the man fell to the floor in an untidy heap. Vandal stood motionless and he stared down at the body as a thin wisp of gun smoke curled lazily upwards from the end of the barrel.

  There were shouts and cries from the terrified diners, which he ignored.

  ‘You are not going to stop me,’ Vandal growled. He turned his attention back to his men. ‘Get him out. You know what to do.’

  He followed them out. It was time for the next part of his plan.

  ‘Savage! You murdering son of a bitch, get out here!’

  ‘I guess he means you,’ Malavai said, from his bunk.

  Savage had thought the man was asleep. He walked over to the cell and looked through the open door.

  ‘How are you feelin’?’ he asked.

  ‘Funnily enough, for a dyin’ man, I don’t feel too bad.’

  ‘Savage!’

  ‘Sounds like he means business,’ Malavai said.

  ‘It sure do, don’t it?’

  Savage crossed the room and looked out the glassless window. On the other side of the street stood Craig Vandal and ten of his men. A gloom had settled over Dead Man’s Gulch with the late afternoon as the last vestiges of light faded.

  ‘Savage! Come on out here and get what’s coming to you!’

  As Savage looked on, he saw Vandal turn to speak with his men. A second later they all brought up their weapons and opened fire. The thin, plank front wall of the jail, already pockmarked with holes from the last episode, was once again peppered with shots, the bullets punching through to spray fine timber splinters across the room. Savage dived to the floor.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ he cursed and crawled across the floor to the desk where his Yellow Boy rested on top.

  He reached up and retrieved it, a slug passing so close to his hand he felt the heat of its passage.

  ‘Are you OK, Malavai,’ Savage called above the noise.

  The muffled voice came from the cell. It was inaudible but at least it proved that Malavai was still alive.

  With a shattering crash, the lantern on the desk was hit and knocked to the floor. The glass broke and its contents leaked out and caught fire. Flames sprang up, chewing hungrily at the spreading fuel.

  ‘Shit,’ Savage cursed again, knowing that he needed to put the thing out before the place burned down around his ears.

  Suddenly, the gunfire stopped and an eerie silence ensued, punctuated by the sputtering of the fire as it tried to take hold.

  ‘Are you OK, Malavai?’ he called out.

  ‘I’m still here, although you might need a new bucket for your prisoners to piss in.’

  ‘That’ll be the least of our problems if I can’t get this fire out,’ Savage told him.

  ‘Let it burn.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  While Savage was putting out the fire, Vandal called out again, ‘Are you still alive in there, you murdering bastard?’

  Savage crossed to the empty window frame. He peered out and saw Vandal and his men standing across the way.

  ‘I’m still here,’ Savage called back.

  ‘Are you coming out or do we come in after you?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ Savage shouted. ‘You want to kill me either way?’

  ‘True,’ Vandal conceded. ‘But I also want to do it where everyone can see. I want to kill you publicly. Not hidden away where I can’t watch you die.’

  ‘Why don’t you come on over then?’ Savage suggested.

  ‘I don’t believe that I will,’ Vandal said. ‘I would much prefer it if you came out here. But, never mind. Maybe this next demonstration will change your mind.’

  There was a flurry of movement and a battered looking Judge McArdle appeared. Wrestled into place by two large men. A third man held a large coil of rope, most of which he dropped into the muddy street. One end had a loop that he placed over the judge’s head and drew tight around the throat. He reached down and picked up the other end of the rope, leaving the rest of the coil undisturbed.

  ‘Let him go, Vandal,’ Savage called out. He would have shot Vandal then, but the man had placed himself behind the judge and presented no target.

  No answer was forthcoming from Vandal, however, the drumming of hoofs on the churned-up street caused Savage to frown. He brought the Yellow Boy into a firing position and waited to get a bead on Vandal. The sound grew louder and the judge’s struggles grew more frantic.

  The rider came into view and rode past at a good clip, taking the end of the rope from the judge’s captor. As the horse disappeared, Savage noticed something that made him freeze. He blinked and thought, No, that’s not right. He watched in horror as the rope fed out and snapped taught.

  For a long time, he would never forget the look of fear on Perry McArdle’s face in the moment before the rope cut through his throat with such force, his head seemed to leap from his shoulders in a large spray of blood.

  What remained of the esteemed judge, collapsed to the ground while his head rolled into the center of the street. With a roar, Savage opened fire with his Winchester.

  The first slug was aimed at Vandal, but a man trying to avoid the spraying blood from the headless corpse stepped across in front of him. The bullet took him in the throat and ripped a gaping wound. The man clasped both hands around it trying to staunch the flow of blood, but it pumped through his fingers and down his shirtfront, turning the blue cloth dark.

  Another round was levered into the breech and Savage snapped off his next shot. Across the street, there was panic as they all scrambled for cover. Maybe they’d forgotten he was armed, or perhaps ignorant to the fact that they’d just lost one of their own. Well, they were about to learn the hard way.

  The Yellow boy bucked a third time and a second man hit the ground, the lower part of his face missing. Savage worked the lever once more and fired. A third man screamed and fell to his knees, a .44 Henry slug buried deep in his guts. By this time, the rest of them had managed to escape into the safety of the building across the street, leaving the gravely wounded man kneeling out front.

  Savage stopped firing and a semi-silence ensued. He could hear muffled voices across the way, and then the wounded man called to his friends.

  ‘Ollie! Ollie! You gotta help me. I’m gut-shot. The bastard gut-shot me!’

  His pleas were ignored.

  ‘Damn it, Ollie, help me! My guts is comin’ out! God, it hurts!’

  Movement from the doorway directly behind the mortally wounded man caused Savage to raise the rifle and sight along the barrel. It wasn’t one of Vandal’s men, but a townsperson who had emerged. A man, maybe a storekeeper by the look of him with an apron and a string tie.

  The man paused and turned to look back the way he’d just come. There were some muffled sounds and the man started to walk towards the jail. His steps were hesitant at first, but he began to hurry as he got closer to his goal.

  Then, when he was about twenty feet from the jail, a voice from across the street shouted, ‘That’s far enough!’

  The man froze, the look on his face somewhere be
tween terror and anguish. His eyes were wide and as he looked in through the broken window where Savage stood, he begged, ‘Help me, please.’

  Vandal’s voice sounded again from across the way. ‘Can you hear me, Savage?’

  ‘I hear you,’ Savage called back.

  ‘His life is in your hands,’ Vandal shouted. ‘Come on out and he’ll live.’

  ‘I ain’t comin’ out,’ Savage shouted back. ‘But I’ll tell you this, Vandal. The law ain’t goin’ to hang you. It won’t get a chance because I’ll kill you before it gets that far.’

  ‘Please, you’ve got to help me,’ the man begged again.

  ‘Did I hear you right?’ Vandal asked. ‘Did you say that you weren’t coming out?’

  ‘I did,’ Savage called to him. He shifted his gaze to the petrified man and said, ‘Run.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you want to live, run damn it,’ Savage snapped and brought up the Yellow Boy.

  The thunder of shots rolled along the street as the Drifter worked the lever and fired as quickly as he could, peppering the front of the building across from the jail.

  Savage glanced at the retreating form of the man and thought that he might make it. But when the hidden guns opened fire, they were not aimed at him, but at the fleeing man. As he watched on, Savage saw the man struck by at least four bullets before falling to the ground.

  Cursing, Savage fired wildly across the street at the building, his anger at the man’s pointless death raised. In his frustration, he took deliberate aim at the mortally wounded man clutching at his middle, trying to keep his guts in, and shot him through the head.

  The killing of their man brought forth another hailstorm that ripped through the paper-thin walls, causing Savage to dive onto the floor once again. He felt the burn of lead across his back and he bit back a yelp of pain. Another slug chewed large wooden splinters from the office desk while another smashed into the half-empty coffee pot, sending it clattering to the floor.

  Keeping low, Savage crawled across to the jail cell where Malavai was. He passed through the open door as lead fizzed above him. Once he reached the wounded man, one look was all it took to confirm that he was dead.