Drifter 3

by Jake Henry

  A bullet had punched into the side of Malavai’s head, just above his ear, killing him outright. His eyes were open and his jaw slack. Savage lay there quietly and considered his options.

  An overwhelming desire to kill Vandal and his men burned deep within him and it took every ounce of his willpower to prevent himself from doing something rash and more than likely get himself killed. Instead, Savage lay flat while more rounds buzzed around him, as he tried to regain control of his emotions.

  When the firing died down, he decided it was time to go. He planned to mask his retreat. He looked at Malavai and said, ‘Sorry about this, but you’re goin’ to go out in a blaze of glory.’

  When the firing finally ceased, Savage worked quickly and soon had another fire burning. He crossed to the broken front window and peered out. It was almost dark outside which was good. He would use the cover of it to get away. Not that he planned to go far. He still had too much to do, and Craig Vandal was the subject of all of it.

  Fourteen

  ‘Hey, look! The jail is on fire!’ a man called out, an orange glow evident in the empty space of the window. ‘I can see the flames.’

  Craig Vandal pushed aside one of his men looking on from one of the windows, so he could get a clearer look. Sure enough, he saw the glow and then the flicker of a flame.

  No! Not this way you son of a bitch! I want to see you die, to kill you myself.

  ‘Get to the jail!’ Vandal shouted at his men. ‘Get him out of there. I want him alive!’

  Ellis stood firm, not sure what they were being told to do.

  ‘What?’ Vandal snapped.

  ‘Why not let him burn?’

  ‘Because I want him alive,’ Vandal snapped.

  ‘If we go chargin’ over there, it’s us who’re likely to die,’ Ellis pointed out.

  From inside his jacket, Vandal produced his six-gun, leveled it at Ellis, and squeezed the trigger. The roar was deafening in the close confines of the room and Ellis staggered back from the hammer-blow to his midsection. His stunned expression turned to confusion as it dawned on him that his boss had just shot him.

  Craig Vandal wasn’t done yet. His frustration and pent-up rage began to overflow in an unstoppable tide. He screamed like a madman as he emptied the gun into Ellis, each bullet strike causing the man to stagger back as it smashed into him. The last one cannoned Ellis into the wall behind him, where he hung suspended briefly, then slid down the wall, dead.

  Spinning about, Vandal glared wildly at the others in the room. Recent events had become too much and the man had cracked in a spectacular fashion.

  ‘Get over there and get him! Now!’ he screeched maniacally.

  If events hadn’t been so dire, their scrambled exit through door could have been considered comedic. They pushed and shoved each other, not wanting to fall prey to the wrath of a crazy man.

  The first few out into the gloaming, ran into a storm of lead as Savage unleashed a barrage of fire. The gunshots seemed to meld into one, and when they ceased, three men were out of action. The remaining men had split left and right to avoid the killing ground. They found shelter and began to return fire.

  Over the din of battle, a voice could be heard screaming, ‘Hold your fire, damn it! I said I wanted him alive! Hold your fire!’

  Their gunshots fell away then ceased altogether. Even the gunfire from the jail had stopped. A mesmerizing sight, the flames crept slowly higher as the still-green planks of the recently constructed building retarded the passage of the fire. The smoke produced was thick and smelled strongly of tree sap. The roof caught alight and the intensity of fire increased, illuminating the street in both directions with its eerie orange glow.

  Craig Vandal walked outside and stood, watching the inferno. He knew that there was no way in hell that his men would be able to get Savage now. The glow of the flames in the near dark chased the shadows from his face and caused his eyes to sparkle.

  Vandal’s jaw set firm as he came to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t personally get to kill the man responsible for the death of his son. But by hell, the bastard would be dead, and that was all that mattered.

  As he watched, the jail’s roof succumbed to the inevitable and collapsed, tossing up a cloud of smoke and bright twinkling embers. A thin smile came to Craig Vandal’s lips and he said mirthlessly, ‘Burn in Hell you son of a bitch. May the Devil get your soul.’

  After his frontal attack had taken out the three, Savage scrambled for the back door, thankful to find it unguarded. From there he turned left and kept to the shadows, making his way further along until he found a large canvas tent used as a laundry. He paused to listen intently to the shouts coming from the street, now that the gunfire had ceased.

  The graze on his back still burned, even more so now with sweat seeping into it. He heard the crash of the jail’s roof falling in and saw the plumage rise into the air. Edging around the corner of the laundry tent, Savage watched as the remainder of Vandal’s men stood in front of the burning jail.

  Vandal called them over and spoke briefly, then turned away and walked towards the saloon. Accompanying him were two of his men. They disappeared into the Down and Out and Savage turned his attention to those still on the street. The men were beginning to organize folk who’d come out to look, to assist with the wounded and the fire.

  With their attention elsewhere, Savage crossed the street unseen, the Yellow Boy held firmly in his right hand. He slipped down a narrow alley between two tents and around the back. In the shadows of a timber building, he stopped and reached into his jacket pocket. The muffled clink of .44 cartridges sounded loud in the darkness as he dug some out and reloaded the rifle’s magazine.

  With a round under the hammer, Savage continued silently until he reached the saloon. He found the back door and edged it open. The entrance was near the end of the bar and as he peered in through the crack, he could see Vandal sitting alone and one of the men who’d gone with him sat at a table to the right. That left the other man. Not perfect, but acceptable.

  The door went all the way back and Savage stepped into the room. Roy, the barkeep, was behind the bar pouring a drink for the second man that had been with Vandal.

  Roy’s eyes grew wide, warning the hired gun in front of him. The man whirled on the spot, his hand streaking to the gun at his side. His fingers had only just started to wrap around the weapon’s butt when the Yellow Boy thundered and a blossom of red appeared on his chest.

  The slug blew him backward in front of the bar until his legs gave out and he slumped to the floor. Roy flinched involuntarily and spilled rotgut on the counter. Then he ducked down low attempting to stay out of the firing line.

  The sound of a round being jacked into the chamber was covered by the echo of the first shot. Savage shifted aim and settled the foresight on the man sitting by himself. The man, however, was already on his feet. The chair had flipped over when he’d stood up, and in his hand, was a cocked six-gun.

  The man’s burning desire to stay alive had given him an almost inhuman speed in drawing his gun, which exploded into life. It bucked hard in his fist but the bullet flew wide, hammering into the wall. The man had sacrificed accuracy for speed which was about to prove fatal.

  The bullet from Savage’s rifle slammed into him, knocking backward over the upturned chair. As he fell, his next shot went into the ceiling, raining debris upon a nearby table.

  That left Craig Vandal.

  He sat at his table, unmoved by the violent deaths of those around him. He looked at Savage through passive eyes and said, ‘I had a feeling that you weren’t dead. I’d hoped you were but something told me you were still alive.’

  Savage circled around to get a better look at him, fascinated by the man’s fortitude, and apparent apathy. From behind the bar, Roy tentatively poked up his head.

  Without taking his eyes from Vandal, Savage asked Roy, ‘Have you got a sawn-off under the counter?’

  Roy nodded vigorously. ‘Y – Yes, yes I h
ave.’

  ‘Get it out and cover my back,’ Savage ordered him. ‘Do you think you can do that?’

  ‘S – Sure.’

  ‘Do it then.’

  ‘So, what now?’ Vandal sneered at Savage. ‘You shoot me down where I sit. Murder me like you did my son?’

  Savage opened his mouth to speak but Vandal cut him off.

  ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t kill him,’ he said harshly. ‘You may not have pulled the trigger but if you hadn’t interfered, he would still be alive.’

  Savage ignored him.

  Vandal nodded. ‘Nothing to say. Well, you didn’t answer my question. Maybe we could have a trial. What do you think? Oops, I forgot. The judge kind of lost his head. Come on murderer, what are you going to do?’

  I’m goin’ to blow your damned brains all over this room is what I aim to do.

  Savage motioned with the rifle. ‘Get up.’

  ‘I don’t believe I will,’ Vandal told him, with a shake of his head.

  ‘Get up or I’ll put a bullet in you,’ Savage warned him.

  ‘I don’t believe you will,’ Vandal said. ‘You’re the law.’

  A cold smile split Savage’s lips. If you only knew.

  The Yellow Boy came up and the dark circle of its gaping maw pressed against Vandal’s head. ‘Get up.’

  Through clenched teeth, Vandal snarled, ‘Do it. Go on, kill me.’

  A commotion at the front door was greeted by the throaty roar of the shotgun in Roy’s hands. The charge of buckshot hammered into the wall above the entry, making the men who were trying to enter, turn tail and run.

  The disturbance made Savage whirl about and bring the rifle to bear on the doorway. He realized his mistake immediately and quickly turned back. Seizing the moment, Craig Vandal brought his gun from inside his jacket. The hammer went back as he took aim at the man responsible for the death of his son.

  Savage knew that he was a fraction too late, so he lunged to his left in a desperate move to throw off the would-be killer’s aim.

  The six-gun spat fire and the bullet burned the air close to Savage’s face. A snarl of rage came from Vandal’s lips when he saw that he’d missed. He tried to sight on his target again but Savage had disappeared behind a nearby table.

  He fired twice in frustration and the bullets ripped splinters from the tabletop. Cursing, Vandal stepped forward and grasped the edge of the table, ripping it recklessly aside so he could get at Savage.

  The Drifter was ready for him. He lay on his back and needed only to raise the rifle and fire. Vandal became aware of his mistake a moment before the .44 Henry slug blew a large hole in his skull.

  Savage climbed slowly to his feet. There was a dull throb in his left shoulder where he’d dived on the floor and landed awkwardly. Vandal lay with his eyes open, his body slightly twisted to one side where he’d fallen in a heap.

  ‘Go and join your son,’ Savage murmured. ‘And be damned.’

  ‘Are you OK, sheriff … deputy?’ Roy asked.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine,’ Savage winced.

  ‘You’re wounded,’ Roy said, indicating his back.

  ‘It’s not much,’ Savage dismissed his concern.

  ‘I’ll get one of the girls to look at it for you,’ he persisted. ‘Sit down, before you fall down.’

  The culmination of everything he’d been through over the last week became too much and Savage felt an overwhelming weariness descend upon him. He thought that Roy’s advice might be worth following so he pulled a chair close and sat down. Looking across at the barkeep he said, ‘Get me a drink. A big one.’

  Fifteen

  The following dawn was cold and clear after the storm, and as the sun quickly brightened the surrounding landscape, the heavy scent of burnt green timber hung thick in the air. There were still puddles from the downpour the day before, and deep muddy tracks along the street.

  An hour after dawn had broken, the undertaker managed to retrieve the charred remains of Malavai from the ruins of the jail, with Savage’s supervision. The other bodies, including the head and headless corpse of Judge Perry McArdle, were removed from the street by several men who had tended the wounded the night before.

  For such a small town, it had witnessed too much death. Mostly brought about by a young man who believed he was untouchable and a father with blinders, oblivious to his shortcomings.

  Savage was packing his saddlebags when a large, well-dressed man found him.

  ‘Mr. Savage, do you have a moment?’

  The Drifter was tired and he still hurt from everything that had happened, but he decided to give the man what he asked for. ‘Speak while I’m getting ready to leave.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ the man offered. ‘My name is Meyers. Ralph Meyers.’

  Savage stopped what he was doing and looked at him square on. He was a middle-aged man with brown hair that was graying at the sides.

  ‘What about me leavin’ do you want to know, Mr. Meyers?’

  ‘I – rather, we, were wondering if you would be prepared to stay.’ Meyers looked at the badge sitting on the bed. ‘Maybe be our new sheriff? We’ll need one with Charlie gone.’

  Savage shook his head. ‘I’m leavin’ today. I’m ridin’ for Albuquerque.’

  ‘We would pay you well,’ Meyers said, trying to change Savage’s mind.

  Again, the Drifter shook his head. ‘No. You can do one thing for me though.’

  Although disappointed, Meyers nodded. ‘Name it. After all, the town does owe you something for what you did for us.’

  ‘Over in Bad Tooth, there is a woman by the name of Connie,’ Savage explained. ‘She helped me out when I needed it. Her brother died in the jail last night. Can you send someone over there to tell her?’

  ‘It’s not something you would rather do yourself?’ Meyers asked.

  ‘Not particularly. The last time I was there I had a few problems with the locals.’

  ‘OK. I’ll have someone take care of it.’

  A sharp knock at the door drew their attention, and Roy from the saloon appeared, a worried expression on his face.

  ‘What is it, Roy?’ Meyers asked before Savage could speak.

  ‘He’s back,’ Roy said, excitedly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The killer,’ he told them. ‘Rawhide Allen.’

  Meyers shifted his gaze and looked at Savage. ‘He’ll be after you.’

  ‘He ain’t alone either,’ Roy said. ‘He’s got a woman along with him.’

  A sense of dread filled Savage. ‘What does the woman look like?’

  ‘She was – is a – looks, I mean, like a Negro.’

  ‘Damn it,’ Savage sighed. ‘It don’t ever end.’

  He grabbed the Yellow Boy from the bed and started for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Meyers called after him.

  ‘To finish this,’ Savage said angrily.

  Outside in the street, he saw the killer and the woman, sitting atop their horses, staring at the pile of burned rubble that had once been the jail.

  ‘Hey!’ Savage called out. ‘Are you lookin’ for me?’

  The man appeared to hip in the saddle but stiffened before he’d got halfway. Instead, he turned the horse, trailing the second horse and Connie, and rode over to where Savage stood.

  The first thing that struck the Drifter was the worn and battered look of the woman. She’d obviously had a tough time of it. The second was the way the killer looked. His pallor, his sunken eyes, and hollow cheeks indicated that the man was grievously hurt.

  ‘You’d be Savage,’ he rasped. ‘You’re a hard man to find.’

  Allen coughed, a wet, hacking sound that seemed to take all his strength. His wounds were finally getting the better of him. He decided, however, that he had at least one more kill in him.

  ‘You ain’t doin’ so well, Allen,’ Savage observed. ‘The man who hired you to kill me is dead. Why don’t you let the woman go and get the doc t
o have a look at you?’

  ‘Give me time to get down off this horse and we’ll see how well I am.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? I said the man who hired you is dead. There’s no need to continue.’

  ‘I took money from him. I’ll finish the job.’

  Savage cast a glance at Connie. ‘Are you OK?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll live.’

  With a pained groan, Allen climbed down from the horse and staggered about like a drunk until he regained control of his feet. A slight breeze sprang up and carried the scent of decay to Savage’s nostrils which explained why the killer was the way he was.

  ‘What happened?’ Savage asked, hoping to distract Allen from his task.

  ‘Damn Apaches,’ he answered. ‘One of the bastards shot me. Oh, and the woman stuck me with a knife. Neat trick it was too.’

  He coughed again as he moved away from his horse.

  ‘You don’t need to do this,’ Savage persisted.

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ Allen said, and went for his gun.

  The weapon never even left its holster. As soon as Allen’s hand touched his gun-butt, a coughing fit overcame him. This one would not be stopped and his body convulsed violently with the spasms.

  The Yellow Boy in Savage’s hands remained silent as he watched and waited for Allen to continue his attempt. Allen seemed to regain his breath, composed himself, looked at Savage and was ready to continue when he fell flat on his face and never moved.

  Savage walked over to the prostrate form and squatted next to him. He checked the killer for signs of life but found none.

  ‘Is the son of a bitch dead?’ Connie asked.

  Savage looked up at her. ‘Yeah. He’s dead.’

  He saw the relief flood through her. ‘Thank God.’

  The Drifter stood up and walked over to her horse and started to help her down. While he did, Connie looked about and asked, ‘Where’s Malavai?’