Shadow of the Gun

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  “What’s the butcher’s bill, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, Trooper Dewey is dead and I believe Corporal King won’t last out the hour.”

  “And the Apaches?”

  “Eleven warriors killed, sir, plus one other who may have already been dead before our attack.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Twenty dead. Six squaws, the rest children. There were no old people.”

  Fowlis absorbed this for a few moments, then smiled. “We’ve done an excellent morning’s work, Lieutenant.”

  Armstrong snapped off a sharp salute, his face impassive. “As you say, sir.”

  After Fowlis left, Bear said, “Well, he did save your life, John. And mine.”

  McBride spat, as though to get rid of a bad taste in his mouth. “He’s a murderer.”

  Bear smiled and shook his head. “No, John. Kill one man and you are a murderer. Kill hundreds or thousands or tens of thousands and you’re a conqueror. Captain Fowlis will be hailed as a hero and get a medal for this.”

  “Maybe so, but I’d like to put a bullet in him.”

  “Ah, the worm turns. The pot scrubber becomes a gunfighter again.”

  McBride thought about that and said, “No, Bear, the worm hasn’t turned. Now more than ever I’m all through with guns and killing. It’s high time I got back to the El Coyote Azul and my fat ladies.”

  Later, as McBride and Bear rode into the arroyo, rifles were firing and the ponies were dying.

  Chapter 12

  McBride and Bear put their horses up at the livery stable. There was no sign of Jim Drago. But Bear insisted on stopping at the general store for tobacco, and when he and McBride stepped inside, the little man was standing at the counter.

  Drago was examining a pair of expensive boots, hand tooled and adorned with the Texas star.

  “…standing on my shelf for a year or more,” the store owner was saying. “Those boots were made for John Wesley Hardin himself, but he never picked them up and I bought them down Dallas way.”

  “How much?” the dwarf asked.

  The gray-haired man behind the counter pretended to think about it, but McBride was pretty certain he already had a figure in mind.

  “For a pair of boots like that, sixty stitches to the inch using an awl so fine the bootmaker could stick his finger with it and not bleed, for boots like that—”

  “How much?” Drago snapped.

  The storekeeper read something in the little man’s eyes he didn’t like. He said quickly, “A hundred dollars. And that’s me letting them go to you at cost, Jim.”

  “You’re a liar,” Drago said.

  For the first time the dwarf turned and looked at McBride and Bear. “Well, well, well, look what the cat just drug in.” He smirked. “Been out riding, have you? Maybe you met Manuel Cortez on the trail, huh?”

  Behind the counter the storekeeper looked like he’d been slapped, his lips white and pinched. In the West, to call a man a liar was the worst kind of insult, and a shooting matter. But the gray-haired man was afraid of Drago and it showed.

  McBride decided to intervene, but Bear was on the prod and spoke first: “Drago, where does a dirty lowlife like you, a man who consorts with rats, get the money to buy boots like those?”

  “That’s for me to know,” Drago said defensively. His right hand was inching behind his back to his waistband.

  The muzzle of Bear’s Henry rose a couple of inches until it was pointed right at Drago’s navel. “In my life I’ve killed seven men, one very recently,” he said. “I don’t mind adding half a man to my score.”

  McBride was watching Drago’s face. He saw something flicker in his eyes, anger certainly, and something else…wariness. The little man must know that if he drew on Bear Miller, he’d be dead before his gun cleared.

  Then Drago confirmed it. “Not today, Miller,” he said, letting his hand drop to his side. “Soon, but not today.”

  “Like I told you before, I’ll be waiting,” Bear said. He kept his gun on the man.

  Drago swung away, reached into his pocket and dropped two shining double eagles onto the counter. He grabbed the boots. “Thanks.”

  “But that’s only half what I asked for, you little—”

  Drago swung the boots, the hard, two-inch heels slamming against the storekeeper’s left cheekbone, opening a deep cut that bled immediately. “When I want lip from a damned grocery clerk, I’ll ask for it,” he snarled.

  The dwarf, his face black with rage, elbowed between McBride and Bear and stalked out of the store. The man behind the counter was holding a wadded handkerchief to his face. It was stained red.

  “Someday,” Bear said, looking at Drago’s receding back as he walked in the direction of the livery, “I’ll kill that man.”

  “I’ll dance on his grave when you do,” the storekeeper said.

  After Bear got his tobacco he walked to the cantina with McBride. They stepped inside and were immediately assailed by female wails from the kitchen.

  The men exchanged puzzled glances. Then McBride crossed the floor and walked into the kitchen, Bear at his heels.

  The two fat ladies sat at an empty table. McBride noted that all the shelves were empty as well.

  One of the women rose to her feet, tears staining her plump cheeks.

  “What’s wrong?” McBride asked.

  The woman looked at him blankly and Bear said, “¿Qué está equivocado?”

  Throwing up her arms, the fat lady launched into a long tirade in Spanish, punctuated by sobbing and more tears. When she was all used up she flopped down at the table and buried her face in her hands. At once the other woman jumped to her feet and took up where the first one had left off.

  Finally Bear, using a lot of cooing and tut-tutting noises, got the women calmed down. Then he turned to McBride, grinning. “You want the whole kit an’ caboodle, or only the gist of it?”

  “Break it down, for God’s sake,” McBride said, horrified.

  “Well, near as I can tell, you ran out of food the day before yesterday. The young ladies say they’re missing their last six meals and they’re already fading away.” Bear’s grin stretched wider. “I’d say they’re down to about three-fifty apiece, poor things.”

  McBride was not in the mood for humor. Having no food to cook for the paying customers was a disaster. “What else did they say?”

  Bear looked down at the women, asked them a question in Spanish and listened intently to their answers. He turned back to McBride. “They went to the general store for supplies, but Jed McKay—that’s the man Drago hit—refused to give them credit.” Bear frowned. “After that it gets a tad hazy on account of how McKay don’t have much Spanish. But, again, the gist of it is that Manuel Cortez skipped town owing McKay eighty dollars and he won’t extend any more credit to the El Coyote Azul until the debt is paid.” After a moment’s hesitation he added, “In full.”

  McBride was stricken. He didn’t have eighty dollars. He didn’t have twenty dollars. Or ten. Without flour, beans, beef, salt, coffee, spices…mescal…beer—the list ground on remorselessly in McBride’s head—he couldn’t feed his paying customers.

  Hope flared in him like a bright star. “Bear, ask them how many customers we’ve had since I’ve been gone.”

  Bear asked the question in Spanish and even McBride understood the women’s answer. “Nada.”

  The star flared and blinked out.

  “Boy, I’d say you’re in a heap of trouble,” Bear said, stating the obvious.

  “I’ll talk to McKay,” McBride said.

  Bear’s face creased into a grim smile. “You didn’t see him at his best today, John. The Poisoned Dwarf has a way of doing that to people. Ordinarily Jed McKay is a mean, grasping man who would wrench the last nickel out of a widow woman’s hand and watch her orphans starve. He ain’t about to forgive and forget an eighty-dollar debt.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  Bear shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

&n
bsp; McBride stepped out of the kitchen and behind him the women’s wails began anew. He would talk to McKay. But he felt like a man about to put his head in a hangman’s noose.

  The cut on Jed McKay’s cheek had stopped bleeding, but the blow from Drago had left a nasty arc-shaped cut that looked red and raw. The skin around the cut was swollen and purplish blue in color.

  McKay nodded but showed no hint of recognition when the big man stepped into the store. McBride was wearing his suit coat, freshly brushed, celluloid collar and tie and plug hat, hoping to present as businesslike an appearance as possible.

  “What can I do for you?” McKay asked.

  McBride smiled. He pointed to the cut on his cheek from the Apache knife. “I’ve got the same injury.” He was desperately trying to form a bond with McKay.

  It didn’t work.

  “What can I do for you?” the man asked again, disinterest in his eyes but a slight edge to his voice.

  “I’m John McBride, the new proprietor of the El Coyote Azul.”

  “You’ve come to pay your debt, huh?”

  McBride forced a grin. This was starting off badly.

  “No, I’m here to ask you for an extended line of credit. Once the cantina starts to prosper, I—”

  “Mr. McBride, you already owe me eighty dollars.” McKay placed his hands on the counter beside the cigar case. He leaned forward. “Further credit is out of the question.”

  The man was as unbending as steel, but McBride tried again.

  “Mr. McKay, that debt was owed by the former proprietor of the cantina, one Manuel Cortez, now deceased. As the new owner I am hardly responsible for his debts.”

  The storekeeper showed a spark of surprise. “Cortez is dead?”

  “Yes, he sold his place to me, then left town and—”

  “Say no more.” McKay held up his hands, shaking his head. “It’s forbidden for anyone to leave Suicide.”

  “I did, a few days ago.”

  “You are a newcomer and perhaps the rule doesn’t apply to you.”

  His credit momentarily forgotten, McBride was intrigued. “Who made this rule?”

  McKay’s face closed down. “Will that be all?”

  Further questions about the rule would go nowhere and McBride knew it. He changed tack. “About Cortez—”

  McKay sighed, a long, drawn-out whine that rattled phlegm in his chest. “The state of Mr. Cortez’s mortality is neither here nor there. The debt was incurred when I gave him credit to purchase supplies for his restaurant. Therefore it is the debt of the El Coyote Azul, which you, as the new proprietor, are duty bound to honor.”

  “Allow me just a little longer,” McBride pleaded. “I’m sure the cantina will soon be prospering.”

  “Splendid! When it is, you can come settle your debt to me, Mr. McBride. Now, good day to you, sir.”

  Defeated, his pride sagging around his ankles like dropped pants, McBride turned and stepped to the door. McKay’s voice stopped him.

  “There is one thing.”

  “What’s that?” McBride asked, fearing more bad news.

  “Earlier today you witnessed my unfortunate incident with Jim Drago.” McKay’s fingers strayed to his damaged cheek. His gray eyes were hard and tight, like bullets peering out of the cylinder of a Colt. “The dwarf owes me fifty dollars. I want it.”

  “That’s no concern of mine,” McBride said, his run-in with the storekeeper still smarting. He turned to go.

  “Wait, John McBride! I know who you are.”

  McBride smiled. “So do I. I’m the man who just asked you for credit and was refused.”

  McKay ignored that. “You’re a gunfighter out of the Colorado Picketwire country, sometimes known as the Tenderfoot Kid. You’re the man who killed Hack Burns, him who carried the Mark of Cain on his face.”

  “I’m the proprietor of the El Coyote Azul,” McBride said stiffly. “Nothing more.” He walked away and McKay called out after him.

  “Get my fifty dollars back from the dwarf and I’ll cancel your debt and extend you a six-month line of credit.”

  McBride stopped. For a few moments there was silence, McKay’s chesty wheeze the only sound. “You’re a vengeful man, McKay,” he said suddenly.

  “Yes I am. And you are a desperate one.”

  The truth cut McBride like a bullwhip. “I’ll get your damned money,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  Clouds crowded the sky, sending the sun into hiding, as John McBride walked to the livery stable, a cold wind pinching at his nose and ears. Echoing from the blacksmith’s shop he heard the clang of a hammer on iron, and as he passed the saloon, a bald man with bushy sideburns stepped outside and threw a bucket of dirty water into the street.

  The man glanced at McBride, looked again, then stood watching him for long moments before he turned back into the saloon.

  For his part, McBride saw nothing. He walked, deep in thought, his head bent against the wind. The last thing in the world he wanted was a fight with Jim Drago. He planned to be polite, businesslike and above all show no aggression.

  “Mr. McKay down at the general store would like the fifty dollars you owe him for the boots. He’s sure it just slipped your mind.”

  Yes, something like that. To the point, but real neighborly, as though he were talking to kinfolk.

  He conjured up a mental picture of Drago, the small, deformed body, huge head and the man’s permanent, ferocious scowl. He was poison all right, but the very existence of the cantina was at stake and with it the fate of his young Chinese charges. He could not fail. One way or another he had to get the money from Drago.

  One way or another…

  The stable door creaked as McBride pushed it open. The interior was dim and no lamps were lit. The place was quiet, ominous, the shadows angled sharply and dark, full of mystery. Unarmed as he was, McBride knew he was hanging himself out to dry, but he breathed away his butterflies and hollered, “Drago! Jim Drago!”

  The response was immediate. “What the hell do you want, McBride?”

  Was the dwarf watching him or had he only recognized the Yankee twang?

  “We need to talk, Jim,” McBride said into the gray half-light, throwing his voice to reach to the rear of the barn where the black rats scuttled.

  “We got nothing to say to each other.”

  “I need a favor, Jim.” The words tasted like lye soap in McBride’s mouth.

  A long silence. McBride could sense the little man’s astonishment. Then a laugh, a high, grating screech filled with scorn and malice.

  “You want a favor from me? That’ll be the day.”

  Drago emerged from the gloom. His left hand was stuck inside one of the fancy Texas boots and the other held a yellow polishing cloth. “I asked you before, McBride, what do you want?”

  He had rehearsed it; now McBride said it aloud. “Jim, Mr. McKay down at the general store would like the fifty dollars you owe him for the boots. He’s sure it just slipped your mind.”

  Drago stared at him coldly, without expression. He asked, “Did he send you here to collect?”

  “I’m…ah…acting as his agent in this matter.”

  “The fifty I gave him was too much. These boots ain’t even worth twenty-five.”

  “Still,” McBride said, “Mr. McKay’s price was one hundred dollars.”

  Drago let his hands drop to his side. He was holding the boot and cloth. “McBride, you go to hell. And take that other idiot McKay with you.”

  John McBride’s pride had already taken a pounding that day and now something snapped inside him. “Listen, Drago, you piece of trash, give me the fifty dollars or I’ll hammer you into the ground like a ten-penny nail.”

  He knew how it would happen and it did. Drago dropped the cloth even as his right hand was moving behind him. McBride covered the distance between them with a few long strides. He saw the Colt come up and chopped down with the blade of his right hand onto Drago’s wrist. The little man squealed and the revo
lver dropped from his numb fingers, thudding into the dirt.

  Displaying amazing speed and agility, Drago turned and vaulted over a stall partition. He came up with a pitchfork in his hand and threw it like a spear at McBride. The big man stepped quickly to his right and the fork sang through the air where his head had been a split second earlier.

  McBride charged, but Drago easily eluded him. The dwarf ran out of the stall and scrambled swiftly up the ladder to the hayloft. McBride went after him. Drago had found another pitchfork and as McBride’s head appeared, he jabbed at him. The big man ducked and the tines of the fork rammed an inch into the timber frame around the opening.

  Drago was desperately trying to free the pitchfork as McBride reappeared. He grabbed the fork and pushed it up and away from him, wood splintering as the tines ripped free. McBride threw the pitchfork into the shadows and began to climb into the loft. Drago screeched and aimed a kick at his head. The little man’s feet were bare and McBride grabbed Drago’s ankle as his foot swung toward him. He yanked upward and the dwarf crashed onto his back. McBride descended the ladder, dragging Drago after him. The little man’s head hit every rung and he was dazed by the time McBride reached the ground.

  Anger flared in McBride. Drago had tried to kill him twice and he felt no mercy toward him. He was a tall man, strong in the arms and wrists, and he bent, grabbed the dwarf’s ankles and held him upside down, shaking him. Coins tumbled from Drago’s pockets onto the dirt and McBride said, breathing hard, “When the pile reaches fifty dollars I’ll stop.”

  Drago was screaming at the top of his lungs, angry curses mixed with threats. “I’ll kill you for this, McBride!” he screeched. “I’ll shoot you down in the street like a dog.”

  McBride shook Drago harder, an up-and-down motion that made the little man’s head bounce and more money to spill from his pockets.

  “Has it reached fifty dollars yet, Drago, huh?” McBride asked. His arms were tiring but his anger would not let him quit.

  “Please, Mr. McBride, let that man go.”

  Startled, McBride turned and saw the biggest black man he’d ever seen in his life—or white man either, come to that. He stood almost seven foot tall with huge hands that dangled from the sleeves of a black frock coat that was three sizes too small for him.