Shadow of the Gun

by West, Joseph A. ; Compton, Ralph

  The youngster shrugged, swung gracefully out of the saddle and gathered up his pony’s reins. “I couldn’t just stand by and let a pig farmer gun you, John McBride.” He smiled. “I mean, on account of how I plan on killing you myself.”

  Chapter 23

  Bear Miller’s eyes were hostile. His rifle hung in his hands, but he was ready. “And just when do you plan on killing Marshal McBride?”

  Rentzin struck a pose, his thumbs tucked into his crossed gun belts. “Well, let me see. Is there a newspaper in this godforsaken burg?”

  “No,” McBride answered.

  “Too bad. They could have written a story about me like they do for that Billy the Kid feller.” Rentzin’s face screwed up in thought. He looked like a cherub from a Renaissance altar fresco, with mild, baby blue eyes, blond hair and a full-lipped mouth that any woman would have envied.

  But what came out of the youngster’s angelic mouth was pure evil. “Lemme see, you got two dead men who will start to stink by nightfall, so they’ll be buried tomorrow.” He grinned. “Now, it’s been my experience that after a buryin’, men head for the saloon to drown their sorrows and celebrate their still being alive. So there it is, John McBride—I’ll gun you tomorrow. Best you come to the saloon so I don’t have to go looking for you. If you make me do that, I’ll gut-shoot you and you’ll die real slow.” The smile widened. “I mean, on account of me being so upset an’ all.”

  “I won’t fight you, boy,” McBride said. “I don’t even carry a gun.”

  Rentzin stroked his pony’s nose. He was grinning widely, like somebody had just told him a good joke. “Ah, but see, that don’t matter none. Heeled or not, when the smoke clears and you’re lying dead in the sawdust, I’ll still be the man who killed the man who killed Hack Burns. See how it works?”

  McBride made no answer, his anger rising, but Bear spoke up. “Kid, you came all the way from the Brazos, through an Apache uprising, just to kill a man?”

  Rentzin laughed. “Sure I did, and it took me a spell to find this place, let me tell you. But I’m not here to kill just any man. I’m here to kill John McBride, the Tenderfoot Kid.” His eyes slid to McBride. “Though right now in that city-feller plug hat an’ necktie you sure don’t look like much.”

  “Maybe not,” Bear said. “But he’s my friend.”

  Rentzin’s grin slipped. “You keep out of this old man. My fight ain’t with you, so don’t go making any mistakes.”

  “You scared of me, boy?” Bear asked.

  The youngster was genuinely astonished. “Scared of an old coot like you? Are you crazy?”

  “Well, you should be.”

  Bear swung up his Henry to waist level and fired. He was aiming for the belly and that’s where he hit. Rentzin was a small man and the shock of the big .44-40 bullet rocked him, tearing a scream out of his lungs. Right then he knew he was dead, but he drew with flashing speed and both his Remingtons leveled—at McBride!

  The big man saw the danger and threw himself to his right. He heard the vicious pop! pop! of Rentzin’s guns, loaded light to reduce recoil. As McBride hit the ground, two bullets chipped the cantina’s adobe wall where he’d been standing.

  Bear levered the Henry and fired again, this time an aimed shot from the shoulder. He was patient. The bullet hit Rentzin at the bottom of the V made by his open shirt collar. Rentzin gagged and staggered back, his Remingtons lowering. Bear shot him again.

  Rentzin went to his knees, blood staining the cupid mouth, trickling down his chin. His eyes were on Bear, angry, accusing. “You dirty old…you old…”

  Then he died.

  The old scout stepped beside the dead kid. He shook his head almost sadly. “Boy,” he said, real quiet, “somebody taught you real well, but they didn’t teach you that when killing’s to be done, you don’t talk, you shoot.”

  McBride rose to his feet and Bear turned to him. “Now there’s another man to stink before sundown,” he said. He smiled. “Three dead men and it ain’t even noon yet. This burg is sure getting some snap.”

  His face stiff with shock, McBride looked at Bear. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

  “Yes I did. He would have killed you, John. His mind was made up, and you aren’t near good enough to shade a man like that. You wouldn’t even be close.”

  “I could have talked him out of it.”

  “Roddy Rentzin was a talkin’ man, sure enough,” Bear allowed. “But when his talkin’ was done he’d have drawed down on you and put a bullet through your brain pan.”

  Dave Channing walked to the cantina from the door of the saloon. He looked at Bear, a slight smile on his lips. “You didn’t give him much of a fair shake, did you?”

  The old man’s dislike of Channing bubbled to the surface. “You saying I should have politely asked him to draw down on me?”

  Channing shook his head. He was still smiling. “I’m not saying that. You kill a man any way you can. The bottom line is, fair shake or no, he’s dead and you’re alive.”

  “Damn right,” Bear said. “First sensible thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  Men were gathering around the cantina again, one of them Jed McKay. His horrified eyes widened when he saw Rentzin sprawled dead on the ground. “My God,” he whispered, “another one. What is happening to us?”

  “His name is Roddy Rentzin, a fast gun out of the Brazos River country,” Bear said. “At least he was until very recently. He came all the way up here”—the old man grinned—“to gun your town marshal.”

  McKay’s eyes moved to McBride. “Why?”

  “Because I’m the man who killed Hack Burns,” McBride answered, his voice bitter. “That’s all the reason he needed.”

  A silence fell over the crowd, each man busy with his own thoughts. It was Bear who broke it.

  “Just to cheer everybody up,” he said with a grin, “I got more good news. Young Roddy there has three gunfighting brothers. There’s Reuben, Rufus and Ransom, and Ransom is the worst of them, fast with the iron and a man-killer from way back.” The old scout paused for effect. “They could come here a-lookin’.”

  A man in the crowd said, “I seen you kill the kid, Bear. If them Rentzin boys come here, it’s you they’ll be a-looking for.”

  “Could be,” Bear said. “Only thing is, when the Rentzins gather for a killing, they don’t much like leaving witnesses behind. Catch my drift?”

  “They can’t kill everybody in town,” McKay scoffed.

  Bear grinned. “Oh yes they can. The Rentzins are hell on wheels and they’ll play hob. And they won’t do it alone. Them boys ride with a dozen hard cases that make the worst bronco Apaches look like a bunch of maiden aunts.”

  McKay thought that through; then he made up his mind. “Nobody knows that gunfighter was ever in Suicide, do they?” He was talking to McBride.

  “All I know is he came up from the Brazos after me. Maybe he told his brothers where he was headed, maybe not.”

  “Even if he did, he wouldn’t have mentioned this town by name. Up until today he probably didn’t even know we existed.”

  McBride nodded. “I’d say that’s the case.”

  “Then he was never here, and that’s what we’ll tell the Rentzins if they come. We’ll get rid of any trace of him.” McKay talked beyond McBride to the crowd. “You men, grab picks and shovels from my store and come with me. We’ll bury this man deep, well away from town. We’ll bury his guns and saddle with him.” The storekeeper’s eyes moved over faces and stopped at Nathan Levy. “Nathan, take his horse into the hills and shoot it. The coyotes will soon clean up the mess.”

  “Nice horse,” Levy said, patting the animal on the neck. “I’ve always liked paints.”

  “Just do as I say. Take the damn thing far away and shoot it where it won’t be found.”

  Levy nodded. “I’ll shoot it.”

  McKay clapped his hands, his breath clouding in the cold air. “Right, then let’s get started. We’re going to kill Roddy Rentzin all o
ver again and bury him where he’ll never be found.”

  John McBride stood at the door of the El Coyote Azul and moodily looked out at the hammering rain kicking up Vs of yellow mud in the street. It was noon, but there was no sun, the clouds thick and black, casting a gloomy, dark pall over the town and the surrounding land.

  “Do you think they’ll come?” McBride asked without turning his head.

  “Who?”

  “The Rentzin boys.”

  From inside the cantina, Bear said, “I’m sure of it. That is, if they can find their way.”

  “Maybe McKay is right. If people say Roddy Rentzin wasn’t here, they might ride on.”

  “They mought. But you better not be here, or me.”

  “You mean hide out until they’re gone?”

  “Something like that.”

  McBride shook his head. “You know, so far my profit from the cantina has been three dollars and seventeen cents, and all of that goes to McKay. I’m beginning to think I made a mistake buying this place.”

  “You mean you’ve only begun to realize that?”

  In the distance thunder rumbled, coming off the Guadalupe peaks. As though he hadn’t heard Bear, McBride said, “I’ve got the people of Suicide to worry about, who’s killing them. I told Allison I’d protect her, but from what? Throw in two fat ladies who are eating up all my profits, Angel Guerrero and his bandits and now the Rentzin brothers. I’d say I have more woes than a man should reasonably be expected to handle.”

  The old scout joined McBride at the door, a glass of mescal in his hand. He glanced outside and spat into the mud. “You could always go home. Go back to New York.”

  McBride turned his head and smiled at the old man. “I’m not exactly a stalwart frontiersman, am I?”

  “You do all right, John. Your trouble is, you have a reputation as a gunfighter you don’t deserve and that will haunt you wherever you go. Leave this place, change your name and give the hardware business a try. Or go be a detective again in the big city.”

  McBride suddenly felt defensive. “Hey, I’m pretty good with a gun.”

  The old man nodded. “Yes, I’d say you’re handy with a revolver, fair to middling with a rifle. But you lack the one thing a gunfighter needs.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re not a born killer.”

  “Like you?”

  “Exactly right. Just like me.”

  “Did gunning Roddy Rentzin today trouble you?”

  “I did what I had to do. I had to kill him.”

  “Bear, did it trouble you?”

  “No.”

  “It troubled me. He was so young, just a kid.”

  “He was grown enough to carry a gun and take his chances. He would have killed you, John.”

  “Suppose I’d been carrying my self-cocker?”

  “He would still have killed you.”

  “If it came down to it, how would I stand with the Rentzins?”

  “On his worst day, the slowest of the brothers could outdraw and kill you.”

  Despite his gloominess, McBride laughed. “Bear, you surely know how to cheer a man. According to you, just about anybody in the West who carries a gun can shade me.”

  The old scout’s eyes held no humor. “I’m just telling you how it is, John. Or how it’s going to be.”

  Chapter 24

  Wearing Bear Miller’s slicker, John McBride climbed the hill toward the Elliot house in a heavy downpour. The ground was slick and muddy underfoot and made walking difficult. Thunder crashed and lightning reached Jack Frost fingers across the sky, flaring a mother-of-pearl brilliance that momentarily banished the murkiness of the day.

  A cold wind drove rain into McBride’s face and drummed on his plug hat as he angled away from the house for fifty yards, then stopped at a flatiron-shaped shelf of red sandstone that jutted from the hillside. Sagebrush grew thickly around the base of the rock along with a few stunted juniper.

  McBride looked back at the cantina. A rifleman hidden in the brush would have had a clear shot at Adam Whitehead. He could then have climbed higher up the hill to where the juniper was thicker and disappeared from sight. A small man, if he was dressed right, would have blended with the brush and rocks, especially in the gray, early-morning light.

  A man like the dwarf Jim Drago.

  McBride scouted around the rock and delved into the sagebrush. He found nothing. Thunderclouds were rolling overhead and now lightning cracked every few seconds. A gusting wind hammered icy rain at McBride, heedless of his discomfort, reminding him that he was alone on a hillside where every roar of thunder could be followed by instant, flashing death.

  He left the rock and retraced his steps, his feet slipping on glassy mud.

  All the windows but one were open at the Elliot house. The window of the turret room where he’d heard Allison talking with a man was tight shut. McBride did some mental calculations, looking down the hill again. A rifleman in the turret room would also have a clear shot at Whitehead. All he’d have had to do was make the kill, quickly shut the window and vanish into a rectangle of darkness.

  His mind working, McBride wiped rain from his eyes. Adam Whitehead and his wife had made no secret of the fact that they wanted to burn Allison as a witch and hang Moses and Drago. The woman had motive and she, or someone close to her, could have waited in the turret room with a rifle until Whitehead showed in the street.

  McBride acknowledged to himself that Allison, though stunningly beautiful, was strange, almost to the point of mental illness. But did that make her a cold-blooded killer? She’d told him that someone else had killed the men who had tried to rob her. The man who pulled the trigger could have been Drago or Moses. Or was it someone else, someone McBride would never suspect?

  The answer to McBride’s questions could lie within the walls of the house. Somehow he had to get inside without being seen. He needed to search the turret room.

  The open windows!

  He could wait until dark and climb through a window into the house. It would be risky, but worth it. The answer to a lot of questions might lie in that tiny room…and put him on the trail of a killer.

  As he made his way back down the hill, McBride made up his mind. He would do it tonight.

  The late afternoon was trying desperately to hang on to the feeble light of day in a futile attempt to hold off the coming of darkness. The thunder had passed but the rain fell steadily, turning the street into a sluggish river of yellow mud.

  McBride had no customers, little hope of customers, and even the normally cheerful fat ladies seemed depressed, picking unenthusiastically at their food in the kitchen. The El Coyote Azul had all the warmth of a tomb, the only sound the steady plop! plop! plop! of water from the leaky roof falling into the tin buckets McBride had scattered around the floor.

  Restlessly, he stepped to the door and looked outside through the shifting shroud of the raking rain. He was waiting for the death of the day but it seemed it would never come. Down at the saloon someone was picking out the tune of “Buckeye Jim,” a lonesome jangle of discordant notes tinkling from a tinny piano. Jed McKay had already shut his store, its single window dark. Smoke from wood fires hung in the air, acrid and sharp, and over by the cottonwoods the first of the night birds were calling.

  McBride was about to go back inside when he caught sight of a lone horseman splashing across the rain-swollen creek. The rider sat slumped in the saddle, his chin on his chest, the posture of a tired man or a dead one.

  It took McBride a while before he recognized Bear Miller’s tall horse and his buckskin shirt black with rain. Worry in him, he stepped out of the cantina into the downpour, watching Bear come.

  The old man had turned toward the livery, but he spotted McBride and swung his black toward him. Bear drew rein at the cantina door. His face was gray, a man teetering on the brink of complete exhaustion.

  “They’re coming, John,” he said, his eyes far away, still somewhere back on the trail he’
d ridden. “I smelled them all morning and left on a scout, and now I know—they’re coming.”

  McBride stepped to Bear’s stirrup. “Who is coming?”

  “Apaches. Maybe twenty-five, thirty bucks. All of them painted for war. No women or children.”

  “Bear,” McBride said hurriedly, panic spiking in him, “are they headed here? Now?”

  “Not now, later. Maybe tomorrow. But Apaches are notional. They could come anytime.” Bear swayed in the saddle. “They’re camped about ten miles back, in an arroyo just east of Guadalupe Peak. I got close, John, real close. They were drinking tiswin, getting loud, and I heard a fair piece of what they were saying. The young warriors are real worked up about the massacre of the women and children we saw at the ranchería. They’ve got so much blood in their eyes, it could be some of them lost kinfolk.”

  For a moment Bear’s face was hidden in shadow under the brim of his hat; then he raised his head again. “I heard them, John, heard them plain. They’re coming here. Burn this town and kill everybody…revenge raid…coming here…”

  The old man’s story was breaking into pieces. He reeled in the saddle and McBride caught him as he fell.

  The fat ladies rushed to Bear’s side after McBride laid him out on a table. “Coffee,” he said. “And whiskey.”

  That much English the women understood. Within a few minutes they had the old scout sitting up, holding coffee spiked with bourbon to his lips, cooing over him like amorous turtledoves.

  “Feeling better?” McBride asked.

  Bear nodded, grinning. Displaying the incredible resilience of the frontiersman, he was looking better. “I’m drinking coffee and whiskey and I’m surrounded by about seven hundred pounds of female. How would you feel?”

  Normally McBride would have laughed, but right then he was hard-pressed to see humor in anything. “How long do we have?” he asked.

  “Like I said, John, an Apache is mighty notional. Sometimes he doesn’t even know what he’s thinking his ownself and that makes him hard to read. I’d say tomorrow, the next day or when the rain lets off, whatever comes first.”