Moses had sacrificed his own life to set off the explosion, happy to see the woman he loved go out in the blaze of glory she so desired.
It was a tragedy. All that had been good about Allison, her beauty, intelligence and loyalty, had been sacrificed on the altar of hate. And in the end, because it is a madness of the heart, hatred always destroys the hater with the hated.
A sickness in him, McBride climbed the hill, aware of McKay, Levy and Kaleen trailing behind him, their eyes stunned and bewildered. Dave Channing emerged from the rocks. He held his smashed shoulder at an odd angle, but otherwise seemed unhurt.
Channing fell in step beside McBride and both men stopped at a safe distance from the burning house. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of scorched flesh, and the cartridges in the belts of the dead gunmen were exploding.
McBride said quietly to Channing, “It’s over.”
But it was not over, not right then.
Unbelievably, a man emerged from the smoke at the rear of the house, his clothing in tatters, his face streaked with soot and grime. He saw the two men and stopped. Ransom Rentzin had lost his gun in the blast, but, his clawed, scorched hands raised in front of him, he screamed and ran at McBride. “I’ll kill you!” he shrieked, his eyes red, crazed with the lust to destroy.
Dave Channing drew and fired, very fast, very smooth. Rentzin dropped, a hole in the middle of his forehead.
The gambler spun his Colt into the holster and smiled. “Now it’s over,” he said.
A week later John McBride sat alone in the El Coyote Azul, his head in his hands, lamenting his lack of customers. The fat ladies were in the kitchen, preparing lunch, but only for themselves.
The curtain across the front door parted and McBride looked up hopefully, but it was Angel Guerrero and Papan Morales who stepped inside.
A huge grin lit up Guerrero’s swarthy face. “McBride, my friend, I am so happy you are still alive.” He raised his eyes heavenward and made a quick cross on his chest. “When so many others are dead.”
“The Elliot house blew up,” McBride said.
Guerrero nodded. “That I heard. Now we will never know if Rentzin found the gold.”
“He found only lead, right between the eyes. Dave Channing killed him.”
“Ah, yes, Dave Channing. He is good with a gun, almost as good as my friend Papan.” He turned his head. “Is that not so, Papan?”
“Almost,” the man answered.
“Are you here to eat, Guerrero?” McBride asked, hope in his eyes. “Or perhaps to drink a glass or two of mescal?”
The bandit looked sad. “Alas, my friend, I cannot tarry long. I have urgent business with a stage line elsewhere.” His face brightened. “You know, McBride, my friend Papan still wants to kill you real bad. Is that not so, Papan?”
“That is so,” the gunman said.
“And why?” Guerrero asked. “It is because you will not pay me my hundred dollars, McBride. And soon it will be two hundred and Papan will be twice as angry.”
McBride looked up at Guerrero’s grinning face and into Papan’s cold eyes. He dropped his head into his hands again and groaned.
Another week passed before the sporting gent arrived. Baxter T. Quarrels drove into Suicide in a rented buggy and stopped at the El Coyote Azul for lunch. He ate a plate of frijoles and beef, then retreated into the relaxing comfort of mescal.
“Are you, my good man, the proprietor of this establishment?” he asked McBride as he brushed cigar ash from his fine broadcloth.
McBride allowed that he was and gave his name. It apparently meant nothing to Quarrels who said, “Please sit down, Mr. McBride. I have questions of a business nature to ask.”
Vaguely interested and having nothing else to do, McBride took a chair opposite the man. Quarrels leaned forward conspiratorially, blue smoke spiraling from his cigar, and asked, “Are you a betting man, Mr. McBride?”
“Not that you’d notice.”
“Ah, well I am. And I’m wagering that”—Quarrels looked over his shoulder and around the empty room—“a certain railroad”—here his voice dropped to a whisper—“shall we call it the Santa Fe?—plans on laying track between El Paso and Abilene as a boon to the cattle industry of southern New Mexico and northern Texas.” Quarrels tapped the side of his nose with a stubby forefinger. “Don’t ask me how I know, but I know.” He winked. “I have contacts in high places.”
McBride was puzzled. “And your question is?”
Quarrels put his mouth close to McBride’s ear. “I believe the railroad will run right through this fair town, and a station and cattle pens will be built here. That’s why I want to buy properties along the right of way.” He leaned back in his chair. “Do you know of any such for sale at the right price?”
McBride rose to his feet. “Excuse me, Mr. Quarrels,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He dashed into the kitchen and quickly put on his celluloid collar and his tie. Then he sat opposite Quarrels again.
“Why don’t you buy this place?” he asked. “I’ve got two fat ladies in the kitchen and all you’d have to do is sit back and rake in the money. You will live a life of prosperity and ease.”
Quarrels looked around the cantina and seemed impressed. “What kind of figure were you thinking of, Mr. McBride, huh?”
McBride said, “I have several young wards that I must send to finishing school back east and for that reason I’m letting the El Coyote Azul go dirt cheap.”
“How much?”
“A thousand dollars. I assure you, the cantina is worth twice that amount.”
Quarrels’ face took on a calculating expression; then he said, thinking aloud, “A life of luxury and ease indeed.” The man smiled. “Yes, you interest me, Mr. McBride. Tell me more.”
And John McBride, very soon to be the ex-proprietor of the El Coyote Azul, did.
Shadow of the Gun Page 22