Gold Dust

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  “Edward White.”

  “And you?”

  “Anna.”

  “Y’all married?”

  “No.” Anna’s answer was clipped.

  “Well, it’s good to meet y’all.” Despite her black eye and swollen nose, he was even more interested, now that he knew they weren’t a couple. “These are from a ranch out west of Vernon. An old boy I know’s getting a divorce and he told me, he said, ‘Jimmy Don, she ain’t getting nothing. Sell these cows quick and give me the cash.’”

  Anna frowned. “That doesn’t seem fair to her.”

  Owen shrugged and tried not to lick his lips. Anna was the kind of woman that made him all loose and jittery inside. Even the bruises made her more interesting. “It’s not my dance. How do you want to do this? You want me to pull through here and let ’em out?”

  Dale coughed and Anna shifted to see over Owen’s shoulder. “Somebody sounds sick.”

  “That’s my buddy. He’s got a bad old cold. He’ll be fine. In fact, I bet he goes to sleep early tonight. You have any supper plans?” He licked his lips. His tongue protruded far too long.

  “Ed and I are eating with my folks. That’s why we need to get done.”

  “Oh.” Owen’s possum eyes lingered on her breasts half-hidden by a light barn coat. He was disappointed, but had her number in his pocket and figured he’d call in a few days, in case she was really interested but wouldn’t say anything in front of Ed. He jerked a thumb toward the fence. “That gate?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “Good. You have the cash first.” He drug his eyes up to a busted blood vessel in the corner of her left eye. “It ain’t that I don’t trust a pretty little lady like you, but…you know…”

  “I understand.” She turned toward a red smokehouse not far away. “John, would you come out here and help us unload these cattle?”

  A huge black man in overalls and a well-worn canvas coat came around the corner and waved. “Sho’ will.” He stopped beside the overgrown corner fencepost by the truck’s right front fender.

  Owen watched him unlock the gate. The healthy cattle on the other side of the fence weighed on his mind. He tore himself away and back to the conversation at hand. “The cash?”

  “In a minute. We’re waiting for the stock inspector to get here. He’ll check the brands and then we can finish the deal.”

  “Stock inspector? You didn’t say anything about a stock inspector.” All those warm feelings about Anna rushed to the bottom of his pot belly.

  Alarm bells went off in his head. The big black man wasn’t acting right, either, still fooling with the gate and the wire. Owen glanced at the overgrown vines. Nothing is straight in nature, and the lines of a shotgun leaning against the corner post stood out in the tangle. Owen realized they’d been set up and dug into run.

  “Dale! He’s going for a gun! Shoot that sonofabitch at the gate!”

  Dale lost a moment opening the door and leaning out to pull the trigger on the German Luger as fast as he could. Ducking, John missed his grab at the shotgun. He dove for cover against the truck’s grill and out of sight from the cab.

  Owen yanked a .38 revolver from his belt and fired at both Anna and Edward at the same time. The first round snapped close to Edward. The retired marshal produced a revolver from his coat pocket. Off balance and trying to get out of the line of fire, he shot and missed.

  Anna dropped and scrambled behind Edward’s truck, pulling the trigger on her double-action revolver three times as she scurried to shelter. Caught in the open, Owen grunted at the impact and stutter-stepped between the truck and trailer. Edward sprinted to cover, shooting single-action all the way. One of the rounds plowed up a gout of sand from the yard. Another punched through the side of the rustlers’ truck.

  The outlaws were in trouble. There was no way to back up a trailer-load of cattle in the middle of a gunfight. The only option was to drive straight through the gate, but that move would get them deeper into the pasture with no clear escape route.

  “Deputy sheriff! Give it up!” Anna fired as Owen jumped over the trailer’s tongue, putting the load of cattle between him and the guns spitting lead in his direction. Dale piled out of the cab and followed, firing over his shoulder to keep John down.

  With the truck and trailer between them and the law, the rustlers sprinted across the yard and into a thin line of trees lining the drive. Pistol rounds whined overhead and ricocheted off the trunks.

  Owen glanced over his shoulder and saw the black man snatch the pump twelve from the tangle of vines. “Shotgun!”

  Deep booms punctuated the sharper slaps from the handguns. Dale grunted and lurched against Owen at the same time a pickup turned off the gravel road, heading in their direction. He grabbed his off-balance partner’s collar and dragged him behind a ragged row of thick cedars.

  “Down!” On his stomach and bleeding from his own wound, Owen peeked between the trucks to see the unsuspecting driver leaning over toward the floorboard. The windows were up on the truck moving at a walking pace down the dirt drive.

  Owen stepped into the open and aimed his pistol. “Stop!”

  Shocked upright, the man slammed his brakes. Dale rounded the front of the vehicle and Owen yanked the door open. A round snapped past, causing him to duck. He raised up just in time to see the driver’s badge as the lawman twisted in his seat, bringing a Colt to bear.

  Owen stuck the snub-nose into the man’s side and pulled the trigger twice. Ignoring his grunts of pain, Owen grabbed a handful of jacket and dragged the already limp body out of the way. “Get in!”

  Dale fired back toward the house and stumbled through the passenger door. Owen slammed the truck into reverse and spun backwards. He hit the country road, jammed the shift lever into gear, and spun out, throwing gravel in a wide spray.

  The last thing he saw as they sped away was the huge black man in overalls charging in their direction. He slid to a stop beside the dying lawman, raised the shotgun, and shot three times as fast as he could pump the twelve-gauge.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  A cold rain met Ned and Tom Bell outside the bar in Tyson’s Corner. The drunk woman was sitting behind the wheel of her brand new Mustang Mach 1. The engine growled in Park, but she was staring straight ahead, the car radio blaring a rock ’n’ roll song by a woman who kept saying, “Don’t you want somebody to love?”

  The Chief’s car was parked at the opposite end of the building, but McDaniel stayed inside.

  Ned opened the door on his Plymouth and, despite the light rain, stopped with one foot in the floorboard, studying the Mach 1 and its occupant. Crows circled the trees behind the roadhouse and Gulf station across the street. “Tom, that poor woman’s too drunk to drive.”

  “It ain’t our business.”

  “I know it, but she’s gonna cause a wreck on these slick streets, or kill somebody.”

  “Give me a minute. I’ll go in and tell the Chief.”

  “Hang on. He’s already had enough from us today. I’ll just get her keys and we can lay them on his hood over there. McDaniel’ll know what to do when he comes out.”

  “What if she won’t give them to us? This ain’t Texas. We can’t haul her in.”

  “I’ll get her keys out of the ignition. She’s so drunk she won’t notice, and I bet she’ll go to sleep right where she’s sittin’. McDaniel’ll be out directly.”

  “I believe you’re spinning your wheels there, Ned.”

  “I’ve spun ’em before.” Leaving his door open, Ned rounded her car. “Hey, missy.”

  It took several seconds for her to turn her head and give him a crooked grin of recognition. “You were inside.”

  Cold rain dripped from the brim of his hat and he was glad for the sport coat. “Sure was. You feeling all right?”

  “I’m just a little dizzy and sleepy
. I was fine until I came outside.”

  “Yep. You can sit and drink for hours at a bar, but the minute you get up, all that alcohol sneaks up on you.”

  Her forehead furrowed. “I’m not drunk!”

  “Didn’t say you were.” He reached over her. “This is awful loud and I can barely hear you over that noise.” He turned the volume knob and killed the engine. The radio faded away as the tubes died. “That’s better.”

  He straightened and rested one hand on the roof of her wet car, leaving the keys there.

  “Why don’t you sit right ’chere and rest for a while?”

  “I’m not drunk.”

  “Still ain’t said you are, but you’re slurring your words a right smart.”

  Ned sighed and met Tom Bell’s gaze over the top of the low car. Tom frowned and shook his head. “I done told you what was about to happen.”

  “Lady, can we call somebody to come and carry you home?” The quizzical look in her face made Ned grin. “Can somebody come get you?”

  “I don’t have anybody here. My folks are all back in Dallas.”

  “I ain’t leavin’ no Texas girl to get home by herself in this condition.” Ned dug in his pocket and pitched the Fury’s keys to Tom Bell. “You follow us and I’ll drive her home.”

  The old Ranger caught them with one hand, shaking his head. “We ain’t got time for this.”

  “It won’t take but a few minutes. This gal needs help and Miss Becky would say this is the right thing to do, so I’m a-doin’ it. Lady, slide over and I’ll drive.”

  Ned averted his eyes as she straddled the console, her dress riding high enough to show her stockings and garters. “Lord help me.” Unused to bucket seats and shifters in the floorboard, he felt as if he were going all the way to the ground before he settled behind the wheel. “Good goddlemighty. Where do you live?”

  “In Alexandria.”

  “How far is that?”

  Her eyes went loose in her head. “About twenty miles.”

  “That ain’t much farther than Center Springs to Chisum. We can be over there and back in forty-five minutes.” He was talking more to himself than her.

  “Where’s Center Springs?”

  “A long way from here, that’s for sure.”

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Driving with one hand, Owen kept his beady eyes on the broken white line as the stripes vanished under the hood. “Hang on, buddy.” His other hand clutched his bloody chest.

  Dale slumped against the door and coughed into the blue bandanna that was fast turning red. “This is bad.”

  “It don’t look good.” Owen saw a Motorola radio mounted to the floorboard. He turned up the volume to hear a deep voice.

  “All units. Be on the lookout for two men who murdered Stock Inspector George Nobles. They stole his truck and fled the scene. This is Deputy John Washington. I need for somebody to call in with a description of George’s truck. I barely got a look at it. It’s a late model Ford and that’s all I know.”

  Dale leaned his head back, breathing through his mouth. “Where you taking me? I need a hospital.”

  Owen moved his hand that came away wet and sticky. “I believe I do too.” He put pressure against his wound again. “Where you hit?”

  “My back. I took a load from that damned shotgun.” Dale coughed, deep, wet, and thick. “Hey, where does this road come out?”

  Owen’s eyes flicked to his partner and back to the road. “Hang on.”

  “I think I need some sleep.”

  The truck’s engine roared as Owen leaned on the foot-feed. “You can sleep at my brother’s house. That’s where we’re headed. He’ll fix us up.” Still amped up by an adrenaline dump, Owen slapped the steering wheel. “We’re gonna be all right.”

  When he didn’t get a response, Owen reached across the cab and shoved Dale’s shoulder with a bloody hand. “Dammit, boy! You so scared you can’t talk?”

  Dale’s eyes were slits staring at nothing.

  “Dale? Oh shit.”

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  The barfly named Kathleen dozed in and out in the passenger seat as Ned threaded his way through the wet, leaf-strewn streets of Alexandria, Virginia. Federalist townhouses, streets canopied by stately old maples, and brick sidewalks reminded him of feed store calendars featuring autumn in New England.

  He stopped at an intersection and shook her shoulder for the umpteenth time. “Hey, where to now?”

  She raised her head and focused through the rain-spotted windshield. “Turn left.”

  They followed the tree-lined residential street lined with parked cars. “That’s it.” She pointed a weak hand at a row house that looked like all the others.

  “There ain’t no parking places out front.”

  She could barely raise her head and squinted as if her eyes wouldn’t focus. “There’s one up there on the next block.”

  The hair prickled on the back of Ned’s neck, but he couldn’t figure out why. He saw the space and pulled in. He opened the passenger door and took her arm. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.” Kathleen stepped out, giving him still another view of her underclothes. He took her arm and pulled her upright.

  A space in front of her row house had opened up after they passed, giving Tom Bell space to park Ned’s red Fury. He killed the engine and hurried down the wet sidewalk to meet Ned and Kathleen. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Don’t make no difference. We’re here now.”

  Their breath fogged as snowflakes mixed with the light rain. With Kathleen’s arms over their shoulders, the lawmen guided her down the wet sidewalk and up the steps.

  Ned handed Tom her key ring. “I ’magine her house key is on there.”

  “It’s not locked.” Kathleen leaned heavily on Ned and clutched his right arm as they reached the door. “I don’t have enough to steal.”

  Tom stuck the keys in his pants pocket and turned the knob and stepped aside “Get her on in here.”

  The drunk woman’s voice steadied. “I feel sick.”

  Tom Bell’s head snapped around at the tone of her voice.

  Supporting her weight, Ned half pushed her through the door, noticing a staircase inside the door to their left. He hoped there was a bathroom on the first floor. “We need to hurry, then.”

  “I feel really sick!” Her voice rose again, no longer slurring.

  A hallway beyond the staircase split the house in two, with an office on the right, and a living room on the left. A man holding a huge pistol appeared at the end of the hallway. Tom Bell fanned his coat back, recognizing Muscles. “Watch out, Ned!” He drew his 1911, shoved Kathleen forward, and pulled the trigger.

  The report filled the well-appointed house.

  Chapter Sixty

  Owen pulled the stolen truck into the Piggly Wiggly parking lot in Bonham. Weak from shock, he leaned back and rested for a minute. The radio had been busy with the description of the stock inspector’s truck, and the two involved in the shootout.

  His familiarity with many of the county and farm roads allowed Owen to stay off the main highways and make his way into the small northeast Texas town. He needed to keep moving, to get to his brother’s house where he could heal up. He plucked the Luger from Dale’s dead hand. “Many thanks.”

  Leaving his empty revolver on the floorboard, Owen slid out of the bench seat and pulled his coat together to hide his bloody shirt. He groaned at the jolt of pain that shot through his chest like a bolt of lightning.

  Rows of cars and farm trucks fanned out from all sides. He checked the door on a Dodge truck beside him, and when it proved locked, he went to the next one, confident that he’d find one that was open. The odds were on his side. Rural folks tended to leave their keys in the ignition.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  The heavy .45 slug from Tom Bell’s
Colt 1911 caught Muscles in the chest with the sound of a wet slap. At the far end of the house, the big man staggered back against the kitchen’s doorframe, pulling the trigger on a new Colt Python .357 magnum revolver. It spat a streak of fire down the dim hallway with a deafening roar. The round struck Kathleen in the shoulder with devastating results.

  Sober as a judge, she shrieked and spun, pushing away from the lawmen as more guns from different angles in the hallway opened up. Tom Bell fixed on a second gunman two doors down on the right, throwing two rounds at him in a roll of thunder. Both drove home and the wounded man disappeared into a room and out of sight.

  A bullet plucked the padded shoulder of Ned’s wet sport coat with a spray of fine droplets and a puff of damp fill. To that point he’d almost been shocked into immobility. The whipcrack of the round snapped him back into the budding firefight. Ned whipped the Colt .38 revolver from the holster on his belt. He thumbed the hammer back and fired at White Jeans, who stepped out of the kitchen with a leveled shotgun.

  Knees buckling from the wound, Kathleen stumbled against a narrow table against the wall, knocking over a vase and turning with a Walther in her hand. Tom Bell saw her raise a small automatic in his peripheral vision. He crooked his left arm, stuck the .45 around his side, and pulled the trigger.

  Her light blouse sparked from Tom’s shot. The material caught and a small flame rose from the dead woman’s blouse.

  The .38 barked as Ned pulled the trigger on the double-action revolver. White Jeans disappeared. Tom Bell’s 1911 roared in measured beats as if he were on a gun range. The rounds found their mark half a second later, knocking the short man back. He fell half in and half out of the second doorway. Stunned by the Texans’ viciously accurate response, the surviving CIA agents pulled back.

  The long entry hallway running the length of the house was a shooting gallery. Ned ducked into the empty living room on his left, glancing up the empty staircase as he passed.