Payback at Big Silver

by Ralph Cotton

  “I did,” said Rudabaugh with a sly little grin. “But like I said, ‘change of plans.’” He held up the leather pouch of gold he’d taken from one of her bags and jiggled it in his hand.

  “You—you went through my things?” she stammered. “You had no right to do that.” She tried jerking the horse free of his hand, but even as she did so she realized that she couldn’t make a run for it, not while he was holding all of her money.

  Rudabaugh gave a wider grin. “Yeah, I went through your things, so what? I’m your boss, remember?”

  Mae Rose only stared at him, smoldering.

  “You see, little darling,” he continued, “being your boss, I’ve got every right to know how you managed to squirrel up so much money.”

  “What do you care how I managed to get it?” said Mae Rose. “It’s not Edsel Centrila’s money, it’s mine.” She tried to make a swipe at grabbing the pouch. But Rudabaugh jerked it out of her reach.

  “Try that again I’ll smack you cockeyed,” he threatened. “We’re going to find us some shade somewhere and you can do whatever it takes to convince me that this is your money.” He paused and added, “If your story’s good enough, maybe I won’t have to turn this over to Centrila. You and I might split it up between us and keep our mouths shut. Fair enough?”

  That’s it, she told herself. He wanted her; he wanted her money; he wanted everything. She knew the type. When he was through using her, never mind splitting the money, he’d take all the money and leave her lying dead in a dry wash somewhere. There was no way he would take part of the money when he could have it all.

  This pig!

  She let him see her take a deep breath and let it out as if in submission. She even gave a suggestive smile.

  “Let’s find that shade, then,” she said. “We’ll see what I can do to convince you.”

  “That’s the kind of attitude I like,” Rudabaugh said. He turned loose of the horse’s bridle and looked off along the trail in search of a suitable place to spread a blanket. As soon as he looked away, Mae Rose reached up under the tails of her blouse, jerked out the Navy Colt from her waist and started shooting.

  Rudabaugh heard the gun cock and turned and grabbed for it just as the first shot exploded. The bullet tore through the palm of his outstretched hand and dug into his forearm, streaking along the bone until it blew out a ragged hole at his elbow. Her second shot went through his ribs and out his back, missing his lungs.

  As she fired, the horse beneath her backed away, nervously. Rudabaugh, unable to reach her, blood flying from his chest and his arm, grabbed his big revolver up from its holster as another bullet exploded from the .36 caliber Navy Colt. This one sliced along his jawline and clipped off the upper half of his left ear.

  Crazy whore!

  He raised and cocked his Remington quickly; Mae Rose jerked the horse around to try to put some distance between them. She fired again, but the shot went wild and skipped off a rock on the other side of Rudabaugh. The Remington bucked in the wounded gunman’s hand. The shot hit Mae Rose high in her right shoulder and sent her flipping sidelong from the saddle. She hit the ground flat on her back and didn’t move. The Navy Colt flew from her hand and landed among the rocks at the edge of the trail.

  Rudabaugh cupped a hand to his maimed ear; blood ran down his wounded side, his wounded arm. He swung down from the gray and let its reins hang to the ground. Stepping over to Mae Rose, he tried to wake her by rolling her face back and forth with his boot.

  “Wake up!” he said. When the woman only lay there, limp, he nudged her wounded shoulder with his boot toe. “You brought this on yourself, you know,” he said. “You made me shoot you.”

  Mae Rose moaned and stirred slightly at the pain in her shoulder. She opened her eyes and saw him standing over her. But in her addled condition, she closed her eyes against the glare of white sunlight and drifted as his voice grew further away.

  Rudabaugh looked all around as he untied the bandanna from around his neck, wadded it and pressed it to his half-missing ear. This was no good, he told himself. He stooped down and loosened the scarf from Mae Rose’s neck and tied it around his elbow, using his teeth to tighten it.

  “Sheriff . . . help me,” Mae Rose murmured mindlessly under her breath.

  “Oh,” said Rudabaugh, “you want to sic the law on me? Then you better do it quick. When I get you off this trail, you’re dead.”

  He rummaged through Mae Rose’s bags behind the rented gray’s saddle and pulled out a checkered cotton blouse. Tearing it in half, he folded it into two makeshift bandages and used them to stop the bleeding from his other wounds.

  “Come on, whore, take your last ride,” he said. In spite of the pain in his wounds, he dragged Mae Rose to the rented gray, raised her enough to shove her up over the saddle. He saw blood on the back of her head where she’d landed on a fist-sized rock.

  Mounting his own horse, he led the gray a half mile up the hillside trail where the land on either side had turned less sandy, more rocky, better hidden. This would do, he told himself, swinging down from his saddle. He pulled Mae Rose off the gray’s back and dragged her over between two large rocks, out of sight. With plenty of smaller rocks to cover her, he thought. Perfect.

  He drew his Remington and reached out arm’s length and cocked the hammer, the tip of the barrel only inches from her forehead.

  “Too bad you never got to know me, whore,” he said in a lowered tone. He started to squeeze the trigger. But before he did, he glanced up and saw Harper Centrila and Lon Bartow easing their horses into sight down the hill trail toward him. They both had rifles raised and ready.

  “The hell is going on with you, Silas?” Harper called out less than forty yards away. “We heard shooting a while ago.”

  Damn it!

  Rudabaugh turned loose of his knotted shirttails and wiped a bloody hand across his sweaty brow.

  “Nothing’s going on with me,” he said, trying to play off his surprise. He lied, saying, “I heard horses—I’m glad it’s you all. You won’t believe the time I’ve had.”

  “You better hope I do,” Harper chuckled darkly. “Who are you fixing to shoot there?”

  “Shoot?” said Rudabaugh as if surprised. “I wasn’t fixing to shoot anybody.” Realizing he’d been seen too clearly about to pull a trigger, he hastened to add, “Leastwise I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.” He gestured Harper and Bartow down to him. “Come look what I’ve got here.” He backed away from the knocked-out woman and lowered his Remington to his side.

  “Whoa,” Harper said as he and Bartow stepped their horses over and looked down at Mae Rose lying limp between the two rocks.

  “That’s one of your pa’s saloon gals,” Bartow said. “I saw her there when we was in town.”

  “So did I,” said Harper. He and Bartow both stepped down from their saddles. He looked from Mae Rose to Rudabaugh, looking him up and down, his bloody chest, his arm, his blood-soaked bandaging. “What’s the story here, Silas?” he asked.

  “I caught her a mile back,” Rudabaugh said. “She ambushed me. Look at me.”

  Harper and Bartow looked at his closer.

  “You caught her?” Harper questioned him skeptically. “So you were out here trapping whores?” He and Bartow gave a slight chuckle.

  “That’s real funny, Harper,” Rudabaugh said flatly, not sharing their humor.

  “Funny?” Harper’s expression darkened. “Here’s something not so funny. You and your pals were supposed to be in Big Silver, taking care of Stone.” He cocked his head a little. “Anything funny to say about that?”

  “Things went bad,” Rudabaugh said, deciding it was time to come as clean as he could about the gold coins, in case it was brothel money. “I was out here headed to report in to Edsel. I ran into her. She tried to kill me. She’s carrying a lot of gold coins. I figured she might be stealing fr
om us.” As he spoke he raised the pouch from his duster pocket and held it up for Harper to see.

  Harper looked at him suspiciously.

  “Thought you said she was carrying it?” he said. “Ain’t that what he said, Lon?” he asked Bartow.

  “Yep, he did,” Bartow said. “I heard him say it.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Harper said. “You’re out here, coming to report to Papa Edsel? You get ambushed by a whore who’s robbed the brothel—?”

  “I’ll answer to Edsel,” Rudabaugh said firmly, the Remington still in his hand.

  “Where are Boyle and the others?” Harper said.

  “Dead, is where they are,” said Rudabaugh. His hand tightened around the butt of his Remington. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “They’re dead, but you don’t want to talk about it?” Harper said as if in disbelief. “Excuse the hell out of me. But I think you need to tell me what the hell—”

  “Like I said, I’ll answer to Edsel Centrila—my boss,” said Rudabaugh. “Nobody else.”

  Harper stared at him a moment longer, then said to Bartow, “Lon, help him get this woman patched up some and up into her saddle. I bet she can help Silas here tell us his story, if we can keep her alive, that is.”

  “That suits me right enough,” Rudabaugh said. He stepped over with Bartow; the two of them raised the wounded woman from the dirt and leaned her against one of the rocks where Rudabaugh had intended for her to die.

  “Get her some water, Silas,” Harper said to Rudabaugh. “And get something to plug that bullet hole.”

  Mae Rose slumped against the rock. She could hear them now. She could make out what they were doing. But she wasn’t going to open her eyes, not now, not yet. It was time to lie back and figure out her next move. This desert was too eager, too inviting to men like these. If she answered all their questions and they saw no reason to keep her alive, she would still die out here.

  Chapter 18

  Mae Rose rode with her wrists tied together around Harper Centrila’s waist. She awakened on and off, but remained slumped against Harper’s back. At a water hole in the early afternoon, she allowed herself to look revived long enough for Lon Bartow to seat her at the water’s edge and wipe dried blood from the large welt on the back of her head. She wobbled in place as Harper and Rudabaugh looked on.

  “Wha—what’s going on . . . ?” she murmured dreamily. She reached a hand out and gripped Bartow’s forearm for support.

  “That’s what we want to know,” Harper replied, making sure he gave Rudabaugh a cold stare. “But our pard here will only speak to his boss, Papa Edsel Centrila.” He gave him a sour look up and down. “Ain’t that right, Silas?”

  Rudabaugh looked away. He’d kept his hand resting on the butt of the big Remington all morning long.

  “I didn’t want to have to tell what happened in Big Silver more than once,” he said.

  “Afraid you can’t remember well enough to tell it twice?” Harper said, half goading the older gunman.

  “Hell no,” said Rudabaugh. “I can tell it all day long. It won’t change, because it’s the truth.”

  Harper grinned.

  “The truth!” Harper called out to Bartow. “What is it they say, Lon—?” he called out to Bartow. “The truth shall set you free?”

  Bartow stopped holding the cloth against the back of Mae Rose’s head.

  “Huh-uh,” he disagreed. “Where I come from they say the truth shall get you shot.”

  Harper chuckled and shook his head. He drew his Colt and spun it on his finger, as if making a point.

  “Lon says the damnedest things,” he said to Rudabaugh. “But most times he makes good sense if you listen to him.” He called out to Bartow, “Ain’t that right, Lon?”

  Rudabaugh was tempted to yank his Remington up and let fly. But he breathed deep and calmed himself. Even if he killed them both, the woman too, he would still have to face Edsel Centrila and go through all of this again.

  “Yep, I make good sense if you listen to me,” Bartow agreed. He grinned, a wide, flat grin that made no change in his surly expression.

  Mae Rose kept her eyes closed and her head slumped as Bartow continued holding the wet cloth on her sore knotted head, listening.

  “All right, Harper,” Rudabaugh said, getting tired of the constant suspicion, “I’m going to tell you what happened, but then I’m done with it until I get to where we’re going.”

  Harper and Bartow looked at each other, then at Rudabaugh.

  “Let’s have it, Silas,” Harper said. His Colt stopped spinning on his finger and hung there, loosely pointed at Rudabaugh’s already bloody chest.

  Rudabaugh glanced at the woman sitting slumped by the water, then wiped a hand across his forehead. He knew he needed to get as close to the truth as he could without putting himself on the spot.

  “I told Boyle and the others to not make a move without me giving them the go-ahead,” he said. “But while I was off taking care of some business, they took it on their own to go kill Sheriff Stone—”

  “Hold up right there,” said Harper, waggling the barrel of his Colt. “This ‘business’ you were off ‘taking care of.’ Did it require any of the Silver Palace doves keeping their ankles in the air while you ‘took care’ of it?”

  Bartow stifled a laugh; Rudabaugh’s face reddened with mortification and rage.

  “No! It did not!” he barked, shooting a cold stare at Bartow. “I was going over the day’s take, making sure the Jones brothers don’t rob the place blind. I am the manager, you know.”

  Harper stared at him curiously for a moment.

  “No, I didn’t know you were the manager of the Silver Palace,” he said. “Papa Edsel must’ve forgot to mention it.” He gave Rudabaugh a skeptical look.

  “Well, I am the manager,” said Rudabaugh. “Edsel told me so.” He amended his words quickly, adding, “Not in so many words, but he told me so, in his own way.”

  Harper continued staring at him.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “As far as the doves go,” said Rudabaugh, “I won’t deny, I like women. I like them a lot.”

  Harper nodded at Mae Rose, who sat slumped and bloody.

  “I can see you do,” he said.

  Bartow stifled another laugh. Rudabaugh fumed and ignored Harper’s remark.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “soon as I heard that Stone had killed Boyle, Swank and Dolan, I figured Edsel needed to hear about it right away. I skint out of there. Got to the fork in the trail and this one jumped up and started shooting at me.” He looked back and forth between the two gunmen, gauging their belief of his story. “I figure she stole the brothel money and thought I was on her trail.” He stopped, satisfied with his loosely woven tale.

  After a pause for consideration, Harper spun his revolver again, this time landing it expertly into its holster.

  “That’s a good one,” he said. “Ain’t that a good one, Lon?”

  “It’s a good one,” Bartow agreed.

  “And it’s the damn truth,” said Rudabaugh. “I won’t be called a liar.”

  “I never said you were lying, Silas,” Harper replied. “I just said it’s a good one. Didn’t I, Lon?”

  “That’s what you said, sure enough,” Bartow replied.

  “There, you see?” Harper said to Rudabaugh. He gave a short shrug of dismissal. “What’s it matter what I think? It what’s Papa Edsel thinks that counts.” He gave a smug half smile. “I reckon we’ll know what he thinks soon enough.”

  • • •

  The Ranger and Sheriff Stone walked along the wide dirt street of Big Silver under the scrutinizing eyes of wary townsfolk. Halfway to the livery barn, Stone took off his hat and waved it back and forth all around as they walked.

  “Don’t worry, folks. Your sheriff
is sober,” he called out amiably. “I’m sober now. I’ll be sober the next time you see me. Three gunmen came to kill me in the night, but as you can see, the law was kept.”

  The peopled studied him for a moment, and then a short round of applause rose among them.

  “I knew you were sober, Sheriff,” a man’s voice called out from the doorway of a saddle maker’s shop.

  “Bless your heart, Winslow,” Stone called out without looking around. Under his breath he gave a low growl like that of a wolf. Then he looked at the Ranger with a wry smile. “Just joking, Ranger,” he said.

  The Ranger nodded. They had waited as long as they needed to for Silas Rudabaugh to show up. Now that he hadn’t shown up, they needed to find out if he or any of Centrila’s men were still around, lurking somewhere, ready to ambush the sheriff as he walked the streets.

  They walked down an alleyway back to the town livery barn and along the straw-covered floor as Stone looked all around for Rudabaugh’s dark blaze-faced bay.

  “He’s gone,” Stone concluded, sounding a little disappointed with his findings. He gave a last close look all around. Before they turned, a short bowlegged hostler walked in through the front door with a hay rake in his hand.

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?” he asked. He waddled forward between the two rows of stalls.

  “I’m looking for the dark bay,” Stone said, “but I see it’s gone.”

  “Silas Rudabaugh’s horse,” the hostler said. “Yep, he left here right after the shooting last night.”

  “Really?” said Stone, he and the Ranger looking at each other, a little surprised. “He sure turned out a bit shy for a big bold stock detective,” he added.

  “I wouldn’t call him shy,” said the hostler. “I heard some miners say they couldn’t get to the doves for him being stuck there tighter than a door wedge.”

  “Is that a fact?” said Stone. He and the Ranger started to turn and leave.

  “Yep, he rode out of here with one last night,” the hostler said. “I expect he’s one of them whose ma slapped him away from the tit too soon.”