19
HE COULDN’T STOP THE SHAKES. BARKER LOOKED UP from his comfortable spot in the shade next to his barn, to make certain his wife was nowhere to be seen. Ruth had been feeding the chickens, but the poultry had ducked back into their shed to avoid the increasing August heat. His nose dripped and his eyes blurred, but he managed to pull out the new bottle of laudanum he had bought in Mineral Springs.
After leaving Fort Selden, he had ridden north again, ignoring the Sonora Kid’s trail into the southwestern mountains to tend his own needs. An apothecary in Mineral Springs had sold him the drug, more on the basis of him wearing his badge where everyone could see than for any other reason. The chemist had eyed him strangely, but Barker had muttered something about using it as bait for a crook. The opium wasn’t illegal, not exactly, but Barker didn’t want anyone in Mesilla knowing he needed it so badly.
If anyone in Mesilla found out, his wife would know, too. Ruth had strong feelings about opium and even drinking. She tolerated him smelling of whiskey now and then, but things had been smoother between them since he had begun using the laudanum. But if she found out ...
He took the small bottle out and stared at it. The pain faded away when he took a few drops. He fumbled to get the cork out, almost dropping the bottle. His heart seized up at the fear of spilling the precious fluid. He captured the bottle with both hands and held it until he calmed. Only then did he trust himself to drop a bit of its contents onto his tongue. The bitter taste no longer made him recoil, because he knew the relief it would give later.
But that “later” was coming much later all the time, unless he took more, using the precious drug faster. He put a few more drops on his tongue. He thought it would burn a hole through, but he ignored the tiny pinpricks of pain where each drop landed.
He heaved a deep sigh and leaned back in the shade, trying to get his thoughts in line like one of Sergeant Sturgeon’s squads. All neat and never out of place and ...
“Mase!”
It took him a second to realize Ruth was calling. He sat straighter. The pain had gone. Scrambling to his feet, he went to the house.
“What is it?” Barker saw the youngster and his lathered horse and knew trouble wasn’t brewing—it had already been brewed.
“This is Joey. His pa works at the bookstore.”
Barker said nothing. He remembered the boy as being a troublemaker, but whatever had happened to bring him racing from town was more than using a slingshot to knock out a neighbor’s plate glass window or tying lighted fire-crackers to a dog’s tail.
“Go on, Joey. Tell him what you told me.” Ruth sounded stern, which made Barker even more alert. She didn’t use that tone unless she was angry and trying to look outwardly calm.
“Marshal, they came into town. Three of ’em.”
“Who?”
“Now, Mase, don’t badger the boy. Let him tell you in his own way.”
“The gang. The Sonora Kid’s gang. And the Kid was with them and he’s got Marshal Dravecky holed up in the jail.”
“Who’s helping the marshal?” Barker knew the answer to that one. Nobody. He pushed past Ruth and grabbed his gun belt hanging on a peg just inside the door.
“Mase, get help. Don’t take these horrible men on all by yourself,” Ruth said, grabbing his arm. He shook her off.
“There might be more to this than you know,” he said. Visions haunted him of the Sonora Kid wheeling the stolen mountain howitzer up to the jailhouse and firing it straight through the front door. That would kill the marshal and any prisoners inside. Judging from the way the outlaws had slaughtered so many other victims, they wouldn’t stop with blowing the marshal to hell and gone. The howitzer would be spun around and turned down Calle de Guadalupe. An efficient team could load and fire twice or even three times in a minute.
Mesilla could be in flames, with dozens dead. A couple more rounds of cannonade would destroy the entire town. There wasn’t much in the bank, but this, too, would be open to easy theft.
“Joey,” he said. “Go on to Fort Selden and let the post commander know what’s happening.”
“Fort Selden?” the boy said dubiously. “That’s a mighty long way off.”
“If you run into an army patrol ’fore you get there, tell them what you’ve told me.”
“I don’t know if my pa would want me to—”
“Do it or your pa and everybody else in town are likely to end up dead!” Barker lost his temper and didn’t care.
The boy jumped and looked frightened. Good. That would keep him going until he alerted the cavalry to the danger.
“You’re not telling me something, Mason Barker. What aren’t you telling me?” Ruth followed him to the barn, haranguing him as he went.
He wiped his dripping nose on his coat sleeve and tried to control the shaking in his hands. But his vision had cleared and the pain had disappeared. The marshal paused, wondering if the laudanum was affecting his good sense. Then he decided it didn’t matter. The federal government paid him to enforce the law, and the Sonora Kid had become his personal bugaboo.
“This’ll all work out, Ruth,” he told her as he cinched the saddle strap down tight around the horse. He stepped up and rode out, ducking as he passed through the door. She was shouting at him as he snapped the reins and broke into a gallop. There might not be much time left. The people in Mesilla would never know what they faced until the Sonora Kid yanked on the lanyard that sent a howitzer shell through their town.
As he neared the edge of town, Barker heard sporadic gunfire. Reaching down, he pulled his rifle from its saddle sheath. He tried to remember if he had loaded the Winchester. The fuzzy edges around his brain refused to let that information come to him. He cocked the rifle and kept riding, not sure how many rounds he could rely on.
And then it was too late to slow down, take the time to check the magazine, and proceed. He saw two men with serapes draped over their shoulders and huge-brimmed sombreros pulled down, walking down the middle of the street, shooting at anybody who dared poke a nose out.
The two outlaws laughed uproariously. One tossed aside an empty whiskey bottle, then took three shots at it. Drunk though the bandito might be, his first shot shattered the bottle and the next two sent the fragments flying. After he had destroyed the empty bottle, he returned to shattering windows and putting rounds into walls and doors.
Barker heard a loud shriek of pain as a bullet penetrated a thin wood door and hit an occupant of the bakery.
The two outlaws laughed, turned their six-shooters toward the sound of agony, and reduced the door to splinters. Barker pulled his rifle up to his shoulder and squeezed off the best shot he could at a dead gallop.
He was more lucky than skillful. His bullet cut a hole in the brim of one man’s sombrero and lodged in a hidden shoulder. The outlaw groaned, dropped to his knees, and clutched at his shoulder. Barker got off three more rounds. All missed.
And then he rode down the still-standing bandito, swinging his rifle to smash the barrel into his face. The outlaw fell back and crashed to the street.
“Hijo de puta,” grated out the wounded outlaw. He lifted his six-gun and awkwardly fired. It was his turn to get lucky, since his wounded shoulder didn’t allow him to raise his arm very high.
Barker felt sudden sharp pain in his leg. He looked at his right leg and saw blood oozing out of the hole just above the top of his boot. There wasn’t any pain, so he reckoned it wasn’t too badly wounded. His horse dug in her heels and kicked up a dust cloud, giving him time to twist about and point his rifle behind him at the outlaw who had shot him. The hammer fell with a dull click. He had run out of rounds in the magazine.
His horse recovered, wheeled about, and let him stare at the wounded Mexican, who fought to get to his feet. The one he had clubbed remained flat on his back in the street.
A dozen scenes played out in Barker’s head, and none of them favored him. He laid the rifle across the saddle in front of him and struggled to draw his
six-shooter. The outlaw fired first. And missed. Barker’s aim was no better, but he put his heels to the horse’s flanks and rocketed forward. He fired again and missed. Then he raced past, swinging his pistol. Luck was frowning on him again; he knocked the sombrero off but did not touch the bandito.
He left the outlaw in the dust behind. Rather than trying for a third pass, Barker kept his head down and kept galloping away until he reached a cross street. Leaning hard, he guided his mare down the road and out of range. By the time he had brought his horse back under control, he had shoved his six-gun into his holster and reached behind into his saddlebags for ammo for his rifle.
“Marshal, what’s happenin’?” A woman fearfully looked out into the street but ducked back when a bullet tore away a chunk of adobe above her head. Inside the thick-walled building, she would be safe—but Barker wasn’t safe any longer out in the street.
He slammed the last cartridge into his rifle and trained it on the outlaw standing at the intersection of the streets. The Mexican had lost his sombrero, but the brightly colored serape made for a good target. Barker leveled his rifle and squeezed off a shot. The outlaw jerked, then began firing. Barker’s second shot spun the man around, but he came back, still sending lead flying in all directions. None of the rounds came near Barker, making him think the outlaw was close to dead. Another round brought down the wildly shooting road agent.
Barker’s ears rang from the firing, but through the buzz came more distinct shots. Somewhere else in town a gunfight still raged.
“You need any help?” A youngster hardly old enough to shave came out, holding a thumb-breaker in both hands. If he tried firing that ancient six-gun, he would be more a danger to himself than to whomever he shot at.
“Get back inside,” Barker said, working to reload. He had learned his lesson. When he tangled with the rest of the Sonora Kid’s gang, he’d know how many rounds he had. When his rifle was loaded, he replaced the rounds in his six-shooter.
“I wanna help!”
“You see the men shootin’ up the town?” Barker called. He listened to the answer with half an ear.
“No, but—”
“You got a horse?”
“I can git one. You want me to ride with you?”
“I want you to head north to Fort Selden and fetch the soldiers.” Barker knew Joey was already on his way to alert Tomasson, but it never hurt to have a second messenger. He had learned that during the fight against the Navajos, when the Indians picked off single messengers with disturbing regularity. More than this, sending the young man out of town took him out of danger.
The image of the Sonora Kid firing a cannon came back to bedevil Barker, but he shook himself free of the notion. If the Mexican had brought the howitzer into Mesilla, he would have fired it already. Such a shiny, deadly toy would have been the first thing he played with, rather than shooting up the town and treeing Marshal Dravecky.
Barker’s horse shied as he tried to get closer to the gunfire. The skittish animal finally reared and almost sent Barker tumbling to the ground. Realizing he wouldn’t do the marshal any good if he was laid out cold, Barker dismounted and made sure the mare was securely tethered. He heaved a deep sigh, gripped the stock of his rifle, and then made his way cautiously down the street toward the jailhouse, where the bullets sang in deadly flight.
If Dravecky was holed up inside, he was the one sighting down the barrel of the rifle shoved through the narrow window looking out onto the street. Barker followed the barrel away to a spot fifty feet off. A two-story hotel had been shot to hell and gone. The windows were all shattered and the front door hung by one hinge. But it wasn’t downstairs where Dravecky pointed his rifle. It was up to the second-floor balcony.
Without realizing it, Barker snugged the stock to his shoulder and fired in one smooth movement when he saw the flash of sunlight off a silver ornament. His shot missed, but he succeeded in driving the man wearing the sombrero with the fancy silver conchas back into a room and away from the balcony where he could fire down into the jailhouse.
“Who’s out there?” The voice came faintly from the jail.
“You all right, Dravecky?”
“That you, Barker?”
“Me and the entire Ninth Cavalry.” Barker waited to see if this got a response from the Sonora Kid. If he could flush him, he would shoot the bandito down like the mad dog that he was.
But nothing stirred in the hotel.
“You see him? Somewhere up in the hotel.”
The marshal was still alive and kicking. He might be wounded, but his voice was strong and angry. He didn’t need help and would likely feel a damn sight better if somebody plugged the Sonora Kid.
Digging his toes in, Barker ran across the street, momentarily exposed. He waited for the Mexican to open fire. He hoped that Dravecky had a good enough shot to take out the outlaw, but no shots came from either the hotel or the jailhouse.
He reached the hotel’s covered porch and slammed hard into the wall, panting harshly. A quick glance inside showed only the empty lobby. The steep staircase on the far side of the room led to certain death if he tried to mount it. All a killer would have to do was wait at the head of the stairs and shoot whoever’s head appeared. Barker made sure his six-gun was ready, gripped his rifle, and started into the hotel, only to slip and fall. The weakness in his leg saved him. From the top of the stairs came withering fire that tore away a hole as large as his head in the wall beside him.
Barker swung his rifle up and fired as fast as he could. Lying on his belly and shooting accurately up the stairs was almost impossible. All he wanted was to keep the Sonora Kid from taking aim.
“You clumsy oaf,” came a gravelly voice behind him. More lead danced upward with his. A strong hand grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back onto the hotel porch.
“Howdy, Dravecky,” Barker said. “Good to see you’re still in one piece.”
“What happened? You always go floppin’ onto your face?”
“Leg gave way,” Barker said, sitting up and pulling off his boot. He poured out the blood that had pooled inside.
“Land of Goshen,” Dravecky said, staring at the stream of blood staining the boardwalk. “How’d you even stand?”
Barker knew his wound was more serious than he’d thought, but the laudanum he’d taken earlier had dulled the pain and let him keep moving. He pulled the blood-soaked boot back on and got to his feet.
“We’ve got an outlaw to arrest,” he said.
“He and his men rode into town and opened fire on anybody on the street. I don’t know how many they killed, but Dooley went down and it sure as hell didn’t look like he was gonna get up again.”
“I took care of a couple of them,” Barker said. “How many more are there?”
“Just the Sonora Kid.”
“You’re sure it’s him?” Barker wanted reassurance that he wasn’t chasing phantasms as he had been when the vaquero was killed.
“If he ain’t, then the real Sonora Kid’s gonna be real pissed.” Dravecky jerked his thumb upward and said, “He was yellin’ at the top of his lungs who he was and how this whole town was gonna be his.”
“What’s his quarrel with this town?” Barker wondered.
“Don’t know, don’t care. How are we gonna get him?”
“Catch him between us,” Barker decided. “I’ll go around and up the back stairs. You wait here and plug him if you see him. Just don’t get so excited you shoot me if I show up.”
“I’m the town marshal. I ought to—”
But Barker had already begun to walk away, slipping around the corner of the hotel and heading toward the rear, where the back stairs led to the second floor. It took only an instant to know he didn’t have to go up into the hotel. Drops of blood dotted the steps. Judging from the way it looked, the Sonora Kid had been wounded. Not badly by Barker’s estimation, but enough to make him hightail it rather than shoot it out with the pair of lawmen.
Barker knew Mes
illa like the back of his hand. He laid out the town in his mind and knew where the Kid must have left his horse. Hobbling, Barker started after him. He should tell Dravecky their quarry had escaped, but resolve hardened inside him. Everything the Sonora Kid did was an affront to him personally. The slaughter, the taunts.
As dedicated as Barker was to catching the outlaw, every step sent a lance of pain up into his hip. He looked over his shoulder to see if Dravecky or anyone else was looking, then took out the laudanum and knocked back a sizable amount; he needed this much to deaden the pain.
He tucked the bottle back into his coat pocket, dragged his leg a little, and finally, when the pain faded, walked with more confidence. The occasional drops of blood in the dry dust were as easy a trail to follow as if he saw the Kid ahead waving a flag.
People slowly, meekly looked out from behind curtains and past slightly opened doors. They saw Barker and vanished. He couldn’t expect any help—and he didn’t want any. This was his arrest.
But he knew the Sonora Kid wasn’t going to surrender. When they met, it would be a fight to the death.
He slowed when he saw a sombrero in the middle of the street. Looking around, wary of an ambush, he reached down and picked up the hat. He turned it slowly until he came to the spot on the hatband where a concha was missing. Barker fished in his pocket and took out the one he had found at the stagecoach slaughter. It matched the others.
He tossed down the sombrero and looked around. The only place the Sonora Kid could have gone was down an alley. Barker made sure a shell rested in the rifle chamber, then started after him. At the far end of the alley, a man with a serape tossed over his shoulder struggled to get onto a horse. Judging from the way his right leg refused to move normally, he had been shot just as Barker had.
“Halt!” Barker yelled. “I’ve got you covered. I swear, I’ll shoot you down if you go for that six-gun.” He didn’t have a good shot since the bandito was partially hidden in deep shadow.
The man brushed back the serape to free the butt of the six-shooter holstered at his hip. Barker prepared to shoot. He wasn’t much for shooting a man in the back, but for the Sonora Kid he would make an exception.
The Sonora Noose Page 18