by P McCormac
Monday obediently lifted the shotgun from below the bar and swung the barrel against his father’s head. As the saloon owner sagged to his knees, Cornwell pulled his own revolver and in a couple of quick strides, was at Gallagher’s side. But even as he did so the stricken man pulled the trigger.
Cornwell yelped and went back against the bar with the bullet lodged in his abdomen. Monday smashed the shotgun once more against his father’s head and Gallagher collapsed on the floor. The wounded Cornwell aimed his revolver at the unconscious man.
‘Don’t kill him!’ Rachel screamed. ‘We got to find out what he was planning with Catlin.’
When Gallagher came to, he was sitting in one of his own chairs. Cords were wound around his body, securing him in place. Dazedly he looked around him. Cornwell was also sitting, holding a blood soaked wad of cotton against his abdomen. With her usual cigarette, Rachel was standing by her husband’s side.
‘Hell kite, Rachel, this hurts,’ Cornwell moaned.
‘Just hang on,’ Rachel reassured him. ‘We’ve sent for the sawbones. He’ll patch you up.’
‘I need a drink.’
Rachel motioned to Monday and Gallagher saw his son carry a half-full whiskey bottle to the wounded man. Cornwell put the bottle to his mouth. In spite of his dazed state Gallagher spoke out.
‘Shouldn’t drink on a gut wound.’
The bottle upended as the wounded man ignored him.
‘Ah,’ Rachel observed, ‘you’re awake.’ She moved to his side. ‘We need to talk, you and I.’
Gallagher ignored Rachel and glared past her at Monday.
‘You,’ he gritted, his voice bitter. ‘It was you as took a shot at me, weren’t it? It weren’t Alward, at all. Why? What’d I ever do to you?’
Rachel blew tobacco smoke in the saloon owner’s face. Gallagher blinked as his eyes watered.
‘He did it to get his rightful inheritance,’ she said. ‘You should have stepped down like O’Leary did. But you’re too dumb for that. You old timers have had your day. This business needs youngsters like Monday and myself. Your time is over. Anyway, that’s not important. What I need right now, is to know what you were plotting with Catlin.’
‘Go to hell,’ Gallagher said bitterly. ‘You poison everything you touch. Your pa was right. You and your sister are she-devils.’
‘Tut-tut, you stupid old man,’ Rachel said, and very casually she pushed her cigarette into Gallagher’s right eye.
Gallagher screamed loudly. He screamed at the sudden bright pain that filled his head.
‘Aaaagh!’
He trashed about in the chair, moaning loudly. Rachel walked back to her table and lit another cigarette. She looked over at Monday and winked at him through the fresh smoke. He looked back at her, the glow of admiration in his eyes. Gallagher was shaking his head from side to side, moaning like an animal in distress.
‘Oh God, my eye, my goddamn eye. What have you done, you bitch? You’ve about blinded me, you goddamn whore.’
‘Gallagher, now that you see we’re serious, I’ll ask you again. What are you and Catlin up to?’
‘Go to hell!’ Gallagher yelled. ‘Go to hell, you and all your goddamned family. And take that whoreson, Monday with you. I never want to see him ever again. Oh God, oh God. My goddamn eye.’
Gallagher lapsed into low moaning.
‘What?’ Rachel asked amiably. ‘You don’t want to see your son anymore? Well, I can fix that. Yes, Gallagher, I can tell you now, you’ll never lay eyes on that handsome son of yours again.’
Rachel drew deeply on her cigarette. The burning tip was glowing almost white as she took it from her mouth. With that same casual unconcern she pushed the incandescent ember into Gallagher’s remaining good eye.
It was done so unexpectedly Gallagher had no time to blink. His head jerked backwards and his screams rung through the bar room. So extreme were his tortured convulsions his chair overbalanced and he crashed to the floor.
The screams went on and on. Monday was gazing at his father with a rapt expression. Cornwell was trying to smile through his own discomfort. Rachel’s men were shifting uneasily in their chairs with looks of discomfort on their faces. She turned to them.
‘Untie him and sling him outside.’
Men moved to do her bidding and Gallagher was pushed out through the doors, alternatively cursing and shrieking. When the men returned, Cornwell was stretched out on the floor, his eyes open in the fixed stare of death. Rachel was bent over him. None of them saw the stiletto she slipped inside her clothing. Rachel looked up at Monday, hovering nearby.
‘Looks like we both got rid of some unwanted baggage today,’ she remarked casually.
‘You’re sure one goddamned hellcat,’ Monday observed. ‘I’ll never be able to sleep easy in your bed again.’
Rachel rose and wound herself round the half-breed.
‘I’ll damn well make sure of that.’
Outside, the sound of moaning faded as the dispossessed saloon owner, with burnt-out eyes, stumbled and fell – stumbled and fell – his progress painfully slow along the muddy street of California Crossing.
CHAPTER 14
Cogan, his face still swollen and bruised, shook the dozing youngster awake.
‘Preacher, we’re getting ready to head out. You wanna join us?’
During the night O’Leary’s ranting had prevented any real sleep. Cogan had believed the ramshackle shanty would not last the night but in spite of the battering it had taken from the wind and rain, it was still standing.
‘I . . . I must stay here,’ Alward replied. ‘The Good Lord has told me to await the coming of my brother. We will ride out together and preach against the sins of the world.’
‘Look, son, why don’t you come with us? I’m sure there’ll be plenty of sin where we’re going. They’ll be glad of some preaching.’
The youngster pulled his sacking closer around him.
‘You will ride into the valley of evil,’ he intoned, still keeping to his role of wandering preacher. ‘Death shall be your companion. Do not put your trust in the will of men. They are full of corruption. Follow the Lord in all things. Do not fornicate. Do not steal. Do not kill. Do not swear false oaths. All these evil practices will condemn you in the eyes of the Lord.’
Cogan sighed. ‘I guess you could be right at that, Preacher.’
He abandoned his attempt to persuade the youngster to accompany them.
‘I’ll leave you some grub. I can’t leave much, but it’ll maybe do you until this deliverer of yours comes. There’s plenty of water about after all that rain. Good luck, fella.’
‘God make your paths straight and your way strewn with sweet blooms,’ Alward said. ‘I will pray to the Good Lord for your safe deliverance.’
O’Leary was standing in the doorway staring out into the night. The rain had virtually ceased and heeding Gallagher’s warning, Cogan was preparing to move out before any of the daughters’ gunmen found them.
‘You got your gun handy, fella?’ O’Leary suddenly queried.
Cogan tensed and fingered the butt of his revolver, thinking the old man had seen someone outside.
‘There’s a gold shipment they’re sending down through Moulder Pass,’ the old bandit chief continued. ‘It should be coming through at first light. You take the east side and I’ll hit them from the west wall.’ He stepped outside. ‘Don’t make a move until you hear my signal. I’ll hoot like an owl.’
O’Leary gave a passable imitation of an owl. Cogan followed the old man outside. O’Leary kept up his hooting. Once or twice Cogan tried to hush him but it was no use. The hooting continued. So preoccupied was he with perfecting his owl hoots that it took all of Cogan’s efforts to get the old man on his horse. He had to almost lift O’Leary into the saddle. His own body was a mass of throbbing pain. His face was stiff and aching and he wondered where the overblown Lovell was right now.
‘I just hope I meet you without your devilish mistresses to p
rotect you,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll see what you’re made of then, you cowardly lard pudding.’
Cogan was still bemused by the docile behaviour of his new mount. Ever since he had crawled into the stables, more dead than alive and the mule had stood over him protecting him and licking his wounds, it had been a model companion.
In spite of this, Cogan was deeply suspicious of the apparent change. He still exercised extreme care when approaching the animal. As he saddled and bridled the beast, he was forever on the alert for a sly attack on his person.
‘I can’t figure you, Hecate,’ he told the mule. ‘I guess you’re plotting something dire. I only wish I knew what it was. And,’ he added wryly, ‘I sure as hell hope I’m not around when you try it.’
To the accompaniment of owl hoots, the two men rode away from Mule Back Mine. Cogan was alert for signs of pursuit. He kept casting around the landscape for a sign of riders out hunting them. They rode on a goodly way without spotting anything suspicious. About mid-morning, O’Leary ceased his owl impersonations and rode in quiet contemplation.
Cogan, still weak from his beating and lack of sleep, found it hard to keep his eyes open. Time and again he jerked his head up after snoozing for a few moments in the saddle. He looked at his companion. O’Leary’s eyes were closed as his lips moved in soundless nonsense.
‘We got to stop and have a rest, boss,’ Cogan said. ‘Otherwise I’ll topple off this here mule and break my neck. Mind you, with all these here aches and pains I’d probably not notice.’
The old man smiled vacantly but made no reply. Cogan sighed, and looked around for a likely place to stop. They had gone about a mile further when he saw a giant cottonwood that had obviously fallen during last night’s storm.
‘Should give us cover for a while,’ he told his companion. ‘We’ll rest awhile here.’
There was no response. They dismounted and Cogan settled the old man among the foliage of the fallen tree. O’Leary kept up a muttered diatribe.
‘Stay put, boss,’ Cogan told him. ‘I’ll be right as rain in a while.’
He curled up on the damp ground and was asleep immediately.
Cogan groaned as Lovell, with an evil leer on his face, kicked him again and again. The pain was brutal and real.
‘Goddamn you, I’ll kill you this time, you bastard,’ Cogan swore and tried to kick back.
‘Wake up, you mad asshole,’ a voice insisted.
Pain seared through Cogan’s side as a boot thudded into his damaged ribs. He groaned and opened his eyes. Two gunmen were standing gazing down at him. Groggily Cogan shook his head and looked around.
Apart from the mule, that seemed intent on munching its way through the downed cottonwood tree, he was alone with two sadistic gunmen. There was no sign of O’Leary or his horse. Another kick and another agonizing bolt of pain.
‘We’re looking for O’Leary. You’re that cockroach as tried to kill Lovell. Where’s that crazy old loon O’Leary?’
‘For God’s sake stop kicking me,’ Cogan yelled. ‘How do I know where he is? I’m heading for the gold diggings. I’ve had enough of the O’Learys to last me a lifetime. I’m getting out.’
The tall lean character with the week’s stubble on his cheeks kicked Cogan again. His victim tried to roll with the kick but was too slow and the boot caught him in the spine. Cogan arched his back in agony.
‘Oh, God, this hurts too much.’
A gun barrel slashed him across the back of the head and he saw stars. When the lights had settled in his head, the men were still there, patiently waiting an answer.
‘Mister, we can beat you senseless. It’ll take time but we’ll enjoy doing it. Now, where’s O’Leary?’
In spite of the odds Cogan went for his gun and slapped an empty holster.
‘Is this what you’re looking for, you sad bastard?’
The second gunman held up Cogan’s revolver. His face was pockmarked as if he had been ravaged by disease at an early age.
‘You know something, fella?’ Cogan groaned. ‘Things started going wrong when I had that haircut. I guess I shoulda heeded that fella, Samson in the Bible. His story went something similar. He had a haircut and everything went wrong after that. Only instead of Samson and Delilah it’s Marcus and Hecate.’
‘Cut the crap, lug head. What did you do with that old bastard O’Leary?’
‘Believe me, fellas, I wish I could help, but I don’t know a thing about O’Leary. The last I saw he was in California Crossing. Ouch!’
The last a grunt as the taller of the two booted him in the face.
‘Goddamn!’ Cogan moaned as warm blood trickled from a pulpy nose.
He buried his face in his hands and curled up in a ball. The man with the pocked face hunkered down beside him.
‘Look, make this easy on yourself. Just tell us what we want to know. We ain’t gonna hurt the old fool. We was told to bring him in so as he could be cared for.’
Cogan peered through his hands at his tormentor. The man was toying with his gun – spinning it on his forefinger. At intervals the spinning would cease and the barrel would be pointing at the man on the ground. Cogan winced every time that happened, expecting each time the gunman would pull the trigger.
‘Please, fellas, believe me. Please, I just started working for this O’Leary fella. I ain’t got no loyalty to him. I just want out with a whole skin.’
‘You’ll share in the reward.’
Cogan looked expectantly at Pock-face.
‘Reward, you mean there’s a reward for this O’Leary?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t know about no reward. Maybe I can help you after all.’
Cogan sat up, trying to look interested and wondering if he could snatch Pock-face’s gun and turn it on the two men. The odds were not great for the success of such a move but his options in the situation were very limited, very limited indeed.
‘You see, Jordan.’ Pock-face grinned up at the lean man. ‘Sprinkle a little gold dust and everyone’s your friend all of a sudden.’
The man called Jordan screamed. His face turned white and he rose up on his toes and flailed his hands helplessly in the air. Pock-face gawked up at his friend. He began to stand and Cogan kicked him between the legs and made a grab for the six-shooter.
While Jordan screamed for his friend to help him, Cogan and Pock-face wrestled on the ground for possession of the gun. The gunman head-butted Cogan and he almost lost consciousness. Only a desperate desire to stay alive kept him fighting. The gun went off abruptly and the bullet ploughed into Jordan’s abdomen. The gunman gave a strangled, gurgling sound and keeled over on top of his companion, blood seeping from the bullet hole.
‘Goddamn it, Jordan! What the hell. . . ?’
Cogan sunk his teeth into the man’s hand and he yelped and let go of the gun. The gunman kicked and fought as he tried to get out from under the collapsed Jordan and at the same time fend off Cogan.
‘You goddamn piece of cow dung,’ he raged. ‘You just shot Jordan.’
That he had fast reactions were evident. While Cogan fumbled to get a grip on the disputed revolver, Pock-face abandoned the struggle and grabbed for Jordan’s gun instead. He swivelled back and turned the Colt on Cogan. Cogan went very still.
‘Drop it, you goddamn bastard. I’ll blow your goddamn head apart.’
Cogan allowed the weapon to fall from his slack fingers. He stared helplessly at the nozzle of the gun just a few feet from his face. The gunman scrambled to his feet.
‘Jordan, goddamn it, Jordan,’ the gunman yelled, staring down at his companion.
His hand was shaking so much he had to use both hands to hold his gun steady. When Jordan did not answer, the gunman screamed obscenities at Cogan.
‘You killed my goddamn partner, you bastard.’
Cogan might have pointed out the gun that killed Jordan was in Pock-face’s hand when it went off but thought now was not the time to dispute the point. He sat on the ground, awaiting the shot that would finish him.
Let it be quick and clean, he prayed.
‘Bastard,’ screamed the gunman as he cocked the weapon.
He never got to fire it. Large, yellow canines closed over his wrist. Jaws that had been shredding branches of cottonwood crunched down on bone and gristle. The gunman was screaming as his arm was reduced to minced flesh and splintered bones.
He went on his knees, still screaming. The gun fell from fingers suddenly deprived of nerves and blood. Only then did the mule release the mangled arm and step back. Blood pumped in scarlet streams from the hideous wound and on to his dead companion.
Cogan stood up with the discarded gun in his hand. He did not raise it for he reckoned neither of the men posed a threat. The mule had backed away and now stood facing him. That wicked grin was on its face.
‘Hecate,’ Cogan whispered, ‘I . . . I. . . .’
He paused, lost for words. There was a moan from the injured man.
‘Help me.’
He was staring pathetically at Cogan. Blood was still pumping with slightly less vigour from his lacerated arm. There was blood on his companion, blood on the leaves of the cottonwood and blood on the injured man’s clothing.
‘Help me,’ the wounded man said again in a faint voice.
Cogan contemplated the blood-soaked surroundings.
‘That’s a terrible mess you’re making. I hope you’re gonna clean up after. You know how hard it is to get blood out of clothing. Your friend’s just soaked in the stuff.’
The wounded man did not answer. He had keeled over in a dead faint, his chewed up arm slowly leaking blood into the dirt. It was only then Cogan noticed the huge rip in the backside of Jordan’s pants. Blood and faeces had run in streams down the man’s legs.
Cogan turned and looked at the mule. Hesitantly he walked over to the beast. Slowly he reached out and placed his hand on the broad forehead. The mule ignored him and carried on munching leaves. Cogan stroked the rough grey head.
‘Goddamn, son of a bitch. You saved my life, you goddamn son of a bitch.’