Peacemaker!, page 2
Ryker looked past him to the kitchen where a fat woman was wiping her nose with one hand and stirring the pot with the other. He shook his head.
‘Later, maybe. I’ll take another beer first.’
It was as warm and tasteless as the other, but it served to cut the bite of the home-brew whiskey. He sipped it slowly, watching the two men empty the bowl of chili.
The curly-haired youngster caught his eye and began to glower.
‘What the hell you starin’ at?’
Ryker grinned and set his glass down. ‘Like they say, Billy: a condemned man gets to enjoy one last meal.’
The boy stood up, kicking his chair over. The red-head eased round, not shifting from his seat.
‘What you mean?’
‘You’re Billy Garter,’ said Ryker, softly. ‘An’ your friend there’s Nathan Dixon. Right?’
‘So?’ Garter let his knees droop, lowering both hands close to the butts of his pistols. ‘What’s that to you?’
Ryker felt amused. The kid was acting the part of gunfighter with two weapons that were heavily unbalanced. The Leech & Rigdon was a pound or more lighter than the awkward Paterson Colt, yet he was shaping for a double-handed draw. His companion showed far more experience, just shifting his chair round to clear the way to the Rigdon & Ansley. Or—Ryker noticed—the Spencer.
‘Hundred dollars on you,’ said Ryker. ‘That’s what it means.’
‘Bounty hunter!’ Billy Carter spat the words as he reached for his guns. ‘A goddam bounty man.’
‘Yeah,’ Ryker said.
And drew.
And fired. Twice.
He placed his shots with the economy typical of all his actions, wasting neither bullets nor movement. His right hand dropped to fist the Colt clear of the holster as he swung clear from the bar, angling his body round so that he presented a narrower target. Not that he needed to worry overmuch.
Billy Carter’s hands were still closing on the two pistols when Ryker’s shot hit his chest. The .36 caliber ball drilled a neat hole through his clavicle and erupted from his back in a thick spray of blood. Billy was hurled back, his legs tangling in the overturned chair as he went down, both guns still holstered. He was falling as Ryker swung his aim to level the Navy Colt on Nathan Dixon. The older bank robber was tumbling sideways from the table, right hand dragging the Rigdon & Ansley clear of his waist. Ryker’s second shot punctured his midriff, doubling him over in mid fall so that the revolver exploded its load into the dirt floor.
Ryker fired twice more, placing his third shot in Dixon’s chest, on the left side so that it burst the heart and killed the man instantly; the fourth hit Billy Carter between the eyes while he was still falling. It landed dead center on the bridge of the nose, exploding a yawning hole that transformed the front of the boy’s face to a gaping mess of red.
Ryker swung round, shifting his aim to cover the barkeep.
The man shrugged and lifted both hands in the air. ‘Count me out, mister. Ain’t nothin’ to do with me.’
‘Keep it that way.’ Ryker’s voice was cold, menacing.
He held the Navy Colt cocked as he paced over to the bodies and kicked the guns clear. Flies were already moving in to feast on the blood. Ryker picked up the gun Dixon had dropped and set it on the table. Then he reloaded the Navy Colt, dropping ready-made cartridges into the front of the cylinder and tamping them firm with the underslung ramrod. He worked fast, his fingers moving deftly with the skill and precision of long practice. He greased each chamber and then set the fulminate caps over the nipples.
The reloading took only a few seconds, but all the time Ryker was conscious of the ease with which he might have been gunned down in turn. It was one of the disadvantages of a cap and ball pistol such as the Colt’s Navy: once the loads were expended it took time to reload the gun, the process involving a whole series of different actions from insertion of cartridges into the cylinder through the tamping to the capping of the nipples. It was why some shootists carried two pistols: to allow that extra fire power. Someday, Ryker hoped, a munitions factory would come up with an easier system, one that was more efficient and faster; like the simple loading of the Winchester he had recently acquiredii.
He filled the empty chambers and dropped the pistol back in the holster. Then he took up the dead men’s guns and pried the firing caps loose from the nipples before dropping the weapons on the table.
‘Reckon they’ll pay for whatever they ate,’ he said, ‘an’ my drinks.’
The barkeep nodded. ‘How about their horses? They left ’em out back.’
‘Show me.’ Ryker motioned for the fat man to lead the way.
One was a piebald gelding, the other a bay stallion. The bay wore a gut-jarring McClellan saddle with two sacks hung behind the cantle. When Ryker checked the bags they jingled with the clanking note of loose coin.
‘Jesus!’ The barkeep sounded surprised. ‘They were bandits?’
Ryker nodded, hauling the bedrolls clear of both saddles. ‘Help me drag them out.’
He got the bodies wrapped up in the groundsheets and blankets and lashed them in place on the two horses. Then he mounted the black stallion and took up the lead rope connecting the other animals to his own mount. The canvas hid most of the death smell, but the ponies were still skittish, wary of the unfamiliar distribution of weight and the clusters of flies that gathered about the bundles.
‘You leavin’?’ The barkeep stared up at Ryker, shading his eyes from the sun. ‘Don’t you want to eat?’
Ryker shook his head. ‘Guess not. Your cookin’ turns out lethal.’
He heeled the black horse clear of the way station, dragging the other animals behind him as he rode back towards the Dragoons.
The need to watch for tracks gone now, he made faster time crossing the mountains. But even so the two corpses began to smell before he reached Green Springs and he was pleased to deliver the unpleasant burdens to the bank.
A crowd gathered as he dismounted, the whispered comments that by now were familiar to him echoing through the hushed mid-morning air.
‘That’s the bounty hunter …’
‘Looks like he got them …’
‘Poor bastards …’
‘Hard-lookin’ feller, ain’t he?’
He ignored them, entering the bank and skirting round the desk to push past a fluttering woman into the office of Silas Cole, the manager. He dropped the money sacks on the desk and sat down.
‘You found them, then?’ Cole lifted the sacks to the floor and re-arranged his papers. ‘Where are they?’
‘Outside.’ Ryker scraped a hand over the stubble covering his jaw. ‘You owe me two hundred and sixty dollars.’
Cole nodded and reached below the desk top. Ryker’s hand shifted automatically to his gun butt, but the banker was only fetching the money. He counted out a wad of bills, passing the reward to the bounty hunter.
‘Thanks.’ Ryker pocketed the money. ‘I reckon to keep the horses for travel expenses.’
Cole shrugged. ‘Why not? The county can bury them.’
Ryker stood up. ‘Be seein’ you.’
‘Maybe,’ said Cole, ‘If I need you again, where can I find you?’
‘Depends.’ Ryker brushed his long hair clear of his face and settled the black Stetson firmly on his head. ‘Best way’s to send word to Frank Nolan in Tucson.’
Cole nodded. ‘Right. And thanks.’
Ryker grinned, patting the bulked-out pocket where the bounty money lay. ‘Don’t thank me, just pay me.’
He went out and tipped the corpses clear of the horses. The stink of decay was strong now, clearing a space around the bodies as he led the animals away in the direction of the stable. A woman pressed a handkerchief to her nose and a man shook his head, mumbling something about bounty killers. Ryker ignored them, inured to the disapproval of so-called civilized folk who found it necessary to hire men like him to do the jobs they couldn’t handle themselves.
He took the horses to the stable and collected another seventy dollars for the animals and their gear. It wasn’t a very good price, but he didn’t feel like arguing it. What he wanted was a bath and a meal and a soft bed. Maybe a woman, too, to warm it some.
The room and the bath and the meal were all available at the Golden Calf Saloon. And by the time he got the trail dirt scrubbed from his body and a sizable portion of steak and hash browns under his belt, a woman was waiting. She was the wrong side of youthfulness, but not yet dissolved into the raddled ugliness that marked most saloon whores. Her body was still firm and her hair was naturally blonde, unaided by peroxides. Ryker studied her as she lounged on the bed, her green eyes challenging him to criticize. He liked that, venting a rare smile as he began to undress.
He removed his jacket, vest and shirt, then told the woman to roll over.
She protested. ‘I don’t go that way, honey. You want me, it’s straight. No back roads.’
Ryker grinned. ‘Me neither, but do what I say.’
The snap in his voice spun the whore round on to her belly, face down against the pillow. Ryker watched for a moment, making sure she could not see him, then lifted the hideaway derringers from boot and waistband, placing the tiny guns amongst his clothes in the chipped wardrobe. He pulled off his boots and slung his gun belt over the bedhead, then stripped full naked. He set the Sharps on the top of the wardrobe and rested the Winchester under the bed after using a dirty shirt to brush the dust away.
Then he climbed on to the wide mattress and reached for the woman.
‘How come you wear so much armor?’ She eased over with professional skill, touching him with hands and lips. ‘Most men just carry two guns. Or three, if you call them weapons.’
‘Most men die young,’ murmured Ryker. ‘I figure to go rich an’ old, an’ preferably in bed.’
‘You’re too young to die, sweetheart.’ Her mouth nuzzled his face, her lips tracing down his neck and across his chest, moving lower. ‘You got a few loads left yet.’
‘Let’s see.’ He eased back against the pillows, enjoying it. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Cindy.’ She lifted her head to answer him. ‘My momma named me Cynthia, but I reckon Cindy sounds better. What’s yours?’
‘Ryker,’ he said. ‘John W. Ryker. My friends call me Jack.’
‘Do I count as a friend?’ Her head dipped and rose. ‘Can I call you Jack?’
‘Keep stoking the embers, Cindy,’ he said, ‘and you can call me anything.’
‘I’ll stick to Jack,’ she muttered; and her voice cut off as her mouth went back to work.
Ryker groaned, then reached down to lift her up and turn her on her back. He moved to cover her, his need blanking out all thoughts of danger except for that small part of his mind that was constantly awake and aware. Her arms reached about his neck, her lips fastening on his face as her legs hooked round to clutch him tight against her.
He glanced at the gun belt hung from the bedhead, then forgot about all his weapons but the one in use.
‘Jack!’ Her voice was husky. Ryker suspected it was purely professional, but he could respect that. ‘Oh, Jack! That’s good. So good.’
He woke as the sun began to filter through the drawn blinds. His eyes opened and he sat up, hand moving to the Colt above his head. The pistol was still there. Still loaded. He reached down to check the Winchester: in place. The heavy bulk of the Sharps was visible in the pale light, and there was no sign of the wardrobe being opened.
He looked at the woman.
She appeared older now, the harsh light of dawn emphasizing the age on her face. He reached over to touch her, rolling her on to her back and moving across her.
‘Darling …’ It was an automatic response. The same reflex action that might drop his hand to his gun spreading her legs. ‘Jack … Oh, yes! Jack!’
He shaved and bathed and dressed. He asked Cindy how much she wanted and gave her five dollars extra, then went down to the restaurant attached to the saloon and ordered a steak with two fried eggs and flapjacks.
There was a news-sheet on the table beside his that he picked up and began to read. It was a single piece of rough paper, the printing poorly inked so that the headline and subsequent wording ran together. But he was able to decipher the words. And they sparked a fascination he hadn’t felt since Colt announced the Navy model.
Across the top of the sheet, in huge capitals, there were the words: Colt Manufacturing Company, then, slightly smaller, announces the introduction of a new handgun. Chambered in .45 caliber this gun will accept Winchester cartridges in .44-40 caliber. Solid! Reliable! Jacketed shells! The gun you need! Load handgun and rifle with the same loads. Forget the trouble of powder and caps. Buy the new weapon. It is tough and reliable—the answer to your problems.
A demonstration of these excellent new pistols will be given in Tucson on the twelfth of October. Orders will be taken.
See them in action. And buy!
This is the gun of the future!
Ryker studied the broadsheet and began to wonder if the Colt factory hadn’t come up with the answer to cap and ball loading. There was a mess of smudged small-print on the back, mostly itemizing the advantages of a pistol that loaded on brass-jacket shells, thus negating the need to load from the front and cap the nipples. The pistol described sounded like a gunfighter’s dream: a weapon that loaded fast and fired true.
He decided to check it out.
He settled his bill and got the black stallion from the stable. As he rode away he saw Cindy watching him from the porch of the saloon. He touched his hat and heeled his mount to a fast canter out of Green Springs: the kind of pistol Colt was advertising held a whole lot more interest than the action of a whore’s body.
Chapter Two
‘GUESS YOU SAW the broadsheet. I figgered that’d bring you runnin’.’
Sheriff Frank Nolan eased his gut clear of his desk and cupped a hand under the overhang, using the other to wipe the crumbs from his shirt. Caught them and tipped them into his mouth. Ryker glanced at the peace officer’s gun belt. He was still carrying the .36 Colt’s Navy the gunslinger had recommended, but now the butt was hiked even farther back around the roll of loose flesh, and a new notch was added, granting Nolan a few more inches of expansion.
Ryker grinned. ‘Way you’re goin’, Frank, you won’t need a gun. All you gotta do is throw yourself on a lawbreaker an’ crush him to death.’
Nolan belched, tilted a beer bottle to his lips, and drained half the contents in one long, satisfied swallow. He wiped foam from his mouth and eased his huge bulk fractionally clear of the chair. Ryker stepped back, opening the door to allow fresher air into the room. He noticed that the arms were gone from the sheriff’s chair, thus permitting Nolan’s spreading weight to flow more comfortably over the padded seat.
‘You come back to insult me?’ Nolan chuckled. ‘Or to get a look at these guns Colt got out?’
Ryker left the door open, waiting for the air to clear before he dragged a chair over and sat down facing Nolan.
‘I come to see the pistols,’ he murmured. ‘But tellin’ the truth ain’t insulting.’
‘Depends where you’re sittin’,’ said Nolan. ‘Besides, that run in with the Brennans gave me an ideaiii. I got myself an equalizer.’
He reached under the desk, coming up with a Remington shotgun. The twin barrels were cut down to half their original length and the stock was sawed off to a pistol grip, bound round with rough leather that was fixed to the wood by closely-placed studs. Across the upper part of the barrels and the top of the stock, metal loops had been welded to accept the clips fastened to either end of a long leather strap. Nolan stood up and draped the strap around his neck, adjusting it so that the scattergun slanted over his belly. He paused for dramatic effect, then used his right elbow to knock the grip down to where he could clutch it fast and easy, the movement swinging the gun up and round to point at Ryker.
‘I got ought-ought in both chambers. Reckon that should make most shootists a might wary.’
‘Sure.’ Ryker nodded, pleased that his friend was now removing the gun: pointed muzzles made him edgy. ‘Over ten feet, maybe. After that you’re just punchin’ sky.’
‘Ten feet’s about all I need,’ said Nolan. ‘I work towns. There ain’t much happens in a town beyond ten feet.’
‘Unless some rifleman takes a shot,’ Ryker grunted. ‘Size you are, that’d be like hitting a barn.’
‘Goddam pessimist.’ Nolan grinned and pointed at the door. ‘You want to hear about this demonstration? I’ll buy you a meal.’
Ryker nodded, noticing that the sheriff was leaving the shotgun.
‘You feel equal?’ he asked.
‘I got you with me,’ laughed Nolan. ‘Reckon that’s all the edge I need.’
He closed the door and locked it. Then they paced down the sidewalk to Dolly Harman’s What Cheer saloon.
The relationship between the two men was a curious mixture of professional respect and mutual liking. They were dissimilar in almost every respect: Nolan carried close on four hundred pounds of over-fed flab, while Ryker stayed under two hundred, all of it lean muscle; Nolan was cheerfully garrulous, Ryker taciturn and often ill-tempered; Nolan was settled happily into Tucson, pacing out his days until retirement, while Ryker wandered the Southwest hunting bounty. It was, perhaps, the attraction of opposites, for either man would chance his life on behalf of the other. Had done. Nolan was Ryker’s chief source of information on bounties or news, an invaluable source of intelligence on who was doing what and why. And how much Ryker’s bloody intervention might be worth.
There was an unspoken acknowledgment of kinship between them. Not one of blood, but an equally binding bond of friendship that tied them, in many ways, closer than any true family relationship. Both men knew they could count on the other in times of trouble: no questions asked, no reward demanded. Ryker didn’t have many friends; his kind of work left little room for the forming of ties. But he knew that he could count on Frank Nolan. Knew that the fat lawman was probably the only friend he had.
