Peacemaker!, page 5
‘That ain’t all, Jack.’ Nolan passed him a cloth. ‘She’s got a coupla busted ribs, with a chance that one’s stuck into a lung. Doc said not to move her.’
Ryker sat up straighter and eased clear of the bed.
His face hurt and his right arm felt like a wagon had run over it, but he got up on his feet and began to dress, ignoring Dolly’s interested stare. He checked under the bed and then around the rest of the room. He wasn’t very surprised to find the rosewood case with the matched Colts gone.
‘I done some checkin’, Jack.’ Nolan sounded almost embarrassed. ‘Seems like Wes Gantry was the one. He was complainin’ most of last night about how you got them pistols. Sayin’ he shoulda won them an’ it was all a big fix. Couple o’ fellers remember seein’ him come in the What Cheer, an’ now he’s gone. Took his horse outta the stable soon after dawn.’
Ryker touched his jaw, wincing as the swollen flesh twinged under his fingers. He looked at his wrist, flexing his fingers against the pull of the bruising around the base of his hand. Then he looked at Ruby.
‘Don’t worry, Jack.’ Dolly Harman spoke from the doorway. ‘She can stay here as long as needs. No charge.’
‘Thanks.’ Ryker finished dressing. ‘Where’d Gantry go? Anyone see him leave?’
‘Looked to be headed east by all accounts.’ Nolan patted his belly, shrugging. ‘New Mexico or Texas, I reckon.’
‘All right.’ Ryker slid the two derringers into boot and belt, then slung the holstered Navy Colt around his waist. ‘I’m still a deputy, so I’ll go after him. Real legal.’
‘You ain’t got no authority outside of Tucson,’ said Nolan. ‘I’m just a city sheriff, not some goddam federal marshal.’
Ryker looked at Ruby. Her face was an ugly mask of purplish bruising, and her breath came in slow, wheezing gulps. Every once in a while a bubble formed at the corner of her lips, the surface iridescent with a multitude of shades. All based on red.
‘It don’t matter,’ said Ryker quietly. ‘I’ll find him an’ bring him back.’
‘How?’ asked Nolan. ‘Dead or alive?’
‘That matter?’ Ryker took the badge from his vest and passed it to his friend. ‘Be best I do this on my own, Frank. There’s no point to involving you.’
Nolan took the badge and nodded. ‘Whatever you say, Jack.’
‘See you.’ Ryker took one last look at Ruby, then left the room. He went back to his own place and got his guns together. He reached the ground floor before Engell stopped him.
‘Will she live?’ asked the publicity man. ‘She’ll be all right, won’t she?’
‘Depends.’ Ryker moved past the smaller man, but Engell darted round to block his path. “It’ll take time. You’d best get a new demonstrator.’
Engell shook his head. ‘You got me wrong, Mr. Ryker. I’ll stay in Tucson until Ruby’s well again. I just wanted to give you this.’
He reached under his jacket to produce the Colt Ruby had used for the demonstration. It was a less fancy model than the pair Ryker had bought, but was otherwise similar. Engell held it out along with two cartons of shells.
‘It’s the best help I can offer you. Use it on the man who beat Ruby.’
Ryker looked down at the small, plump salesman with fresh respect.
‘Sure.’ He took the pistol and the cartridges. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Chapter Five
GANTRY HAD STAYED in a room behind the Golden Nugget saloon. He had stayed mostly alone, but when he did drink in company it was with two Texas men called Fisher and Walker. The barkeep pointed them out to Ryker and kept his mouth shut as the gunslinger went over to the table.
‘Ryker,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘I won those Colts yesterday.’
Walker sniggered and said, ‘Yeah. Sure.’
Ryker said, ‘I hear you was friends of Wes Gantry. Maybe you know where he came from. Where he’s headed?’
‘Texas.’ Walker looked at Fisher and laughed some more. ‘He got so disappointed at losin’ them guns that he lit out fer home.’
‘Big place, Texas.’ Ryker’s voice was cooler than his temper. ‘Any place in particular?’
‘Home, I’d guess.’ Walker went on laughing. ‘You ain’t a Texas boy, or you’d have heard about the Gantry spread.’
‘Where?’ Ryker’s question came out fiat and cold, like a whiplash.
Walker looked at Fisher and shook his head. ‘This ole Arizona boy don’t rightly understand Texans, do he?’
‘Guess he don’t, Jed,’ said Fisher. ‘Seems like a real uppity boy to me.’
Ryker’s next movement was based on a combination of anger and desire. The anger was directed at the arrogant Texans; the desire at the need to retrieve the two Colts and avenge Ruby’s beating. In essence, the motives were irrelevant, simply molding the action.
His left hand reached out to clutch Fisher’s shirtfront and drag the man up from his chair. As he tried to draw the Colt’s Army model slung cross-draw style on his left hip, Ryker slammed a knee into his groin. Fisher screamed and doubled over.
Ryker hauled the Navy Colt out and slammed the barrel against the Texan’s skull.
Fisher was rammed sideways by the blow, leaving the muzzle of the Colt pointed on Walker’s face. The second Texan froze with his Dragoon only half-way clear of the holster. Ryker let Fisher drop to the floor and set his left foot on the man’s wrist.
Walker stared at the muzzle of the Colt’s Navy.
Ryker smiled. Like the Angel of Death.
‘Go ahead. Try it.’
Walker’s hand came away from the gun. ‘You got me cold. I’ll not draw on you.’
‘You just did.’ Ryker’s voice was as warm as a piece of ice floating down a frozen river. ‘Where’d Gantry go?’
‘Home. To the ranch.’
‘Where’s that?’
Fisher moaned as Ryker’s boot pressed against his wrist.
‘About ten miles outside of Pecos. The spread borders on the river. You won’t get in there.’
‘He’s got three weeks’ ride,’ said Ryker. ‘Maybe I’ll catch up with him.’
He lifted his foot from Fisher’s wrist and holstered the Colt.
‘Thanks,’ he grunted. ‘Thanks a lot.’
The sound of the table going over alerted him to danger even before the barkeep yelled a warning. He spun round, dropping to a crouch with the Navy model jumping clear of the leather.
Walker’s face showed over the rim of the woodwork, snarling as the big Dragoon angled at Ryker’s position.
Automatic reflex took over. The Colt bucked in Ryker’s hand and Walker’s face exploded in a massive cloud of spreading blood. The Dragoon swung up as the man pitched backwards, dancing dust from the ceiling that drifted to settle over the mess that had once been a man’s face.
Fisher was rolling behind the cover of the table, the Colt’s Army in his hand.
Ryker fired again, the second shot blending its thunder into a single echoing peel behind the first.
Fisher screamed as the .36 caliber ball tore into his mouth, fragmenting the angle of his jaw so that the left side of his face went slack and spurted a column of blood. His shot flew wide, chipping wood a foot to Ryker’s side.
The gunslinger fired again as the man pushed up on his knees, bloody froth erupting from his face as he went on screaming. Ryker’s third shot took him in the belly, punching through his shirt an inch above his belt. He doubled over, exposing the gaping hole in his back while the fragments of flesh and shattered spine still rained down. Fisher jerked, his hand losing its grip on the Army Colt. For a moment he stared at Ryker. Then his eyes closed as the gunslinger planted a final shot between them.
There was silence, and Ryker was suddenly reminded of some advice he had heard a long time ago.
A pistoleer called Jedediah Herne had come through Settlement on the trail of an outlaw. Herne had wanted Ryker to check his pistol over, and while the work took place, Herne had discussed the techniques of shooting.
‘A man moves around,’ he had said. ‘You think about it an’ you’ll realize how fast he can move an’ what a small target he can make. That’s why it’s always a good thing to keep yore hand in on movin’ targets an’ turn sideways-on to a pistol pointed yore way: makes you smaller.’
Ryker, although his focus of interest was then the manufacture and maintenance of guns, was always ready to hear sound advice on their usage. And Herne carried about him the air of a man well-versed in the killing arts.
‘Suppose the target is movin’,’ he said curiously, ‘what do you aim for?’
‘The guts.’ Herne’s voice was flat. ‘Forget the fancy shots—just put the bullet where it hurts most.’
‘But a shot to the head or the heart would kill him faster,’ said Ryker. ‘Wouldn’t it?’
‘Sure.’ Herne nodded. ‘But you try hitting some guy in the head when he’s forty paces away and movin’ around. Up close—if you’re good enough—you can bring it off, but if you want a man to stay shot, you’d best go for a belly hit. If it don’t kill him, it’ll stop him movin’ so you can finish him off easy.’
Ryker had always remembered that advice and mostly followed it. Shooting Walker and Fisher in the head had been instinctive, a reaction compounded of a reflexive computation of angles and defenses that had flashed through his mind so fast he was unaware of any conscious thought. It was the natural killer instinct that governed his actions. And mostly kept him alive.
He glanced at the bodies and turned away.
He pushed out through the doors and saw Frank Nolan running towards him. The obese law man was puffing like a runaway locomotive, clutching the cutdown shotgun in both meaty hands.
‘Christ Jesus, Jack!’ Nolan paused, drawing breath. ‘Can’t you stay outta trouble at all?’
Ryker grinned, reloading the Navy Colt. ‘All I did was ask a few questions. Then Gantry’s friends drew on me. From behind. You got a saloon full of witnesses.’
‘Where you goin’?’ Nolan lowered the hammers of the shotgun. ‘They tell you where Gantry’s headed?’
‘Texas,’ Ryker nodded. ‘Seems like his folks have a spread down there. I’ll see you ’round, Frank.’
He walked back to the What Cheer and collected his things. The doctor had tended to Ruby so that she was now swathed in bandages, with iodine purpling the marks on her face. Dolly was sitting with her, spooning broth into the younger woman’s mouth.
‘She can’t speak.’ Dolly pointed to the bandages wrapping Ruby’s head. ‘What she needs is rest.’
Ryker nodded. ‘Can she hear me?’
Ruby’s eyes gave the answer: they were hurt and angry. But mostly hurt.
‘Listen,’ Ryker said. ‘You stay here as long as you need. Dolly’s promised that, and Engell’s sticking round. Even gave me that new Colt you used. I’m going after the man who took the others. Soon as I find him, I’ll come back.’
Ruby’s eyes asked a question and Ryker smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.
‘I’ll kill him,’ he said. ‘For what he done to you. I promise you that.’
Under the bandages, Ruby’s lips curved slightly. Ryker bent down, kissing her gently. She winced at the touch.
‘I’ll come back,’ he said. ‘I promise you that, too.’
Chapter Six
HE RODE BACK across the Dragoons, moving steadily eastwards to follow the pass between the Chiricahua Range and the western Guadalupes. From there he rode on to Messilla and turned south, following the course of the Rio Grande to El Paso. From there he swung south and east, cutting around the foothills of the eastern Guadalupe range to head in on Pecos.
For most of the journey he avoided towns, preferring to sleep rough and hunt his own food. The solitude gave him the chance to practice with the Single Action Colt Engell had given him, and he rapidly familiarized himself with the gun.
In weight and grip it was little different to the Navy Colt, just as accurate, despite the harder kick of the discharge, but almost as sweet to handle. It was a more solid gun, the cylinder contained within a solid metal frame with a grooved sight running along the upper strut to line on the shark’s fin foresight. The hammer spur was slightly lower, but that simply meant that the harder recoil of the .44-40 cartridges slid the butt back smoother so that the hammer was placed directly under his thumb each time he fired.
As a piece of machinery, the pistol was built just about as solid as it could be, the wrap-around structure of the cylinder frame affording it a chunky reliability that lived up to all of Engell’s sales patter.
But the greatest advantage was the ease of loading. On the left side of the cylinder, a latch-sprung gate flipped aside to expose one chamber at a time. Loading was accomplished by the simple expedient of dropping a shell into the hole. And once fired, it could be swiftly ejected by the use of the sprung rod mounted below and to the right of the barrel.
It was a Cavalry model—unlike those Gantry had stolen—and the total length was thirteen and one quarter inches, only a quarter inch less than his familiar Navy Colt. So, with the same weight and balance, and more or less the same length, Ryker found that he was swiftly accustomed to using the pistol with the same speed as the Navy model.
As was his custom, he practiced each day with all of his guns, but he spent more time using the new Colt, so that after a few days he felt confident enough of his skill to transfer the cap and ball revolver to his saddlebag and drop the Colt S. A. into his holster: he was pleased that the size of the gun fitted so well. He removed the Navy loads from his pockets and stowed them carefully in his bags, replacing them with the brass-jacketed shells Engell had given him.
He cleaned the pistol, scrupulously, after each session, taking time out to break it down to its component parts and reassemble the weapon until he was as familiar with its workings as he had been with those of the Navy model.
Riding into Pecos he recognized a new feeling about the gun: a feeling of superiority.
The basic recognition of fire power that was part of any gunslinger’s life remained with him: he knew that a cap and ball pistol shot true would kill a man as surely as the new gun. But he knew, also, that in a general shoot-out, he could load and start firing again well in advance of most opponents.
He wondered if Wesley Gantry had got home yet.
A row of single-story frame buildings spread in a ragged line down the west side of the river. To the east, there was a sprawl of adobe shacks and warehouses, each one fronted by a narrow wharf. Barges and a trio of stern-wheelers were tied to bollards along the shore, their cargos manhandled by teams of Mexicans and Negros. Beyond the main spread of buildings on the west bank there were timber shacks and adobe houses. The west bank was obviously the place to live.
Ryker picked the largest of the five saloons and dismounted.
He hitched the black stallion to the rail and went inside.
It was a whole lot fancier than he was used to in Arizona or New Mexico. A mahogany bar ran all the way down one wall, a brass foot-rail bolted to the smooth-polished wood, and the spigots of beer taps set every few yards.
He rested his Winchester against the bar and motioned for a beer.
The bartender’s eyes got wide as he recognized the gun.
‘That’s one o’ them new rifles, ain’t it?’
Ryker nodded, lifting the mug and draining half the contents in a single gulp.
‘Ain’t seen but one o’ them.’ The barkeep shoved a whiskey across the bar. ‘Wes Gantry got hisself one. Swore it was the finest long-gun he come across.’
‘That a fact?’ Ryker kept his voice indifferent.
‘Sure thing.’ The barkeep lifted the bottle: Ryker nodded. ‘He was so impressed he said he was gonna get hisself a pistol to match. One o’ them new guns Colt brought out. You know ’em? Take the same slugs as the Winchester.’
‘So I heard,’ said Ryker. ‘He get it?’
‘Damn’ right he did! Come back two days ago with a matched pair. Won them someplace in Arizona in a shootin’ contest. Sweetest pistols I ever seen.’
‘That right?’ said Ryker. ‘I’d like to see guns like them.’
‘Beautiful! Polished up so high you can damn’ near see yore face. Butts all carved, an’ a fancy box to hold ’em. Of course, Wes wears ’em on his belt. Got hisself a brand new belt set just to carry ’em.’
‘Be a real sight to see,’ murmured Ryker. ‘Any chance of his coming in?’
‘Likely,’ said the bartender. ‘This bein’ Friday Wes mostly comes in with a bunch o’ the Big G boys. You might see ’em then.’
‘Be interesting,’ Ryker said. ‘I’ll wait around. You got any food?’
The bartender shook his head. ‘We don’t do eats. Take a few paces down the street an’ you’ll find Ah Fong’s Chinese place. Real good eating there. I use it myself.’
‘Thanks.’ Ryker dropped coins on the bar and said, ‘I’ll wait round to see the guns.’
‘See you later, then.’ The barkeep waved. ‘Wes always comes in here.’
‘Good,’ Ryker said. ‘That’s good.’
He checked into a hotel and stabled his horse. Then he took a bath and got his clothes cleaned. When he was finished, he went back to the Chinese restaurant and settled into the window seat.
As best he remembered Wesley Gantry, the man was around twenty-five years of age, with shoulder-length blond hair and a thick mustache that looked like it was grown to compensate for the weak mouth and receding chin. At the shooting contest he had worn a buckskin jacket and black pants. Mostly Ryker remembered his pale blue eyes; watery and wet, and constantly shifting around. Like butterflies trapped in a jar.
‘Your soup, sir.’ The waiter interrupted his thoughts. ‘Chopsticks or fork?’
Ryker glanced at the dumplings floating in the soup and grinned, remembering when he had been forced to eat Chinese food and learned to enjoy itv.
