Gunslinger 06, page 6
The funny little pointers were set right, and the mesa was in view.
Billy squeezed the trigger.
Jansen’s skull exploded outwards.
Fired at close range, the Starr shattered the rear of his skull and pulped his brain out from the front of his face. The bone structure collapsed under the impact, spreading a mess of scarlet pulp over the hindquarters of the trailing horses. Jansen’s face fell apart, eyes and nose and mouth collapsing into a single bloody hole as he lurched forwards and fell down on to the animals.
Billy laughed and cocked the Starr, turning the heavy pistol towards Enoch Wright as the driver opened his mouth and started to shout.
Billy shoved the Starr’s barrel into the driver’s mouth and squeezed the trigger. Enoch snapped his teeth tight on the metal, then jerked back as the .41 caliber slug tore out through his neck and ripped him loose of his seat. His front teeth snagged on the foresight and jerked clear of his gums as he hurtled back from the Concord, a thick spray of blood erupting from his neck.
Billy stuck the pistol back in the holster and swung over on to the driver’s seat. Grabbed the reins and began to haul the panicked horses to a shuddering, stop.
Inside the Concord Judah Kane leveled a matched set of Colt Dragoons on the Mexicans.
He smiled and said: ‘Hold quiet. No point to makin’ a fuss.’
Across from him a man reached for a pocket pistol. At least he seemed to be trying to.
Judah shot him neatly between the eyes. The blood sprayed out over the man and woman seated beside him, and they gasped and eased back.
Judah held the second Colt tight against the temple of the woman beside him.
‘Anyone else plays stupid,’ he said, ‘an’ they get the same. Her first.’
The Mexicans nodded and stayed quiet.
Billy Durham dragged the team to a halt and wrapped the reins about the upright of the brake pole.
He jumped down and leveled his Starr on the right hand door as Major Rickarts and the others came out from amongst the mesquite.
Inside the coach, Judah told the passengers to step down, emphasizing his orders with the two Dragoons. They stepped out and lined up alongside the coach. Behind them, yards down the trail, there was a long swelter of blood, spread out behind the Concord like a marker. The slick ended where the bodies of Enoch Wright and Pat Jansen thrust dark markers of death up from the ground.
Judah Kane opened the far side door of the Concord and dropped to the ground.
Rickarts said, ‘Fire.’
Three carbines and one pistol opened up.
The Mexicans dropped, bullets tearing through their faces and bodies like hailstones out of Hell.
They left great sticky swathes of blood dripping from the sides of the coach, falling down on to the ground beneath and oozing from their bodies. The men and women were intermingled in death, blood meeting blood, so that only the clothing served to distinguish man from woman.
Rickarts kicked them aside and climbed into the coach. He checked the floor and the seats, then got out and swung on to the driver’s box. He was cursing as he climbed down and walked round to the rear. Cursed some more when he found it, too, empty.
‘Nothing,’ he shouted. ‘Not a goddam thing! Must’ve been the wrong stage. Check the bodies.’
The bodies were sticky with blood and already thick with flies, but they yielded some coin and numerous pieces of jewelry in addition to two fine Navy Colts, all chased with silver.
They left the bodies where they lay and unhitched the horses, leading them off to the west so as to confuse any trackers coming out of Braco or Alpine. The haul wasn’t worth much. No more than a few hundred dollars. But it should make the people around feel frightened of the mysterious raiders.
Rickarts ordered two of his men to hang back and lay drag on the tracks after they quit the main roadway, trailing blankets behind them so as to disturb the heavy indentations of the stage team and spill dust over the holes. He rode ahead in tandem with the others, choosing the path for the men bringing up the team.
They rode far out to the west before looping round to head south and cut up into the highlands of the Big Bend country. It didn’t fit with Rickarts’ personal plans to reveal the location of the rebel canyon. Not yet. Not until he was ready.
The news reached Braco the following day. A cowboy coming in to one of the southern ranches saw the stage and brought word in.
Ryker went out as soon as he heard.
Chapter Six
MOST OF THE male population of Braco went with him, swelling the posse to close on forty men.
It was a wasted journey. The milling riders stamped out any trace the attackers might have left and even though Ryker swung in a wide circle around the scene, he found nothing. Sunset wasn’t far off and there didn’t seem much point trying to pick up a trail when the raiders had such a head start. Ryker decided to go back to his original plan and follow the border road south to the mine, taking in Terra Alta along the way.
There were seven bodies in and around the coach: the driver and guard, the two women and the three men with them. The two American passengers were conspicuously absent.
‘They must’ve been with the raiders.’ Marsh ran a hand through his shock of red hair. ‘Christ! They was on the coach all the time.’
‘All the time from Terra Alta,’ nodded Ryker, ‘so maybe someone there will know them.’
‘You fixin’ to ask?’ Marsh’s temper seemed to have left him; in its place, a tired resignation. ‘Them Mexes were important. Hell! It’s bad enough havin’ women killed on one o’ my coaches. When it’s the wife of a Mex landowner gets shot along with her husband, that’s disaster. That could be the finish of me.’
‘Was for them,’ remarked the gunslinger drily. ‘Why not give them a real fine burial to show how much you care.’
‘Yeah.’ Marsh nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s a good idea. I could bring a preacher in. Do it right. Fancy coffins, the whole show. Let the family know about it.’
Ryker looked at the red-headed man and grunted, ‘Don’t spend too much,’ then heeled Nero to a canter back in the direction of Braco. He didn’t bother looking back to see if Marsh was following.
The next morning he woke at five. He was one of those fortunate men who carry some kind of internal alarm system in their minds. Having decided when he wanted to rise, he would automatically awake at that time, never more than a few minutes out. He woke immediately, swinging out of the bed almost as soon as his eyes opened, and stood up shivering in the pre-dawn chill.
There was a pump out back of the cantina, and he used it, chancing the offence of some early-rising matron as he stripped naked and sluiced the cold water over his body. He dried off and got dressed before heating water on the kitchen stove and carrying the pan back into his room to shave.
By the time he was finished the kitchen was in operation, and after checking his guns he ate a mess of frijoles and beans, then went to fetch the black horse.
The short ride of the previous day had barely stretched Nero’s joints, and the stallion nickered eagerly as Ryker slung the saddle in place and lashed a sack of provisions rearwards of the cantle. Braco was waking up as he lead the horse out on to Main Street, smoke drifting from the chimneys and the smell of cooking cutting through the clean tang of the air. Off to the east, the sun was lifted above the horizon, the pale yellow face dispelling the mist in promise of a burning day.
The M.F.&T. offices were still closed, so Ryker walked Nero to the Marsh house and hammered on the door. Like the rest of Braco, the house was a one-floor affair, a stoop shading off a solid door and two shuttered windows. Someone had pushed the shutters back to reveal a spread of chintz curtain. There was a sun-bleached picket fence surrounding an attempt at a garden that was losing its fight against the heat and the dust.
Ryker guessed that the woman who opened the door had tried to beat the desert, and was therefore Mrs. Marsh.
‘Ma’am?’ he took off his hat. ‘Yore husband about yet?’
The woman was still attractive, although she seemed to be losing the same fight as the garden. Golden hair was drying out to the bleached color of sun-washed pine; lines were beginning to form around her eyes and the corners of her full-lipped mouth. She clutched an expensive-looking robe across an ample bosom, forgetting that it fell open below to expose a length of pale, firm-fleshed thigh.
She looked tired.
‘Who wants him?’ Her voice was soft, throaty. ‘It’s awful early.’
‘John Ryker, ma’am. I’m just leavin’ and I’d appreciate a word.’
‘Oh.’ Her eyes reassessed him. ‘The gunslinger.’ Then, embarrassed: ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’
‘Nothing to forgive.’
It was what he was. He wasn’t ashamed of it, nor ready to take offence at the prim disapproval inherent in the shock. The odd thing was that an awful lot of people did disapprove of the man—him—who carried out their orders, of the man they used to further their own ends. Was he worse than Caleb Marsh for taking the stage owner’s money to carry out a job Marsh couldn’t handle himself? Ryker didn’t think so. It was like shooting a man dead and then blaming the gunmaker for providing the weapon.
‘Come in. You’ll take coffee?’
‘Thanks, ma’am.’ It was hard to lift his eyes from her breasts and body. ‘I’d appreciate that.’
She stood back, holding the door for him, and he went inside.
The house was comfortable. Luxurious by the harsh standards of the Southwest. The furniture was solid and well-padded, designed to last. The floor was polished, even had a carpet spread over the center, and the walls were hung with Mexican blankets and paintings.
‘I’ll call Caleb … my husband.’ She smiled, finding it hard to shift her eyes from Ryker’s gun. ‘He’s getting cleaned up.’
Ryker nodded and sat down. There was a massive sideboard against the far wall, all dark curves of hickory with polished glass shutting off an array of fiddly little vases and porcelain figures. At the center was a model of a stagecoach, complete with carved horses and a driver swinging a string whip.
He turned as he heard the sound of bare feet on the boards and saw Caleb Marsh enter the room with a fancy dressing-gown wrapped around his powerful frame. Ginger stubble sprouted from the man’s cheeks and his eyes looked near as red as his tousled hair. He sat down. His wife came in with a pot and two cups, murmured something about breakfast, and left.
‘It’s goddam early.’ Marsh filled the cups as he spoke. ‘What’s goin’ on?’
Ryker sipped his coffee: it tasted better than the cantina’s brew.
‘I’m heading out,’ he said. ‘Up to Terra Alta, then on to the Hoyos mine. I didn’t ask you before because I wanted to be sure we were safe: when’s the next shipment?’
‘Jesus! I forgot about that. I guess I got used to keepin’ my mouth closed on it.’ Marsh drank coffee and sighed. ‘I never have told anyone except Mary an’ Nathan. It’s due a week from now. I worked out a system with Felipe to shuffle his deliveries around.’ He stood up and found a calendar from inside the sideboard. ‘What’s today? Thursday? Yeah. The next shipment comes through Friday of next week.’
‘Collected at the mine?’ asked Ryker.
‘No.’ Marsh stood up again, crossing to a bureau from which he pulled a map. ‘From Terra Alta. We change the collection places same as the dates. Felipe will ship the bullion down to Terra Alta an’ see it transferred to the stage.’
Ryker looked surprised.
‘Don’t worry,’ Marsh grinned, ‘the depot boss knows all about it. Knows Felipe would kill him if he let anything out, too. The men from the mine load it at night. Then my drivers pick it up in the morning. They don’t know what’s on board.’
‘Poor bastards,’ Ryker murmured.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Go on.’
‘There’s not much more,’ said Marsh. ‘The stage comes north over the border an’ there ain’t a damn thing between Terra Alta an’ here. Except the raiders.’
‘Yeah,’ grunted Ryker. ‘Except the raiders. I’ll go to Terra Alta, then on to the mine.’
‘Good.’ Marsh drained his cup and poured more coffee. ‘I told Felipe to expect you, so you shouldn’t have problems there.’
‘Fine,’ said Ryker, ‘I’ll get goin’.’
‘Good luck.’
He set his cup down and crossed over to the door. Marsh stood watching as he mounted and turned the big horse south. Nero was feeling frisky after resting up in the stable, eager to run. Ryker let him work it out of his system, giving the horse his head so that the stallion stretched out and thundered clear of Braco. Before long the town was out of sight, hidden behind the heat haze rising off the plain.
Around noon Ryker halted in the shadow of some saguaro and doled out a little water. He left the horse to crop on the sparse buffalo grass while he ate some food and stared at the distant mountains.
At this distance the hills were just a vague blur along the horizon, visible only by the line of darker sky that denoted their peaks. It would take him the best part of the day to get close, then two more to climb up through the Big Bend country to Terra Alta and the Hoyos mine. After that, he wasn’t sure of his next move: just confident that he’d think of something.
That night he slept under the stars, stretched out on his bedroll as the coyotes sang to the rising moon. It was coming close to full, a huge waxy white disc that loomed like a benevolent face just over the sky line. It reminded Ryker of the big Virginia moons he had watched so long ago. A lifetime ago, it seemed. Felt. It was as though he remembered someone else’s life: a life full of hope and promise, devoid of danger or anger or bitterness. He had been little more than a boy then—at least it felt that way—with dreams and plans and a whole bright future to look forward to. He had sat under a moon that looked just the same, with the scent of honeysuckle and orange blossom in the air, and a girl beside him. Emmy-Lou. His fiancée. The girl he planned to marry.
That was one dream that had died. Burned in the fires that consumed Richmond as the Union Army took the town and Emmy-Lou was killed. After that he hadn’t found any reason to argue with his father when Angus Ryker announced his decision to move West and set up a medical practice somewhere a long way from the fighting.
Ryker’s mother had died on the journey, her body consigned to the cemetery of a nowhere little town not that much different from Braco.
Ryker and his father had gone on until they reached Settlement in the Arizona Territory. Angus had hung his shingle outside the house they had bought with their savings and then furnished his son with the money to buy a little store and set up as a gunsmith. It had seemed a long way from the Civil War. Far enough that the struggle between the States couldn’t affect them. Far enough that they could forget the past and build a new life.
But the War spread far, its savage grip reaching out to draw blood even in that lonely outpost.
Ryker had sold a man a gun. A derringer. Six inches in length, .45 caliber. Carrying a seven-sixteenths lead ball. The mounting was German silver and there was a box for percussion caps built into the butt, which was of cross-grained walnut. It was a handsome little gun, deadly up to ten feet. A pocket pistol. A hideaway. The kind gamblers liked to carry.
Or assassins.
The man who bought the pistol had told Ryker that it was a gift for a friend. An actor.
The actor’s name was John Wilkes Booth.
On Good Friday, 1865, in Ford’s Theatre, Washington, Booth used the derringer to murder Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States of America.
It took a long time for the news to filter back, but it came nonetheless. It came in the form of two men, bent on what they saw as a personal mission of revenge. They were looking for Ryker—for the man who had provided the gun that killed Lincoln—and when he wasn’t there, they took their anger out on his father. Ryker had killed them for it, but then found that he had lost more than just his father. Angus Ryker, M.D., was heavily in debt. His death had prompted the bank to foreclose on his mortgage, leaving Ryker penniless, his stocks impounded.
He had become a bounty hunter.
He stared at the big yellow moon, tasting the sour swill of unpleasant memory in his gut. Then he shook his head and pushed the thoughts away with conscious effort, reminding himself of a thing a man had told him once, back in Arizona.
The man was a soldier coming home from war, drifting westwards to California’s San Joaquin valley where he said a woman called July was waiting for him. He had an Army Colt, the .44 model of 1860, that needed a new cylinder, the original being cracked. While Ryker worked on the gun, the man had talked. Mostly of inconsequential things, but also of the war. He was called Stewart, and took pains to explain that he spelled it that way. Ryker had asked him how he felt about the war, if it wouldn’t stay with him.
Stewart had shaken his head and said, ‘You can’t look back when you’re moving on.’
Ryker had filed the saying away in his mind, along with all the other random chunks of advice and information he picked up in the gunshop.
He repeated it to himself now.
Then closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Morning dawned with shivery cold and Ryker stood up, slapping his arms about his sides to beat warmth into his body. A pale, grayish mist hung over the plains, barely pierced by the early sun and frosting his blankets and his clothes with moisture. The land seemed to flex itself, the ground groaning faintly as night’s chill gave way reluctantly to day’s warmth. Birds began to sing, and lizards woke up and scurried for the sunlight.
Ryker blew his fire into fresh life and set bacon to frying while he fed and watered his horse. A cursory check of his weapons showed the powder dry and the barrels still clean, so he brewed some coffee and hunkered down with the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders while the prairie warmed up and came to life.
