Peacemaker!, page 6
‘Chopsticks.’
The waiter smiled and went off to find a set. When he came back Ryker pointed at the window.
‘Wes Gantry go by here Fridays?’
‘Oh, yessir!’ The olive face bowed, dark eyes glinting. ‘Mr. Gantry, he come by every week. Sometimes he even stops to honor this humble place with his presence.’
‘What time?’ Ryker asked. ‘You know that?’
‘Like a clock, sir.’ The Chinaman pointed to the ornate chronograph mounted on the far wall. ‘Eight of the clock each Friday. Very regular is Mr. Gantry.’
It was six-thirty.
‘Popular?’ asked Ryker. ‘Got a lot of friends around town?’
‘Son of biggest rancher in all of West Texas. Mr. Jonathan Gantry owns the Big G ranch. Owns a lot of Pecos, too. He lend us money to start this restaurant.’
‘He made a good investment,’ murmured Ryker.
‘Thank you, sir.’ The waiter bowed. ‘You ready for more, now?’
Ryker nodded and settled back to fill his belly with a mixture of dishes ranging from chop suey to pork buns. He ate slowly, taking his time as he spaced out the hours until Wes Gantry would arrive.
At seven-thirty he settled his bill and collected the black horse from the stable. Like every other mount he had owned, he called it Nero. And like its predecessors, the stallion was big and black and strong: a fast runner and a stayer. Ryker hitched it outside the saloon and went up to the bar.
He was sipping his second whiskey when Wesley Gantry came in.
He was wearing a black shirt to match his pants, the cuffs tucked inside black boots with heavy Chihuahua-style spurs jangling on the heels. A black Stetson was pushed back from his fair hair, banded with a circlet of silver studs. A black gun belt encircled his waist, supporting two holsters tied down on either thigh. Ryker noticed that he had polished the butts of the Colts and allowed himself a silent sneer at the foolishness that would make a gun’s grip slippery.
Gantry glanced around the saloon, seeking an empty table. He saw one occupied by two cowhands and sauntered over. The three men with him followed on like bodyguards. Ryker kept his glass up against his face as he watched them cross to the table.
Gantry said nothing. Just stood looking down at the two men, then nodded to his companions. Instantly the chairs were hiked out from under the cowhands, dumping them on the floor with liquor spilling over their faces and shirts. One reached for the Starr holstered on his left hip, but a flying boot cracked into his wrist and his hand sprang open as a groan of pain burst from his lips. The man on his right kicked him hard in the belly, doubling him over. Gantry picked up the bottle and tossed it to the second cowboy.
‘Be best you took this someplace else.’
‘Sure, Wes. Right off.’ He helped his companion to his feet. ‘No trouble, Wes.’
Gantry chuckled and sat down.
‘Milt! Bring us a coupla bottles.’
The barkeep nodded and hurried to obey the order. Ryker watched.
He watched with professional interest, adding up the odds against him and his chances for survival.
Gantry was carrying more firepower than any man in the room apart from Ryker—who still kept the Winchester with him—but didn’t look too sure of knowing how to use it all effectively. The three men with him appeared more professional. Not Ryker’s standard, but still good.
One carried a Colt’s Navy in a tied-down holster; the second, an Army model; the third wore a Smith & Wesson American. Ryker noticed that they mostly used their left hands to lift their glasses, holding the right close to the butts of their guns.
He decided to take a chance.
At least a chance weighted in his favor.
He picked up the Winchester and went over to Gantry’s table.
Up close it was possible to see that the man was older than he looked at first sight. Close on thirty, Ryker guessed, and living off his father’s standing rather than his own character.
He cradled the rifle in his left arm, leaving his right free, the hand drooping close to the butt of the Colt.
‘Wesley Gantry?’
The blond man looked up and nodded. Ryker saw that his eyes moved to check his companions, and shifted his weight slightly, balancing on the point of his right foot.
‘Who wants him?’
‘Name’s Ryker. John W. Ryker. I was in that shootin’ contest up in Tucson.’
‘Tucson’s a long way from here.’
‘Not far enough,’ said Ryker quietly. Then raised his voice so that it carried through the saloon. ‘I guess the folks here don’t know how you bust a woman up to steal those fancy pistols you’re wearing. Or maybe woman-beatin’ is normal in Pecos.’
The saloon got quiet.
Gantry’s face got red.
‘Or maybe you just forget to tell them,’ Ryker continued, ‘how I outbid you for those Colts. An’ how you came sneakin’ in to steal them after you bust up Ruby Turner’s face.’
‘You bastard!’ Gantry lifted from the chair. ‘Take him!’
Ryker was expecting the move and had positioned himself in readiness. As the man on his left came out of his seat, Ryker swung the stock of the Winchester round, angling the rifle sideways so that the edge—rather than the flat—hit the man’s face. Teeth shattered and a pulpy chunk of blood-stained tongue fell to the floor. The man hurtled back, his chair turning over as the force of Ryker’s blow shifted his center of balance.
In the same movement, the gunslinger drew the Colt, leveling the muzzle on Gantry’s stomach.
‘Either one o’ yore boys tries a shot,’ he said calmly, ‘and it’ll be the last thing you ever hear.’
Gantry went pale, lifting his hands away from the Colts in their fancy holsters. He nodded.
‘You’re callin’ it, Ryker.’ He turned his head slightly. ‘Don’t shoot, boys.’
‘Wise,’ sneered Ryker. ‘Maybe you’re growin’ up.’
Gantry shrugged. ‘You can’t prove anything. Come to that, you can’t do much. You take the guns an’ I’ll guarantee you won’t reach the New Mexico line. My pa’s the biggest man around these parts—he’ll hunt you down like a dog.’
‘I didn’t just come for the guns,’ snarled Ryker. ‘I made Ruby Turner a promise. I said I’d kill you.’
The color went out of Gantry’s face. ‘Christ! You can’t do that. Not in cold blood.’
‘You’re carryin’ two good reasons why I should,’ said Ryker. ‘An’ Ruby makes three.’
‘Take the guns.’ Sweat showed on Gantry’s face. ‘I’ll give them to you.’
‘They won’t mend Ruby,’ Ryker husked. ‘Or settle my promise.’
‘Jesus! I’ll give you money.’ Gantry lifted his hands, the fingers spread. ‘Look, I’ll pay you five hundred dollars. I’ll pay whatever doctoring she needs. All right?’
A cold, hard rage gripped Ryker’s mind. It was a remembrance of the fury he had felt on seeing Ruby’s face. On finding the Colts gone. It swelled outwards like a flash flood, tightening his finger on the trigger of the new Colt. Only the pressure of his thumb kept the hammer from falling.
‘You Godforsaken bastard! You whining, goddam scum! You beat the hell out of a sleepin’ woman an’ now you’re trying to buy the justice back? There’s only one justice for you, Gantry. It comes outta my gun.’
He smiled, not showing any humor. The man he had struck with the Winchester’s stock was still down on the floor, moaning as he spat blood and stared at the fragments of his hit teeth. The other two were just standing, watching. Waiting for some kind of signal.
‘You shoot me an’ you’ll never leave Pecos alive.’ Gantry licked his lips, still taking care to keep his hands clear of the Colts. ‘You’ll be dead the moment you shoot me.’
‘It might just be worth it,’ said Ryker. ‘Just to see you die.’
‘You really think so?’
The solid pressure of a gun tucked against Ryker’s back, leaving him no doubt as to the handler’s intention: the muzzle was tight against his spine, angled up to tear the bone apart and go on through his heart.
It was a stand-off. Like the final fall of the cards in a poker game. Except the outcome was never quite certain until all the cards were spread on the table. Or one player folded.
Ryker held his pistol steady on Wesley Gantry’s stomach.
‘Drop it.’
The voice was commanding, tinged with age and accustomed to giving orders.
‘The hell!’ Ryker braced his feet, knowing that the slightest movement would trip the hammer of the Colt and punch a .45 caliber bullet through Gantry’s belly. ‘You try anything an’ he’s dead meat.’
‘That prodding you feel on your back is the wrong end of a Sharps Big Fifty. You know what that’ll do to you?’
‘Be like drilling a tunnel,’ said Ryker. ‘It’ll go through me an’ about thirty feet farther. That means young Wes, there, gets killed as well. Twice over, seein’ as how I’ll put a bullet in him at the same time.’
Gantry shook his head. ‘Fer Chrissakes, Dad! He means it. He shot Fisher an’ Walker! He’s a killer.’
‘So it’s a stand-off.’
The pressure on Ryker’s back eased slightly and from the corner of his eye he saw the two men on his right ease away from the table.
‘My life against your son’s, Mr. Gantry. You want to see your boy die? Or you want to talk?’
The pressure went away.
‘Talk, I guess.’ Ryker waited for the gentle sound of the hammer going down. ‘That mean you’ll stop easin’ on him?’
‘Depends.’ Ryker held the Colt steady. ‘I want your word I can ride clear. I want to hear you say
‘You got my word.’ Jonathan Gantry pitched his voice up to carry through the saloon. ‘You prove your point an’ you can ride outta Pecos free an’ clean.’
‘Thanks,’ said Ryker.
And holstered the Colt.
Chapter Seven
ONE OF THE gun hands moved to draw a pistol, but the shifting of Ryker’s Winchester and the whiplash crack of Jonathan Gantry’s voice stopped his hand in mid-draw.
‘I said we’d talk!’ The rancher glared at the hired man. ‘I give my word, then I keep it. Go watch the horses, Telford.’
Ryker wondered how far he could trust Gantry’s father. Whether the offer to discuss the thing was based on a sense of fair play or the fact that his left thumb had cocked the Winchester’s hammer and Gantry realized he could swing the rifle to gut shoot Wesley before anyone could stop him.
He guessed it was the latter, because the rancher said ‘Let’s go out back. Wes can lead the way.’
Ryker nodded, transferring the rifle to his right arm as the fair-haired man scowled and moved towards the rear of the saloon. Ryker moved into step behind him, counting the footfalls at his back: three men.
They went into a private room that was ringed by a velveteen couch. Gantry senior called for whiskey. Ryker took a position facing the curtained opening with the Winchester rested on his knees so that the barrel pointed at Wesley. The father sat down with his back to the curtains and the other two shuffled round him. One was a tall, rangy-looking cowhand with the marks of old smallpox scars reddening his face. He wore a Starr double-action revolver belted high on his waist. Ryker guessed he was the foreman of the Big G: a working cowboy rather than a gun artist. The other was something different. He was part Mexican, his face swarthy and partially hidden behind a thick growth of beard and mustache. He carried a Remington Army model cross-hung in his wide belt and a bullwhip coiled over his right shoulder.
‘You reckon my son’s got something of yours?’
Jonathan Gantry was upwards of sixty, his face weathered by time and hard living. His hair was grey, streaked through with silver threads, and his skin was mottled with the puckered brown stains of age. He wore a plain black suit—not unlike that of Ryker—empty of a gun belt. The Sharps was canted against the table. Ryker noticed that he was left-handed.
‘He stole two pistols.’ Ryker stared the old man straight in the eyes. ‘There was an auction up in Tucson, an’ I outbid him.’
‘He’s a goddam liar, Pa!.’
Jonathan Gantry waved a hand to quiet his son.
‘He stole the guns from me,’ Ryker went on. ‘And beat up a woman in the process.’
‘So you came down here to Texas to get the guns.’ Gantry nodded. ‘But I heard you saying something about killing my boy.’
‘I made the lady a promise,’ said Ryker. ‘He beat her damn’ close to death.’
‘I'll give you back the guns.’ Gantry’s face got suddenly older. ‘But I can’t give you my son. Here.’ He reached inside his black coat to pull out a wad of notes. ‘One thousand dollars. That should cover any medical expenses. You agree?’
Ryker glanced around the table. The foreman and the Mexican were staring at him: he realized that he wouldn’t walk far from the saloon if he said ‘no’.
‘All right. One thousand dollars.’ He scooped up the notes and slid them inside his coat. ‘And the guns. In the box, like they were at the presentation. And yore word I can ride clear.’
Jonathan Gantry nodded. ‘You got it, both. A deal?’
‘A deal.’
Gantry turned to the pock-marked man. ‘Chuck, send Billy or one of the others to the ranch. Fetch the case.’
The big man stood up without speaking and went out into the main room of the saloon. The Mexican went on looking at Ryker.
‘You’re crazy, Pa!’ Wes Gantry turned to his father. ‘You gonna hand a thousand dollars to this bum? Give him my guns, too?’
‘According to what he said,’ the old man barked, ‘you stole weapons and hurt a woman. That’s bad, Wes. In my book, that’s real bad.’
‘Who you gonna believe? Him or me?’
‘It’s a long ride from Tucson to Pecos,’ said Gantry. ‘There ain’t no bounty on you, so Ryker must’ve had a reason. I’d sooner settle now an’ avoid any killing. If he’s lying,’ he turned to stare at Ryker, ‘then I’ll hire the finest man hunters in this country to track him down.’
Wes Gantry’s silence was all the answer needed.
The foreman came back and set the rosewood case on the table.
‘Put them Colts in, Wesley.’ The old man’s voice was harsh: his son obeyed instantly. ‘And don’t never lie to me again.’
Ryker lifted each gun, checking it for faults, then set them back in the case and snapped the catches closed. ‘That satisfy you, Mr. Ryker?’
He looked at the old man and saw the tired filming of the eyes.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You been fair. That settles it for me.’
‘Good.’ Gantry stood up. ‘I’ll say goodbye. I hope we don’t meet again.’
Ryker nodded, still holding the Winchester cocked under the table.
‘No reason why we should, Mr. Gantry.’
‘No.’
The old man led the way out of the room. Ryker waited until they were all gone, conscious of the furious glare Wesley sent his way and the blank-eyed stare of the Mexican with the whip. He poured himself a fresh drink from the bottle the rancher had left behind and sipped it slowly. Then he tucked the case holding the two matched Colts under his arm and picked up the Winchester.
He left the saloon and went out on to the porch. The black horse nickered a greeting as he slid the rifle into the saddle scabbard. He stroked the heavy face and then opened the right-side saddlebag, dropping the rosewood presentation case inside.
It was dark now, the air chilly, so he decided to stop over one more night before heading back to Tucson.
He climbed astride the stallion and walked the big horse down the street towards the stable. His old stall was still open, so he took the pony inside and dragged the saddle and the bags clear, passing the stable hand a dollar to rub the animal down and see it well fed. Then he walked back to the hotel and booked himself a new room.
He was pleased to find the mattress wide enough for him to slide the case holding the Colts under one side without leaving any bumps to disturb his sleep. He undressed and spread his other guns about the room.
Then he climbed under the sheets and closed his eyes. Sleep came instantly.
The mental clock that somehow governed Ryker’s awakening brought him back to consciousness as dawn paled the sky. He rose and crossed to the window, shivering in the early chill. A light drizzle was steadily transforming the street to a clinging morass of muddied sand, and off to the east a bank of storm heads was building a black wall against the rising sun. Few people were about so early, and for a moment Ryker contemplated staying over a day more. Then he remembered his promise to Ruby and the thousand dollars he had elicited from Gantry: he shaved and dressed.
The dining room was mostly empty, just a pair of drummers sipping coffee and checking their sample cases as they waited for the San Antonio stage to leave. Ryker ordered a big breakfast, then settled his bill and shrugged into his slicker.
The desk clerk stared at the saddlebags hiked over his shoulder and said, ‘Headin’ home, Mr. Ryker? Back to Tucson?’
Ryker nodded.
‘Don’t look like a good day for traveling. Guess you must be in a hurry. There someone waitin’ for you?’
Not feeling much like talking, Ryker just said, ‘Yeah.’ And left the clerk slapping at the pages of his register as he pushed through the door, leaving it to swing shut on the blast of rain-laden wind.
It was full light by now, but the storm heads filtered the sun so that Pecos was bathed in eerie grayish light. Thunder rumbled distantly and the occasional flash of lightning hurled a stark brilliance over the gloom. The atmosphere was oppressive and Ryker found Nero skittish when he collected the stallion from the livery. He got saddled up and walked the horse back down the street, halting outside a general store where he purchased supplies for the long ride home.
The full fury of the storm was closing in as he quit Pecos, the wind strengthening so that the increasing rain slanted almost horizontally from the east, lashing his back and irritating the horse after the warm comfort of the stable. Ryker allowed the animal to spend his temper in a gallop that carried them swiftly westwards. With any luck, the bulk of the Guadalupes, off to the north, would deflect the storm, turning it south.
