Gunslinger 01, page 6
part #1 of Gunslinger Series
Hughes fell on his back, sliding down the wall, leaving a slobbered trail of crimson over the flock wallpaper, finally ending slumped sideways, his legs wide apart, blood mingling with the stains where he’d fouled himself in death. His fingers twitched and the broken jaw moved as if he was still trying to say something.
Ignoring the scream from the other room, Ryker got to his feet, re-holstering the Navy Colt, reaching in his breast pocket for a narrow rod to eject the spent cartridges from the derringer. When he got round to it, he was going to have to try and fit simple, two-armed ejectors to the little pistols.
He looked down at the corpse of the first of the men that had butchered his father and he spat on the carpet, feeling the tension gone from him. Now that he’d faced and killed his first man, he felt in his bones that the second would be easier. And he wondered how long that feeling would go on. Whether it would reach a point when it started to get harder.
‘If you come to talk, then you talk,’ he said to Hughes. ‘But if you come to shoot, then you’d better shoot. I guess my friend Little Arkansas was sure as Hell right about that.’
There was another scream from the other room, behind the closed door, but more muffled this time. Ryker reckoned he’d only been in the bedroom for a couple of minutes. Three shots had been fired and the whore had been yelping her head off and nobody had taken a blind bit of notice. The walls must be damned well-built, and the customers at Dolly Harman’s place must be very good at minding their own business.
Carefully, he reloaded the derringer with cartridges that he carried in a small pocket of his jacket. The right side also held the set of gunsmith’s tools that he always carried with him. Files and screwdrivers and a set of small steel scalpels, razor-sharp. The other side of the jacket held ammunition for the Colt and the derringers and the big Sharps, with molding kits for each of them. The heavy tools and lead were in his saddle-bags.
Once the derringer was safely back in its concealed holster, Ryker opened the other door of the room, seeing a fat and naked girl cowering in the corner against the tin bath, her fist jammed in her mouth, and her eyes red. He looked down at her, seeing the purple bruises standing out livid on her sagging breasts and the marks of what looked like burns on’ her shoulders and thighs.
Hughes surely had been the sort of guy to take pleasure in suffering.
‘He’s dead,’ he said gently. ‘He won’t hurt you ever again.’
‘You keeled ’im?’ she asked, with a heavy Mexican accent, her eyes flat and incurious.
‘Surely did, Miss. Now you stay here and I’m goin’ out that door to finish off the job I started. I’m goin’ to wait a while outside that door, and if I see you come out I’ll blast a hole clean through you. You savvy?’
She nodded. As he turned to go out, she spoke again. ‘He say he marry me. Now you keel ’im and I get no dollars and what I do for all days’ jig-a-jig? You one stupid cabrón, mister. I sure ’ope your cock she fall off or his amigo keel you. Now you fug off.’
Ryker did take the precaution of waiting outside the door, but all was very quiet. The whole place was still and silent, with nobody stirring behind the closed doors. When he stepped down on the first floor corridor, he could faintly hear the noise of men’s voices coming from the saloon. The woman who had been cleaning had vanished, and he had a clear run through to his target. Room eighteen. It was on the left side, down at the very far end, with a side window covered in heavy drapes of brown velvet.
One of the numbers on the door had come unscrewed, hanging upside down, so that the one and the eight were out of line. It irked John Ryker, and he took out a small screwdriver from his kit and replaced the number, using the original screw that hung from the top of the eight. Only when he was satisfied that it was tight did he test the handle of the door.
It was locked.
Ryker rubbed the thumb of his right hand against the index finger, making sure that it was dry. Then he lifted his left hand and knocked.
Knocked a second time when there was no answer,
‘What the hell?’
‘Mr. Varez?’
‘Who the Hell’s that? And what do you mean disturbing a man when he’s asleep?’
‘Barkeep, Mr. Varez. You said you wanted your check this morning.’
He hoped that his information was correct. If it wasn’t then he was likely to be met by a splintering burst of lead through the door. To be on the safe side, he stepped to one side where the wall would protect him.
‘Sure. That’s right.’ Like Hughes, Varez sounded as if he wasn’t properly awake. ‘Hell. Just shove it under the door and leave it. I’ll be down in a couple of hours.’
‘Miss Harman she said that I was to give it you personal, Mr. Varez. You know what she’s like if she’s crossed.’
There was a note of pleasant nostalgia in the northerner’s voice when he replied. ‘I surely know that. Wait there while I pull on my pants.’
Ryker stood and waited, hearing the noise of voices from the saloon growing in volume. He was sure that he could hear the barkeep among them, and hoped that the man wasn’t going to come on up to see where he’d gone. Not now. Not with the success of his vengeance mission so close.
For the first time, he wondered what he’d do after this was over. Maybe go back home to their house and keep working with the guns. Getting better all the time. Making a reputation for himself so that men would cross the country just to have the advice of Jack Ryker. Then he could move out of Settlement, to somewhere that a man with his ambition could grow. Maybe marry and have kids.
That was fine as long as Hughes and Varez were the only two men hunting him.
It was on that chilling thought that the door swung open and he looked into the dark eyes of Al Varez. The man was wearing vest and pants, with no visible gun.
Ryker dropped his hand and drew the Navy Colt in a fluid easy movement, clicking back the hammer. The other man gaped at him, taking a step back into the room.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘Get back there. Your friend Hughes was quicker than you are. Maybe he’d been awake longer than you. He guessed first off who I was.’
‘¡Madre de Dios! Ryker!!’
‘Yeah.’ He jabbed the muzzle of the gun hard into the man’s guts, almost doubling him up, shoving him into the room, and heeling the door shut. ‘John Ryker. You met my pa, Varez. Now you get to meet me.’
‘Where’s Hughes?’
‘Hughes? I guess he might be with my pa. But from what I seen of your friend Hughes, I figure it’s a better bet that he’s sweatin’ away over the hobs of Hell now. Now and forever.’
‘You’re not going to kill me without a chance?’
Ryker grinned mirthlessly. ‘What kind of a chance you give to my pa, Varez? You wanted me. You could have waited.’ Despite Hardin’s advice, he had to get the man to talk. To find out about the chain that linked him with the assassination back in Washington. To find out if that chain was ever going to be broken or whether he was going to be a runner all that remained of his life.
‘Listen, Ryker. I’ll make a deal with you.’
‘I’m listening, Mex.’
‘I’m not a Mex, you ... I’m not. My pa came here all the way from Spain.’
‘Mine came all the way from Scotland. What’s your deal, Varez?’
There was the sound of feet in the corridor, and Ryker moved like a big cat, silent as a midnight shadow, and slipped the bolt.
‘You got friends here, Varez?’
‘No. I swear it. Nobody knew we were here. Nobody. I heard about where the Deringer came from by a kind of an accident. Just me and Ned. I brought him because he likes killing. I don’t, but I figured there might be some sort of reward if we could nail you dead to rights.’
The feet had stopped.
‘Nobody else knows about who bought the gun?’
‘Nobody. I swear it. On my life.’
There was a knock on the door.
Ryker ignored it. He could afford to. Now he’d got what he wanted, there was only one thing left for him to do.
‘Ryker. I swear it to you. Nobody knows. I won’t talk. I promise you. I’ll never tell a soul.’
‘Damn right,’ said Ryker, shooting him through the throat, following up with three more bullets. Two to the chest and the last one, as Varez flopped on the carpet at his feet, through the face, blasting a hole between the staring eyes.
There was surprisingly little blood, compared to the messy shambles in Hughes’s room. The bullet through the neck would have killed him, but the others were part insurance and partly because Ryker just happened to feel like doing it. It felt good, the Navy Colt bucking in his hand, and the warmth of the butt against his palm. The kick jarred clean through to the shoulder.
It was a sweet revenge.
Varez lay quite still, the life drained out of the half-clad body, one arm resting against the leg of a small table, the head drooping sideways. In death he looked even more like a Mexican than he had alive.
‘Varez! Open this damned door and come out!’
Calmly, as if he was on a practice shoot at home in Settlement, Ryker ejected and reloaded the smoking gun, waving his hand to clear away the cloud of burnt powder that hung in the air of the bedroom.
There was muttering outside, and he heard the voice of the barkeep raised.
‘Mr. Ryker! Are you in there? If you are, then I’d just come out quiet. There’s a dozen men with guns covering front and back.’
He made a mental note that if he got out of the trap with his life he’d come back and pay a call on the barkeep for flapping his tongue.
‘Whoever’s in there, they’d better come on out with their hands at their shoulders. I’m the law in Tucson, and I’m not going to ask you again. You got just five seconds.’
Thoughtfully, Ryker looked down at the corpse, blood still trickling from the front wounds, and oozing from beneath as the exit wounds released their crimson streams.
‘Four. Three.’
He looked at the Navy Colt in his hand, and shook his head.
‘Two. One.’
‘I’m coming out, Sheriff. Hold off there.’
He holstered the hand-gun and slipped the bolt on the door, swinging it open. Standing there with his hands half raised, palms forward, so there wouldn’t be any mistake about his intentions in the dimness of the corridor.
There were at least ten men out there, all with guns in their hands. His professional eye saw the weapons before he saw much of the men holding them. Two Witneyville-Walker Dragoons. Four of them with the forty-four caliber, 1840 Army model Colt. An 1861 Savage. Thirty-six caliber. Easily recognizable from the heavy trigger guard, enclosing both the conventional trigger and the cocking lever. There was an 1858 double action Starr.
The last two men both had scatterguns. The one at the very back was the barkeep, trembling like sage-brush in a twister.
‘You shake like that, and you’re goin’ to blow the guts out of the fellow in front of you.’
‘Wasn’t me that told on you, Mr. Ryker. The sheriff here was on his way over on his own account.’
‘Your name Ryker?’ The question came from the man with the Savage. A big man, heavy-set. Small scar under the right eye, and another on his upper lip, mostly hidden by a drooping moustache. He wore the golden star on the outside of a flecked grey jacket.
‘Surely is. You the sheriff in this place?’
The man nodded, the barrel of his gun never leaving Ryker’s chest. ‘That’s right.’ He peered past him into the room, seeing the body slumped in the corner. ‘You killed the Mex as well as the little guy up the stairs?’
‘He wasn’t a Mex. He came from Spain. Sheriff …?’
‘My name’s Frank Nolan. Been tryin’ to keep Tucson a clean place.’
‘Can I drop my hands, Sheriff Nolan?’
‘Sure. Make a wrong move and you get an extra hole in your belly. The barkeep here says you been lookin’ for these two men. That right?’
‘Right. Do you want to know why?’
The man. grinned, easing the hammer and sliding the gun into its holster. Cross draw, Ryker noted in passing.
‘No, Mr. Ryker. I guess you and I know enough of the way of the world not to worry about that.’
‘So what happens to me?’
‘What happens? You come to my office in an hour or so – give me time to sort out things with the doc, and I’ll pay you the four hundred dollars.’
‘Four hundred dollars!’
‘The bounty, Mr. Ryker. Four hundred dollars for the pair, dead or alive.’
The big man grinned, pushing back his black hat. It surely was a good day.
Chapter Seven
‘TWO HUNDRED AND fifty dollars out on the Mex. And don’t tell me he comes from Spain; this here flyer on him says he was born Alfredo Varez near Durango. Wanted south of the border. Shame you couldn’t have carried him there to claim the bounty. Still, it’s a mite warm for that sort of thing. Only dead a couple of hours and already he sure ain’t no bed of roses.’
‘What about Hughes?’ Ryker still couldn’t believe his luck Not only had he revenged his father, but here was a law officer congratulating him on it, and getting ready to pay him for doing the job.
‘Ned Hughes. Also called “Brandin’ Will”. And a few names on the side. Neither of them big outlaws. But that’s not bad money. Makes your trip to our city all worthwhile, isn’t that right, Mr. Ryker?’
‘You can say that again, Sheriff Nolan,’ replied Ryker.
‘I’m not sure I know your name, do I? I’ve seen most of the bounty hunters passing through Tucson.’
‘I’m a gunsmith from Settlement, where me and my pa lived.’
The sheriff grinned. ‘Yeah. That’s right. Say, if you got the time, you might have a look at this old Savage. Bitchin’ whore just doesn’t seem to balance right.’
‘That’s like saying a woman’s no use in bed. If they’re good, then you can make them better. If they’re no good, then you might as well cut your losses and try again.’
‘I paid eighteen dollars for this gun. Man who sold it told me it was about the best gun around.’
Ryker shook his head. ‘It’s heavy. Near three and one half pounds. And I’m of the opinion that it’s too long. Overall it’s more than fourteen inches. Too damned long. Fine piece of armament engineering, Sheriff, but not the sort of gun I’d be carryin’ on a cross draw in your line of country.’
Nolan drew the gun and looked at it. ‘It’s never let me down.’
‘Probably won’t. Nothing wrong with the inside of it. It’s the weight and balance I don’t like. If I was the sheriff of Tucson, I’d think about either a Navy Colt like this one, or maybe the ’62 Police model. Same caliber as this but only five shots. Most of your shooting would be kind of close. You need speed so your man sees the gun in your fist and that makes him think twice about getting out his own pistol.’
‘That’s right. You sure you never been a lawman, Mr. Ryker? You know a whole lot ’bout it.’
‘No. But you get the Police model, and have them fit the short barrel. Five and one half or even four and one half inches and that’d be a whole sight easier to clear from the leather than that cannon.’
‘Well, that’s enough of gun talk, Mr. Ryker. There’s the money. Glad to have you here. I got me a new flyer in this morning might interest you. Odd one.’
‘No, thank you kindly. I’m not that set on hunting men. More interested in guns. I just want to sort out my family’s affair with the bank here, and then go home and work quiet and die easy when my time comes.’
Nolan shook his head. ‘Shame. Thousand dollars. Lot of money.’ ,
‘I can’t deny that some ready dollars would come in powerful handy to bury pa where he wants to finally be laid to rest. Along of ma.’
‘Jesus, Mr. Ryker. You say he’s been dead a week and you ain’t buried him? What you done? Packed him tight in ice?’
‘No. Buried him up in Settlement. But he wants to finally lay with ma and that’ll cost money. But I’ll get it.’
‘Odd one, Mr. Ryker. Not the usual flyer from a bank or a marshal. Three traders up north, way away from anywheres, say their town’s been took over by some deserters. Want them shooed off.’
‘Thousand dollars. I’ll bear it in mind, Sheriff Nolan. And thanks.’
Just as the door was closing behind him, the law officer called after him, ‘If you want it, just come on back any old time. Up north. Place called Desolation. Remember that. Called Desolation.’
With the bag of dollars feeling good and heavy in both pockets, Ryker walked through the morning sunshine towards the bank, waving a reply to the barkeep of the What Cheer, who was out sweeping the front walk of the saloon.
He wondered whether to stop off for a bath and shave, feeling dirty and sweaty. And there was blood drying on his trousers, speckled on his dusty boots.
But time was pressing, and Tucson wasn’t the kind of place to spend more time than you had to. He rubbed the toe of his right boot against the back of his left calf, and then repeated the action to clean the worst of the grime off the left boot.
The sign outside the bank said they were open for business on six days of the week, from eight-thirty in the morning until seven in the evening. Ryker walked in out of the blazing heat of the sun, flicking a bead of sweat off the end of his nose. Behind the high counter a young man, with wire-rimmed glasses, sitting perched on a stool, stood up and gave him a bright smile.
‘Good morning to you. Unless I’m much mistaken you must be Mr. John Ryker.’
‘You’re not much mistaken at all. I’d like to see the head man here about my pa’s affairs.’
Although Ryker, at twenty-three, was only a year or so older than the clerk, he somehow felt a deal older. Maybe it was the double killings that had done it. He looked around him while he waited for the appearance of the manager, catching a small group of kids staring in at him through the front window of the bank.
