Shoot-Out!, page 9
The man was coming in slow, walking a big gray horse as though he wanted to announce his arrival. Then Henry’s professional eyes saw the droop of the gray’s neck and knew the animal was tired. He returned to the cabin a little faster than he had left it.
‘Got a visitor,’ he said, reaching for the cut-down shotgun he kept on pegs by the door. ‘Best set a third place.’
‘¿Por que?’ Maria gestured at the shotgun.
‘Pony looks run out.’ Henry shrugged. ‘No point to takin’ chances.’
‘No,’ Maria agreed. ‘Be careful.’
‘Most likely we’ll be eatin’ that fine-smellin’ dinner together,’ Henry grinned. ‘Ain’t no-one likely to go up against a scattergun.’
Chapter Nine
SAUL BLASS REINED in a few yards from Henry Tallon and smiled.
When he put his mind to it, he was able to exude charm. It was largely due to the heritage of his mother’s good-looks, the almost feminine delicateness of his features, and it worked better on women than on men, but, even so, he could persuade most men he was a pretty likable fellow. Now he worked hard at it, needing something from the one-armed man and not sure how much the man knew.
He had run out of San Antonio with little more idea than putting distance between himself and the sheriff. He had been reasonably confident Stodard couldn’t know which direction he had taken, but he had still figured the lawman would ride out for a look—to persuade the citizens he was doing his job more than in any real hope of picking up a trail. But Blass was a careful man: just to be sure, he had swung around a bit, and then doubled back. Seeing no sign of pursuit, he had pondered his next move. He wanted that Colt: the thought of the gun burned fierce and fiery inside him, kindled further by the slaughter he’d left behind. In his twisted mind, he was persuaded he deserved the gun. He had bought it with the sacrifice of the three lives. And he had made that goddam hick-town marshal a better offer than the badge-wearer had any right to hope for. A fair offer. And McLain had refused it, which Blass translated into some kind of personal insult. So: he was going after the gun.
The marshal over in Garrison.
And Garrison lay south and west of San Antonio. Blass knew that because he had worked for Zac Moffat a spell, when the cattleman had tried to war-out the French Seven.
Blass had turned his pony westwards and put spurs to the ribs. By the time he had felt far enough from San Antonio, the gray had been close to dropping. Blass had halted and taken position on a ridge that overlooked the trail. He had watched a stagecoach approach and remembered there was a line open now—San Antonio to Brownsville, taking in Garrison en route. Then he had seen the pony hitched behind the Concord and had had a sudden thought: it was just possible McLain might take the stage back. He could be thinking that Blass might lay up for him. Hell! Even a hick-town marshal could look at his fingers and add up to four, so by now McLain would have worked out that the man called Black who had tried to buy his gun was the same one killed the two deputies. Maybe even that he had killed Comstock. So McLain would know he was dealing with a hard customer. That could frighten him into traveling with company.
The reasoning was wrong, but the conclusion correct: Blass went after the stage.
And being a careful man, he decided he needed to know more about McLain.
If he rode straight into Garrison, McLain would recognize him and maybe start a fight. How fast he was, Blass didn’t know. He had looked capable back in the Numero Uno, and he hadn’t been afraid. Also, he would be on home territory; with friends around who would maybe take unkindly to a stranger killing their marshal. So Blass needed to scout a little: find out as much as he could about McLain.
He had trailed the stage fast, wearing out his mount again as the old man up on the drive seat covered ground like he was trying for some kind of record.
Then the Concord had stopped at the staging post.
Not for long. Just enough the passengers could grab a quick meal and the driver change his horses. Long enough for McLain – if he was on board – to tell the station folk to watch out for a man answering to Blass’s description. That was a reason for real caution. Even for skirting around the cabin. Only the folks inside could maybe tell him something about McLain; something that would give him an edge. He decided to chance it.
As he smiled at Henry Tallon, his right hand sat casually on his saddle horn, close to the butt of the cross draw Navy Colt.
‘Name’s Seth Butler,’ he smiled. ‘I don’t intend no trouble.’
Henry Tallon studied the even white teeth, exposed in a reassuringly casual grin. The green eyes were friendly, and the man seemed honest. He lowered the hammers of the shotgun.
‘Henry Tallon. You stoppin’ over?’
‘If that’s all right.’ Blass went on beaming. ‘My pony’s clean run out. Saw a bunch o’ Comanche earlier an’ I wanted to put distance between us.’
‘Stage didn’t say anything about Comanch’,’ Tallon frowned. ‘Where’d you spot them?’
‘South an’ east,’ Blass lied. ‘Four bucks. Probably just a huntin’ party, but I didn’t want to chance no trouble.’
He made his grin embarrassed. Like a man ashamed of admitting cowardice. It was hard to keep up as he watched Tallon lower the scattergun, trust showing on his face.
‘Climb down,’ invited the station manager. ‘We’ll bed yore pony then eat. Wife’s ready with supper.’
‘That’s real kind.’ Blass swung to the ground. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Tallon led the way to the corral. ‘Set yore saddle in the tack shed.’
Blass nodded and stripped the gray. He dumped his saddle where Henry had indicated and rubbed down the horse. Tallon nodded approvingly: a man took care of his mount couldn’t be all bad. And Seth Butler seemed a real nice feller.
‘You want to clean up?’ he asked. ‘I can fetch you a towel.’
‘Thanks.’ Blass maintained his pretense of an honest, clean-living citizen. ‘That’d be good.’
He went over to the well and filled a bucket, scrubbing dutifully at hands and face. Tallon brought him a cloth and he dried himself, then followed the one-armed man into the cabin.
A Mexican woman with blue-black hair waving gently about an oval face that was all huge eyes and voluptuous mouth smiled a greeting. She was tall as her husband, with full breasts thrusting firm against a simple cotton dress and with a waist like a girl’s that folded into beautifully-molded hips. Blass wondered what the hell she was doing stuck out in the middle of nowhere with a one-armed man.
He said, ‘Evenin’, ma’am. I sure do appreciate you an’ yore husband bein’ so kind.’
‘De nada,’ smiled Maria Tallon, thinking how charming the stranger was. ‘You are welcome.’
‘My wife, Maria,’ Tallon said. ‘Maria, this is Seth Butler.’
Blass decided they didn’t know about the events in San Antonio and relaxed a little.
‘Climb out o’ that coat an’ sit down,’ Tallon suggested. ‘I got some homebrew.’
Blass went on smiling as he hauled off the duster and hung it neatly on a peg by the door. The coat was long enough it trailed down over Tallon’s shotgun. He sat down at the table and watched Tallon fetch a jug from a shelf and pull the cork with his teeth, then bring two clay mugs from hooks on the wall. For a one-armed cripple he was pretty agile.
‘Here’s to a long life.’ Henry raised a mug.
‘An’ a happy one,’ replied Blass. ‘This is good.’
‘Made it myself,’ grinned Henry, enjoying the praise.
‘Tastes near as fine as that food smells,’ Blass complimented. ‘I was real lucky comin’ on you kind folks.’
Tallon chuckled and poured more home-brew. Maria set the pot on the table and began to ladle a stew of beans and pork and chili peppers onto their plates. Blass murmured his thanks, waiting politely until she was seated and bowing his head devoutly when he saw she was about to say grace.
The stew was excellent, and he complimented her lengthily, playing his part to the hilt. She smiled demurely, murmuring that he was exaggerating. Her husband chuckled and poured coffee.
‘He spotted Comanch’,’ he said. ‘Towards the coast.’
‘A half day off,’ Blass said quickly, as though to reassure her. ‘An’ only four. I left them behind.’
‘Ain’t likely they’d raid here,’ said Tallon. ‘Not with the Army in Garrison. Probably just a huntin’ party.’
‘Most like,’ agreed Blass; enthusiastic.
‘Where you come from?’ Tallon asked him.
‘Refugio.’ Blass smiled openly. ‘I was a bank guard there.’
Tallon was too polite to enquire why he wasn’t still, so Blass added: ‘I got to feeling shut in. You know how it is in towns?’
‘Yeah.’ Tallon nodded. ‘I feel the same way. Spent most o’ my life drivin’ coaches. Until I lost my arm. Now this place suits us fine.’
Blass nodded sympathetically.
‘Where are you going, Señor Butler?’ asked Maria.
‘Thought I’d ride over to Garrison.’ Blass gazed innocently into her big eyes. ‘I heard an old friend o’ mine is keepin’ the peace there.’
‘John McLain?’ Tallon chortled in delight. ‘Well, ain’t that somethin’?’
‘You know John?’ Blass asked, feeling pleased with himself.
‘Sure,’ said Tallon. ‘Why, he was through here just a spell before you.’
‘That so?’ Blass raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘You mean I missed him?’
‘He was on the stage,’ Tallon explained. ‘comin’ back from San Antone.’
‘So he’ll be in Garrison?’ Blass enquired, not needing to feign the eagerness in his voice. ‘I ain’t missed him?’
‘He’ll be there,’ Tallon agreed.
‘That’s good.’ Blass’s satisfaction echoed in his voice. ‘Been a long time since I seen John.’
He realized they could ask some awkward questions if they started any enquiries about where he knew McLain from, so he continued quickly: ‘He changed much?’
‘We ain’t known him that long,’ said Henry. ‘How you recall him?’
‘Big man.’ Blass tried to imagine McLain a few years younger. ‘Brown hair.’
‘That’s right,’ said Henry. ‘Real nice feller. Real nice he’s got himself a woman. A man needs a woman.’
He looked at Maria, smiling fondly. Blass aped surprise: ‘A woman? You mean he’s wed?’
‘No.’ Tallon shook his head. ‘Gossip in the valley was he’d hitch up with Janey Page. But then Belle Hannett come along an’ she an’ John T. sparked off.’
‘Belle Hannett,’ murmured Blass, thoughtfully. ‘Nice name.’
‘She is a nice lady,’ said Maria.
Blass chuckled and asked, ‘Has old John got himself a good-looker?’
Husband and wife glanced at one another, smiling. Maria nodded and said, ‘Sí. She is very beautiful.’
‘What’s she like?’ Blass wanted details. ‘What color hair’s she got?’
‘Red,’ said Tallon. ‘Woman around John’s age. Like Maria says—she’s a looker.’
‘And a head on her shoulders,’ added Maria approvingly. ‘A businesswoman.’
Blass frowned his interest.
‘She’s got her own place,’ Tallon explained. ‘A house she calls the Maison Belle. John lives there.’
‘Well, I’ll be,’ Blass chuckled amiably. ‘Sounds like John’s got himself fixed up real nice. Bein’ marshal, an’ all. Maybe he could use a deputy.’
‘Garrison ain’t that big yet,’ warned Henry. ‘An’ John keeps things pretty tight.’
‘How big is it?’ asked Blass.
‘Fair size an’ growin’,’ replied Tallon. ‘There’s the Army post, o’ course. What started it—the soldiers. Alice an’ Shawn – Docherty, that is – they run the saloon. Got rooms on it now, you need a place to stay. Then there’s Abe Kintyre’s store an’ the barber shop. Swede’s smithy. The livery. One-Eye Peters looks after the stage line there. I heard tell there’s a regular Chinese bathhouse gone up. An’ there’s Belle’s place. Even been talk o’ openin’ a bank.’
‘That so?’ Blass grinned eagerly. ‘An’ John’s the marshal.’
‘Real good, too.’ Tallon smiled approvingly.
‘He will be surprised to see you, Señor Butler,’ Maria added.
‘I reckon he will at that, ma’am,’ agreed Blass. ‘Real surprised.’
Maria smiled, liking the idea of old friends meeting again. She rose to clear the dishes, waving Blass back to his chair when he offered to help her. Tallon uncorked the home-brew again and filled the mugs.
‘So you know John T. from way back.’ He got ready to ask the question Blass had avoided. ‘Where’d you meet?’
Blass took a chance. It didn’t really matter now if they found out he was an imposter: he had the kind of details he needed. There was an edge to be found: it was there, waiting for him. He just had to handle it right. He had discovered what he had wanted to know, so it no longer mattered much what the Tallons learned. Except that if he killed them, the bodies might be found before he got what he wanted, and that could put McLain on the alert.
But Tallon was waiting for an answer, so he said: ‘It was in the War.’
‘Yeah?’ Henry tilted the jug again. ‘I was with Hooker. You?’
‘Berdan’s Sharpshooters.’ Blass hoped it was the right answer.
‘The Sharpshooters?’ Tallon’s smile became a frown of confusion. ‘How’s that?’
Blass eased back in his chair. The man wore no handgun and the shotgun was obscured by the trailing duster, but Saul Blass was a careful man.
And he recognized a mistake when he made one.
Casually, he set his mug down, using his elbow to hike his coat tails back clear of the Navy Colt.
‘I say somethin’ wrong?’ he asked.
‘John T. McLain’s a Missouri man,’ said Tallon. ‘He rode with Anderson an’ Butcher Harvey. How do you know him?’
Mistakes had to be cleared up. A man in Blass’s profession couldn’t afford to leave them behind him. They had a way of sneaking up on a man. He fisted the Navy Colt out with the hammer going back as the muzzle lined on Tallon’s chest.
‘You just got yoreself killed,’ he said.
Henry Tallon stared in raw surprise. The handsome features were no longer friendly, the eyes no longer warm and the smile still decorating the lips abruptly threatening. It reminded Henry of the way a cat looks when it’s playing with a damaged bird. He said, ‘What the hell is this?’
Maria turned from the dishes she was washing and gasped. A plate shattered on the floor.
Blass said, ‘Sit down, ma’am. By yore husband.’
Maria stared at him as she obeyed, fear enlarging her eyes, though she gave no other sign.
‘Who are you?’ Henry demanded.
‘Name’s Saul Blass,’ said the gunman.
‘I don’t understand.’ Henry shook his head. ‘Why’d you pretend to know John?’
‘He’s got something of mine.’ Blass felt the old, familiar excitement grip him. This was good: he had what he wanted and there was no need to hurry. No one was coming by. Not like San Antonio. He could take his time enjoying this. ‘A gun.’
Tallon shook his head in blank incomprehension. He glanced at his wife. Then towards the shotgun.
‘You wouldn’t make it,’ said Blass. ‘Try if you want, but you won’t reach it.’
‘No.’ Henry swallowed, frightened. Not for himself, but for Maria. For what he could lose. For what this crazy man could do to her. ‘Look, Blass, I don’t know what this is about, but what reason you got to kill us? We done you no harm. You got business with John T. McLain, all you gotta do is ride on to Garrison. Hell! Unload the shotgun so I can’t use it. I got a rifle, too … it’s in that cupboard. You can unload that. Just ride on.’
‘An’ leave you behind me?’ Blass chuckled; the sound no longer pleasant. ‘No, I can’t do that.’
‘Henry, mi querido.’ Maria’s voice was soft, controlled: it surprised both men. ‘There is no use in arguing with him. Look at his eyes. He enjoys this too much. He wants to kill us.’
Blass felt rancid anger at her words. There was contempt in her voice, as though she spoke of some mad animal governed by lusts incomprehensible to normal people. It was almost as bad as someone jeering at his deformity. He did not realize it was the same thing.
‘You goddam Mexican bitch!’ His voice was harsh, feral. ‘Stand up.’
Maria stared at him with loathing overcoming the fear. She said, ‘Henry? I love you. You are the best man I know.’
Blass’s lips peeled back from his teeth. The expression was no longer anywhere close to a smile. Rage and sadistic lust contorted his features. He squeezed the trigger.
Once. Lifting Maria Tallon off her feet as the .36-caliber ball ripped through the white cotton of her dress into the flesh of her stomach.
Twice. Doubling her over as she struck the closed door so that the two exit wounds showed huge and bloody on her back. Crimson smeared the door. Her eyes opened impossibly wide, then glazed and dulled as she fell soundlessly to the floor. Her teeth snapped closed as if she was struggling to deny Blass the pleasure of her screaming, for although she was still alive, only a faint whimpering came from her trembling mouth.
Her husband shouted, ‘No!’ And hurled himself backwards from the chair as his one arm stretched towards the scattergun.
Blass shot him as he moved. The bullet entered above the right hip, glancing off the bone to deflect through the intestines. Henry screamed. Blass fired again, this time putting the slug low into the abdomen.
Henry jerked, twisting as the agony coursed through his insides. Blood spurted in glistening jets from the wounds and his bowels voided, filling the cabin with the stench of death. His single arm stretched out to touch Maria’s fingers. Entwined. Through his moaning, he said: ‘I love you.’
Blass holstered the Navy Colt. The feral snarl eased from his face, becoming a smile again. A smile of pleasure. He took the shotgun and broke it open to extract the shells. Then tossed gun and cartridges in opposite directions. Then he sat down and filled his mug, watching them die.
