The Killing Shot (27 page)

“All right, Reilly Francis McGivern,” he said in a low whisper. “Let's start the ball.”

Jim Pardo sweetened the coffee in K.C. Kraft's cup with a couple of fingers of rye before sitting beside him, and saying, “The coffee's cold, K.C., but I can't risk having no fire.” Making sure K.C. Kraft didn't think Pardo was apologizing for anything.

“The whiskey'll help,” Kraft said, and took a drink. “So, you haven't exactly told me your plans for after we kill all of those soldiers and muleskinners.”

Pointing over the rocks, Pardo said, “We'll haul out the Gatlings and cannon, any other plunder we get, through a gateway in those rocks yonder. Beyond that, there's a smooth animal trail that winds down to the other side. Your boys are unloading the nitro from the back of that one buckboard, and I'll have them take the wagons to the other side of the canyon. We'll haul the Gatlings in those two wagons and pull the cannon behind it.”

“Then what?”

“We raise dust for Mexico. Once we get there, we'll auction the guns off. I don't care if they go to the Mexican army or bandits. Whoever brings me—us, I mean—the highest bid gets the guns.”

Kraft took another sip. His head shook wearily. “You really think you can pull this off?”

“I know it.”

Shrugging, Kraft drained the coffee, and tossed the cup onto the rocks. “Must be nice to be confident.”

“Must be nice to have two brothers,” Pardo said. He had turned, facing south, looking up the canyon ridge, watching Duke and W.W. move from one beaker to the other, watering the nitro down with their canteens. A few rods below them, Swede Iverson was fingering the twine, moving down from the boulders to the detonation site.

“It isn't.”

Pardo pushed back his hat, and gave Kraft a serious study. “What do you mean?”

“I mean having two brothers is a boil on my ass.” He reached for the bottle, and took a long pull. “Two boils, come to think of it.”

“Family's important,” Pardo said.

“Yours, maybe. Not mine.” He set the bottle down, and faced Pardo, unsmiling.

“You don't like your brothers?” Pardo reached for the bottle.

“L.J.'s all right. Don't say much. Does what I tell him to do. But my kid brother”—he jerked his thumb toward W.W.—“hell, the only reason I'm here is because of him.”

“Well, I'm glad.”

“I ain't. W.W.'s an asshole.”

“You can't say that about your brother. He's family.”

“You got a brother?” K.C. took the bottle from Pardo, and finished it, then tossed the bottle hard against the boulder, shattering the glass.

Pardo stared at K.C. a moment. “Had a kid brother, but he didn't live long. But I've kinda adopted one of my men. He should be along any moment. And I got my ma. She's dead, but I still talk to her.”

“My mother was a bitch.”

Pardo shot to his feet, began scratching the palm of his hand against the hammer of his Colt. “You shouldn't say that about your ma, Kraft. You shouldn't.”

“Don't preach at me, Pardo.” K.C. Kraft moved his hand toward his revolver. “And if you want to pull that Colt, you go right ahead. But you best remember this, Pardo: I got two brothers and thirteen men. You got, what? Five men?” He tilted his head toward Blanche and Dagmar. “And two petticoats.” He snorted. “Hell, one ain't even in petticoats yet.”

“Family's important,” Pardo blubbered.

“Like I said, yours maybe. Mine ain't worth a crap.”

Their eyes locked, and Pardo wet his lips, considered ending this partnership with a .44-40 slug, but a voice called down his name, and he turned away from Kraft, looked above the boulders, saw Swede Iverson hurrying down the ridge, kicking up dust as he ran.

“Pardo! Pardo!”

“What the hell's the matter with him?” Pardo said, and heard K.C. Kraft rising behind him.

The explosives man ran, cap in his hand, beads of sweat peppering his forehead, into the rock fortress. “Pardo,” he said, gasping for breath. “It's the twine!”

“What about it?”

“It was cut.” He wiped his brow, found a canteen, drank greedily.

“What do you mean?” Pardo asked.

“I mean it was cut. About fifty yards down from the last batch of nitro. If I hadn't checked it, when I yanked that cord, nothing would have happened. It was cut.”

“Chewed by a pack rat likely,” Pardo said. “Did you fix it?”

“Yeah.” His sweaty head bobbed. “Tied it back together.”

“Then there ain't nothing to worry about.”

“But it was cut.”

“Who the hell would have cut…?” He turned, glaring at Dagmar, before his eyes drilled through the kid.

“Hell, no,” Blanche said. “I didn't cut your damned string.”

“Nobody else would have reason,” Pardo said.

“Well, it ain't like you'd let me or my mother have a knife, is it?” the kid snapped back, causing K.C. Kraft to laugh.

“Feisty little thing, ain't she?” Kraft said.

“Where's Mac?” Iverson said.

“He's coming,” Pardo said, and heard the wagons' traces jingling as Kraft's men took them out of the canyon.

Iverson whirled, screaming, “The nitro!”

“Take it easy, Swede,” Pardo said. “We took the nitro out, put it in the shade over yonder. K.C.'s men are taking the wagons to the other side of the canyon.”

Iverson took another drink of water, then tossed the canteen down. “I best go check the other twine. Make sure they're tight.”

“That's a good plan,” Pardo said, and shot another hard look at Blanche.

Iverson stood there like a sun-bathing lizard.

“Well?” Pardo demanded.

“Well what?” Iverson asked.

“Get the hell out of here,” Pardo barked. “Go check on those twine riggings. We can't have no mix-up, no mistake. That Army train'll be here before sundown.”

He watched Iverson put on his hat, and hurry around the boulders.

Kraft was sitting back down in the shade, and Pardo joined him. “What were we talking about?”

With a grin, Kraft said, “About my fifteen men to your five.”

“Five suits me,” Pardo said. “I don't need fifteen. Never have. My five could take your fifteen.” He snapped a finger. “Like that.”

“Maybe.
Vamos a ver.
”

That made Pardo smile. Wade Chaucer had once said something similar, and, well, Wade had seen. Last thing he ever had seen.

“Maybe,” Pardo said happily.

The girl was walking out of the camp. Pardo spun, demanding, “Where you off to?”

She glared at him. “To take a piss.”

Which caused K.C. Kraft to guffaw.

“All right,” Pardo said. “But don't squat over no scorpion.”

When she had rounded the boulder, K.C. Kraft said, “I bet that little hellfire could take care of your five men.”

“She's got a dirty mouth,” Pardo said, and looked over at Dagmar. “You ought to tan that girl's hide, Dagmar. Wash her mouth out with lye soap. My Ma, she'd never tolerate such language from a girl.”

Dagmar shrugged.

Pardo looked back at Kraft. “I been talking to my mother.”

“I thought she was dead.”

“She is, but mothers never really die. And Ruby Pardo, well, hell, she was too ornery to let death keep her quiet.”

“Heard you killed the man who shot her down.”

“That's right. In Contention City.”

“What did your mother say about that?”

Pardo chuckled. “Ma knew I'd do it.” He shook his head. “It was Mac, my brother—well, my partner, the one I was telling you about, the one I've kinda adopted—he was the one who told me I could talk to Ma anytime, anywhere. And he was right.”

“Uh-huh. You got any whiskey around here?”

“No. Plumb out.”

“That's too bad.”

“Anyway, Ma, she was always my partner. God how I loved that woman.”

“Like I told you. My mother was a—”

“I know what you said. And you know what I said. Family. That's important. That's why I got Mac now. Mac and Dagmar.” He looked over at her, saw her cleaning the plates with sand. He lowered his voice, letting Kraft in on a secret. “I had thought about taking Dagmar down below the border, selling her and that foul-mouthed kid of hers. She'd bring in a right smart of money, to the right slaver.”

“She's a handsome woman,” K.C. Kraft agreed.

“Yeah, but now I'm of a mind to keep her for myself.”

Kraft snorted again, shaking his head.

“She owes me. I saved her hide from Major Ritcher. 'Course, I would have had to kill him before too long.”

Kraft was giving Pardo a long, hard look. Finally, he shrugged, and asked, “You sure you don't have any whiskey around here?”

Pardo didn't answer. “Ma, she don't hold truck with that. She says that would be a bad mistake, me taking Dagmar, keeping her. That's my Ma. Always looking after me. Never no woman good enough for her only living son. Ma, well, she didn't like Mac, neither. Told me I shouldn't trust him, and I didn't at first. Didn't even after he saved my hide from some possum-playing Apache buck. But I tell her, now, that Mac has earned his keep. She says she reckons Mac's all right.”

“Where is this Mac?” Kraft said.

“I don't know. Should be here by now.” He took off his hat, fanned himself with it. “You'll like Mac, Kraft. Best damned rifle shot I ever seen. Like I said, Ma, she says—now she says, I mean—that if Mac's all right with me, then he's all right with her. Good old Ma. He's all right in my book. It's a damned good thing I come across him, got him out of that prison wagon before he fried.”

Kraft's eyes narrowed, and he turned to stare into Pardo's eyes. “What did you say?” He spoke in a measured voice.

“That Mac's all right in my book.”

“After that.” Kraft stood up, put his hand on the butt of his revolver.

“That I got him out of that prison wagon.”

“Where?”

“'Long about Alkali Flat. They was transporting him to Texas. Apaches ambushed the deputies.”

“He was in the wagon?” Urgency in Kraft's voice.

Pardo nodded. “About half dead.”

“Handcuffed?”

Another nod.
What's bothering Kraft?

“Big man, say about six feet tall? Broad shouldered? Dark hair and eyes? Three other lawmen lying dead near the wagon? And boots…his boots…did they have four-leaf clovers inlaid in the tops?”

“Yeah.” Pardo wet his lips. “Do you know him?”

A roar of crazy laughter escaped Kraft's throat, and he whipped out the revolver, took a few steps toward the entrance to the fort, and, waving his gun over his head, he shouted up the canyon after spotting W.W. Kraft and Duke walking along the ridge line, “W.W.! W.W.! Get your ass down here on the double! It's Reilly McGivern! Hurry up! It's McGivern!”

His voice echoed across the canyon.

Mc-Giv-ern! Mc-Giv-ern! Mc-Giv-ern!

On the canyon, W.W. stopped, cocked his head, then started down, Duke following him a few rods behind.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Pardo demanded.

Kraft turned. “You damned fool. That man is no outlaw. That's Reilly McGivern. He's a deputy marshal. A federal lawman.”

Pardo's face contorted. He rubbed his palm against the Colt's hammer.

“That wagon was hauling my two no-account brothers to Yuma,” K.C. Kraft explained. “I busted them out. We gunned down two deputies, caught McGivern thanks to one of the deputies we'd bribed to help us. And W.W. tossed McGivern in the back to bake to death. Hell, I told him. He should have shot him, but you can't tell that stupid-ass brother of mine anything. He killed the deputy I'd paid to help us. Killed him, but not Reilly McGivern. Damned stupid son of a bitch.” He swung around, looked up the canyon, but couldn't see his brother or Duke now. He still hollered, “Get your ass down here! Now!”

He took a step toward the opening.

“Hold it, K.C.”

K.C. Kraft stopped, his boots sliding on the white rock, looked up, found Reilly McGivern perched in a deep crack in the top of the boulder. His tired eyes hardened, focused on the barrel of Reilly's repeating rifle aimed at the center of Kraft's chest.

“Don't move, Pardo,” Reilly said, trying to keep both men in sight.

Pardo just sat down, knocked his hat off his head, and started guffawing. Pointing at Reilly, he said, “A lawman. A deputy marshal. Deputy
United States
marshal. I was gonna partner with him. My kid brother. Man whose life I saved from that Yavapai injun out of Wickenburg. Fifty-fifty split. With my pard. My adopted brother.” He roared with laughter, and looked straight into the blue sky. “You hear that, Ma? Ain't that something, Ma? God, Ma, how could I ever have doubted you? You was right, Ma. You was absolutely right.” He looked back at Reilly, still chortling as he pulled himself to his feet, still shaking his head. “You was right, Ma. You're always right. A law dog. A federal son-of-a-bitching law dog.”

His right hand dashed for the holstered Colt.

At the same moment, Kraft leaped to his left, drawing his revolver.

Reilly swung the barrel after Kraft, pulled the trigger. Pardo's bullet slammed into the boulder at Reilly's head, spitting dust into his eyes. He couldn't see if his shot had hit Kraft or not. Turned, levering the Evans, he saw Pardo running, for a better position. He aimed. So did Pardo, but then a coffeepot slammed into Pardo's gun hand, knocked the Colt to the rocks. Pardo swore, dived for the gun, and Reilly held his fire as Dagmar Wilhelm leaped, wrapped her arms around Pardo's feet, tackled him to the ground.

Reilly turned. Behind him, out in the canyon, came the sound of horses, of gunfire. Suddenly, a bullet tore through his side, drove him backward. He dropped the Evans, felt himself sliding, desperately clawing, reaching for anything to hold only to continue his descent, and he toppled over the boulder, landed hard on the rocks, cracking a couple of ribs, the Evans crashing into a yucca plant. He forced himself up, saw K.C. Kraft coming at him, heard the crack of the revolver in Kraft's hand, saw a flash of flame and smoke shoot out of the barrel, felt the bullet rip through his left hand.

Crying out in pain, Reilly rolled to his left, toward the yucca, as K.C. Kraft swayed toward him, blood oozing from a hole in his right shoulder. He had to cock the Colt with his left hand. Steadied the barrel. As he rolled, Reilly jerked the Bulldog .44 from his waistband. Kraft's gun roared, but the bullet whined off a rock near Reilly's ear.

Two men dashed around the corner, behind Kraft, who turned, swinging his gun around. “Don't shoot!” Duke yelled, and raised the Winchester in his hands above his head.

Reilly swore. It was Duke. And W.W. Kraft.

“It's McGivern!” K.C. Kraft said, and turned back, cocking the revolver with his off hand, as the Bulldog bucked in Reilly's, and a sea of crimson exploded from K.C. Kraft's chest. Reilly fired again, driving K.C. Kraft into a spin. Knowing the Bulldog was empty, he dropped it, jerked the long-barreled Colt he had taken from one of Kraft's men, cocked, aimed, fired in one motion. That bullet tore the hat off Duke's head.

“K.C.!” W.W. shouted. Took a step toward his brother, who lay writhing on the ground. Reilly's shot drove him back.

“Boss man!” Duke's voice. He fired a round from the Winchester, the bullet tearing a gash in Dagmar's right side, but the woman refused to let go of Pardo. Scratching. Pounding. Beneath her, Pardo grunted, lifting his hands in defense.

By now Reilly was on his feet, firing again, leaving the Evans in the yucca, running toward Dagmar, who was clawing at Pardo's face. Fired again. Grabbed Dagmar, pulled her behind an egg-shaped boulder as a cannonade of bullets bounced off the rocks.

He caught his breath. Looked up at Dagmar, whose left hand pressed against her side, blood oozing between her fingers. Reilly glanced at his own wounds. A bullet through his left hand. Two cracked ribs, maybe three. Bullet through his side, just above his right hip, that was bleeding profusely, but hadn't hit any vital organs. He checked the Colt.

Two shots left. “Hell,” he said.

Beyond the fortress came the sound of gunfire, echoes bouncing across the canyon. Something was happening outside these rocks, but he had enough problems right here.

“Where's Blanche?” he asked.

“She went to answer nature's call,” Dagmar said, her head hugging the rocky ground.

Reilly thumbed back the hammer, pulled himself up with a grimace and a curse, braced his back against the boulder. “She better keep her head down,” he said, face tight against the pain.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I think so. It hurts, though.”

Another four shots from Duke's Winchester sang out, bouncing across the rocks.

“Something's happenin', boss man!” Duke's nasal twang sang out as he levered another round into the Winchester. “Something's gone to hell.”

“Shut up!” Pardo snapped. “Get Mac. I want him dead. I want Dagmar dead! Dead. You hear me. Kill them both!”

Suddenly, Dagmar lifted her head. “Did you hear that?” she asked, and Reilly was about to tell her to keep her damned head down, when he heard it, too.

 

Swede Iverson came up to the burly man with the brown goatee and dusty hat at the juniper, where Pardo and K.C. Kraft had sent him to cover the northwestern edge of the canyon. The man spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice and eyed Iverson with suspicion.

“Morning,” Iverson said, and the man grunted his reply as Iverson picked up the twine draped over a mesquite limb.

“What you doin'?” the man asked.

“Checking this twine. Making sure it's secure.” He pointed across the canyon. “Somebody cut the twine on that side. I fixed it. Want to make sure this one's all right.”

“Well…” The man shifted the quid of tobacco to the other cheek. “Don't pull on that too hard.”

Iverson ignored the silly comment. He didn't need some rawhider telling him how to handle nitroglycerin. Fingering the twine gently, he made his way up the canyon, leaning forward, fighting for his breath. So far, the twine was perfect. He stopped, mopped the sweat off his face, looked up. Shots suddenly rang out from the camp below, and he lurched to his feet. Thought he heard shots on the eastern side of the canyon, and he turned toward the man at the juniper, who was rising, bringing up his Henry rifle.

Something flashed above him, and Iverson swung around, looked, his mouth dropping open. Out of the crack in the canyon wall came a dark figure, crouching, followed by another. One of them stopped, raised a rifle.

Iverson spun. He screamed down at the Kraft man by the juniper. “Apaches!” he shouted. “Apaches!” He started running, when the breath slammed out of his lungs, and he felt himself driven forward, tumbling, rolling over the rocks and cactus, sliding down a few feet. He looked up, tried to get his legs to work, but they wouldn't. He couldn't even feel them. He felt something roll from his lips, and lifted his head, looked at the blood pumping from his chest, heard the sucking sound each time he drew an agonizing breath.

“I been shot,” he said. Blood frothed from his lips. He looked up. Saw the Apaches running down the canyon, firing, reloading, firing. He heard the Kraft man behind him grunt; then came the noise of the man's Henry rifle clattering as it tumbled down the canyon.

More figures came from the doorway through the top of the canyon. A few Apaches, followed by white men. In blue uniforms. Yellow stripes down the seams of their pants.

“Soldiers.” Iverson tried to shout a warning, but his lungs burned. Turning his head, he found he lay near the twine. He reached, grabbed it. “I'll show you….” He jerked it hard, sending a spasm of pain through his chest and neck. He still couldn't feel anything below his waist.

Nothing happened.

He jerked again.

Then, the Apache was on him, wielding a knife in his hand, slicing Swede Iverson's throat, and moving on. More moccasins ran past him, followed by boots. Swede Iverson still gripped the twine. The last thing he heard was the sound of a trumpeter blowing the charge.

 

“Boss man!” Duke shrieked. “It's the cavalry. It's the damned Army.”

“It can't be,” Pardo said, but he heard the blaring trumpet, the scores of shots, pounding of hoofs. He whirled. “Get up to that nitro. Pull the twine. Pull it, damn you. Blow it up!” He saw Duke spin, crouch, and head around the corner.

It was going to hell. How could it have gone to hell?

“My brother!” W.W. Kraft began screaming. “You son of a bitch. You bastard. You killed my brother.”

Finding the youngest Kraft kneeling by his brother, Pardo could see W.W. was right. K.C. lay on his back, spread-eagled, sightless eyes staring into that brilliant blue sky. Then, like a damned fool, W.W. rose, tripped over his dead brother's boots, started a dash for the boulders behind which Dagmar and Mac were hiding, pulling the Colt's trigger as he ran.

“Come back here!” Pardo yelled, but found himself chasing after him, admiring W.W., even if the kid was an idiot, because W.W. was showing the dearly departed K.C. Kraft a thing or two. About family. About blood. About honor.

W.W. Kraft's pistol roared, knocked a chunk of boulder off. Suddenly, Mac rolled out from the side of the boulder, both hands gripping a long-barreled Colt. Flame shot from the barrel, and W.W. staggered. Mac's gun roared again, and W.W. dropped to his knees, sending his gun sailing toward a mesquite. He let out a wild groan, and fell on his back, joining his brother in death.

Pardo saw Mac raise the barrel, pull the trigger, heard, above the echoes and cacophony throughout the canyon, the hammer click as it struck an empty cylinder. With a grin, Pardo aimed his Colt, and pulled the trigger.

It, too, snapped empty.

He stopped, threw his useless gun at Mac, the pistol striking the rocky ground in front of the lawman's face, and bouncing over his head. Pardo kept running, leaning over, sweeping up W.W. Kraft's revolver, cocking it, squeezing the trigger. The bullet knocked the heel off Mac's right boot.

Don't rush your shot, Jimmy,
he heard Ma's scolding voice.

Pardo staggered toward them. Dagmar ran around the corner, screaming, her left side drenched in blood, her face wild with anger, like some damned animal. She wasn't a Three-Fingers Lacy, that was for sure. He swung the barrel of Kraft's revolver, heard the crunch, saw the wild woman drop at his feet, unconscious, and he tripped over her. Got up. Saw Mac crawling toward the yucca, where his Evans repeater rested.

With a snigger, Pardo began pushing out the empty casings as he walked, filling the cylinder with fresh loads from his shell belt, praising the late W.W. Kraft for having the good sense to carry a .44-40 Colt, same as Pardo did, and when he reached Mac, he thumbed back the hammer, and grinned.

“Hey, Bloody Jim!” a voice called.

When Pardo spun toward the voice, he felt a bullet rip into his gut. He fired, knowing he had missed, as another slug hit just about the same place the first bullet had. His knees buckled, and he fell to a seated position, looking up in surprise.

Staring at the person who had shot him.