The Sapphire Gun (6 page)

Clint dabbed at his ear and took a look at Johnny. “Looks like the bleeding might have stopped. At any rate, we should probably let that wound breathe for a bit.”

Letting out a wary sigh, Johnny grabbed a knife that was sticking out of the ground and started to cut the bandages.

“Here,” Clint said as he stepped forward. “Better let me do that.”

“You had to do the stitches and listen to me cuss at you the whole time, so I figure I should start being a bigger help.”

“I've heard plenty worse.”

Clint took the knife and carefully sliced the bandages so he could peel them away. The wound was better than it had been when they'd first found the river, but it was still seeping blood. After washing some of the blood away, Clint examined the stitches and handed the canteen over to Johnny.

“How's it look?” Johnny asked, refusing to look down at himself.

“Let's just say that Eclipse and I got the better end of the bargain.”

When Johnny laughed, he quickly winced and forced himself to stay still.

“Are those stitches going to hold?” Clint asked.

“I think so. Where'd you learn your doctoring?”

“I'd like to tell you it's something I was taught by a very wise man. The truth is that I get a lot of practice from all the people trying to carve out a piece of me for themselves.”

“Well, you did a fine job. It still hurts like a bastard, though.”

“I'll bet it does. By the looks of it, the bullet dug in about half an inch all the way across. You're damn lucky to be alive.”

Johnny took as deep a breath as he could and let it out. “I sure don't feel lucky.”

“You have any whiskey?”

Suddenly, Johnny's eyes lit up. “In my wagon, just behind the seat.”

“That explains your skill with the reins.”

“Go to hell, Clint. But first, go get my whiskey.”

Clint was still chuckling when he returned with the bottle. Considering how bad Johnny looked when they'd brought the horses to a stop, Clint was awfully glad that the man was still alive. For that matter, taking a grazing shot to the ear for himself seemed like a fairly light sentence.

“Thanks, Clint. And not just for this,” Johnny said as he held up the bottle. “If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be breathing right now. I sure as hell wouldn't still have my gold.”

“That's funny. I was just thinking what a piss-poor job I did in keeping you safe.”

Johnny shook his head while tilting the bottle to his lips. As the whiskey flowed through his system, his voice was less strained and his posture became a bit more relaxed.

“If you hadn't did what you done, that first rifle shot would have taken me down.”

“I'm lucky that first rifle shot didn't put me down.”

After pondering that for a moment, Johnny shrugged. “Maybe, but everything after that was pure guts. I've never seen the like.”

“You pulled your share when that rider came in close. I didn't even see what happened.”

“I saw someone ride up to me and it took me a second to realize it wasn't you. Soon as I saw that gun in his hand coming at me, I fired a shot that didn't even come close to hitting a damn thing. I . . . lost my balance and started to fall. That must've been when he pulled his trigger, because I felt like my chest was tore off. With all the blood that came out of me, he must have thought he killed me.” Shaking his head, he added, “Then he rode away.”

“That's nothing to be ashamed of,” Clint said after picking up on the tremor in Johnny's voice.

“Well . . . actually I didn't fall. I dropped to save my own hide. All that while you were still fighting.” Johnny shook his head and took another pull from the whiskey bottle.

“You would have been stupid if you weren't scared back there,” Clint told him. “It's just like I said. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“What about you? Were you scared?”

Without missing a beat, Clint replied, “Hell no! You think I'm yellow?”

There was just enough bluster in Clint's voice to make Johnny laugh rather than cringe. In fact, Johnny laughed so hard that he wound up pressing a hand against his chest and forcing himself to calm down before he busted a stitch.

Once Johnny caught his breath, Clint asked, “Do you think you'll be able to move soon? We should find someplace to stash this wagon before anyone comes around looking for us.”

“I won't be flapping my arms or nothing, but I should be able to hold the reins.”

“Good.”

“You think he's coming back?”

“I'd guess so,” Clint replied. “Especially since both of us rode away from there with the gold. Otherwise, there wasn't much sense in them ambushing us in the first place.”

“So they were after the gold?”

“Unless you're carrying any diamonds or rare pieces of art in that wagon, I'd say the gold is the most valuable thing you've got.”

Johnny rolled his eyes and nodded. “Good point. Maybe I've had a bit too much of this whiskey.”

“Did that man look familiar to you?” Clint asked.

At first, Johnny shook his head. Then, he cocked his head a bit and said, “You know, I might have seen that fella at my party.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“Just some pretty Mexican lady with long hair. You think she's a part of this?”

“I don't know. I just hope he was some asshole who overheard something at the party and decided to make a play for it.”

“Why?” Johnny grunted. “Isn't that bad enough?” Clint's hand reflexively lowered to rest upon his holstered Colt. “No. It can get a whole lot worse than that.”

Franco sat hunched over as Rosa rubbed her hands along his back. Dusk was setting in, and the shadows were growing just enough for the firelight to bring out the angles in his face. As the flames crackled and sent the occasional ember sailing off, Franco prodded the wood at the heart of the fire with a thick branding iron.

“At least you killed one of them,” Rosa said in a consoling tone.

Franco's lips curled into a sneer as if forming the words before he spoke them. “I might have killed him. All I know is that I hit the one on the wagon.”

“What about Adams? You must have hit him, too.”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh, come now,” she cooed as her hands worked on loosening the knots in his muscles. “I've never seen you miss a shot like that. He didn't even know you were there. You must have hit him.”

“Perhaps,” he repeated impatiently.

“If you didn't kill them, then are you . . . just going to let them go?”

Franco wheeled around as if he meant to take a swing at her. Just as he caught sight of Rosa, his face twisted into a pained grimace and he turned back around. “I'm not going to let them go,” he said. “I'll just have to catch up to them at a different spot.”

Eventually, Rosa's hands found their way back to Franco's shoulders. She caressed him at first, but then began to massage him once more. “I didn't mean to doubt you.”

“I know.”

“You should probably see to that wound before it gets any worse.”

Slowly, Franco nodded. Even now, he couldn't remember exactly when he'd been hit. He was certain, however, that the bullet had come from Clint's gun. Picturing Clint's face as he lifted the branding iron from the bottom of the fire, Franco pulled in a breath and pressed the hottest end of the iron against his side.

His flesh hissed and steamed the moment it made contact with the iron. Every muscle in Franco's body squirmed beneath his skin, and even Rosa's hands weren't enough to soothe him. He kept the iron there for as long as he could bear it. After a few seconds, the searing heat started to feel cold.

“That's it,” Rosa said. “Now take it away.”

Franco started to take the iron away, but quickly discovered the tip was stuck to his skin. Before the iron became seared into him any deeper, Franco pulled and twisted it away at the same time. That pulled a bit of meat off, but still left the main wound mostly shut. Before he lowered the iron, Rosa was reaching around to place a moist rag against him.

“That's better, isn't it?” she asked soothingly.

Franco nodded slowly. He didn't need to look at the wound to know how bad it was. The bullet had passed through when it had been fired. He knew that much already. Since the wound was too jagged to be stitched up easily, he'd opted for the more painful method of using the iron.

As Rosa pressed down and then removed the rag, she replaced it with another one. “Can you feel that?” she asked.

“No.”

“Good.” Before he had too much time to think about what he did feel, she asked, “What are you going to do next?”

“In the morning, we will ride ahead to that bank. We shouldn't have any trouble getting there before they do.”

“Won't there be a lot of people there?”

“It is a small town. We should have no trouble spotting them and picking them off before they reach a main street.”

Rosa nodded and removed the rag to look at the charred flesh beneath it. The bleeding had stopped, and though the wound wasn't very pretty, at least it was no longer open. “That could get dangerous.”

Snapping his head around to glare at her with fire in his eyes, Franco knocked Rosa back and started to crawl toward her. “You don't think I know that?”

Scooting away from him and the fire, Rosa kept quiet.

Although his draw was a bit slower than normal, Franco's .44 still cleared leather in the blink of an eye. He pointed the gun straight at her at first, but then held it so she could see it from the side as he snarled, “You think I could have earned this without knowing how, where, and when to kill a man?”

Rosa's eyes were drawn along the etched nickel plating and lingered on the gem embedded in the handle. The sapphire was set into the grip amid a swirl of elegant carvings. The more she looked at it, the more it seemed the sapphire was floating in a pool of silver.

“Do you?” Franco demanded.

That brought her eyes back to his and she replied, “No.”

Suddenly, Franco recoiled and lowered the pistol. He looked at her face and then quickly turned away. After that, he backed up almost enough for his boots to dip into the bottom of the campfire. “I apologize,” he said.

Moving up behind him as if nothing had happened, Rosa draped her arms over his shoulders so she could brush her hands along the Spaniard's chest. “You're hurt and you're upset,” she whispered into his ear. “I understand.”

“I will not let them get away again. I underestimated Adams.” Gritting his teeth, Franco picked up a nearby twig and snapped it angrily. “Knowing what I know about him, I still underestimated him,” he said while pitching pieces of the twig into the flames. “That was just stupid.”

Rosa's hands slid under his shirt, which hung open loosely to reveal several old scars that looked just as twisted and melted as the new one. “You're not stupid,” she purred.

Franco closed his eyes and focused on the way Rosa's fingers glided over his skin. He thought about the way her breasts pressed against his back and the way her legs slowly rubbed against him as she settled in behind him.

The more she touched him, the more focused his thoughts became. By the time he turned and crawled on top of her, Franco could already feel his target's blood on his hands.

Dover Shallows wasn't a big town by any stretch of the imagination, but it was pretty enough to look as though it had been painted rather than built. Four of the main streets formed a square, while a fifth street cut through the middle. Everything else was built around that simple design. There were some shops, a few restaurants, and only one saloon. And, located directly across from the marshal's office, there was a bank.

Shallows State Bank actually resembled one of the restaurants, right down to the decorative curls built into the awnings and shutters. It was painted white and green to match the well-kept rows of flowers planted along the front walk.

Folks in Dover Shallows all seemed happy to be there. Even though his wound was still aching and gave him hell every time he moved the wrong way, Franco was also happy to be there. He stood outside a restaurant called Minnie's, which was across the street and down a little ways from the bank. From there, he could pat his belly as if he was still full from lunch and tip his hat to all the other happy folks who walked by. More than a few women let their eyes linger on Franco's handsome face, and he rewarded them with a gleaming smile.

Franco checked his pocket watch and then snapped it shut. According to his calculations, Johnny Blevin should have arrived to make his deposit a little while ago. There was always the possibility that he'd been hurt even worse than Franco thought, but that was probably overly optimistic.

Thinking back to the last shot he'd fired at Johnny, Franco recalled every second, the way a young man might dwell on memories of the first time he'd bedded a woman. Franco could remember every sound and every movement. The sight of Johnny reeling back onto the wagon's driver seat was embedded in those memories.

There had been a lot of blood spilled by that shot. In fact, there had been a little too much blood spilled. Given how far Johnny was twisted to one side, Franco became even more convinced that his bullet had been a messy grazing shot, at best. Since he hadn't found a trace of the wagon or Adams the morning after he'd had a chance to tend his own wound, Franco knew both men had most likely made it.