The Savage Curse (2 page)

2

THE MAN HOLDING THE SHOTGUN FINALLY SPOKE, JUST BEFORE HIS finger was about to touch the front trigger.

“Start shuckin' them clothes, gents,” he said. “Take off them gunbelts first.”

Ben lowered one arm. He pulled his hat off, tipping it to one side, then hurled it at the gunman, sailing it straight at his face. The shotgunner flinched and moved his head with an instinctive lean to avoid being hit.

John's right hand dropped like a diving hawk to the butt of his pistol. He drew it from its holster, thumbing back the hammer before it cleared leather. A split second later, the gun was level, pointed at the stranger, bucking with the explosion of the ignited powder.

All of this happened so fast, the man with the shotgun didn't even have time to cry out before the lead bullet smashed into his breastbone, just to the left of his heart. The projectile punched a hole through his chest, splintering bone as it flattened out into a deadly mushroom that smashed flesh, ripped out a piece of his heart, tore apart veins, crushed sinew and muscle as it sped through to the backbone, cracking it like a stick of wood. The bullet blew out his back, leaving a hole the size of a fifty-cent piece and spewing a rosy spray of blood outward in a misty fan.

The force of the bullet caved the man in, pushed him back against the cantle of his saddle. His fingers went limp and the shotgun tumbled from his hands, bounced on its butt as it struck the ground, teetered there on its wobbly axis for a moment, then fell over, hitting rocks with an iron clatter that sounded like a tumbler in a broken lock. The man opened his mouth to scream in that brief moment of pain. A fountain of blood gushed from his mouth, strangling him so that all that came out was a deathly gurgle. He crumpled and fell from his horse like a sack of meal, hitting the ground with a thud.

A pale blue snake of smoke twisted out of the barrel of John's pistol. His eyes glittered with a hot light as he stared at the fallen man. John's face was a mask, but his eyes reflected a mixture of anger and bewilderment.

“God,” Ben breathed.

The word seemed to snap John out of his trance. He blew the smoke from his pistol into shreds and looked around as his thumb pressed down on the hammer and slowly drew the hammer back to full cock.

“He's the onliest one,” Ben whispered.

“You sure?”

“That naked feller down there what was froze like a statue is a dancin' a jig, grinnin' like a shit-eatin' dog.”

John looked down at the man who was hopping around in a circle, flapping his arms up and down, his dangle flopping like a beheaded snake.

“Damned idiot,” Ben muttered.

John eased the hammer back down, slid the pistol back in its holster.

“What was the ‘God' for, Ben?”

“I thought we was goners, John. You emptied his saddle pretty damned quick.”

“You throwing your hat did the trick.”

“That was a damned fool thing to do, now that I think on it.”

Ben climbed down from his saddle and retrieved his hat. He stepped around the dead man, eyeing him with a suspicious gander, his nose wrinkled as if he were smelling a pile of offal. He put his hat back on and walked back to his horse.

“Whooooeee,” whooped the naked man. “You done saved my life, fellers.”

John watched Ben pull himself back into the saddle.

“Well, we goin' down there, John, or are you going to just sit here and gloat?”

“I'm not gloating. I didn't want to kill that man.”

“No, but I'm sure glad you did. He was ready to cut loose on us with both barrels of that Greener.”

“Seems like,” John said. “The bastard was ready to pull those triggers, all right.”

“Damned road agents. Seems like you just can't get clear of 'em.”

The naked stranger ran toward them as Ben and John rode down the slope. He was hollering and flapping his arms like some inmate who just escaped from an asylum.

“Lordy, I never seed such shootin',” the man declared. “Quick as lightning, that draw. Ooohhh, man oh man, I mean quick.”

“Hold on, feller,” John said as he rode up. “What's going on here?”

“You done saved my bare ass, Pilgrim, that's what's goin' on. I stopped at that well to get a drink and that jasper with the scattergun come out of nowhere, got the drop on me. Made me strip down so's he could rob me. For a minute there, I didn't know whether he was going to kill me or put the boots to me like I was some scarlet whore.”

John looked around. There were low hills off to the right and some to the left where a man on horseback might hide, but no place of concealment real close.

“Those stones there,” John said. “That's the water hole?”

“It's a danged well, all right. See that gully yonder? That robber come out of that.”

The man pointed to a depression John hadn't noticed, a kind of gully that was overgrown with brush, a washout from some previous flood. It was difficult to see unless one was right on top of it. The gully lay about thirty yards from the well.

“I see it,” John said. “Must be pretty deep.”

“Deep enough to hide a man on horseback. Looks like an old mine pit, yes, sir, that's what it looks like, all right.”

The man appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties. He was clean-shaven except for a drooping moustache streaked with blond hair that matched the long locks streaming down the back of the man's neck. He had a bald streak that parted his pate square in the middle. Crackling blue eyes, rheumy from strong drink or onion shavings. Gangly-legged and bony as a plucked crane, his skin was bone-white except for his neck and face, which were deep-tanned, dark as an elk's hide.

“I got to thank you, stranger, for putting that brigand down. They call me Peaches, 'cause I'm from Georgia, but my name's Pete Wainwright and that's my trade. I build and fix wagons for folks, yes, sir, from Tucson to Abilene and points south.”

“Better get your duds back on,” John said.

Ben kept his horse at a distance from Pete Wainwright as if the man were a loose cog in some rattletrap of a machine. The man jumped as he stepped with his bare feet on sharp and rounded stones. Instead of going back to put his clothes on, he clambered up the slope to where the dead man lay. He squatted down and began stripping the corpse of gunbelt and boots. He turned the pockets inside out, scooped up a handful of coins. He grabbed the man's hat and put it on. He gingerly hopped back down, carrying the shotgun and the gunbelt slung over his shoulders. He had slipped his bare feet into the dead man's boots.

“You want this stuff, mister?” Wainwright said. “They rightfully belong to you. I mean you kilt the man what owned them.”

“No,” John said. “You keep the stuff.”

He swung out of the saddle and lifted the four empty canteens hanging from his saddle horn. He led Gent to the well where there was a crude wooden trough. He pulled the rope up, filled the trough with water. Then he filled his wooden canteens, set them down next to the well.

“I'll fill yours, Ben,” he said. “Just hand them to me.”

Wainwright stowed the shotgun, pistol, and gunbelt in his wagon, then slipped off the boots and threw those in, too. Then he slid into his long underwear and grabbed up his own shirt while John filled Ben's quartet of canteens. Gent and Blaster slurped water from the trough. Ben hauled the oaken bucket up and poured a little more water into the trough.

“Not too much,” John said.

“I know. Don't want 'em to founder,” Ben said. He drank from one of his canteens, wiped his lips. Both he and John walked around, stretching their tired legs. They had both been in the saddle since daybreak, following tracks that were days old, but still visible.

“I cut hair, too,” Wainwright said after he was dressed. “You boys need haircuts, they'll be on me.”

John stroked his beard. Usually clean-shaven, he hadn't bothered to scrape his face. He was intent on tracking Ollie Hobart and little else mattered to him.

“No, thanks,” John said. “I can go a few more days before my beard turns on me.”

“I carry one,” Ben said. “Might trim it up when we get to Tucson.”

“Headed for Tucson, are ye?” Wainwright said. “Dirty little town, full of rascals and thieves, like that one up yonder.”

He inclined his head toward the corpse lying up the slope several yards away.

“I'm just looking for one thief,” John said.

“He stole something from you, did he?”

“He stole just about everything from me.”

“You don't want to join up with him, then?” Wainwright said.

Ben snorted.

“Hell no, friend. He wants to lay him out like he did that'un yonder.” Ben cocked a thumb toward the dead man.

“Tucson ain't a big town,” Wainwright said. “Maybe I know where you can find this man. Owlhoots tend to stick together.”

“You talking about an outlaw hangout?” John said.

Wainwright laughed.

“They ain't no outlaws in Tucson,” he said.

“No outlaws in Tucson?” Ben said. “I find that right hard to believe.”

“You got to have laws to have outlaws, mister,” Wainwright said. “They ain't no law in Tucson. None to speak of anyways.”

“This man hasn't been there very long,” John said. “You probably wouldn't know him from Adam's off ox.”

“This man got a name?”

“Hobart,” John said, the word coming out of his mouth like an oath, or a chunk of ripped flesh.

Wainwright's eyes went wide.

“Ollie Hobart?” Wainwright said, so soft John and Ben could barely hear it.

“You know Ollie Hobart?” John said, his eyes aglitter with a piercing light that seemed to come from within.

“Hell, he's the reason I left Tucson yesterday mornin',” Wainwright said. “I don't know him. I know who he is. I know his damned name.”

“And how come you know him?” John said.

Wainwright dropped his head. He gurgled as if something was caught in his throat. When he looked back up at John, his eyes were rimmed with tears. A single droplet hung on the rim of his cheekbone.

“I didn't work alone,” Wainwright said. “My son, Tim, was my helper. Hobart shot him dead night before last. Shot him dead right before my eyes, and for no good reason.”

Ben and John exchanged looks.

“Hobart don't need no reason to kill anybody,” Ben said. “Ain't that right, John?”

John did not answer. He stood, staring at the grieving man. Wainwright's eyes told it all. They were wet with tears and more were flowing down his cheeks. He looked like a lost soul, a man without a friend in the world when he most needed one. It made John's stomach turn to know that Ollie Hobart was still doing what he always did, killing innocent people. He felt sorry for Wainwright.

He had long ago stopped feeling sorry for himself.

3

JOHN WALKED OVER TO A LARGE ROCK AND SAT DOWN. WAINWRIGHT followed him and stood nearby as John took out his pistol, thumbed the hammer back to half cock, opened the gate to the cylinder, and ejected the empty brass hull. He pushed a fresh bullet from his belt and slid it into the empty spot, spun the cylinder, and closed the gate.

“You keep six in there?” Wainwright asked.

“Yes.”

“Most don't. Safer to keep the hammer down on an empty cylinder.”

“Sometimes I need six.”

“That's really a pretty six-gun you have there. Looks like a Colt.”

“It is, but my pa built it for me, filed down the sear, put new parts in. Had it engraved.”

“So I see. Inlaid silver, ain't it?”

John nodded.

“What's that say on the barrel there?”

“It's a Spanish saying,” John said.
“No me saques sin razón, ni me guardes sin honor.”

“You speak Spanish real good. What's it mean, anyways?”

“Don't draw me without reason, nor keep me without honor.”

“I reckon you abide by that,” Wainwright said.

“He does,” Ben said. “And you sure ask a lot of questions. You bury your boy in Tucson?”

“Yeah, right after that buzzard Hobart kilt him. I got out of Tucson real quick, too.”

“How come?” Ben asked.

“Hobart let it be known that I might be next. He took a dislike to my boy Tim, and maybe he didn't like me much, either.”

“Just like that?” John asked. “He shot your son for no reason?”

“Well, not exactly. Seems like Tim was sparking a gal there when Hobart come to town. Turns out that the gal was sweet on Hobart, and vice versa. Hobart didn't like competition. He told Tim to light a shuck when he walked in on the gal and Tim stood up to him.”

Tears began to wet Wainwright's eyes again, and he stopped talking.

“I'm sorry,” John said. “What was the gal's name? You know?”

“Diane Meacham. Hell, she never mentioned Hobart. But she knowed him before, I reckon. She works at a cantina there. It's got a pretty bad reputation. Seems like all the owlhoots wet their whistles in there.”

“Why did Tim go there?” Ben asked.

“He was makin' a saddle for the owner, feller named Ortiz. Benito Ortiz. He finished the saddle, but plumb fell for Diane. Hell, he was just a kid. Barely nineteen. Diane's some older, maybe twenty-six or so.”

“What's the name of that cantina?” John asked.

“La Copa. You can't miss it. Got a big old cup outside, up on the adobe roof. It's a pretty rough place. Knife fights, gunfights, fistfights, kick fights.”