Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) (3 page)

Defoe studied the intent eyes staring into his. Finally he let out a tight breath.

“You appear to have me at a disadvantage,
monsieur
,” he said. With his left hand poised at his cigar and his right hand hanging down his side, he extended a third hand from beneath the right side of his swallow-tailed coat. He spread his fingers wide, showing Sam that his
real
right hand was empty. “There, now, are you satisfied?” he asked in a chilled tone.

Sam gave a short nod, stepping forward, and reached behind Defoe's coat to pull a small ornate Lefaucheux pistol from a slim-jim side holster. He laid the pistol on the bar top.

“Who the hell are you, mister?” the bartender blurted out.

“I'm Arizona Ranger Samuel Burrack,” Sam replied, again cutting a glance around at the faces in the cantina. “I'm after the Torres brothers and their gang.”

A sly grin came to Henri Defoe's rough, pitted face.

“My, my, Ranger, you've overshot the border by a long ways,” he said, looking relieved that the Ranger had not mentioned any charges against him. “Out of curiosity,” he continued, “have you any authorization from the Mexican government?”

“Yes, I do.” Sam uncoiled a little himself. He lowered the hammer on his Colt and eased the gun back down to his side. “I would not be here otherwise.”

“Where is your badge?” Fred the bartender asked.

Both Sam and Defoe gave him a look, and Fred looked embarrassed by his own question.

“Just curious,” Fred said.

The Ranger had taken off his badge his first day out of Nogales. He carried it in his shirt pocket.

Sam turned his eyes back to Defoe.

“Have the Gun Killers been through here?” he asked, knowing the answer to his question before he'd asked, but wanting to see if he could get any cooperation out of Three-Hand Defoe.

“Hmmm, let me think . . . ,” Defoe said. He raised a hand from behind his coat and scratched his chin, feigning serious contemplation. “No, Ranger, I'm certain they have not.”

Lying, just as I thought
, Sam thought, staring at Defoe—a man whose reputation was so bad he had to keep an arm hidden behind his coat in case his past ever caught up to him.

“I'm afraid you made a mistake coming to Wild Roses,” Defoe said. He grinned slyly, sucked on his thick cigar and blew a pointed stream of smoke upward. “Too bad,” he lamented. “What a terrible waste of your time.”

“I'll find a way to make up for it,” Sam said, keeping his flat stare at Defoe. Ignoring the Frenchman's goading sarcasm and a chuff of laughter from the bartender, he backed away toward the front doors, his Colt still in hand.

On the boardwalk, Glory Embers stood to one side and gave him a smile, as if he were still welcome in spite of the tension he'd left hanging in the air.

“You come back and see me. I promise
I
won't be a waste of time,” she said.

Sam only touched the brim of his sombrero respectfully, stepped down from the boardwalk and walked across the dusty street.

Sam was well aware that riding to Wild Roses and approaching the Frenchman about the gang was not a waste of time. He picked up the dun's reins, leading the thirsty animal toward the large, stone-encircled village well.

He'd learned from experience. In hunting a gang as large and powerful as the Gun Killers, the next best thing to knowing where they are is knowing where they would run to when hard pressed by the law.

Oh yes, the Gun Killers had been here; he was certain of it. He'd come upon the tracks of many riders moving together across the windswept ground. The gang appeared to rotate in a long loop covering the Mexican desert and hill country from the border, stretching as far south as Mexico City. They hadn't broken up and gone in separate directions after they realized he was on their trail.

They had left men behind to kill him, plain and simple. This told him a couple of important things. The Torres brothers had yet to split up the money from the banks and payrolls they had raided and robbed across the Arizona Territory border.
Wise thinking on the part of their leaders
, he thought. It was hard to hold a group of killers together when they had pockets full of stolen money to spend.

It also told him the Torres brothers didn't mind leaving a few men behind to kill him, knowing if those men never made it back alive, it only meant more money for the rest of the gang.

Some things were not hard to figure, he told himself. Like how close this Frenchman and the Torres brothers must be, for him to lie on the gang's behalf, when he knew their horses' hoofprints led right to his cantina door.

So much for that,
Sam thought. He'd remember Defoe, Wild Roses and the Bad Dogs Cantina.

Places like this were a safe haven for men like the Gun Killers Gang. When and if the time came, he would ride back here and find them—some of them anyway. That was how the job worked: gather information from every source along their trail. Sooner or later, the Gun Killers would raise their heads, and when that time came, he'd be ready and waiting.

Chapter 3

At the well, the Ranger stood beside the dun while the thirsty animal drew water from a runoff trough. As the thirsty horse drank its fill, Sam took down three canteens hanging from his saddle horn, uncapped them and held them under the water until they where full.

When he'd recapped the canteens and hung them back on his saddle horn, he pushed his sombrero back, letting it hang down his back, pulled the black bandanna from his head and plunged his face down into the cool water.

He took a long swig, swished his face back and forth and raised it. Slinging his wet hair back from his eyes, he stuck the black bandanna under the water for a rinse, wrung it out and fitted it back atop his head. He wiped his wet face with both hands and looked warily back and forth at the empty street.

He gazed off along the trails leading into the village for any sign of rising trail dust and saw none, indicating that no one from the cantina had gotten nervous and decided to leave on his account. He took in a long, refreshed breath, let it out and pulled his sombrero up onto his head, atop the cool wet bandanna, enjoying it while it lasted—which wouldn't be long in the scorching heat.

 

Across the empty street, Matten Page crept around the corner of an alleyway, out of the darkened shade and down behind the low remnants of a crumbling adobe wall. He peered up over the edge of the wall, Winchester rifle in hand, and watched the Ranger adjust his sombrero and snug the string up under his chin.

Here it is
, Page thought, steadying his rifle atop the wall and gazing down the rifle barrel. He had the Ranger in his sights. He had the sun in the Ranger's face; he had the wall for cover. He had every element of surprise, and this was all the edge he needed. He cocked the hammer back quietly. Five seconds from now, he would be the man who killed
the Ranger
—and it was about damned time, he told himself. He squinted his left eye shut and took fine aim with his right.

“Mister,
look out
!” Erin Donovan cried out in a voice that was nearer to a scream.

What the—!
Page turned his eye from the Ranger and stared in bewilderment at the woman running fast along the middle of the empty street, her long dress causing a flurry of dust. She screamed at the Ranger at the top of her lungs, “It's an ambush! He's going to kill you!”

An ambush?
Page looked stunned.
No! No! Don't tell him that!
he shouted to himself, staring wide-eyed, startled, confused.
Damn it to hell!

What's she doing?
He stood in a crouch at the back of the protecting adobe wall.

“Behind the wall!” Erin shouted, seeing the Ranger turn toward her from where he stood, ready to step up into his saddle.

Sam saw her finger pointing toward the adobe wall as she ran toward him, her long red hair streaming back on a hot wind.

Jesus! She's gone nuts!
Page swung his eyes away from the woman, back toward the Ranger, knowing he had only a second to make his move now that he'd been exposed.

“Damn it!” he shouted angrily at himself. “I knew it! I knew it!” He never should have trusted this jack-potting wench. He took quick aim and squeezed the trigger.

From the window of the cantina, Three-Hand Defoe turned to the bartender and frantically shouted orders. “Freddie, get out there and help him! The woman has given him up!”

Drinkers hurried to the open window, the open front doors and slipped out onto the boardwalk as Page's rifle shot resounded along the empty street.

Thanks to the woman, Sam had seen Page swing the rifle at him. In that split second, instead of going into his saddle, he kicked himself away from the dun's side just in time to feel the bullet slice past him, mere inches from his chest.

The dun reared slightly as Sam hit the ground and rolled away, another rifle shot kicking up dirt behind him. In the middle of the street, the woman shrieked and dived to the ground at the sound of the rifle fire. Sam stopped rolling and lay prone on his stomach, facing the rifleman with his Colt out arm's length, cocked and aimed.

A third rifle shot hit the dirt beside him as the big Colt bucked in the Ranger's hand. Sam aimed again, watching through the veil of dust rising around him. He saw that his shot had hit the crouched gunman in his right shoulder, the impact strangely forcing him to a stand.

Page let out a painful yelp, slinging his rifle to the side, offering the Ranger his exposed chest as a target. Sam made the second shot and saw it knock the gunman back a step. The third shot hit only inches from the second. The fourth shot did the same.

Page slammed against a rough sun-bleached plank wall, leaving a smear of blood glistening in the stark white sunlight as his body slid down the barrier. A few feet away, a donkey bucked and brayed, managing to break free from a hitch rail. It ran bucking and braying out of sight down a darkened alleyway.

 

In the dusty street, Erin rose onto her knees, dirt covering her face, strands of her long red hair and the front of her gingham dress. She stared, blinking her eyes in disbelief at the long smear of blood running down the plank wall, at the drift of dark rifle smoke looming in the dust-filled air.

“Stay down, ma'am,” Sam said, running to her in a crouch, his Colt still smoking and still poised toward the downed gunman. Coming to a stop kneeling beside her, he placed a protective hand on her back. “Are you all right?” he questioned. His eyes scanned the street both ways, then snapped back to the body lying slumped against the plank wall.

“Ye—yes, I think so,” said the woman. She pushed her red hair back from her face and stared toward Matten Page, seeing him suddenly give out a wet rattling cough.

“Stay here, ma'am,” Sam said.

For some reason she wanted to grab his arm, not let him leave her side, but he was off and gone before she could act.
Wait!
she shouted silently, rising into a crouch herself and running along behind him in spite of what he'd instructed her to do. From the well, the dun loped closer to the Ranger, stopped a few feet away and stood watching.

The Ranger loomed over Matten Page, his Colt pointed down at the mortally wounded outlaw.

Page coughed up a spray of blood, his right hand gripping his chest where three of the bullet holes had struck in a tight pattern, the fourth wound bleeding freely a few inches away.

“Well . . . lawman,” he said in a rasping bitter tone, “do you . . . think you shot me enough?”

“Maybe not,” Sam said, “you're still alive.”

He leveled the Colt down toward Page.

“Wait,” Page pleaded. “Don't you want . . . to question me . . . about the Torres brothers?”

“No,” Sam said flatly.

“Jesus,” Page mustered, “you just want to kill me. . . .”

“That seems to be the way it is,” said the Ranger, “and we both know you wouldn't have answered me if I did question you,” he stated flatly.

Page shook his head. “Probably not,” he rasped, blood running from his lips.

“Then there you have it,” said the Ranger. He started to squeeze the trigger. Page closed his eyes tight in anticipation.

“Mister,
look out
!” Erin shouted again, this time from only a few feet behind the Ranger.

“
Holy Mother . . .
she's like a guard dog,” Page groaned as the Ranger spun away, setting eyes on Fred the bartender.

Seeing the smoking Colt pointed at him, the bartender dropped his sawed-off shotgun as if it were red hot.

“Don't shoot!” he pleaded, wide-eyed, throwing his hands up chest high in surrender. “I wasn't going to shoot you, I swear it.”