Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) (4 page)

“Watch out!” Erin warned. “He's got a gun behind his back!” She stood at an angle that allowed her to see the bartender's broad back and a big Remington shoved down in his belt.

“Step away from the shotgun and turn around,” Sam said to the bartender. “Let me see your back.” He held the Colt out at arm's length, cocked, ready to fire.

“She can't stop
jackpotting . . . ,
” Page said. His words trailed; his head fell to one side. “I should've killed her . . . first thing . . .”

“I wasn't going for it, lawman!” the bartender said. “So help me, I was only carrying it just in case.”

“Aye,” the woman said in a scorching tone, “just in case you lost your shotgun?” As she spoke, she stepped in closer to the bartender. “He meant to kill you, mister,” she said to Sam, staring coldly at the bartender's worried face.

“Stand back from him, ma'am,” Sam said sharply, reading what was about to happen in the bartender's eyes, but his warning came too late.

Fred jumped to the side, putting Erin between himself and the Ranger as his hand went behind his back and jerked out the big Remington. At the same time, he grabbed the woman and tried to swing her around in front of him as a shield.

The Ranger saw a narrow opening and took it. His Colt bucked in his hand and sent the bartender flying backward, his hand losing his hold of the woman. The bullet sliced past Erin's ear and nailed the bartender in the heart. The Remington flew to the ground and fired wildly, thumping into the side of a plank and stone building.

“Jesus . . . I've seen enough,” Page moaned in a failing voice.

“Ma'am . . . ?” Sam asked, the Colt still in hand, fresh smoke curling from the tip of its barrel.

“I'm all right,” Erin said, rubbing her wrist where the bartender had gripped her tightly. She stepped back from the body lying bloody on the ground.

“I'm sorry I had to shoot with you standing so close,” Sam said, still scanning the street for any more guns that might be pointed at him. “I saw I only had a second. I had to take the shot.”

“I—I understand,” Erin said, appearing not too badly shaken by the sudden turn of events. “He might very well have killed me if you hadn't shot him when you did.” After a moment's pause, she added, “I owe you thanks for saving my life.”

“Ma'am, it's
I
who owe
you
the thanks,” the Ranger said, lowering the Colt as he thumbed bullets from his gun belt to reload. “The bartender might have killed you. But it's certain either one of these men would have killed me had you not warned me both times.”

The two turned from the dead bartender and looked down at Matten Page. The outlaw lay dead, his eyes wide-open, staring down at the dirt as if engrossed by the spreading puddle of blood beneath him.

“I take it you know this man,” Sam said.

“Yes, I do—or I did know him,
”
Erin corrected herself. “He rode with the gang you've been trailing. He's one of the Gun Killers.” She stared at Sam, wondering what to expect from him.

Sam began to recognize that something had motivated her warnings.

“Go on,” he said, encouraging her to continue.

She started to speak, saying, “My brother, Bram, has been trying to ride with the gang—”

“No, wait,” Sam said, cutting her off as soon as he saw Three-Hand Defoe and several other men step out of the cantina and start walking their way.

“I see them,” said Erin, her eyes following Sam's toward Defoe. “Can you take me away from here, to the livery barn? My brother is there.”

Sam looked at her warily. The dun plodded up closer and stopped beside him.

“Am I going to have trouble with your brother?” he asked Erin. He had reloaded the Colt and kept it in his hand.

“No, he's unconscious,” she said. “He's snakebit. I'm keeping him in the barn loft until he's well enough to ride.”

Sam didn't need to consider it any further. He reached around with his empty hand, took the dun's reins and brought the horse around in front of them.

“Hop on,” he said to her. “I'm right behind you.”

 

Defoe stopped in his tracks when he saw the Ranger swing up behind Erin Donovan, the big Colt still in his right a hand, a wooden rifle case under his bedroll between himself and the saddle. Defoe eyed the rifle case.
A sharpshooter rifle ... ?

“Easy does it, everybody,” he said over his shoulder. “Let him clear out of here.”

“What about him killing Freddie?” a Mexican asked with a hard stare toward the Ranger as the dun turned and bounded away along the dusty street. “Freddie was one of us,
nuestro amigo
!”

“Our friend?” questioned Defoe, shooting a hard stare at the Mexican. “I'd hardly call Freddie a friend. Did you ever smell him?”

“Yes, he was an odorous man—it is true,” said Hector.

“That's putting it mildly,” said Defoe.

“I will not speak ill of the dead,” Hector said, “especially one of our dear amigos
.
”

“Freddie Loopy tended bar for me, Hector,” Defoe said bluntly. “Let's not make him out to be more than he is—or
was
,” he added, gazing toward the bloody body lying in the dirt.

“Still,” said the Mexican, “do we let this man ride in and shoot one of us down?”

“This lawman will get what's coming to him soon enough,” said Defoe. “If you're just itching to do something, go get your horse. I'll pay you to do an errand for me.”

“Yes, right away,” Hector said, keeping his excitement at bay. He'd been hanging around in Wild Roses for a week trying to find a way to earn some money. It looked as if Freddie's death might be just the break he needed.

Chapter 4

As the Ranger rode the dun off the street and along an alleyway to the livery barn, Henri Defoe and some of the men from his cantina stood staring down at the two bodies. Meanwhile, Hector Pasada ran back to the cantina and unhitched his big paint horse from the iron hitch rail.

“Where's the Frenchman got you running off to, Hector?” Glory asked. She and three other doves were lounging on the boardwalk, watching with curiosity.

“Mind your own business, all of you
putas
!” the Mexican said over his shoulder to the giggling women. He ran along the street, leading his horse behind him.

“Hector,” Glory called out, “if you're in a hurry, why don't you ride that cayuse?”

In his excitement, Hector almost stopped in his tracks and climbed up onto the horse, but hearing the doves giggle louder behind him, he stared back with an angry, embarrassed look on his face and kept running.

When he and his horse stopped beside Three-Hand Defoe, the Frenchman looked back at the laughing doves out in front of the cantina.

“What is so funny to those whores?” he asked Hector.

“It is nothing,” Hector said, out of breath from running in the pressing heat. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to ride out to High Pass,” said Three-Hand, his dummy right hand always stuck down into his coat pocket, his real right hand resting on his holstered Lefaucheaux.

“Pase Alto?” Hector said. “That is an overnight ride from here.”

“Yes, it is,” said Defoe, “so you'll need to get going right away.” He gave a thin smile. “Tell Sonora Charlie to get himself back here fast, pronto, extra-hurry. Tell him it's important.”

“Sonora Charlie, the
asesino
? How will I find him?” Hector asked. “Where do I look?”

“Don't let me down on this,” said Defoe, wondering for a brief moment if he'd made a mistake. “You won't have to worry about finding him. All you must do is show up in High Pass. He and his man Clyde will find you.”

“All right, I go,” Hector said. Then he stalled and added, “But will I not need some food to take with me, some coffee, something?”

“
Damnez-le,
Hector!” said Defoe, cursing in French. “Must I do this myself?” He stared pointedly at the Mexican. “You see that Freddie is dead. I need someone I can count on to take his place. Are you the man who will do that?” As he spoke, he leaned down and picked up the discarded, sawed-off shotgun from the dirt. Wiping it off, he thrust it into Hector's hands.

“
Sí
, I am that hombre,” Hector said, looking down at the shotgun, seeing the leather reload pouch hanging from its stock by a short length of rawhide. As he spoke, he turned to his horse and climbed quickly up into his saddle.

 

At the livery barn, Sam stepped down and reached a hand up to assist Erin out of the saddle.

She appeared almost taken aback, unused to such a courteous gesture, but then she smiled, took his hand and swung down beside him. She straightened her dusty, disheveled dress.

“Why, thank you, Mr. . . .” Her words trailed.

“Samuel Burrack, ma'am,” he said, his Colt still in hand. “
Arizona Territory Ranger
Samuel Burrack, that is,” he added. He tipped his sombrero with his free hand.

“I am happy to make your acquaintance, Ranger Burrack,” she said. “I'm Erin Donovan. Please call me Erin.”

“I'd be honored to, ma'am—I mean,
Erin
,” he said correcting himself. “Feel free to call me Sam.”

She smiled. “Sam,” she said, as if testing out the sound of it. “I like that.”

They walked into the barn, the Ranger leading the dun behind him, his Colt still out, should he need it.

“He's up there in the hayloft,” Erin said, lowering her voice a little, as if afraid she might disturb her brother. She stopped at the ladder to the hayloft, turned to Sam and said, “Bram can be difficult, Sam, especially with the snakebite keeping him so feverish and ill. I hope you can overlook any rudeness?”

“I'll certainly try,” Sam said, staring up the ladder toward the hayloft.

“Thank you. That's all I ask,” Erin said. She climbed the ladder ahead of him. With good manners, the Ranger looked away until she had stepped over into the hayloft. Then he followed, Colt in hand, eyes upward.

Standing side by side with the Ranger on the hay-strewn plank flooring, Erin gestured a nod across the loft toward a banked pile of loose hay where her brother lay partially visible on a worn blanket. His two bare feet stuck out, one purple-veined and the color of old ivory, the other one swollen over twice its size, the purple-green color of fruit gone bad.

“Bram . . . ?” she called out quietly. “It's me. I have a lawman with me. But he's our friend. Please don't shoot.”

She looked at Sam and squeezed his forearm reassuringly.

“Don't worry. I don't think he can even lift a gun,” she whispered.

Sam caught the smell of fever and sickness as they stepped forward.

They stopped and looked down at the young man's pale drawn face and saw a fly crawling across the tip of his nose. Erin immediately threw her hands to her mouth and let out a muffled gasp.

“Oh no, Bram . . . ,” she whispered into her cupped hands.

Sam saw the big Starr revolver lying close to the side of the young man's head, his right hand lying near it. He saw the streak of blood and brain matter lying splattered across the hay and on the plank wall three feet away.

He put an arm around the grieving woman's waist and gently turned her away from the grisly scene.

“Stand over here, Erin,” he said in a lowered voice. “I'll cover him up.”

He stepped toward what was left of the young woman's brother and pulled enough of the blanket from under the body to lay it over the dead man's face. Reaching down, he lifted Bram's gun hand away from the side of his head and tucked it to his side. Then he picked up the gun, checked it and shoved it down into his belt.

When he stepped back over to Erin, he glanced out through the open loft window and saw Defoe and his band of drinkers walking toward the barn, but he saw no raging anger in their demeanor. Their leader, Henri Defoe, knew that gunfighting in the street was bad for business. He must have decided to settle the men down before more trouble erupted.

That's good
, Sam thought. The woman would need some time to bury her dead brother properly. Riding out after the Gun Killers would have to wait until tomorrow. Until Bram Donovan was in the ground. He sighed to himself and lowered his Colt into its holster. Behind him Erin cried quietly into her hands.

All right
. . .
he could do that, for the woman's sake.

 

The Ranger and Erin met Defoe and his drinkers at the barn doors. Defoe held his real right hand hidden inside his coat on the holstered Lefaucheux pistol. His false right arm hung loosely down his right side.