Forty-Four Caliber Justice (15 page)

Hayes’s partner was bringing his gun to bear on Clay when the first shot hit him in the third button, followed quickly by the second. He fell backward against the table, his gun flew out of his hand, and the bottle sitting on the table catapulted across the room.

Clay watched everything happening as if he were a spectator. He watched the bullets slam into Hayes, then the slight change of direction of the muzzle of his Smith & Wesson to cover the second man. He saw that man fly backward as his two bullets struck right where his pa had taught him to aim. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bartender reach under the bar and pull out a 10-gauge double barrel.

He lunged forward and down, having seen the man was right-handed and knowing it would be harder for him to track to the right. As he dove, he holstered his empty revolver and pulled the one from the crossdraw holster. The blast of the shotgun was even more deafening in the bar. The load of shot passed over him. Clay fired. This time, he rushed the shot. The bullet hit the man just below his left collarbone. He heard his pa say, “Stay calm, Son.”

The man was trying to bring the shotgun up again when the second bullet hit the third button of his shirt, driving shards of the button into his chest. Clay kept shooting until the man dropped the shotgun and slumped across the bar.

Clay glanced at the two men in the corner. They had their hands up, and their faces were white as fresh snow. He quickly snapped open the top break on the revolver and reloaded. The six-gun slid smoothly into the crossdraw holster, and Clay drew the other one and yanked it open. He was reloading it before the ejected cases hit the floor. Then he dropped it back into the holster and took a deep breath while he watched the door.

Marshal Taylor was the first man through the door. He looked around the smoke-filled room. The acrid black powder made it difficult to clearly make out the two bodies in the back of the room. The bartender was clearly visible, hanging over the bar. His shotgun was on the floor in front of the bar. Several people pushed in behind the marshal. Rud, Arturo, and Juan came in with the group. Marshal Taylor walked to the back of the room and recognized Hayes and his partner.

Clay watched Marshal Taylor kneel down next to Hayes. He took out a four bit piece and laid it on Hayes chest, covering the bullet holes. Then he picked it up and walked over to the other man, knelt down and did the same thing. He shook his head and looked back at Clay. Without saying a word, Marshal Taylor walked over to the bartender and rolled him over. He looked at the man’s shoulder and then the three bullet wounds in his chest. Again, he put the now-bloody half dollar over the three holes.

Clay could feel the reaction setting in. He had just gone from never shooting a man to killing three. He took another deep breath. He looked at Rud. The old man nodded and limped over to him. “How you doing, Son?”

Clay spoke low to keep the conversation between him and Rud. “I’m feelin’ a little shaky, Rud.”

“Well, you just hang on. We’ll have you out of here in a few minutes.”

Marshal Taylor turned to the men in the corner. “You boys see this?”

Both men started talking at once. “Yes, sir, Marshal, we seen it all.”

“Never seen such shootin’ in my life.”

“Me neither, Marshal. That there Hayes drew first, he—”

“That’s right, Marshal, Hayes drew first, but he didn’t stand a chance—”

“Who’s telling this, me or you?”

“Me, I seen it all.”

“Well, I seen it all too.”

“Look, Jeb, just shut up,” Marshal Taylor said. “Rube, you look to be the most sober, you tell me what happened.”

“Marshal, like I was saying, Hayes and that other feller drew first. But they didn’t have a snowball’s chance. That boy had his first shot going before Hayes even had his gun out of his holster good. Then that young feller blasted Hayes’s partner, don’t know his name. You know him, Marshal?”

The marshal looked up at the ceiling as if he were asking for patience. “I don’t know him, Rube. So, what about Russell?”

“Marshal, the boy told him to stay out of it. But you know, he and Hayes went way back. So he goes under the bar for his greener. Biggest mistake he ever did make. Reckon he’d like to take it back, don’t you think?”

“I’m losing my patience, Rube. Just tell me what happened.”

“I’m just trying to help, Marshal. Ain’t no sense in you gittin’ on yore high horse. Though all of this talking is sure making me dry.” Rube rubbed his throat and coughed.

“Listening’s makin’ me pretty dry too, Marshal,” Jeb said.

Marshal Taylor said, “Don’t reckon Russell will mind if you fellers get you a drink.”

Both men started to stand up and head for the bar.

“After you finish the story. Go ahead, Rube.”

Both men sat back down, their disappointment obvious. “Like I was saying, Marshal. Russell—dumb, dumb, dumb, Russell—reached beneath the bar for that 10-gauge he likes so much and swings it up over the bar. By that time, this here boy had finished killin’ those two, and started shuckin’ his other pistol out.” Rube stopped for a moment and rubbed his chin, the picture of a man deep in thought. “Yessiree, I reckon he must have seen Russell going for the shotgun. Anyways, he, that’s the boy there, he dives forward, and while he’s in the air, he puts one into Russell. Must’ve been cause he was diving, but he hit him in the shoulder or thereabouts. He hit the floor and kept shooting. Why, it all sounded like one shot. Russell’s a pretty big feller, but nobody can take that much lead and survive. I reckon the boy shot him five, six times. That’s it, Marshal. Now, how about our drinks?”

“Help yourselves, boys.”

The two men rushed over to the bar and started rummaging through the bottles.

Marshal Taylor turned to Clay. “You did a heap of killin’ here today. You’ll need to come down to my office. I’ll need a statement from you.”

“Reckon not, Marshal,” Rud said. “You got all the statement you need from those two. I’ll be taking the boy down to Maria’s. If you need anything, you can come down there.”

The marshal started to object. Arturo and Juan moved to Clay’s side. “He’ll be with us,
Se
ñ
or
. I’m sure you won’t mind.”

Marshal Taylor paused, looked at the four men, and finally said to Clay, “Just don’t leave town until I’ve talked to you.”

“Marshal, I’ll be leaving today. If you want to talk to me, you best make it soon. Also, I’ll be taking that blue roan. That’s my horse, saddle, and saddlebags. Hayes stole ’em a while back. I’ll be looking through the rest of his gear to see if there’s anything else of mine. Plus, he took twenty-five dollars of mine, so I’ll be taking whatever money he has.”

Clay watched the marshal process everything. It was obvious he didn’t like being out of control. But something new for Clay, he saw caution in the marshal’s eyes. The man didn’t want to tangle with Clay, after what he had seen in the saloon.

“All right, take the horse and whatever money you find. Stop by the office before you leave. I’ve got the reward money for Milo.”

Clay started for the door.

“What about the money, aren’t you going to check Hayes?”

“Marshal, if you don’t mind, you’re going to check everything. Just have the money when I come by to pick up the reward.”

Clay walked out of the saloon to Blue. He rubbed the horse’s nose and patted his neck. “Good to see you, Blue boy. I thought I lost you for good.” The horse nuzzled him and rubbed his head against him. Clay untied Blue, and with Rud, Arturo, and Juan, walked down the street to the livery. He took Blue to water and let him drink. “Rud, can you take Blue for a minute? I’ll be right back.”

He hurried to the alley to the south of the livery, walked two paces into the alley, and could hold it no longer. He leaned against the livery wall and threw up every bit of the breakfast he had so enjoyed.
I’ve killed three men today. That makes a total of four men dead. They may have deserved it, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.
He dry heaved a couple more times, wiped his mouth, and walked back to the trough. He removed his hat and plunged his head into the horse trough. The cool water felt good. Clay shook his head and combed his hair back with his hand. His thick black hair glistened in the sunlight. He put his hat back on and walked into the stable.

“Arturo and Juan went over to the cantina,” Rud said. “We were still at Maria’s when we heard the shooting. How’d you know they were there?”

“I saw Blue at the hitching rail.”

“You doin’ all right, Son?”

“No, not much. I’ve never killed a man before. It was bad enough with Harly, but I shot three men today, and I’ve got to live with it.”

Rud had pulled the saddle from Blue and was giving him a rubdown. “It’s a hard thing. You’re right. You’ll have to live with it. Just try not to add too many more to those three. The more there are, the harder it is. But, feelin’ bad’s a good thing. It means you care. When you stop feelin’ bad about killing, you’ve just crossed the line. Whether you carry a badge or not, at that point, you’ve become a killer. So, don’t feel guilty about feelin’ bad.”

Clay knew Rud was telling the truth. It was the same thing Pa and Slim had told him. But he wasn’t done. He still had three more men to apprehend, then he’d be done. What would Lynn think when she heard? Would she have anything to do with a killer? Would she understand, or would she be horrified?

“Rud, you know when Arturo and Juan are leaving for their rancho?”

“I reckon they’ll have a couple of drinks and be on their way.”

“I’ll get my things from Maria’s and be right back. I want to be ready when they leave.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

C
lay had settled
up with Maria. She
’
d been sad for him, but happy that he had survived. Maria even fixed him a lunch of beef, beans, and tortillas. It felt good to have something back in his stomach. His saddlebags were over his left shoulder and the Roper in his left hand.

As he walked in front of the cantina, Arturo stepped out. “Señor Clay. We are having one more drink before we leave. Will you join us?”

Clay wanted to be on his way, but he didn’t want to insult his new friends. “Thanks for the invite.” He turned and entered the cantina.

It was brighter in the cantina than the saloon. More windows allowed a breeze to circulate through the thick-walled adobe building. The breeze and the adobe kept it cooler. A man sat on the end of the bar playing a guitar. There were three young Mexican women circulating around the tables. The music and the brightly dressed young women lent a party-like atmosphere.

A heavy Mexican man stood behind the bar, pouring drinks. “Buenos dias, Señor. Welcome to my humble cantina. What would you like? Would you like a drink or something to eat?
Mi esposa
, my wife, is an excellent cook.”

Clay stepped up to the bar next to Juan. Arturo leaned against the bar, facing Clay on his right.

Juan said, “Clay, this is my friend Francisco, and these lovely
chicas
,”—he swept his arm, indicating the three young women—“are his daughters. Francisco, get my friend a tequila.”

“Si, Señor Juan,” Francisco said.

Clay said. “No, thank you, I don’t drink liquor—”

“You don’t drink liquor, you don’t drink coffee,” Juan said. “Maria is right. You want to grow up to be a big gringo.”

Clay grinned. “Tell me, Juan, do you think it’s working?”

Francisco, Juan, and Arturo roared with laughter.

“Si, Señor,” Juan said, looking up at Clay. “I think it is working very well.”

Francisco spoke up. “We have some
lim
ó
n agua fresca
. It is very delicious,” Francisco paused and then said, “and it has no alcohol, Señor.”

“That’ll be great,” Clay said.

Francisco brought the lightly sweetened lemon water. Clay reached into his pocket to pay.

Francisco said, “No, Señor Clay. It is on the house. I appreciate what you have done today. None of us want the vermin you have killed today in our town.”

“Gracias, Francisco.” Clay took a sip. It was very good. It felt calming to his stomach. “When do you reckon you’ll be leaving for the ranch?” Clay asked Arturo.

“This is our last drink, and we will be on our way.”

The two men tossed down their tequilas. “We go!” Juan shouted. “Adios, Francisco. Adios, mi chicas.”

The three girls surrounded Juan, grabbing his arms and pulling him back into the cantina. Arturo and Clay laughed at the smaller man, as he reveled in the attention.

“No, I must go, but I will be back soon.”

Clay swung his saddlebags over his shoulder, picked up his shotgun, and the three men headed for the stable.

Rud was again sitting outside in his chair, leaning against the wall, when the men entered the stable. “You boys fixin’ to pull out?”

“Si, Señor Rud. We are on our way,” Arturo said.

The two Mexicans went to their horses and started saddling up.

Rud stood and limped into the stable with Clay. “You planning on taking all your horses and gear?”

“No, sir, what with getting my stuff back from Hayes, I find myself with an extra saddle, rifle, and saddlebags. I’m only going to take one extra horse, an extra saddle, and the two sets of saddlebags. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave the panniers, the extra rifle, saddle, and the sorrel with you. In fact, I have no need for three saddles. If I give you the older saddle, how much more cash would I owe you to take care of the sorrel and store the panniers and rifle?”

“Son, you just let me have that saddle, and I’ll take care of everything else. That’ll be more’n enough.”

While Clay saddled Blue, Rud saddled the buckskin. Clay went through his old saddlebags. Most everything was there except the money. Too bad his Remingtons were gone. Hayes had been carrying a Colt, but it was good to have the old LeMat revolver. He pulled it out and checked the loads. Still good. The powder, shot, bullets, mold and handles, along with the caps, were still there.

The men were ready to go. The buckskin carried the extra saddle and saddlebags. Clay had transferred enough supplies to last him for a week or more to the two saddlebags.

They led the horses outside and mounted. “Thanks, Rud,” Clay said.

“Be seeing you boys. Don’t forget to go by the marshal’s office to get your money. You leave it there and it may not be there when you get back.”

The men rode the horses up the street toward the marshal’s office. They pulled up in front and Clay swung down. “Won’t be but a minute,” he said and walked in.

“Howdy, Marshal.”

The marshal nodded, and without getting up, picked up an envelope on his desk and handed it to Clay. “There’s a hundred dollar reward for Milo, plus the money Hayes had, which came to just a little over a thirty dollars.”

Clay took the envelope, folded it into thirds, and slipped it into his vest pocket. “Thanks, Marshal.” He turned to leave.

“You leaving town?”

“Yep.” Clay started for the door again.

“For good?”

Clay stopped again and turned to the marshal. “No, sir, I’ll be back. I’m hoping to have some more business for your jail.”

“Well, you best be careful. That Gideon Pinder and his brother Quint are bad hombres.”

“I’ll remember that, Marshal.” Clay turned and went out the door.

Juan was sitting with a leg thrown across the saddle and his
sombrero
pushed back on his head. “Ready, amigo?”

“More than ready,” Clay said. “Let’s get out of here.”

The three men turned south, down to the Rio Bravo crossing, and galloped out of San Felipe. When they passed the cantina, Juan let out an “Ay, ya, ya” and waved his sombrero at the three pretty little señoritas standing at the door.

Clay laughed. Today had been hard, but it felt good to be leaving a town with friends.

*

The trip to Rancho Paraiso went by quickly. Within an hour the three men were entering the ranch headquarters. It looked more like a fort than Fort Clark, Clay thought. The
hacienda
, stable, corral, storehouse, and bunkhouse were surrounded by an eight-foot adobe wall. It had a stand along the base of the inside wall allowing men to stand and see over the wall to spot approaching hostiles. He had no idea how long it might have taken them to build it. The entrance could be blocked by closing the eight-foot solid wooden double gate. All of the buildings were thick-walled adobe, cool in the summer, warm in the winter, and built like a fortress. The roof of each building was red clay barrel tiles. The only exposed wood was the thick, rough-cut wooden doors. Whoever had built this was intent on surviving in Apache country.

The gate was guarded by a
vaquero
. “
Hola,
Arturo, Juan, you look too sober to have had much fun. ”

The guard, Juan, and Arturo laughed at the man’s humor as they rode into the compound. They arrived at the hitching rail in front of the hacienda, as an older man with thick black hair, interspersed with white, walked onto the veranda. “Arturo, Juan. You’ve brought a guest?”

The three men remained mounted. “Si,
Jefe
,” Arturo said. “This is Señor Clay Barlow. He has performed the
rancho
a favor and requests one in return.”

The older man looked Clay over, then nodded. “I am anxious to hear the favor that has been done for us. Please get down and come inside. Arturo, you and Juan also.”

The men dismounted. When they stepped onto the veranda, Arturo turned to Clay. “Señor Clay, it is my honor to introduce you to
Don
Carlos Juan Ortega Valdez. He is the owner of this vast
rancho
. Don Carlos, Señor Clay Barlow.”

Clay could feel the power and confidence of the don in his handshake, firm but not hard. His black boots glistened from a recent shine. The tight black pants had silver conchos running down the side of each leg. The last two were unbuttoned to allow the pants to flare over the black boots. He wore a black embroidered short jacket over a white shirt with a full black bow tie. Clay felt out of place in his dusty chaps, boots, and vest.

“Welcome, Señor Clay. Please, come into our humble home.”

Juan stepped forward to open the door for the men, and followed them into the hacienda. It was cool inside and surprisingly bright. Desert flowers adorned the side tables of the two wide, comfortable-looking leather chairs with strong, wide wooden arms. There was a long couch with solid arms, covered in a red cowhide. It looked like it could hold five big men.

Don Carlos indicated for Clay to sit in one of the big chairs, and he took the other. “You must be thirsty.” He clapped his hands, and a chubby woman dressed in a white blouse and multicolored skirt entered the room.

“Yes, Jefe?” she asked.

“Cool drinks, please. Would lemonade be good for you, Señor Clay?”

“Yes, sir,” Clay said. He was still taking in the big room. A huge fireplace took almost all of one wall. You could see through the fireplace to the dining room. He could just see the legs of a massive dining table. Above the fireplace were the horns of a magnificent desert bighorn sheep. The floor was covered with a black bear hide and two longhorn hides.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Clay said to the maid when she set his lemonade on the table next to his chair.

She smiled at him, served the others, and left the room.

“Now,” Don Carlos said, “please tell me what has transpired and how I might help you.”

Arturo spoke up and told the story of the gunfight in San Felipe.

“Impressive, but why were you looking for these men?”

Clay explained about the murder of his parents and Slim, including the capture and loss of Hayes.

Don Carlos sat back in his leather chair, templed his hands, and appeared lost in thought. After a few moments, he again looked at Clay. “You have my sympathies and gratitude, Señor. The man Hayes is known to ride with the Pinder Gang. I am sure Arturo and Juan have told you about our cattle loss to rustlers. I am most certain that it is the Pinder Gang doing the stealing. When we catch them, they will be dealt with. But I do not understand how I may be of help, unless you would like to ride with us to capture them.”

“Don Carlos,” Clay said, “thank you for the invitation, but that is not what I’m after. I’m a fair to middlin’ tracker. I spent many years with the Tonkawa, and they taught me much. What I need—it would save me time—is someone showing me the area where the last cattle were stolen. If I can start with the original theft, I think I can follow them to their hideout.”

“Señor, we have tried to track them. We have even crossed the Rio Bravo, but each time, we lose them in the Devils River country. It is very rough.”

“Well, sir, if I can track them to their hideout, I can circle back if I need help. But I might be able to take them myself. That’s my goal.”

Don Carlos hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I understand. Before I had heard the story of San Felipe, I would have said you are only a boy and in over your head. But maybe you can pull this off.

“Arturo, Juan, after the horses have been watered, show
Se
ñ
or
Clay the location of the last theft of my cattle.”

Clay stood, along with Arturo and Juan.

“Please, Señor Clay, stay for a few moments. We will have a little food before you go, and you can meet my family. Arturo, Juan, have Nadia fix you something after you take care of the horses.”

“Don Carlos, please, just call me Clay, and I’ll take care of my own horses.”

Arturo spoke up. “It is not necessary. We are glad to take care of them. When you are done, we will be on our way.”

“Thanks,” Clay said.

The two men nodded to the
don
and left the house.

“It is all right, Clay. Your horses will be taken care of, and you can soon be on your way. Now, you must meet my family.”

Don Carlos stood and motioned for Clay to join him. The two men moved into the dining room. Two women and a boy of about fourteen sat in the easy chairs along the wall. All three stood as the men entered the room. Don Carlos smiled as he saw his family.

“Clay, I would like you to meet my lovely wife,
Do
ñ
a
Alejandra Maria Contreras Dominguez.”

The lady extended her hand, and Clay took it. It was soft, her handshake firm. Her face was framed by hair as black as a moonless night, sprinkled, like her husband’s, with a few strands of gray. Her full lips spread in a kind smile.

“Hello, Señor Clay. It is a pleasure to meet such a fine young man. I hope you will forgive us, but, through the fireplace, we have had the honor of listening to your story. I am most sorry for the loss of your parents. That must be a hard blow, especially for one so young.”

“Thank you, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Could I ask you all to just call me Clay? Makes me more comfortable.”

Doña Alejandra tilted her head. “We would be honored.”

Don Carlos continued the introductions. “This beautiful child is my daughter, Diana Margarita Ortega Contreras.”

Clay could see the girl’s cheeks tint a little redder at her father’s words. She gave her father a smile-frown. “Father, you embarrass me, and I am not a child.” She gave a small curtsy to Clay and shook his hand.

Clay marveled at the beauty of Diana. Her skin was the smooth, soft golden tan of an early morning sun against the desert. Her long black hair, almost to her waist, was like Doña Alejandra’s without the traces of gray. “Your pa speaks the truth ma’am. You are mighty pretty.”

The don laughed, then said, “You will always be a child to me, and see, Clay agrees with me.”

Diana lowered her eyes in more pleasure than embarrassment.

“And this rugged young man,” the don continued, “is my only son, Rafael Antonio Ortega Contreras.”