Peacemaker, p.7
Peacemaker!, page 7
After about thirty minutes of hard riding the wind did abate and Ryker slowed the horse, turning in the saddle to watch the center of the storm move off towards the distant Rio Grande. Soon he was able to remove his slicker, the rain ceasing completely and the wind dying away to a faint breeze. The country he crossed was flat, largely devoid of features other than the mesas that stuck up like gigantic gravestones from the sandy ground. Clumps of saguaro and cholla dotted the plain, interspersed with mesquite and patches of creosote bush. Halting only to rest the horse, he continued on until the sun was a lowering red shape on the distant horizon. Then he found a waterhole and made camp.
He gathered sufficient dry wood to build a fire and prepared himself a meal while Nero cropped contentedly on the buffalo grass surrounding the waterhole.
The next morning was dry and clear, the sun lifting into a cloudless sky that presaged a hot day. Ryker blew the embers of his fire back to life and heated coffee. He fed the horse a measure of oats before cleaning up and shaving. He ate some breakfast and then practiced for thirty minutes with his various weapons before riding on.
The ground became more broken as he moved farther westwards, arroyos and dry washes crisscrossing the arid landscape. From time to time Ryker was forced to cut away to the north or south in search of a crossing point, sometimes following the line of the arroyo back until the sides were shallow enough to climb.
He was moving along one such steep-flanked gulley when the shot rang out.
It came from ahead, and to his left, whistling close enough past his face that he felt the wind of its passage.
Reaction took over, governing his movements so that he acted with automatic precision. He swung clear of the saddle, hauling the Winchester from the scabbard as he dragged Nero’s head round, setting the stallion’s bulk between himself and the hidden marksman.
‘Drop it, Ryker!’
The voice came from behind him. Then a shot from the side plucked dirt three inches from his right foot.
He lowered the Winchester’s hammer and dropped the rifle. Wes Gantry came out from behind a rock, a Winchester that matched Ryker’s own model pointed at the gunslinger’s chest. To his right, the Mexican he had seen with Gantry’s father stood up, holding the Remington Army in his left hand.
‘Goddam bastard!’
The voice, now that the echo of the gunfire had died away, sounded thick. Ryker turned his head. The cowhand called Telford was holding an ugly-looking Tranter in both hands. The front of his face, from the nostrils to the jawline, was an ugly purple bruise. His lips were swollen, the ragged ends of stitches showing where Ryker’s blow had lacerated his mouth. The gunslinger realized that his jaw could barely move and the severed tip of his tongue thickened his voice still further.
‘Don’t kill him, Zach!’ Gantry moved in closer. ‘Pa wouldn’t stand for that.’
‘He wouldn’t know.’ Telford’s voice was slurred as a drunk’s. ‘Besides, we can bury him.’
Gantry shook his head. ‘We don’t have nothin’ to dig with. An’ you weren’t around when he told Pa about his friends in Tucson. There’s a lawman there backs him. I don’t figger on tanglin’ with the law.’
‘Wes is right.’ The Mexican spoke for the first time. ‘If his friend starts asking questions, then el jefe will start wondering. Señor Gantry is not a stupid man—he will know.’
‘So what the hell you want?’ Ryker saw that Gantry and the Mexican were against killing him: that gave him a chance. A slender chance, but something better than a bullet in the back. ‘Old man Gantry gave me his word.’
Wes laughed. ‘Pa did, gunslinger. Not me.’
Ryker held his arms out to either side. Not lifted higher than his shoulders, but far enough away from the Colt on his hip to alleviate their fear of a fast draw. Besides, they were three against one: they felt safe. ‘What you want?’ he repeated.
Knowing the answer.
‘Those Colts,’ said Gantry. ‘That’s all. You can keep the money Pa gave you. All I want is that fancy box with them fancy guns inside.’
Ryker shrugged, allowing the motion to drop his arms closer to his pistol.
‘How’d you know I won’t come back after them?’ Gantry smiled. ‘I’m gonna make you a gift, Ryker. I’m gonna leave you alive. I’m gonna leave you every gun you got—except those Colts. To make sure you appreciate my generosity, I’m gonna give you time to think about it. I figger a busted trigger finger should leave you time enough. Pedro! Zach!’
He held the Winchester on Ryker’s belly as Telford and the Mexican moved in, the American sliding the massive Tranter into the holster and Pedro tucking the Remington into his belt.
‘You try anythin’, you get shot like Zach wants,’ grinned Gantry. ‘You act nice, an’ you get to ride away with everything except those Colts.’
Then he frowned, a new thought crossing his mind. ‘Best unload the others, amigos.’ He pointed the Winchester at the Sharps on Ryker’s saddle and the rifle on the sand. ‘Just to be sure he ain’t double-handed.’
He replaced the gun in the scabbard and then picked up the Winchester, working the lever to spin the full load clear of the tubular magazine. He waited until Telford grabbed hold of Ryker’s arms before easing the Cavalry Colt from the holster and trying to work out how the pistol was unloaded. Accustomed only to cap and ball weapons, he was unable to understand the modern pistol.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Gantry passed the Winchester to the Mexican. ‘I’ll do it.’
He snapped the loading gate open and began to work the ejector rod to shunt the shells back and out. Then he dropped the gun back into the holster and sneered.
‘It ain’t the same weight, but I guess it balances you some.’
Ryker said nothing. Telford had his arms pinned behind his back in a cross-handed grip. Pedro handed the Winchester back to Gantry and looked at Ryker.
‘Less you struggle, the easier it’ll be.’ Gantry smiled, cradling the rifle in his arms. ‘Do it, Pedro.’
The Mexican reached forwards, his big, hairy hands clutching at Ryker’s fingers.
The gunslinger set his legs wide apart and pushed back. He tipped Telford off balance, the, sudden fall breaking the man’s grip so that Ryker’s arms were suddenly freed. As he fell, he kicked out with his right leg. His toe hit the Mexican in the groin, doubling him over so that Ryker’s knee hit his face. At the same time, the gunslinger got his hand on his Colt, swinging the empty pistol up and round to slam the barrel against Telford’s face.
Gantry shouted, dancing around as he tried to find a clear shot.
Ryker threw the gun.
It landed square on Wes Gantry’s face, knocking him back as blood spurted from his nose. He dropped the Winchester and sat down with both hands pressed to his face.
Ryker rolled clear, one hand stretching round to draw the derringer tucked into his belt.
The long hours of practice hauled the little gun clear in fast time. Fast enough that he could cock and fire the tiny pistol into Telford’s face as the bruised cowhand fought his Tranter out from the holster.
Bruised lips exploded into a flowering of blood as the .41 caliber slug exploded his jaws apart. The soft flesh of his rearward throat split easily, allowing the slug to rip through the jugular vein as it deflected off the spinal bones.
The stitches on Telford’s lips burst apart as his mouth opened in a scream that was drowned under the flood of crimson bursting from his neck. Blood fountained from his throat and mouth, seeming to fill his eyes with a red haze that counteracted the paling of his face.
He jerked back, his split lips spreading thinner threads of scarlet from the opening wounds. His head hit the sand, the impact leaving a circle of bloody droplets as the death rattle cackled in his shattered throat like the clucking of insane birds.
Ryker spun over, working the hammer of the derringer to drop the firing pin on to the next barrel.
Then something crackled through the air, making a sound like lightning striking. Pain encircled his wrist and he felt his right arm dragged out and away.
He dropped the derringer.
He felt himself dragged sideways, then the pressure went away and he was left with only the pain. It was like a burn. For an instant he saw the weals that circled his wrist like a raw red bracelet. And realized that Pedro had used the bullwhip.
He doubled over, turning his back to the Mexican as he screamed and brought his knees up to his chin, folding into a fetal position.
A fetal position that dropped his right hand close to his boot.
The bullwhip cracked again and Ryker felt pain spread like fire around his neck.
His hand touched his boot and then redness burst over his eyes. His breath choked off and he felt himself dragged over the sand.
The choking went away.
Then pain lashed across his body with loud cracks, like sudden thunder and the instant striking of storm lightning’
He rolled, folding his face down tight against his chest, and tucking both hands between his thighs. He screamed.
The whipping stopped.
He eased out, still clutching at his knees.
‘I got the guns, Pedro. Leave him be.’
Ryker watched Wes Gantry load the rosewood case containing the two Colts into the saddlebags of a palomino gelding. The Mexican snapped his whip back and coiled it around his right shoulder.
Ryker pulled the second derringer from his boot and shot the Mexican in the belly.
He rolled over on to his stomach to make sure the .41 caliber slug hit right: low down and painful.
Pedro screamed and dropped his whip as he doubled over, pressing both hands to the area between his groin and his belt. Ryker fired again, anger overcoming sense.
Pedro went down on his knees, spurting blood like urine from the hole in his gut. That brought his face into line with the second bullet, so that the next slug hit his neck, going in and out like an express train running through a tunnel. It slammed into his Adam’s apple and came out behind his head, opening a massive hole in the back of his neck that spurted blood like a fountain.
He tried to scream, but only blood came out from his mouth, and he rolled over and died.
Ryker dropped the derringer and powered forwards at the Mexican’s corpse.
He ignored the blood as he dragged the Remington from Pedro’s belt, rolling back to line on the retreating figure of Wes Gantry.
The fair-haired man was already mounted, the rosewood box containing the two Colts clutched under his arm as he heeled his horse to a gallop down the arroyo. Ryker fired three times, spitting curses as the gun angled to the left.
He dropped it and ran to where Nero was standing.
Hauled the Sharps clear of the boot and reached into his pockets to drag a paper cartridge out.
Load it.
Cap the nipple.
And then crouch down, crossing his knees so that both elbows rested the carbine on a firm base.
He eased the foresight back, estimating the distance.
Lined the vee-notch of the rear sight with the upright rib of the foresight.
And fired.
The big gun kicked back against his shoulder like a mule venting its anger. A thick cloud of black powder smoke spread between the walls of the gulch. Ryker lowered the gun, peering onwards.
Wes Gantry lurched in the saddle and Ryker saw him lift one hand to clutch at his left shoulder. Then he was gone around a curve, lost behind the sand.
Ryker stood up.
The black stallion was tapping his hooves against the ground and trying to work out whether or not he could pull the reins clear. Ryker went over to the horse and rein-hitched him. Then he collected his guns and loaded them again, tucking each one into its place after checking they were clean from the ground.
Then he mounted up and went off after Wes Gantry.
Chapter Eight
BLOOD MARKED THE trail.
It was spread out in heavy droplets, much thicker than the rain had left, and leaving clusters of flies around each splash. Ryker simply followed the course of the insects, allowing the buzzing clusters of decay-eaters to guide him.
The trail led up the arroyo to an area of hard ground, where the blood got thinner. He guessed that Wes Gantry had either stopped bleeding—which was unlikely with a .50 caliber slug punched through his shoulder—or the sun had dried it out and predatory beings had sapped the nourishment away.
Two things firmed his decision to head on west and north.
One was the fact that Wesley Gantry was frightened of his father and would work hard to avoid offending the old man. The second was that he knew Ryker would kill him, and that the obvious place he would head for was the Big G ranch.
So he was heading away, hoping that Ryker would lose his trail or give up the pursuit.
Ryker didn’t know that Elisaria existed. Not many people did, except for the ranchers and store owners living there.
The town that was built on a circle around the well that occupied its center was small and quiet and sleepy.
The well filled a circular bowl that could contain thirty head at a time. Drains were dug out to peripheral tanks so that more cows could be guaranteed water whenever it was needful. The houses were spread on the same circular pattern, easing out from the focus of the fountain to mount a wheel-like formation of streets and buildings.
There was a sheriff’s office, a livery stable, a saloon, and an eatery. That was Elisaria.
Ryker came in on the drying tail-end of Wes Gantry’s tracks.
The first thing he did was check his horse into the stable. And ask about strangers. Like a man with fair hair and a mustache with a black shirt and two fancy guns. Then he asked about a doctor.
Elisaria didn’t boast a doctor. But it did have a damn’ fine vet who doubled as surgeon. And had—at the cost of two dollars—tended a man with a bad-shot shoulder, in need of care on account of the blood he’d lost tangling with a bunch of roving Apaches.
Right then he was with Mort Ellison. Getting his wound patched up.
Ryker headed for the office.
It was across the central circle. The upper floor of a dry goods store, with a spindly ladder reaching the shaky balcony that opened into the office.
Ryker kicked the door open with the Colt Single Action Army model cocked and ready in his hand.
The room was empty, except for the desk and a mess of bandages.
He slammed it shut and stamped down the stairs, his temper bursting up close to the boiling point.
Elisaria baked in the afternoon sun, the central plaza a sleepy circle in which the loudest sound was the faint gurgling of the spring-fed well. Nothing moved except a black and white mongrel that turned its head to watch Ryker, then lifted a hind leg to its right ear and began to scratch vigorously. Ryker watched it for a moment. A man with an itch scratched it. A man with hunger in his belly sought to fill it. A man with a .50 caliber slug through his shoulder looked for somewhere to hole up and rest.
He walked over to the saloon.
It was cool and quiet, wooden shutters cutting out the sun trying to shine through the two big windows and a heavy bead curtain shading the door. A cursory glance told him that Wes Gantry was not inside.
He went up to the bar and called for a beer. When it came he asked about Gantry. The barkeep shook his head.
‘Never seen anyone like that, friend. Best ask Mort.’ He pointed to the far wall. ‘That’s him there.’
‘Thanks.’ Ryker picked up his mug and headed across the room.
Mort Ellison was a tiny man, little over five feet, with a mop of lank black hair hanging over his face and a bad-tempered expression. He wore a faded city-style suit, shined at elbows and seat, and patched in several places. Ryker toed a chair into place and sat down facing the horse doctor.
‘What the hell you want?’ Ellison spoke through a mouthful of tacos. ‘I ain’t open fer business until I finish eatin’.’
‘Information.’ Ryker eased a dollar bill from his pocket and spread it on the table. ‘About a tall man with a gunshot wound in his left shoulder. You fixed it up a while back.’
Ellison folded a taco and scooped beans into the gap. Ryker noticed that his eyes were set close together under a forehead creased up by permanent frowning.
‘I doctor animals an’ hurt people.’ Ellison reached out to fill his glass with tequila. ‘I ain’t no goddam information service.’
Ryker set a second bill on the first, then weighted the notes with the Colt. ‘I don’t have much time. You can do this two ways. The first’s easy: you just tell me what I want and take the money. The second? Well, I reckon I can put at least four slugs into you before you bleed to death if I place them careful. Like in your knees and elbows.’
Ellison swallowed his taco and emptied his glass. His eyes didn’t waver as he filled the thing again.
‘You want him pretty bad.’
Ryker nodded. ‘Got a debt to pay.’
‘That Sharps slug I dug out wasn’t enough?’
Ryker shook his head. ‘He’s got things belong to me.’
Ellison shrugged and grinned. Surprisingly, it transformed his dour face into boyish handsomeness.
‘Figgered it was somethin’ like that. What range did you fire over?’
‘About six hundred yards.’ Ryker felt suddenly confused. ‘Fast shot. I never waited to measure the exact length.’
‘Six hundred ain’t bad,’ said Ellison. ‘Even with a buffalo gun.’
‘If I can see it, I can hit it.’ Ryker took off his hat, touching the coin fixed into the band, pointing at the hole in the center. ‘Eight hundred paces. Measured.’
Ellison whistled appreciatively. ‘You want a drink? The tequila’s rotten, but some whiskey might settle it.’
Ryker called for a bottle. Ellison clowned two glasses and licked his lips, taking the third slower.
