Peacemaker, p.8
Peacemaker!, page 8
‘You hit the shoulder blade, friend. The slug went through the bone and deflected across into the muscle. I dug it out of his chest and stopped him bleeding. Told him he probably won’t get much use out o’ that arm any more an’ that he needs a good month of rest and solid diet. He lost one helluva lot of blood.’
‘Where’d he go?’ Ryker demanded.
‘Not far.’ Ellison filled his glass again and pushed the bottle over to the gunslinger. ‘He’s too weak to ride much, an’ his arm’s strapped down over his chest. If he moves it around, his wound’ll open up again an’ he’ll bleed to death.’
‘Where is he?’ Ryker lifted the Colt. ‘His horse ain’t in the stable.’
‘Wouldn’t be,’ said Ellison. ‘I told him a place he could hole up. Run by a Mexican woman. Nice place. She’ll look after him real good.’
Ryker added three more notes to the pile.
‘Name’s Rosita Varrama.’ Ellison grinned and picked up the money. ‘Got a house just down from here on the left. There’s a side street. Next one along. Rosita’s got a lantern outside.’
‘Thanks.’ Ryker stood up, holstering the Colt. ‘Thanks a lot.’
He walked back to the door, shoving through the curtain as Ellison called, ‘Hey! You forgot to pay for the whiskey.’
Ryker paused. ‘Tough, but that’s life.’
Rosita Varrama’s house was a double-story affair with a fancy verandah covering three sides and a balcony spanning the entire upper section. Hanging from the street-side frontage of the verandah were several lanterns. That early in the day they weren’t lit, but the red coloring of the glass containing the wicks told Ryker instantly what kind of a house Rosita ran.
He went inside.
The door opened on a large room, bright-patterned rugs spread over polished boards. Small, round tables bounded the sides, each one with two chairs set close together. Between the tables there were plush-covered banquettes. At one end there was a small bar.
Ryker removed his hat as a woman rose from behind the counter. It was still possible to see the youthful prettiness that was now getting rapidly lost under the folds of fat that comprised her face. Her features, basically, were small, the additional poundage of flesh hanging about her cheeks and jawline contrasting with the delicacy of her bones. Heavy folds puckered beneath her eyes, rolling out so that the fleshy upper lids gave a shuttered appearance to the calculating blue orbs.
‘Señor?’ She wore a dark blue dress that was mostly made of whalebone holding her body in and pushing up the enormous mounds of her breasts. Powder fought dark hair in an artificial line along her upper lip. ‘You are a little early.’
‘I don’t want a girl,’ said Ryker. ‘You got a man here. Wounded.’
He checked the room as he spoke. There was a flight of narrow stairs leading up to a small balcony. Beyond that, he guessed, there must be corridors leading to the other rooms. Curtained windows faced on to the street and whatever lay beyond the house. There was no sign of anyone else in the downstairs rooms.
‘You are a peace officer?’ She patted a black curl into place as she spoke, then checked the dangling, diamante earrings that hung like pendulums either side of her face. ‘You can show me your badge?’
‘No.’ Ryker shook his head. ‘Man called Wes Gantry come here. He’s got something that belongs to me.’
‘Then you had best talk with our sheriff,’ murmured the madame. ‘I cannot allow strangers to come asking my guests questions. You understand that?’
‘Sure.’ Ryker nodded and drew the Colt. ‘You understand this?’
The hammer’s triple click sounded loud in the afternoon silence. The big pistol swung up to touch the underhang of flesh beneath Rosita’s chin. Ryker’s mouth stretched into a thin smile.
‘He’s an American. Got blond hair and a mustache. Favors black. Except I guess the bandages on his left arm are white. Where is he?’
‘Room seven!’ Sudden sweat parted lines in the powder covering her face. ‘Please, señor, no trouble.’
‘Only as much as he gives me.’
Ryker prodded the Colt deeper into the multiple chins, forcing the woman back.
He walked her round behind the bar and motioned for her to sit down again. Then he tied her wrists and ankles to the chair and gagged her with a length of cloth he found under the bar.
‘Don’t take it personal, ma’am. I’ll set you free as soon as my business gets done.’
Her eyes followed him up the stairs. Frightened.
The balcony walls were marked with brass plates pointing to the rooms. No.7 was directly ahead. Ryker opened the door and stepped into a narrow corridor, its floor covered with a thick carpet. Laughter echoed from the first room, the deeper tones of a man contrasting with those of a woman. From room five there came the sound of two women, giggling and gasping, the noise finally lost in a moist snuffling. Ryker located room seven and looked at the door.
It was flimsy as any bordello room: a narrow section of pine crosscut by more solid boards; a brass lock mounted low on the left side.
He backed across the corridor and used the wall to power his body forwards as his right foot lifted up to slam the heel of his boot against the lock. The plate burst open, lock’s tongue tearing clear of the retaining latch.
Wes Gantry shoved a sleeping whore from his body and sat up, eyes wide and frightened.
‘Oh my God!’
‘Call me Ryker,’ snarled the gunslinger. ‘Where’d you hide the Colts?’
Gantry’s eyes betrayed the location, flickering automatically to the pile of clothing dumped in one corner. Ryker followed the look. And saw the rosewood box set atop the wounded man’s shirt.
‘Who is he, Wes?’ The girl was blonde, almost albino in her coloring. ‘What’s he want? Rosita!’
Ryker crossed the small room in three strides, slamming the barrel of the Colt against the girl’s temple so that she closed her mouth and eyes at the same time and slumped back against the rumpled pillows.
‘You should have left them,’ he said. ‘When your father gave me the money I was ready to forget killing you. Now you changed it.’
‘You can’t shoot me.’ Gantry shifted back against the brass bedhead. ‘I’m wounded. Christ! You damn’ near killed me already. You can’t just shoot me.’
Ryker moved around the bed, picking up the case that held the two matched Colts. ‘Don’t aim to, Wes. I’ll do it fair.’
He used his boot to toss Gantry’s clothing over on to the bed, then stepped back to stand beside the door.
‘We’ll do it straight. Just you an’ me.’
‘How?’ Gantry’s voice lifted to a shriek. ‘I’m hurt.’
‘Get dressed,’ said Ryker. ‘Or I’ll kill you now.’
Behind the bordello there was a small garden. High walls closed it in, the adobe covered with climbing vines. Ryker kicked the tables dotting the area against the walls, clearing a central space. The sun was shifted over the sky now, moving down into the west so that the rear wall of the bordello was lit with clear golden light. Whores stared from the balcony and the windows, their origins emphasized by the brilliant sun. There were Mexican girls and Americans, a trio of mulattoes, and two Chinese girls. Rosita Varrama—untied and ungagged now—stood as referee.
Ryker took off his jacket and loosened his belt enough that he could slide his left hand under the leather. The difference in balance was noticeable, but he still called for Rosita to check the buckling.
‘It is fair,’ she said. ‘You are both one handed.’ Behind her, men began to crowd the porch. Ryker noticed that they were all paying to come in.
Wes Gantry began to sweat.
‘You can use what you like,’ said Ryker. ‘Use that S&W you carried, or one of the Colts.’
‘I’ll use the Smith & Wesson.’ Gantry waited while a prostitute hurried to his room to fetch the gun. ‘I’ll kill you with that.’
Ryker sneered, spitting on to the raked gravel of the garden.
The girl came back and showed Gantry that the pistol was full-loaded. Then slid it into his holster.
‘I count to three,’ said Rosita, ‘then you draw. All right?’
Ryker nodded. ‘Call it.’
Gantry crouched, his left arm held against his chest by the bandages.
‘Uno!’
Ryker braced his legs, angling his weight to the right. ‘Dos!’
Gantry drew, his good hand fisting the S&W clear of the holster in a clean, fast draw.
‘Tres!’
The word was lost in the sudden thunder of the two guns. Powder smoke swirled about the garden. A woman screamed. A man clapped.
Ryker felt Gantry’s shot go by him close enough that his hair ruffled in the deadly passage. As the blond man had drawn, he had turned his body sideways, bending his knees and swinging his torso to the left. Rosita’s last call had echoed the blast of the Smith & Wesson. And only then had Ryker drawn his Colt.
His bullet hit Wesley Gantry in the stomach. It slammed in just above the navel, tearing up the man’s guts before exiting through his ribs in a sticky welter of scarlet froth. Ryker fired again, the second bullet landing higher so that bones broke under the impact, sending fragments back into Gantry’s heart while the .45 caliber slug tore on through the kidneys, striking the spine and exiting high up on the back.
Gantry spat blood and discharged the S&W into the ground. The muzzle of the pistol buried itself in the gravel as he keeled over, folding at knees and waist so that his face hit the raked stones as his last shot exploded a miniature volcano of heated fragments into his face. Twin spouts of crimson spurted from Gantry’s back, and from his belly there erupted a steady pouring of blood that matched the sticky redness welling from his mouth and nostrils. The bandages covering his chest became red. His mouth opened wide, sending a great flood of scarlet over his hands. Then he rolled on to his side and stopped breathing.
Ryker worked the ejector rod to spin the used shells loose from the Colt. Replaced them with fresh loads, and turned to the watching crowd.
‘Fair fight?’
The answer was affirmative.
He went over to where Rosita was standing and bowed. ‘Sorry about all the trouble, ma’am. Might be best if you keep his horse to pay whatever debts are owed.’
The fat woman nodded. ‘Whatever you say, señor. Here are your pistols.’
Ryker took the rosewood case and went over to the stable. It was getting close to nightfall, but he didn’t feel like staying around Elisaria much longer, so he got the black stallion out and rode off into the twilight.
He headed west and north, moving back in the direction of Tucson.
After a while he made camp.
Chapter Nine
THE SKY STAYED clear for the next few days, almost as hot as summer, so that he made good time, moving north and west at a steady pace. The only thing that disturbed him was the number of Indian tracks he saw.
Some belonged to Apache families moving south for the winter. They were clearly discernible from the drag-marks left by the travois and the clustered droppings of ponies and dogs. More disturbing were the random hoof-prints of loose bands roaming the countryside. Twice he came across camps where dropped feathers suggested the presence of Comanches, perhaps coming south to attack the Apaches as they drifted into Mexico and southern Texas on their annual migration.
He saw a lonely ranch-house burned out, the walls smashed in and three bodies spread in front. One belonged to a man—had belonged to a man—until the fires were lit under the face and genitals. The second might have been that of a boy of fifteen or sixteen. It was hard to tell, because the corpse was pegged out on the sand and ponies had been ridden all over it. The third was definitely a woman. He could tell that from the tattered remnants of her dress and the blood dried between her legs.
After finding those sad remains he rode carefully, mostly with the Winchester out and canted across his saddle.
On the third day he met a column of cavalry on long patrol from Fort Quitman. There were twenty troopers, led by Lieutenant Austin.
Ryker saw them and reined in his horse.
They came closer, a long line of dusty figures slumped in their hard wooden saddles with single-shot Springfield carbines ring-hung on their chest-sashes. He recognized the standard armament of the horse soldiers before they saw him.
The Springfield was an incredibly accurate carbine. In fact, its reliability and range—a maximum of 3,500 yards—added to its solid construction rendered it almost the equal of many rapid-fire carbines, such as the Henry or the Spencer. At Beecher’s Island, back in 1868, a small force of cavalry and buffalo hunters had stood off a huge attack of Cheyenne warriors led by the famous war chief, Roman Nose. The victors had claimed (and logistics suggest that they were right) that their victory stemmed from the barrels of the seven-shot Spencers they used. But the Army—for whatever its reasons—preferred to issue the cavalry with the breech-loading Spencer.
The column approaching Ryker’s position also carried the same kind of seven-inched barrel Colt he wore. And like the shells for the Winchester, those of the Springfield and the Colt might be interchanged.
Ryker waited for the horse soldiers to reach him.
The man in front raised an arm, bringing the line of riders to a halt. Then he rode forwards, accompanied only by a sergeant.
He lifted his hat as he got close to Ryker, exposing a stubbled scalp of cropped, reddish hair, and wiped an arm over his face. The gunslinger saw that he carried the blue linings of tattoos on both forearms.
‘Austin,’ he said. ‘Lieutenant Austin. Who’re you?’
‘John W. Ryker.’ The gunslinger extended a hand. ‘Come up from Pecos heading for Tucson.’
‘How come you’re carrying a Cavalry Colt?’ Austin’s handshake was fast, dropping his arm back to the pistol on his right thigh. ‘That’s Army issue.’
Ryker guessed that he was handling a man who knew his business.
‘A gift,’ he said quickly, ‘from a salesman in Tucson. Man called Engell. He gave me the gun after a lady called Ruby Turner got hurt. I’m kinda taking things back.’
Austin nodded. ‘I heard of Engell. Sharp guy, but I guess he’s all right.’ He angled a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant John Hall.’
Ryker ducked his head at the hard-faced sergeant. ‘I seen tracks around. Looks like the Comanche are raiding south.’
‘Man, you don’t know what it’s like,’ said Austin. ‘There’s so much mess. It’s not safe to travel alone.’
‘I don’t go any other way,’ said Ryker. ‘I prefer it like that.’
‘We’re heading back now,’ Austin said. ‘Soon as we’ve checked the Shuckbrough place.’
‘If that’s the spread a way back,’ said Ryker, ‘you don’t have much reason. I saw them—all dead.’
‘He never should have come here.’ Austin settled his hat back in place. ‘Never knew a goddam thing about ranching.’
‘Well, he won’t learn no more,’ grunted Ryker. ‘He’s out on the ground with his scalp gone. Family too.’
‘Shit!’ Austin waved an arm to reverse the column. ‘One more lost leader. Want to ride in? I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘Sounds good,’ Ryker said. ‘Why not?’
They cantered up to the head of the dusty line and set the pace back to Fort Quitman.
High wooden walls marked the boundaries of the fort, twenty-foot poles rooted deep in the ground and sharpened at the top. The spiked upper rim of the palisade was fashioned so that the angling of the points afforded a firing position between each upright, and Ryker could see the muzzles of Army-issue Springfields jutting from between the posts.
There was a solid wooden gate, hinged either side and opening at the center as Lieutenant Austin shouted to be let in. Ryker saw that a cannon faced the gate, and noticed two more artillery pieces set either side of the frontal parade square. The inner sides of the palisade wall were fitted with catwalks, reached by ladders, and a series of stone-built sheds strengthened the lower portion. The main buildings—the barracks, stables, armory, and command post—were built towards the center of the fort, while secondary structures angled out on two sides. To the east a line of neat-looking houses with little gardens in front indicated the married quarters. On the other side of the central block there was a sutler’s with a long row of adobe houses attached.
Austin saw Ryker looking at them and grinned. ‘Nearest town’s a good day’s ride away and we got close on four hundred men stationed here. About thirty are married.’
Ryker nodded, understanding. Austin pointed at a shack in the middle of the line. It had a yellow door.
‘Maria’s pretty good, but Susana comes a close second. She’s the one with the blue door.’
‘Ain’t all that’s blue about her,’ grunted Sergeant Hall. ‘Not since that bastard Iron Shirt killed her sweetheart.’
‘I’ll explain later,’ said Austin. ‘Right now we’d best report to Major Mengers. He’s a real stickler for discipline.’
He dismounted and turned to the sergeant. ‘Get the men fed, Hall. I’ll leave you to work out the guard roster.’
‘Yessir!’ Sergeant Hall snapped a precise salute. ‘Rightaway, sir.’
Two troopers came to attention as Austin climbed the steps leading to the command post. The Lieutenant rolled down his sleeves and adjusted his hat before entering.
When they got inside, Ryker saw why.
The office was cool and clean and neat. Amazingly ordered for a frontier fort. Pull-down blinds covered the windows and a large fan turned at the center of the ceiling, its motion governed by the steady tugging of an ancient Apache who squatted in one corner, his hands turning a kind of treadle that was connected by leather straps to the camshaft of the fan. The facing wall was covered by a map of the territory, colored pins stuck in at various points. A desk was set before the wall, a brass nameplate at the front announcing that the man on the other side was Major S, A. Mengers, US Army.
