Shot to hell, p.22
Shot to Hell, page 22
Leif slid his arm around Marta’s waist and herded her from the office.
“You folks have a problem I can help with? Don’t hesitate to call on me. I’m the town’s law right now.”
Leif kept walking, not bothering to respond. The marshal hadn’t done anyone a favor leaving a greenhorn like his nephew in charge, but then, what was there to lose? The bank had been robbed of everything in its vault. The stagecoach wasn’t running, not until a new coach came in from Cheyenne. The amount in the till of stores along the main street wasn’t near enough to excite an outlaw like Simkins. All the boy had to deal with was a drunk or a fistfight, and if Deputy Franco was on duty, he wasn’t likely to do that much.
“You cannot tangle with him, Leif. Please. Don’t even think about that!” Marta gripped his arm tighter to communicate her fear. He knew the risks. Letting Simkins escape now that they had him in town was unthinkable.
“I want to go to the town social.”
“No gunplay. You will only cause the deaths of the townsfolk.” In a quieter, huskier voice, she added, “And get yourself killed.”
“Where’s your curiosity? Don’t you want to know why Simkins hasn’t left the territory after all his robbing and killing? That’d be the smart thing to do.”
“I do not care. All I want is to see him filled with lead for what he has done to me and my family. Perhaps that is why he stays? To kill more helpless families of farmers?”
“He can do that anywhere he rides,” Leif said. “There’s something else. Something big to steal.” The scrap of paper with railroad tracks and tiny dots and a large X haunted him. The tracks ran to the north of Kinney across the plains.
“They make a great deal of noise,” Marta said. “It is a grand fiesta, as if in celebration of someone important.” She smiled. “But that cannot be. You are here with me. Who else could they be celebrating?” She laughed at such a notion.
“Let’s find out.” He started for the far end of town. Marta grabbed his arm to stop him. He pulled free. “Stay, if you will. I won’t get into a fight with him, not with a big crowd all around.”
“They will greet you, the townspeople. He will know.” She hesitated before adding, “Your sister will know you.”
He considered this and shook it off.
“She shot me in the back without recognizing me as her brother. Too much time has passed.” He wondered how many men Petunia had killed in the last ten years, and if all their faces blurred together. Or did she even know the number? Her killings merged with Luther Simkins’s, so he carried the blame for them all. That would amuse Simkins, Leif thought. He dealt with murderers the likes of which he had never anticipated.
The music soared, and four squares formed into Texas stars. Leif thought the entire town had turned out. The band members sat on a stage, sweating as they produced one song after another. As they played, he edged around the crowd. He stopped when he came to the doctor. The man clapped his hands and stamped his foot with the music.
“You? You’re back? I never thought to see you again.”
“What’s the celebration? The Fourth of July was a couple months ago.” Leif stood on tiptoe to get a better look at the people milling about. The swirl of the square dancers kept blocking his view.
“We got some real royalty visiting. A Russian grand duke and his bride are on their honeymoon.”
“In Kinney, Wyoming?” That struck Leif as absurd. “I never toured in Russia, but the Russians I met thought of our country as barbaric and terrible.”
“That’s the point, I reckon. The archduke wanted to take his bride somewhere no one else in Russia went. They got a train back in Independence loaded with servants and Indian scouts, and set out to see the sights.”
“Scouts?” Leif wondered at that. “They want to see Indians?”
“That and buffaloes. The archduke heard about bison stretching as far as the eye can see.” The doctor chuckled. “He’s been real disappointed in that. Nobody told him the herds have been killed off and only a few thousand remain. From what I heard, his scouts haven’t found but a handful.”
“Leif, on the stage,” whispered Marta. “I have never seen such jewels.”
“Who’s the woman? His bride?” Leif kept from shielding his eyes as light caught the diamonds and rubies. And those were just from the young woman’s necklace. Rings and bracelets of gold and other colored precious stones dangled from the archduchess’s wrists. “Those must be worth a fortune!”
“Heard tell this is only her traveling jewelry. Back on their train, she’s got gems that make these look pathetic. I reckon she didn’t want to lord it over the peasants by wearing the good stuff tonight.” The doctor pointed. “See those soldiers all around the stage? Cossacks. Fiercest fighters in Europe, they say. Nobody’s going to steal those jewels while they’re with the archduke. A good thing, too, since his personal train is loaded with gold until the axles creak, or so they say. The Russians are buying a bank in San Francisco. They already have a fort along the coast and are trying to expand their influence on the West Coast. Excuse me.” The doctor bowed gallantly as a young woman crossed in front of him, trying not to show her interest or to be too forward.
They went off to join the nearest square.
Leif felt Marta press closer. She hugged him as if to keep him from finding a partner of his own.
“I heard the gossip. Everyone thinks the Russians are here to build a palace. How loco!”
“The doctor had his own tale to spin.” Leif watched the duchess onstage stoically smiling and waving. Every time she lifted her hand, new rainbows flashed off her jewelry. As expensive as the bangles were, he doubted Simkins was as interested in them as in the gold supposedly carried on the train to buy a San Francisco bank.
“Will they kidnap the archduke and demand ransom?” Marta strained to see the royal group on the stage. “Or will they kidnap his wife?”
“I don’t see how Simkins thinks that is possible. He has bided his time, robbing and killing, until they arrived on their train. But kidnapping isn’t the sort of crime that suits Simkins. It’s not daring enough.”
“But, Leif, if he and . . . and your sister . . . do it under the noses of everyone in town, that is very daring!”
“The soldiers with the archduke will fight to the death. Their reputation is that they never give up until they’re killed in battle. Then their ghosts fight on for the honor of the czar.” Leif saw a dozen of the ornately dressed Cossacks moving restlessly around the stage. A full-scale Cheyenne attack couldn’t get through that squad of Russian cavalry.
“Simkins can never hope to rob the royal train. He does not have many men left, not after you shot so many.”
Leif experienced a twinge in his shoulder. He had no idea how many of Simkins’s gang he had shot. All he knew for sure was that his sister had drilled him twice in the back.
“There’s Simkins, talking with one of the Cossack officers. Where’s my sister?”
Leif puzzled over what Luther Simkins did. Money exchanged hands. The outlaw tucked away a large roll of bills in his coat pocket and slapped the Cossack on the back. The officer did not take well to such familiarity and backed off. An agreement had been reached, one that the Russian was willing to pay handsomely for but assumed no friendliness with the outlaw.
The Russian archduke drew a pistol and fired it into the air, startling everyone. The band stopped playing, and men throughout the festivities reached for their six-shooters.
“I thank you for your quaint dancing. I and the archduchess have been amused.” The archduke made a sweeping gesture, as if ordering a full-scale cavalry attack. His Cossacks formed a wedge and marched through the crowd, parting the people like a plow cutting into the sod. The archduke and his wife strode along in the V, jesting at the expressions on the faces around them.
“They came here to laugh at the peasants,” Leif said. “We’re little better than zoo animals to them.” The words caught in his throat. He had felt that way when performing with Wyoming Bob’s show. Trained dogs doing tricks. He used his six-guns, and others rode their horses, doing tricks, roping and standing in the saddle of galloping horses. The few exotic animals they had were appreciated as much as the human performers. Unreasonable anger rose in his gullet.
“There is your sister. She came from . . .” Marta turned and imagined a track behind Petunia. “From the saloon. Why was she there?”
Leif itched to have it out with Simkins, but the crowd provided too much cover for the outlaw. Try as he might, he failed to identify any others from the man’s gang in the crowd. Only Simkins and Leif’s sister had come to Kinney.
“The money,” Leif mused. He walked steadily toward the saloon and stopped in front. “Simkins steals money. He isn’t a businessman.”
“I hear horses,” Marta said. “Around back.”
Leif had to step lively when the Russians came down the street. The Cossacks again formed a wedge. The royal carriage rattled along behind the soldiers. He caught a glimpse of the royal couple. They laughed and pointed as the coach drove away from town.
“They’re returning to the train,” Leif said. “They’ve seen enough rustic scenery with wild men cavorting about.” He made his way to the side of the saloon in time to watch a heavily laden freight wagon leave. At the rear, the barkeep leaned against the saloon wall, counting a wad of greenbacks. He looked up when he heard Leif approaching. His hand went to a small-caliber gun tucked into his waistband.
“You stay back, you hear?” The barkeep waved the gun around.
“I’m not going to rob you. Why should I?” Leif moved his hands away from his holsters.
“You. You’re the sharpshooter.”
“I’m Trickshot. I’m not here to harm you,” Leif said. “Were those Russians?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction taken by the freight wagon.
“That’s the sweetest deal I ever made. I got paid to make up some special tarantula juice for them. They gave me a recipe, and I cooked it up and bottled it. Paid good money, too. I’d be rich if I could sell that . . . that bodka, I think they called it.”
“Vodka? I’ve heard of it,” Leif said. “How much did you sell them? That looked like a powerful amount.”
“A powerful amount, true,” the barkeep said. “Ten cases, and it’s powerful joy juice, too. I tried some. Just a sip, mind you. It set me right, it did. Potent.”
“Too bad the Russians are traveling on. You’d be rich, selling them that much every week or two.”
“Ain’t the Russians that bought it. Well, they carted it off. It was a crusty old woman, but tonight she was dressed up like she was one of them Russian princesses.”
“She gave you the recipe?”
“You have a good night, Mr. Trickshot.”
“Hold on,” Leif called. “You kept a few bottles of the vodka. Could I get one?”
“Seeing as how it’s you, and I’m rolling in the tall green right now, why not?” The man ducked into the rear door and came back with a quart bottle. “Don’t you go drinking all of it. You’ll go blind and never be able to stand. This is mighty potent popskull, yes, sir.”
Leif peered through the bottle of clear liquid. He pried a silver dollar from his vest pocket and laid the cartwheel on the bar. He held the bottle up in silent salute and returned to where Marta waited impatiently.
“Why do you want such liquor? There is nothing to celebrate. Simkins grows richer and is no closer to justice.”
“He can wait until morning,” Leif said.
“You have a plan to capture him?”
Leif did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Leif Gunnarson stared out the hotel window. The mix of energy and lethargy scared him. He had to act. He knew what had to be done, yet his once-fast hand was gone. Over and over he drew his Peacemaker and aimed it out the window. A small tremor bothered him but not as much as the weakness in his arm. And this was his left hand. His right still betrayed him. A single slap-and-draw brought that six-shooter into his hand. If his left trembled, his right quaked.
He had to face Luther Simkins now. This was his best chance and might well be his last.
“Are you afraid?” Marta asked softly from the bed.
He never turned.
“I am, but for ten years I’ve longed for this day. No matter what I feel now, today’s the day Simkins pays for what he did to my family.”
“And mine,” Marta added. She slipped from bed and began dressing. Leif saw her reflection in the glass. A quick, practiced swing of her hips brought her gun belt around her waist. She fastened the buckle and settled the six-gun.
“Take it off,” Leif said. “What you need to do won’t require you to carry a pistol.”
“I want him!”
“I’ll take care of Simkins. For both of us.”
He faced Marta. She glared at him, her dark eyes hot and fierce. When he did not flinch or look away, she grumbled but unbuckled the gun and dropped it on the bed.
“Let’s go. We won’t have a better chance than now.” Leif rolled his shoulders to loosen the tensed muscles. It didn’t work.
“What are you going to do about your sister?”
They made their way down the steep stairs. Leif tried to ignore the momentary light-headedness. He dared not feel this way when he called out Luther Simkins. The outlaw looked to be an old man, but underestimating him meant more than simply dying. Simkins had to be stopped. What he had done to the Esquivel family proved his taste for torture and murder could never be sated.
Leif and Marta stepped out into the nearly deserted street and headed for the only restaurant in town. Dawn threatened, and a cold wind blew down the street. The two stopped outside the restaurant, which was just opening its door for the day’s first customers.
Leif said nothing. He looked from Marta to the opening door, then left her alone to circle the building. She knew the plan they had concocted. Leif wanted to face off with Simkins away from others who might get hurt by randomly flying bullets. Going after the outlaw inside the café carried the same danger as trying to take him inside the hotel.
Moreover, Leif wanted Simkins away from his sister. He had no idea how to deal with her. She seemed to have not only ridden with the man who had murdered their parents but had willingly joined in. Finding out why would be paramount—after he dealt with Luther Simkins.
At the rear of the restaurant, Leif prowled about to get the advantage. So much of his Wild West Show act was a matter of angles, setting up the targets properly rather than being an outstanding shot. This performance was no different. He was good—usually. Now he had to turn every small detail to his own advantage. A few practice draws with his right hand showed he needed more than that. Leif kicked some crates around to provide a barricade. Standing behind it protected him without hindering his own shooting.
He sucked in a deep breath. His mouth watered at the cooking odors billowing out the restaurant’s stovepipe. There would be time to have a decent meal afterward. Leif grabbed for both his Peacemakers to see how that felt. Usually, having both weapons in his hands let him keep his balance. Firing the six-shooters at the same time also gave an advantage spectators overlooked. The recoil was uniform and let him lean forward without twisting. That left him in good position for another volley.
A couple draws warned him not to try that. Left hand only. When he tried with both, his right lagged. If he tried to make the shots simultaneously, it threw him off. He settled his six-guns in their holsters and leaned back against a wall, his eyes fixed on the door leading from the kitchen.
He had no idea what ploy Marta would use to get Simkins to come out. All that mattered was that she persuaded him to come out back and kept Sally Randall inside.
“Sally Randall,” he muttered. “My sister, a notorious outlaw. What would Pa have thought?”
Would the elder Gunnarson have stepped forward to defend his daughter for all the crimes committed by the gang? He had been a lawyer. Leif thought his pa would have defended her, even as he bemoaned what his daughter had become.
The rear door creaked on unoiled hinges. Leif came instantly alert. He moved to shoot around a stack of crates. Too many decisions slowed him. Should he face Luther Simkins or just throw down on him? That failed to square with his sense of honor, but the outlaw had no honor. Treating him as an equal ignored all the terrible crimes he had committed.
The door opened a few inches, but no one exited. Leif took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The trouble with his scheme was that Simkins wasn’t the only one likely to use the door. There were also the cook, his helpers, and anyone coming out back to throw away garbage.
The door jerked open and slammed hard against the inside wall.
Luther Simkins stood silhouetted in the doorway, a perfect target. Leif went for his Peacemaker. He started his draw before the outlaw, but both men came up with their weapons at the same instant.
Lead ripped past his head and blew splinters from a crate into his face. Leif returned fire. His first shot drifted to the left and gave Simkins as good as he dished out, sending splinters flying. The next shots were wilder.
“Ambush!” Simkins called out to warn Sally Randall. He dipped down and twisted to get out of the line of fire.
Leif shot through the thin wall. His round caused the open door to swing around and knock Simkins back into sight. Leif got another shot, an easy one. Simkins jerked. The outlaw’s return fire went wild. He sprayed lead everywhere, driving Leif down behind the wall of crates. Leif started to duplicate the outlaw’s attack. He had a second pistol and didn’t need to reload, but he hesitated. The reason he had decided to ambush Simkins like this was to protect others. It was only bad luck that Luther Simkins had paused in the doorway and spotted the trap.
