Shot to hell, p.5
Shot to Hell, page 5
Leif scanned the faces, wondering if the outlaw was there hiding out among the citizens. He had no proof that Harding had anything to do with Consuela’s kidnapping, much less the deaths of her ma and pa, but the last outlaw’s dying words had condemned Harding.
“Well, lookee here. Ain’t you the conquering hero?” Marshal Phillip Denny lifted the head of one outlaw and gave it a good look. “You bagged your limit, Mr. Gunnarson. But then, it’s what I expected from a man with your gun-fighting skills.” He worked his way down, looking at each face flaccid in death. The bodies had started to putrefy. Leif was glad to be off the trail and back in town.
“Is there any bounty on them? I can’t prove it but I think they’re all in Luther Simkins’s gang.”
“Can’t rightly say until I do some checking, but this one’s certainly got a few dollars riding on his head.” Denny lifted the head of the last outlaw Leif had shot. “It looks like it took more ’n one shot for some of them. Are you losing your touch, Mr. Gunnarson?”
“Every last one of them was killed by a fancy shot. I ricocheted the bullets off the moon.”
Denny started to laugh, then sobered as if considering the matter. He motioned to the horses loaded with the dead bodies.
“Get them into the shed behind the calaboose so I can identify them for your reward money.”
Leif started to tell the lawman to keep any blood money, then changed his mind. He led the horses around to the rear of the jailhouse and wrestled the uncooperative bodies down to the ground before dragging them into the shed. A small table provided a work space. By the time Leif was finished displaying the outlaws, Denny came in with a coal oil lamp and a stack of wanted posters.
“You already searched them for money and jewelry?”
Leif shook his head.
“That’s a surprise. You don’t seem the squeamish sort to me.” Denny emptied pockets and made a pile of three watches and close to fifty dollars in greenbacks and small coins. From the way he kept tapping his fingers at the edge of the pile, the marshal would have swept it all into his own pocket if Leif hadn’t watched.
Giving up on the notion of keeping the money and watches, Denny started comparing faces with posters. Every time he identified one of the dead men, he laid the poster on the unmoving chest. Leif took the discarded posters and went through them on his own. Two of the men had more than one reward out on their heads.
“This is all,” Denny said. He fanned the air in front of his face. Flies buzzed around. The stench became overpowering. “You’ve got, uh, close to five hundred dollars in reward.”
Leif fixed the man with a hard stare. He took the identifying posters and spread them out. He tapped each one and mouthed the amount.
“I never was too good at ciphering,” the lawman said. “Eleven hundred dollars?”
Leif had come to the same sum. “Use the fifty dollars to bury them. It doesn’t matter what you do with the watches.”
Denny laughed harshly. “They’re not needing them where they’re going. You have any need to keep their horses, tack, and guns?”
“All yours,” Leif decided. Keeping the marshal happy, or at least not antagonistic, was a good thing until the Wild West Show moved on.
“Well now, it technically belongs to the township. Newell Bluff needs some work done, and selling the gear and horses might cover some of it.” Denny motioned Leif to follow.
They went into the marshal’s office, Leif going through the wanted posters a final time. Denny took the posters from Leif and tossed them on his desk. He said, “You looking for another one? Anything in particular?”
“Not really,” Leif lied. Denny smirked.
“Finding one for Will Harding would get you out of being beat again, wouldn’t it?”
“You peg him as a road agent?”
“He blowed into town recently, about the time I started hearing rumors about Luther Simkins and his boys. There’s not been anything to tie them together, but he has the look. You know what I mean?”
Leif knew the look. He also had heard the last outlaw at the mine invoke Harding as a curse, but he gained nothing by mentioning it. Consuela wasn’t in any condition to back up the accusation, and the marshal only thought he sought a way to avoid facing off with the gunman.
The lawman collapsed into his desk chair, took out a book with blank checks, and started scribbling. “How do you spell your name?” He looked up. “You can take this check over to the bank and get specie or scrip, however you like. The town’s good for it, and I can send in a request to the governor for reimbursement.”
“It’s not hard to spell,” Leif said. “Marta Esquivel.” He carefully enunciated each letter.
Denny rocked back and looked surprised.
“All of it? You’re giving the Esquivels the whole eleven hundred dollars? Not even keeping a few dollars for your trouble?” He looked Leif over from head to toe. The once-immaculate fringed buckskin jacket hung in tatters. Only if someone had seen how snowy white it had been before could they have guessed the color now. Black soot and brown trail dust had turned it into a dirty rainbow of filth. “Not even a few dollars to replace the bullets?”
Denny laughed and went back to writing the check. “But then, you didn’t use that much ammo because you bounced the slugs off the moon.”
“Good thing it’s almost full. That’s a lot harder shot when it’s a new moon.”
Denny looked up sharply. It took a second, but he finally laughed. He wasn’t sure if Leif joshed him or not. He pushed the check across the desk.
“I’ll see that the Esquivels get it,” Leif said. He made sure the ink was dry before tucking it into his pocket.
“Mr. Gunnarson,” the lawman called to him. “You’re not intending to stick around town much longer, are you?”
Leif didn’t bother to turn, and only shook his head and left. As he stepped out into the street, he saw that those in the crowd hadn’t drifted away. They no longer pushed their way forward, but the boardwalks and storefronts were filled with silent, awestruck faces.
Though he was used to being center stage and having so many people watching his every move, this made him a tad uneasy. He walked faster than usual, though he tried to look confident and stride along like he owned the world. Whatever he did would go back to Will Harding. He had a shoot-out on tap with the man in a couple days. Being confident now took away some of Harding’s thunder.
Leif caught White Lightning’s reins and led the horse to the livery stables. He tipped his hat to some of the women and waved to the children. By the time he got to the stable, he felt as if he had gone a hundred rounds with the bare-knuckle champion of the world. Worse, it hit him that he had killed those men. Never before had he faced down another gunman and shot it out. More than a gunfight, he had killed them.
For the first time, he had taken lives with his gun-handling skills. The weight of that made him light-headed.
“You want me to give your stallion some oats, Mr. Gunnarson?” The stable boy looked at him as if he had two heads.
“Much obliged. Take real good care of him. He’s a champion.”
“Just like you, sir, just like you!” The towheaded boy grinned now and led the horse to a stall. Did being a champion also feel like being a killer?
Leif waited but not long. Marta came from the interior of the livery stable, her dark eyes flashing.
“You rescued her. I owe you.”
Leif took the marshal’s check from his pocket and handed it to her. She blinked and shook her head, not understanding.
“Use it to clear out of town. Get away from the bad memories.”
“I have talked it over with Consuela. She will stay with our mother’s sister in Kansas City. You are right. It is best that she be away from here.” Marta fixed him with her lovely eyes. Leif saw how they hardened. “These men weren’t the only ones, were they? There are others in the gang?”
“It might be Luther Simkins. It might not. I don’t know. These were the ones holding your sister captive. Don’t push any harder to find out more.”
“You think a few dollars will make all this go away? You are wrong!” She waved the check about.
Leif closed his eyes and remembered finding his ma and pa, and the barbed wire nooses around their necks. Blood hammered in his eyes, but he heard his pa damning Luther Simkins for the crime—the crime that looked for all the world like the one that had befallen the Esquivel family. Had he extracted enough justice?
“Nothing makes the pain go away,” he said. “I know.”
“Vengeance! I want revenge!” She began rattling off curses in Spanish. He turned away. There was nothing more he could do for her or her sister. Consuela was better off as far from Newell Bluff as possible. Kansas City seemed like a good place. As he walked off, the woman’s tirade fading behind him, he wondered if Wyoming Bob would consider a stop in Kansas City in the near future. Or Chicago. Or New York City. Leif hadn’t wanted to return to Europe, but now it was worth thinking on. Anywhere that took him far, far away turned into a worthwhile destination.
He headed for the town gunsmith, thinking there wasn’t anywhere on Earth far enough away to escape his memories or the knowledge of what he had just done. Leif stopped in front of the shop window. A young man bent over a bench with a pistol dismantled and spread out on a cloth in front of him. His face crunched down around a jeweler’s loupe as he poked and prodded with a tiny screwdriver. Leif went into the shop.
“Be right with you,” the young man said. He looked up, went back to his work, then dropped the loupe and sat straighter. “I didn’t know it was you, Mr. Gunnarson. Pleased to have you come by my store. What can I do for you?”
Leif drew the Smith & Wesson he had taken off one of the outlaws and laid it on the counter. “What can you give me for this?”
“Well now, it’s not in the best condition.” The gunsmith looked up curiously. “You have the look of a man who takes real good care of your firearms. This might have been . . .” His voice trailed off.
“The prior owner won’t be needing it any longer,” Leif said. “I’d like to swap it for ammunition. I need to do some practicing before the big match this weekend.”
“You took this off an outlaw? One of them fellows you brought in all slung over their horses?” Veneration like Leif expected to see in church made the man’s face positively glow. “Can I put this on display? I heard already how you used your fancy shooting to bring all four of them down. Having one of their six-shooters to show off is a real honor.” He spun the cylinder, checked the loads, and tested its balance.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Leif said.
“Four owlhoots, four shots. That’s what I heard.”
“Not that I shot them all by bouncing my bullets off the moon?” Leif’s voice carried just a hint of sarcasm. He was too tuckered out to make it sound any less plausible.
“Really?”
Leif saw the gunsmith wasn’t joking. This was the way legends started. First came something dangerous, maybe deadly; then tall tales told around campfires were spun. When the story got old, details were added, details that had never happened. If ricocheting bullets off the moon were too outrageous, the story would soon be that he drilled all four with a single bullet.
“A couple boxes of .45 shells? Is that a fair trade?”
The gunsmith searched under the worktable and came out with four boxes of shells. He dropped them on the top.
“These do you, Mr. Gunnarson? They’re .45 Long Colt, with twenty-eight grains of powder and two-hundred-thirty-grain bullet. They’re real manstoppers, but if you’re only going to practice on targets, maybe a lighter load will do you?”
“These are fine,” Leif said. “I never use anything else during the show. It gives the audience what they paid for.”
“Lots of gun smoke,” the gunsmith said, nodding. “And these are as accurate a round as you’ll find in these parts. You’ll win back your other Peacemaker easy with these. I guarantee it.”
Leif scooped up the boxes and stuck them into his pockets. They bulged and looked ridiculous, but as filthy as he was, such a minor fashion flaw would go unnoticed.
“Are you going to come see the shoot-out?” Leif wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, and yet he did.
“Yes, sir, I am. Good doing business with you, sir. It really is.” The young man hefted the S&W and looked around. Leif knew he intended to frame it and hang it on a wall as advertising. He left the shop. In a reverent tone, the gunsmith said, “Come on back anytime, Trickshot!”
Leif got his bearings and turned toward the road leading from Newell Bluff. Wyoming Bob had intended to set up the show north of town, but Leif had ridden in that direction, tracking down Consuela’s kidnappers and hadn’t seen any evidence of the show. The next obvious direction was along the broad main road leading west toward the Tetons. Even if he didn’t find the encampment, the towering purple-clad mountains soothed him and let him think of something other than finding Luther Simkins.
And facing down Will Harding.
The latter bothered him more than it should. He had lost one of his Peacemakers, but only he knew he had been outshot—and by Harding. Harding had to know he’d bested Trickshot. Too much was wrapped up in the forthcoming shoot-out, and that caused Leif to worry uncharacteristically. The Peacemaker meant something to him. It was special, and it was his. Having a road agent steal it away from him galled him. Or worse, having Harding win it fair and square.
He turned down the road leading from town. His steps slowed. Then he edged toward a laundry to take refuge in the doorway. Across the street, Will Harding stood in the afternoon sun, waving his arms around angrily. Leif couldn’t make out the man’s words, but Harding was powerful mad over something.
The man he upbraided stepped out where his face was visible. Leif started to cry out, then clamped his mouth shut. The short, red-bearded man wasn’t taking guff from Harding, but neither man had the look of being ready to throw down on the other. Whatever they argued over was important, but not life-and-death important.
The man facing Harding finally threw his arms up in disgust, spun around, and stalked off. Harding watched for a few seconds, then headed back toward the center of town. Leif watched him go. When he was out of sight, he ran to find the other man.
Looking around, Leif saw nothing of him. Recognition gnawed away at his memory. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that right after his family was murdered, he had seen a wanted poster for the man. He had ridden with Luther Simkins then.
Leif wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was right.
CHAPTER SIX
Leif Gunnarson stood slowly and stared into emptiness. He was bone-tired and not thinking straight. He turned and started toward the marshal’s office, then slowed and turned away. Thoughts jumbled up. If the man he had seen talking to Harding rode with Luther Simkins ten years ago, there was a good chance he still did. The outlaw at the mine had cursed him and claimed Will Harding would bring vengeance crashing down on his head for rescuing Consuela.
Were they all riding with Luther Simkins? The more he peeled back the layers in Newell Bluff, the more it seemed that way. Marshal Denny hadn’t positively identified any of the dead outlaws as being with the Simkins gang, but they weren’t on the trail by their lonesome. What Leif couldn’t forget was the way the Esquivel family had been treated. The elder man and woman had died exactly the way his parents had. A fire had been set to cover the evidence. A young girl had been taken. Leif’s three sisters were gone, long gone. Though he’d found the two younger ones, his older sister’s body hadn’t turned up, but after such a long time, he had no reason to think she was anything but another victim of Luther Simkins. At least he had rescued Consuela Esquivel before she met the same fate.
He turned in a full circle, taking in the entire town and residents milling about on their way home to hearth and family or to the saloons to drink away the woes of the day. The marshal wasn’t going to help him. He had made that clear. All the lawman wanted was to collect rewards on the outlaws’ heads, and he didn’t even try to steal the money cleverly. His trick might have worked on someone unable to add and subtract, but Leif Gunnarson lived and died by the box office sales. He had to claim his share from Wyoming Bob and keep on top of the revenue collected. The owner of the Wild West Show wasn’t a thief, but he always cut the take as thin as possible for his performers, even his star gun handler.
Finding Harding in town was easier than tracking the red-bearded man as he lit out across the prairie, but there wasn’t much Leif could do to get information from the gunman. If he ran down the fleeing man, he had a chance of questioning him and finding answers. He wouldn’t have the power that taking one of Trickshot’s Peacemakers gave Harding.
Leif took a wrong turn and went the way opposite from the stables. He rubbed his eyes and held back a massive yawn. He tried to remember when he had slept last. His belly rumbled from lack of food, and his hand trembled. None of that mattered if he finally found a way to bring Simkins to justice.
The more he thought, the more certain he was that the red-bearded man had shown up on a wanted poster back in Cheyenne ten years ago.
He corrected his direction and went to the stables. The stable boy popped up like a prairie dog, grinning ear to ear.
“Mr. Gunnarson, sir, I got your horse all taken care of. He’s a fine animal. Best I ever did see.”
“Is he ready for the trail?” Leif went to the first stall. White Lightning’s nose bag was empty. The horse had eaten quickly and well. It was almost a shame to awaken the poor animal and get back on the hunt so soon after their trek.
