Desperadoes Page 2

  This is it, she thought. This is where I die, I have no weapon to use against him. Nothing can save me now. Her eyes switched from the gun to his face. It was impassive, lips compressed into a thin line. There was no indication of when his finger would tighten on the trigger. She wondered if she would even hear the gun fire or if she would already be dead,

  He reached down to grab the front of her coat. When he hauled her upright her weight tore the threadbare material apart and her faded cotton dress too, so that her breasts were exposed, the nipples hardening in the cold.

  It seemed hours he stood there, staring, then his left hand crept forward. His fingertips brushed the side of her right breast while his thumb rasped across her stiff nipple. His voice emerged, hoarse.

  “Take your clothes off.”

  When she didn’t move he waved the gun impatiently. “Do it now or I’ll kill you.” She obeyed, fingers fumbling in terror. She undressed clumsily until she stood naked, afraid, hands uselessly trying to conceal her womanhood, spread fingers darkly tanned against the pale gooseflesh of her belly and thighs.

  “Lie down.”

  She sank to the floor. His lips moved a little, as though he was about to speak, but he didn’t. He moved like lightning. The Colt still aimed, he unbuckled his gun belt with his left hand, tossing it away from him. Then he was on her with the impatience of a wild animal, hands and mouth covering her while she lay rigid, mouth wide open silently screaming as he forced her legs apart with a knee and plunged into her.

  It was over quickly.

  But there was no escape. As soon as he finished, the Colt was again lined on her forehead. What now? Would he want her again?

  “You have a man?” His voice was almost soft. It was going to be all right.

  She nodded, yes. But she didn’t tell him that her man was miles away and that she had only agreed to spend the winter at the Springs to help her sister when the baby came.

  He nodded, lips pursed. “It says in the Book of Judges: And the concubine was known and abused all night until morning.”

  Mary frowned, confused.

  He nodded somberly. “You know I have to do this.”

  He pulled the trigger.

  The Colt roared. The bullet screamed through her brain, spraying blood and gray matter out through the tangle of her hair. He holstered his Colt then drew his Bowie knife. As he began to hack, he completed the quotation that had puzzled her. “And he took a knife, and laid hold on his concubine, and divided her, together with her bones into twelve pieces…”

  ***

  He had to break the ice in the barn’s water trough before he could wash. First he scoured the knife’s blade, then sluiced every drop of her blood from his body before lowering his pants to cleanse his flesh of her smell. He cursed himself as he labored, both for his lust and the ease with which he had succumbed to the devil’s temptation. If only her dress hadn’t torn and exposed her flesh. That greatest of temptations. If only… But she had been a low woman and had to be released from that, and his good intention had to count for something on the tally sheet that would be accounted on the Day of Judgment. He found consolation in the thought.

  He glanced up at the hayloft where her mutilated body lay, then went out in the snow to retrace his steps to the hanged man. The icy wind cut into him like a rusty saber and he could see the first of the snowflakes skirling out of the leaden sky that predicted another heller of a blizzard.

  The first woman still lay face down, the hard crust of snow about her head stained crimson. It was only then he noticed her swollen belly. Good. He had deprived Colorado of another brat that would have grown up to be an outlaw. He walked past her to the horses. His black stallion snorted a welcome and he patted its muzzle as he went past it to the pinto. He untied its reins then led it to the hanging tree.

  He lowered the dead man down across the horse’s back then tied his hands and feet together below the pinto’s belly. From his pocket he brought a wanted flyer. It read: wanted dead or alive the notorious outlaw jack keble. a reward of two hundred dollars will be paid. He pinned the notice to the back of Keble’s coat then covered the body with a tarp and lashed it down. When he was satisfied it wouldn’t blow off he tied the pinto’s lead-rein to the black’s saddle and mounted up.

  The snow was falling thicker now, settling on the sleeves and shoulders of his coat. He looked down at the woman. Her clothing was nearly all white. Good. She would soon be buried. Clucking, he turned the stallion’s head onto the trail. Only his voice hung in the freezing air behind him, more enthusiasm than skill in his raucous singing.

  “Rock of ages, cleft for me,

  Let me hide myself in thee.

  Let the water and the blood,

  From thy riven side which flowed,

  Be of sin and double cure,

  Cleanse me from its guilt and power…”

  CHAPTER 2

  April 1st, 1884

  San Pedro, Santa Fe County, New Mexico Territory

  “Aw, shit.”

  Floyd Benson rested the barrel of his 44.40 Winchester on the firkin of butter behind which he had taken refuge. Bareheaded, his hat hanging at the back of his neck by its storm strap to lessen the target he made, he ran his left hand through his thick wavy hair in a gesture of irritation. He knew the barrel contained butter because several shots from the deputies across the street had splintered the wood, causing the contents to ooze out into the hot sun. The butter had already turned rancid and the smell wasn’t exactly helping him to keep a clear head.

  But he figured that was the least of his problems.

  Why the hell had he let Charlie talk him into robbing the bank in this town he would never know. He’d had a feeling about San Pedro right off. A rough and ready town that offered banking services to the silver mines in the two mountain ranges nearby—The Sandia Mountains to the west and the Tuerto Mountains to the south. Floyd himself had figured the mines would use the banks in Albuquerque or Santa Fe, but Charlie in his infinite wisdom had known different. He had worked for one of the companies, or so he’d said.

  Floyd didn’t go a bundle on banks anyhow. They were always in the middle of town with too many people around to get all riled up when their hard-earned money was being stolen. Too many horses and wagons about and too many shadowy windows to watch. You had to have eyes in the back of your head. He had no desire to get shot in the back in an alley someplace, especially not in this one-horse town. At least with trains you let the train come to you on the spot you’d picked for the job, and it was just you against the railroad with all the bystanders minding their own business. Everyone knew the railroad barons were robbers anyhow, so what traveler gave a damn if some outlaws took the notion to bust open the express car and make off with its contents?

  Floyd had been right too. This one had turned into a bloodbath. Everything had been going right—all the tellers loading money into the sacks just like they’d been told—but somehow word had got down to the sheriff’s office and next thing they knew a whole bundle of deputies was busting out of the back office blasting away like they owned shares in a bullet factory.

  Floyd had pulled the boys out, but outside on the street the horses had been run off, and they’d had to take cover on the other side of the street, which was where they were now.

  Or what was left of them. Charlie was dead, blown to bits by a scattergun as he ran out of the bank. On Floyd’s left, Jody Mackinaw was levering shells through his Winchester as fast as he could work the action and pull the trigger. He was a son of the south, a whooper in a fight. Nothing he liked better than trading lead with a bunch of mealy-mouthed, fat-assed deputies. To Floyd’s right, Billy Robson shot more carefully, squinting through the pall of gun smoke. He was younger than Jody or Floyd, barely in his twenties, and trying hard to make himself a name, but he went about it more cautiously than Jody. Now, he was taking his time, unruffled as he shot.

  There was plenty to shoot at. What with the deputies, and it looked as though t
he sheriff had deputized every able-bodied man in town, all the other citizens were beginning to find their courage and joining in. Floyd shook his head when he saw an old woman just about thrown off her feet by the kick of a decrepit-looking shotgun. The pellets spread wide, peppering the building high above them.

  “What the hell happened to Jake?” Billy demanded, casting a sideways glance at Floyd between shots. Billy’s inbred instinct for survival needed plans that ran to order. He didn’t like it one little bit when someone twisted a rope under their feet. It put him off his stride.

  Floyd scowled, drawing a bead on a fat redneck who couldn’t quite conceal his bulk behind a roofing post. “They got to him first. He was laid out dead on the boardwalk when we ran out of the bank. He ain’t going no place.”

  “Ran us out, hell,” Jody spat, pushing fresh shells into his rifle’s magazine. “We lit out ourselves. They never ran us out.”

  “Same thing,” Floyd commented in a flat tone.

  “The hell it is,” Jody exclaimed. “Nobody, but nobody runs Jody Mackinaw out of anywhere. I go when I’m good and ready.”

  “You ready now?” Floyd inquired dryly, ducking as a fresh hail of bullets clipped hunks out of the wallboards behind their heads.

  “Ain’t had such a good time for years,” Jody replied, wetting the back sight with his thumb and getting to work with the rifle again.

  “What about you, Billy?”

  “Any time you say, Floyd. I figure they’ll be sneaking ’round in back of us soon.” He was grinning, but Floyd suspected it was nerves rather than bravado.

  “Yeah Billy, who needs it? I don’t know what I’m in this business for, anyhow. Never did like getting shot at.” He squeezed off a couple more bullets across the street where the deputies were hiding behind hastily erected barricades. “In this job it’s something of an occupational hazard.” His voice lowered. “Billy, get on down the alley. Now! Move it!”

  Billy didn’t need telling twice. With a quick glance at the skyline to see if there were any men on the rooftops yet, he backed away, then turned and sprinted.

  Jody paused in his shooting, staring an accusation. “You quitting now?”

  “Yes, if we was in the army it’s what’s called a strategic withdrawal,” Floyd replied.

  “We ain’t got what we came for.”

  Floyd sighed. “It’s over there, across the street. You want to go over and ask them deputies for it?”

  Jody fired again, then squinted. “But what about Charlie and Jake? They’ll have got theirs for nothing.”

  “We stick ’round, we’ll get ours for nothing. One thing you gotta learn. Quit while you can.” Floyd began his own check of the nearest windows, pushing as many shells into the 44.40 as it would take. He didn’t want to get jammed in a dead end and then find the rifle was empty when he needed it most. Magazine full, he twisted to glance down the alley. Billy was nowhere to be seen.

  “I ain’t no quitter,” Jody stated stubbornly.

  “Better a live quitter than a dead tryer.” He could see Jody didn’t believe him. “Boy, there’s always another bank.”

  Jody’s eyes darted back and forth, making a headcount of all the opposition across the street. Even he wasn’t stupid enough not to figure out they were well outnumbered. Even if their marksmanship was more accurate, it would take them all day to shoot their way out of this corner with anything resembling grace.

  A bullet ruffled Floyd’s hair as it cracked by to plough into the wall. “Aw, shit. You coming or not?”

  Jody didn’t answer, just grimaced as he squeezed the trigger. He smiled briefly when a cry from the deputies’ position split the air.

  “Okay, you got one, mule head! Now let’s get the hell out of here!” Floyd shouted. When Jody made no move, he edged backwards, shaking his head angrily. “You stay here, you’re on your own.”

  When Jody took time out to glance behind, the alley had swallowed Floyd. Suddenly, the gunfire from across the street stepped up, as if by some unseen signal they knew the fight was coming to an end. Jody was almost blinded by flying splinters. Ricochets whined dangerously close.

  “Oh hell,” he muttered, wincing at another near miss. From being under his control, the fight seemed to be on top of him now. “Floyd? Billy? I’m a-coming. You wait on me now!”

  At the other end of the alley, Floyd had his back against the wall. He was gasping for breath, shattered from the run. After a couple of gulps he leaned out cautiously to survey the rear of the buildings. Where had Billy got to? It wasn’t like him to take off on his own. Had they taken him already? The back alley was empty. It didn’t seem right, somehow. Unnaturally quiet after the thunder of gunfire on the main street. Somebody had known what they were doing, ordering in the deputies from the back office in the bank. Why hadn’t they thought to send someone to attack them from the rear when they’d made a stand on the other side of the street? They’d had plenty of time.

  But there was nobody there.

  Floyd shook his head. Hadn’t he said this thing was crazy from the beginning? And it was getting crazier by the minute. There was a rush of footsteps behind him, coming from the alley. He swung, finger ready on the 44.40’s trigger. Jody materialized from the shadows.

  “You.”

  Jody skidded to a halt. “Who else were you-all expecting? Where’s Billy?”

  Floyd took another look down the back street. “You tell me. We’ve got to…” He jumped back as he heard the rumble of hoofbeats coming up fast. Abruptly, Billy was there, sitting astride a bay horse with two others in tow. He sawed on the reins and the three mounts skittered to a halt. Floyd didn’t ask any questions, just leapt for the nearest saddle. He had his foot in the stirrup and before his leg was across its back the horse was galloping.

  Behind him, Jody vaulted, grinning, and landed gracefully in the saddle, waving his rifle in the air. A man ran from the alley. He came to a halt lining for a shot. As his rifle barrel came up Jody wrenched the horse’s head around. The animal half reared as it turned. Jody dug in his spurs and the horse jumped at the man. His shot forgotten, the man tried frantically to cover his head as steel shod hooves crashed into him. He went down, curled into a ball, and Jody rode right on over him.

  Without looking back he yelled, slapping the reins and raking his spurs across the horse’s flanks. Floyd and Billy were ahead, and he raced to catch up.

  Behind them, men appeared in the alley, guns blazing. With bullets whining past they rode full speed away from San Pedro, only a dust cloud trailing behind.

  ***

  “Aw shit,” Floyd muttered. “I don’t like it.”

  He slowed his stolen horse to a walk, eyes raking the terrain ahead. To the south loomed Pedernal Mountain and to the front was the Pintado Canyon where their hideout lay. “You boys keep your hands mighty close to your guns.”

  “What is it?” Billy whispered from the side of his mouth as his right hand edged down along his thigh towards the butt of the Winchester in the saddle boot.

  Floyd’s head angled, listening. “Can’t put a finger on it. Seems different.” His gaze moved up the heavily wooded entrance to the side ravine off the main canyon, seeking any subtle change that would confirm his uneasiness.

  “You didn’t get no feelings like that when we rode into San Pedro,” Jody crowed, “and if there was a time to get a bad feeling, that was it.”

  Floyd waved a hand impatiently to shut him up. Jody took the hint. “Billy, get on up that slope to the right. Get ready to give me some cover. Jody, you take the left. Nobody shoot unless I shoot first. Got it?”

  “Sure,” Billy said, turning his horse towards the brush. Jody checked his rifle, raised it in a gesture of good hunting, then with a grin spurred his horse at the south slope.

  Floyd swung down out of the saddle keeping the horse in front of him for protection as he jerked the 44.40 from the scabbard. His mouth was suddenly dry. A posse or some fool bounty hunter waiting up at the cabin was all he
needed right now. The end to a perfect day. He was beginning to wish he’d listened to his pa when he’d preached on at him about the disadvantages of being an outlaw. After all, where had it got him? Nearly thirty years of age with not much prospect of reaching thirty-one if the law had its way, broke most of the time, and his horse just about his only friend. Or it had been until it was run off in San Pedro. What the hell?

  He passed his tongue over dry lips, watching the shadows among the timbers. The other two were almost out of sight. Time to move. He tethered the horse to a low branch then left it cropping the grass.

  Automatically, he fell into the half crouch of the hunter, rifle leading. His eyes moved restlessly back and forth beneath the brim of his dusty hat. Stealthily, he began to work his way up the ravine bottom. They were here. He could feel it sure as ice water trickling down his spine. The problem was where. The corral? Or the cabin? Or just in the brush nearby, waiting to pick him, Billy, and Jody off one by one?

  The sun was beginning to sink in the west, the shadows growing long. Floyd whispered curses to himself. Worst time of the day to fight, if there was a worst time. He didn’t rightly recollect there was a good time for it. Especially when it looked like you were the one whose head was going to get blown off.

  He was getting close. The corral was just around the bend ahead, nestled under a clutch of scrub oaks. He edged closer into the timbers, trying to blend in. Not long now. Around the next tree and… There was no gunfire. Bent over double, he rushed for the next cover. Tension had him gulping for air by the time he sank into a crouch by the thick pine rails.

  But he was right. There was a horse in the corral. And they had no extra riding stock. A sorrel mare. He had never seen it before. As he watched, the mare lifted its head and caught his scent then ambled towards him.