The Killing Shot. Johnny D. Boggs

      “Yeah.” He bowed his head. “I wanted to like Mac, Ma. Wanted to trust him. Says he hails from Johnson County.”

      “Johnson County ain’t Cass County, son,” his mother said bitterly. “Damned Yankees didn’t force Southern folks from their homes over there. That was us good people in Cass, Jackson, and Bates counties. A few families down in Vernon County. You remember Order Number Eleven.”

      He made himself meet his mother’s hard stare. “I remember, Ma.”

      She hooked the dip of snuff out of her mouth—a few flakes still stuck in her teeth—and shot a quick glance at the corral. “I never trusted him. You’d be better off killing him, plus that woman and her kid with a mouth like a privy.”

      “He says Apaches jumped him.”

      She squinted. “Apaches, eh? But you said—”

      “I know what I said.” He hefted the rifle, tried to change the subject. “Heavy, ain’t it?”

      “It’s loaded,” she said. “Where you taking him?”

      “Down below.”

      “Be careful.”

      “I always am.”

      “I’m sorry he didn’t work out, son.”

      “It’s all right. He ain’t family. And like you said, Johnson County ain’t Cass County. I got to go talk to The Greek.”

      Carrying and studying the Evans, he stopped where the boys were playing poker in front of the Sibley tent. Wade Chaucer didn’t bother to look up, but Harrah, Duke, and The Greek did.

      “Got a chore for you, Greek,” Pardo said.

      Silently, The Greek waited.

      “You and your Sharps.”

      Now, the swarthy man smiled, and looked at the corral. “Him?”

      Pardo nodded. “Wait till we leave camp, then follow us. We’ll ride down in the valley a bit. Stay in range. Might not have to do nothing, but I want you to back my play.”

      “I always do,” The Greek said.

      “You’re gonna kill him, boss man?” Duke blurted out, a little louder than he should have, but likely not loud enough to be heard over in the corral.

      “You got the brains God gave a cactus, Duke. Shut up.” Back to The Greek: “I want to kill him. But if something happens…”

      The Greek tossed his cards into the dust. He reached for the Sharps. “I never miss, Pardo. If you don’t get him, I will. There’s a science into making that killing shot, and I’m a scientist. It’s all—”

      “I don’t give a damn. Just do your job.”

      With that, Pardo strode over to the corral.

      The game was over, not that it had been much of a poker game. Not playing against fools like Harrah and Duke, Wade Chaucer thought, although The Greek had some skill. They watched Pardo and the man known only as Mac ride slowly out of camp.

      “I should go.” Slowly, The Greek finished wiping the brass telescope on his Sharps, stuck the rag in his vest pocket, and started to rise.

      “It would be a shame,” Chaucer said absently.

      The Greek shouldered the heavy rifle. He said nothing.

      Duke, stupid Duke, had to ask the question. “What would be a shame, Wade?”

      With a grin, Chaucer shrugged. “Why…if The Greek happened to miss, just once.”

      The silence kicked like that big .45-70 rifle The Greek held. Chaucer looked across the camp. Ruby Pardo had retired to her tent. Phil was on guard duty. The woman and her kid sat quietly in a corner, and Three-Fingers Lacy was somewhere sleeping off a drunk.

      “You’re talking dangerous,” The Greek said.

      Chaucer shrugged again. “I’m just thinking out loud. Thinking about how tragic it would be if somehow Pardo got himself killed. Accidentally, I’m thinking. Thinking of how nice things might be were things to change.”

      “You’d best watch it, Wade,” Harrah said.

      “I’ve been watching.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I watched that Army payroll go up in flames because Jim Pardo is an idiot. How much money have we seen in the past eight months? I told you how we should have robbed that train.”

      “I need to get moving,” The Greek said, but his boots remained planted.

      “We could have gone to Dos Cabezas, too,” Chaucer said, “instead of coming back here. That posse, any posse, would have given up long before then.”

      “I wanted to,” Duke said. “They’s women in Dos Cabezas.”

      “There’s women…a woman, at least…here, too.” Chaucer stared at Dagmar Wilhelm. “A fine-looking woman. And Lacy, well, she has certain charms, too.”

      “You heard what Pardo said about that woman,” Harrah said dryly. “And if you try something with Lacy…”

      “I’ve heard what Jim Pardo has said about lots of things,” Chaucer said. He found a cigar. “Mind you, I’m just thinking out loud.”

      “I’d better go.” This time, The Greek moved.

      “Good luck, Greek,” Chaucer called out. “But, yes, sir, it sure would be a shame….”

      When The Greek disappeared, Chaucer’s laugh frightened off Harrah and Duke. Chaucer started to light the cigar, thought better of it, and decided to walk across camp, see if Three-Fingers Lacy had awakened from her little nap.

      They were being followed.

      Reilly knew that much, and he knew Pardo was aware of it, too. He also knew Pardo planned to make this Reilly’s last ride. It had taken them more than three hours to pick their way down the mountains, through the forests and creek beds, riding in silence, but finally they had moved into the clear desert.

      “Where are we going?” Reilly asked.

      “Nowhere in particular,” Pardo said, but he jutted his jaw southeast toward a spartan wasteland of rock. Reilly looked at him, frowning at the Evans rifle in Pardo’s scabbard. He nudged the sorrel forward.

      Down here, it was murderously hot. They should have stopped, rested, watered their horses, but Pardo went like a mad dog, moving, moving, moving. Reilly wet his lips, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong, what he had said. He had been born in Johnson County. His answer had been a slip, but he had, or thought he had, gotten away with it. Johnson County, Indiana, but Pardo thought he had meant Missouri. The rest of the lies weren’t really lies. Paul McGivern had taken a rebel ball through both lungs at Pittsburg Landing, Tennessee, but he had been campaigning with 11th Indiana—Slim Chisum had served in the First Missouri, seldom shut up about “seeing the elephant” at what the Rebels called Shiloh—and when Reilly’s mother had learned of Paul’s death, she gave up any effort at living. The next fall, Reilly had buried her on the farm beside Reilly’s father, who had been struck and killed by lightning when Reilly was only twenty-one months old.

      He was barely in his teens when his mother had died. He’d been on his own since.

      What had he said to Pardo?

      No, it didn’t matter. What mattered was staying alive. But how?

      Pardo pulled back on the reins, letting Reilly move in front of him. Reilly looked for an arroyo, some boulders, something he could use for cover. Also, he listened, for the creak of leather, the click of a gunmetal. Instead, he heard Pardo’s voice behind him.

      “Rein up, Mac. And turn around.”

      Reilly pulled the reins,