The Killing Shot. Johnny D. Boggs

his hat was gone, saw it in the dust on the street. “He’s agreed to let us tag along with a company he’s leading to California.”

      “The Krafts aren’t a military matter,” Gus said. “Why would he do that?”

      “Because I asked him.” Reilly was losing his patience. He hadn’t planned on telling them this until they crossed the river. “And the Army doesn’t like the Krafts any more than we do. We ride with them. It’ll take longer, but I don’t think even K.C. would attack a company of cavalry.”

      “Does Cobb know about this?” Denton asked.

      “’Course not.”

      Denton chuckled. “You got style, Mac. I like it.”

      “I don’t,” Gus said, pleading. “I just got back from Dos Cabezas, Reilly. My wife’ll worry sick if we don’t get to Contention. She’s bringing me fried chicken for the train. You got to let me go tell her, Reilly. Before she leaves. Before we leave. Please, Reilly, please!”

      Underneath his breath, Reilly McGivern muttered, “Cupid.” He shook his head, but sighed. “All right. Go tell her. But tell her not to breathe a word of this to anybody. Nobody. If she wants you alive. If K.C. Kraft finds out, we’re dead. Savvy?”

      “Thanks, Reilly.” Gus dashed down the boardwalk.

      Frank Denton led his dun toward the prison wagon. A bandolier full of the large .44 shells for the Evans rifle dangled from the saddle horn of Reilly’s buckskin. Reilly slipped the canvas over his shoulder, grabbed the buckskin’s reins, and followed Denton, picking up and dusting off his hat on the way.

      A vast emptiness, the Sulphur Spring Valley could hide hell. Seemed like a body could see forever, only there was nothing much to see among the Dragoons, Chiricahuas, and other brown, mostly barren mountains that tried miserably hard to make the country look somewhat hospitable.

      For the past hour, a dust storm had choked and scalded the lawmen and their prisoners, but finally the winds had abated, and Reilly McGivern pulled down the bandana that had been covering his nose and mouth and sucked in a lungful of air that didn’t taste of dirt and smell of acrid creosote. His face felt heavy with dirt and grime, and he reached for the canteen secured around his saddle horn. He took a long pull.

      “How about some agua for me and my brother?” W.W. Kraft asked.

      After swallowing, Reilly nudged his mount close to the prison wagon and stuck the canteen between two hot, black bars.

      “Not too much,” Reilly warned. “That’s got to last us to Bowie.”

      “If I poured it out, you’d be in a fix.” W.W. grinned.

      “Nope. But you’d be.”

      The slim gunman laughed. “You got sand, Marshal, and savvy. Me and my brothers respect that, even in a law dog. Especially K.C.” He wiped his mouth, and tossed the canteen to his brother. “We’ll regret killing you. Well, not really.”

      L.J. Kraft drank little water before returning the canteen to his brother, who took another long pull. The iron bracelets sang a metallic tune as they scraped the iron bars when W.W. Kraft handed Reilly the water.

      “Much obliged,” Kraft said. “How much farther was it you said before we hit Fort Bowie?”

      “I didn’t say.” Reilly made sure the canteen’s cork was firm, then wrapped the rawhide sling around the saddle horn.

      W.W. Kraft held up his hands and let the chain and cuffs rattle. “How about giving my wrists a break?”

      “You heard me back in Charleston.”

      “Yeah. The iron stays on till…you don’t trust me, do you?”

      The prison wagon lurched over brush and sand.

      “The newspaper over in Tucson once wrote that Mrs. and Mr. Kraft couldn’t spell, and that’s how come us brothers got only letters for our names.” The dust storm had forced W.W. Kraft to keep quiet. Now, he was making up for it. “But they stand for something. W.W. stands for Wily, because I’m mighty smart. L.J. stands for Loco, because my big brother is slightly tetched in his noggin. You know what K.C. stands for, Marshal McGivern?”

      Reilly tried to ignore him.

      “Crafty. Best keep that in mind, pard.”

      The Chiricahua Mountains looked closer, but not close enough. They’d keep climbing in altitude, cut through Apache Pass, and they’d be safe. Well, safer. They’d still have maybe 375 miles across Arizona Territory to Yuma. Reilly started questioning his plan. He didn’t care much for what W.W. Kraft had to say, but he knew the outlaw was right about one thing. The middle brother, K.C., was crafty.

      And cold-blooded.

      “McGivern,” Chisum called from the wagon as he tugged on the reins and set the brake.

      Reilly and Frank Denton stopped their horses. “I got to piss,” Chisum called, and leaped from the box, carrying his shotgun as he walked a few rods and began unbuttoning his trousers.

      After pushing back his hat, Reilly looked up at Gus Henderson. The boy wasn’t yet twenty-two years old, and his face was pale. Not from the heat, either, Reilly figured. Kid was nervous. Had been fretting since they’d left Charleston. Maybe that’s how you acted when you were married.

      “Still worried, Gus?” Reilly walked the horse closer to the wagon. He had to ask again before the boy heard.

      “Huh?” Gus’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

      Reilly wet his lips. He doubted himself again, muttered an oath underneath his breath.

      “Reilly,” the kid said, tears welling in his eyes. “I…I…oh, God…”

      That’s when Reilly knew for certain, but it was too late, because the first bullet sang across the valley’s desolate floor.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Screamed like some damned petticoat. That’s the kind of men I get these days, Jim Pardo thought with disgust. Yet the shriek had snapped Pardo out of his inability to move, and now he watched as Harrah turned around, clawing for his Smith & Wesson. The small, bloodstained hand dropped from his shoulder, fell on the wooden wreck.

      “Don’t shoot!” Pardo yelled. He made a beeline for Harrah, the white arm, and the ruins of the passenger coach.

      Harrah was still breathing heavily when Pardo reached him, the big-caliber .44 Russian at his side. The white hand gripped the cracked door frame, followed by another small hand, and a small head appeared. Blond hair, matted with blood, sweat. Next came the face, also small, also white, bloody, with brilliant green eyes.

      “Hell,” Harrah said, and laughed a silly laugh. “It’s just a little girl.”

      “Just like you,” Pardo said. “Put that damned gun away.”

      The girl’s mouth moved. Help, she pleaded voicelessly.

      “What is it?” asked Duke, standing near the inferno of the express car.

      “A girl.” Harrah’s voice giggled with nervous excitement. “Scared the hell out of me, she did.”

      The Greek had ridden over, still mounted, cradling the heavy Sharps, watching. Wade Chaucer kept his distance, as well, those dead eyes taking in the scene.

      “Help me,” the girl croaked.

      Only Pardo moved. “Easy,” he said, like he was approaching a green bronc, holding out his hands, trying to smile. “Easy, girl.” He put his hands under her armpits. She grimaced. “I’m sorry,” Pardo said. He could feel heat from the flames sweeping across the coach. He pulled. The girl screamed. Her blouse caught on a splinter of wood, ripped. Next came duck trousers, and dirty brogans. Pants? Pardo wondered. Pants on a girl? He laid her on the ground at