The Killing Shot. Johnny D. Boggs

Chaucer had been right. This damned robbery was a bust.

      “Sigmund Wilhelm,” the girl said, “was probably that poor, dumb, screaming bastard we just heard.” She turned away, dropped her head, and whispered, “He was a poor, dumb bastard, too.”

      “That ain’t right, girl,” Pardo roared, his finger back in Blanche’s face. “You don’t speak like that of your pa, stepfather, no kin. You don’t speak of them like that.” But he was thinking: My pa was the same, kid. Just a poor, dumb bastard.

      He rode in the wagon with Ma, the kid, and the woman. Wouldn’t trust any of his men with such a fine-looking lady. He also rode with the watches—one with the glass busted, no longer running, but the gold would bring enough for a whiskey—broach, money belt, and other items Harrah hadn’t bothered to mention, their loot for their first, and last, train robbery. Pardo decided he’d stick to other ventures such as stagecoaches, banks, and the like.

      They had left the burning wreckage, camped that night in an arroyo, and crossed Alkali Flat the following morning. Most of the boys wanted to stop at Dos Cabezas, but Pardo and his mother knew better than that. Yankees weren’t fools. Nor were the Southern Pacific brass and Cochise County’s law. Probably, a posse was already raising dust from the bend in the tracks, moving south, heading for Bloody Jim Pardo and his gang.

      He bathed the woman’s face again with a wet bandana. Her eyes fluttered, opened, and darted from Pardo to the sky, to quiet little Blanche, who firmly held her mother’s hand. The woman might live after all, Pardo thought. Thanks to his doctoring. He’d even set her busted nose. Swollen, purple, but it would look almost normal in a week or two. So would Dagmar Wilhelm.

      “Ma’am,” Pardo said, but the kid’s voice drowned him out.

      “Mama!”

      Dagmar Wilhelm wet her lips, tested her voice, forced a smile. Then her face changed. “Where’s…” Barely audible. “Sigmund?”

      Blanche didn’t answer. The woman’s eyes locked on Pardo.

      “She’s awake, Ma,” Pardo said happily. He couldn’t look away from the woman. Green eyes. Just like her kid.

      “That’s fine, Jim.” Ma showed no interest in the woman, but she had never liked any woman, especially not Three-Fingers Lacy. “Just fine.”

      “What happened?” Dagmar tried again.

      The kid cleared her throat. “These bastards derailed the train. Killed every—” She stopped herself.

      Pardo smiled. “James B. Pardo, ma’am. At your service.” He tipped his hat. “I pulled you out of the pits of perdition, Miss Dagmar. Saved your girl’s hide, too.”

      Her eyes squinted. “Par-do?”

      “Call me, Jim, ma’am. I’d be honored.”

      He put his hand on her shoulder, felt her entire body tense. Closing her eyes, she mouthed the words: Bloody…Jim…Pardo…

      With a sigh, Pardo shot Blanche an angry look, then felt the buckboard stopping. He turned toward the driver’s box, saw his mother setting the brake, reaching for her Winchester. The boys had reined in their mounts, too, atop a ridge.

      As Pardo rose, drawing his Colt in the same motion, he saw the turkey vultures circling overhead, and the black wagon and dead horses, mules, and men down below.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      The buckskin’s front legs buckled as Reilly swung his left leg over the saddle, trying to pull the Evans rifle from the scabbard, yelling something at Denton and Chisum, looking for the powder smoke to find the location of the bushwhackers, watching Gus Henderson dive for cover into the driver’s box, searching for something that might resemble cover, all in one motion, in a matter of seconds.

      A bullet sang past his nose. Another ripped the horn off the saddle. The buckskin dipped forward, then fell away from the wagon, landed hard on its side, shuddered, and went still. Reilly managed to free the Evans, leap clear of the tumbling dead animal. A slug carved a furrow across his neck. Blood and sweat dampened his shirt, his bandana. He cocked the rifle with his right hand, drew his revolver with his left, pressed back against the dead horse.

      He tried to breathe.

      Bullets slammed into the buckskin, kicked up dust around him. The mules pulling the prison wagon lay dead in their traces. Beneath the wagon, he could see Denton’s dead horse, but not the deputy. Nor could he spot Slim Chisum, but he knew they were dead, knew he should be shouting at the devil himself.

      Above him, around the driver’s box, Gus Henderson showed his head. Reilly fired the Merwin with his left hand, and the traitorous deputy’s face disappeared. The shot had gone wild, the kick of the big .44 almost breaking Reilly’s wrist. He had never been much of a shot with his left hand.

      Another cannonade of fire pounded into the dead buckskin. Then laughter. Reilly looked up to see W.W. Kraft’s face behind the iron bars.

      “Told you my brother was crafty,” W.W. said. “Told you you’d never get me to Yuma.”

      Reilly lifted the barrel of the Evans, and W.W. screamed, “You can’t—”

      Reilly pulled the trigger as the outlaw dived. Sparks flew off the iron bar as the chunk of lead ricocheted and thudded somewhere in the wagon’s bed.

      “Jesus, McGivern!” Kraft yelled. “We’re unarmed!”

      Reilly shot again, then sank deeper as K.C. Kraft and his men cut loose with several more volleys.

      Tilting the barrel downward, he levered another round into the .44, and rolled over, testing his neck. Just a crease. Wetting his lips. Sizing up his chances.

      Chances? He tried to laugh but couldn’t manage anything more than a silent sigh. None. Livestock all dead. Denton and Chisum dead. That left him alone with two unarmed men in the prison wagon and Gus Henderson, that son of a bitch, cowering in the driver’s box with a Winchester and Colt.

      The sun was a blistering white orb, high in the sky. A long time till sundown. He wouldn’t live that long. The dead horse gave him some cover, but Kraft had at least five or six men with him. One of the rifles sounded like a Sharps, so K.C. would send his best sharpshooter around to a new position. Before long, the man with the Sharps would begin taking a few shots, find his range, and Reilly McGivern would be dead.

      He loosened his bandana, tied it across the wound in his neck. He could run. But where could he go? They’d cut him down before he got thirty yards. He could toss away his weapons, give up, let them shoot him dead when he rose.

      “L.J.,” said a voice Reilly recognized.

      “Yeah, K.C.,” the middle Kraft brother called from his hiding place on the floor of the prison wagon.

      “You and W.W. all right?”

      “For now.”

      “Hey, lawman!” K.C. Kraft shouted. “You hear me?”

      Reilly stared at the prison wagon.

      “It’s McGivern!” W.W. cried out. “Reilly McGivern, K.C. That bastard took a shot at me.”

      “Just keep your damned head down, little brother, and shut up. Reilly! You want to stay alive?”

      Silence.

      “You’re alone, Reilly. I can sweat you out. I can ride you down. Or, you toss away your guns, I can let you walk out. Walk out of here. Walk and live. Name your pleasure.”

      Nothing.

      “It was a good plan, Reilly. You almost got away with it. But let’s consider where you are now. The law don’t know where you are. It’s too far from Dos Cabezas or Fort Bowie to expect help from there. You’re alone. There’s nothing to do, Reilly, but surrender. While you still can.”

      Reilly eased