The Killing Shot. Johnny D. Boggs

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ they wouldn’t be collecting their fifteen dollars that month and those fools waiting at the Tucson depot realized their loved ones were feeding buzzards.

      With dead eyes, Wade Chaucer watched Pardo slide down the hill. Despite the heat, Chaucer wore a coat of black wool, a fine silk shirt, and red necktie accented with a fancy diamond stickpin. The coat remained unbuttoned, and the slim fingers of his right hand drummed a tune on the holster he kept below his stomach. His left hand emptied a cup of coffee by his black boots, and slowly pushed back his wide-brimmed gray hat.

      “How’s your nose, Pardo?” he said easily.

      Smiling, Pardo slung the bloodstained bandana over his neck, but didn’t bother to tie the ends into a knot. That would take two hands, and Pardo wasn’t foolish enough to give Chaucer any notions, or chances.

      “I’ll live,” he said.

      Chaucer grinned back. “For how long?”

      “Longer than you.”

      With a shrug and a bow, Chaucer said in Spanish, “Vamos a ver.”

      They were opposites, and Pardo hated Chaucer for it. Wade Chaucer was tall, handsome, knew about good wines and champagne, wore a nickel-plated Remington, and could speak, when he wanted to, like an educated man. Pardo had even heard him talk in some fancy language. Latin, Chaucer had told him. Ma had never got around to teaching Jim Pardo how to read, probably because she couldn’t read or write herself, though she often pretended to. Pardo couldn’t make five-foot-four with two-inch heels on his boots, and he dressed like some saddle tramp with an old Colt that was beaten and scarred, but well-used. So Chaucer and Pardo despised each other but needed each other.

      At least, for now.

      Pardo pointed a short finger at the small fire a few yards away underneath a outcropping of rock, a blackened coffeepot on the coals. “Your idea?”

      Chaucer’s reply came as a shrug, but the gangly man with the rough beard squatting next to the fire answered for him. “We rode hard, boss man. Ain’t et nothin’ since day ’fore yesterday. We figured coffee would put somethin’ in our guts.”

      Pardo’s right hand gripped the Colt, and he glared. “I’ll put something in your gut right now, Duke, if you don’t put that fire out. If that engineer spots our smoke…”

      “The fire’s small, boss man, and we built it under—”

      Pardo drew the Colt, but Duke started furiously kicking sand over the fire, spraying the pot and cups while he pleaded with Pardo that he was doing it, he was doing it, the fire was out, no harm had been done.

      Glancing back at Chaucer, Pardo kept the Colt level. The black-clad gunman merely smiled and rose easily.

      “Train isn’t here, Pardo.”

      “It’ll be here. Major Ritcher said—”

      “What if it doesn’t come?”

      “Then you can help Duke build another fire and make another pot of coffee.”

      “Where’s Lacy?” Chaucer looked up the hill.

      Pardo shoved the short-barreled .44-40 into the holster. “That’s Missus Pardo to you, pal.”

      “So you keep reminding me.”

      The flash of white light caught his eye, and Pardo was moving past Chaucer and Duke, stepping up a series of rocks. He saw the sunlight reflecting off his mother’s Winchester.

      “Train’s coming, boys,” Pardo said, his smile widening again, and he whipped off his sweat-stained hat, and waved it at the lookouts, turning, moving quickly.

      “Duke, you sure those ropes are tied good?”

      “Yes, boss man!”

      “They’d better be. Soledad!”

      Two wiry Mexicans in buckskins, appearing out of nowhere, suddenly slid down the hill.

      “You and your brother know what to do, amigo?” Pardo asked.

      “Sí,” the older one, with the salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee, answered.

      “Then do it. Come on, Chaucer.”

      Running now, sniffing, Pardo climbed back up the hill, kicking dust and gravel at Chaucer, who was coming up right behind him. Three-Fingers Lacy had found a bottle where he had left her, but she quickly corked it and dropped the rye in the brush beside her.

      “The train?” she managed.

      “Get to the horses,” Pardo barked. “When that train goes over, it’s going to sound like the world’s coming to an end, and if those horses spook, leave us afoot, we’re all dead. But you’ll be the first to reach hell, girl. Phil?”

      “It’s done, Jim.” Good old Phil, Pardo thought. Phil had been riding with Pardo since Missouri during the War. He was the only man out here Pardo could trust, though not enough to turn his back on him.

      He spotted the dust, sifting off to the southwest on the other side of the butte, and heard the hoofbeats as Ma whipped the bay gelding. That old woman must have been born in a saddle, Pardo marveled, as she reached the bottom and never slowed, leaping over the Southern Pacific rails, then swinging from the saddle and handing the reins to Duke. Winchester in her left hand, she scurried up the hill and slid to a stop.

      “How you feeling, Jim?”

      “I’m fine now, Ma,” Pardo answered. “Finer than frog hair cut eight ways. Where’s The Greek?”

      “Up yonder. With his Sharps. Just like you wanted.”

      “Good. How far away’s the train?”

      “It’ll be here in a few minutes. Then it’ll be in hell.”

      He laughed. There was nothing to do but wait.

      The Greek, that sharpshooting son of a bitch, would keep them covered with his .45-70 in case anything went wrong. Three-Fingers Lacy and Phil would hold the horses. Soledad and Duke had mounted up and dallied the ends of their lariats around the saddle horns. As soon as they heard the train roaring around that curve, they’d spur their mounts and pull out the rail they had loosened last night. Soledad’s brother, Rafael, stood closer to the tracks, his hands gripping a double-barreled Parker ten-gauge.

      Pardo, Ma, Chaucer, and Harrah, who had just come out of the brush after nature’s call, stood on the ledge, hands on their guns, sweating, hearts pounding, excited.

      Black smoke drifted into the pale sky. That was all for several minutes. Then they could make out the chugging engine. Pardo wet his lips. At least his nose had stopped bleeding. He scratched the palm of his hand on the .44-40’s hammer. The chugging turned into a roar, almost deafening it seemed, but Pardo figured that had to be his imagination. Smoke, thicker now, blackened the sky as the 4-4-0 Baldwin rounded the curve and came into view.

      Immediately, the air brakes screamed, and the giant wheels bit into the rails—even before Soledad and Duke spurred the horses and СКАЧАТЬ