The Killing Shot. Johnny D. Boggs

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      “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 Harrah’s boots, and her eyes fluttered open. She couldn’t be older than twelve. Likely a whole lot younger, but Pardo didn’t know much about kids.

      She tried to rise, but Pardo, kneeling over her, pushed her down, as gently as he could. “Stay put,” he said.

      “Bull!”

      Pardo pulled back as if he had been struck by a diamondback, blinked away his amazement. She shoved his hand away, scrambled to her feet, grunting, gasping, and headed back to the burning wreckage. Pardo followed, angry, shocked by the kid’s language, but she was fast. He barely caught her before she disappeared into the twisted metal and thickening smoke, had to pull the girl away, kicking, screaming, trying to claw his eyes out.

      Somewhere, Wade Chaucer laughed.

      “My mother!” the girl screamed when Pardo dropped her on the dirt again. “My mother’s in there, you damned fool!”

      Her yells stabbed at his heart. He wasn’t aware he was moving until he heard Duke’s shouts, warning him not to go, that he’d burn to death, but Pardo was already climbing into the scorching destruction. Coughing, gagging, blinded, he felt his way, cut his left hand on something, saw the red dress, the disheveled blond hair—just like the girl’s—and tossed a stovepipe off her leg.

      He felt a presence, tried to blink away the tears welling in his eyes. It was Phil. Good old Phil.

      “Help me get her out of here,” Pardo said, choking on the smoke. He could feel hell at his back.

      Pardo took the arms of the unconscious, maybe dead, woman. Phil gripped her feet. They moved, coughing; then Phil was staggering into the daylight. Someone came to help, and Pardo cleared the smoke, leaped off the coach.

      His mother beamed as they carried the woman away from the burning mess.

      “Plunder’s gettin’ better,” Duke said.

      They laid her on the ground, and Pardo backed away, rubbing his eyes. His mother came to him. “You all right, Jim?”

      He coughed again, slightly waved off her concern. “Be fine. Let me catch my breath.”

      “That was a brave thing you done, son.”

      “It was nothing, Ma.”

      “Get me some water,” the girl demanded.

      Harrah spit at the unconscious woman’s head. “There,” he СКАЧАТЬ