The Savage Gun (22 page)

Rosa smiled.

“And what about my share?” she said.

“Equal, of course.”

She batted her eyes then, and they shone with excitement.

“You are a generous man.”

“It's what we agreed on, Rosa.”

“Yes. Is there a lot of money to divide?”

“Quite a bit, I reckon.”

“You trust those men there? To keep quiet? To keep their money in their pockets and not boast about it?”

“I do,” Ollie said. “They'll want to see the scales.”

“Of course. I will buy their first drinks, too. But what are you going to do about Johnny Savage and Ben Russell? I do not want a shooting here in my cantina.”

“I don't know. That kid is dangerous. He shot some good men. He's got him a fancy pistol and knows how to use it.”

“We cannot let him come to the cantina, Ollie. You must take care of this business somewhere else.”

Ollie glanced at the bat-wing doors. The music nearly drowned out all thought. A fiddle joined in, with its high whine, and the players tapped their feet on the wooden floor of the bandstand. Ollie finished off his drink, downing it in a single swallow.

“I may not have a choice, Rosa. That kid and the old man got real close. I been lookin' over my shoulder all damned day. They ought to be right behind us. They could walk through them doors at any moment.”

Rosa's face registered alarm. Her eyebrows flared up, arching like a pair of caterpillars and her nose crinkled.

“That must not happen,” she said.

“I'll send Red or Army outside to keep a lookout after we divide the
dinero.
”

“You'd better send two men,” she said.

Pedro served whiskies to the three men. They downed them quickly and looked toward Ollie and Rosa.

“Let's go to my office,” she said.

Ollie gestured to his men to follow them as he and Rosa arose from their stools. He reached down and picked up his saddlebags, slung them over his shoulder. They all followed her toward the back. She opened the door, walked down a short hallway, opened another door with a key, and entered a lamplit office. There was a large safe behind her desk. On top of her desk was a set of scales, the brass dulled over time and splotched with dark spots.

Ollie set the saddlebags on the desk and lifted the flaps. He pulled the bags of gold dust from them and lined them up next to the scales. Rosa's eyes widened.

The music drifted into the room, muffled and distorted, but loud enough to hear. The band finished one number with loud shouts, then began another, even livelier, Mexican song,
La Cucaracha.
They could hear the patrons cheer the selection.

“I been waitin' a long time for this,” Dick said, rubbing his palms together.

“Me, too,” Red said.

“Going to cash out, Ollie?” Army asked.

“That's the idea, Army. We're splittin' five ways.”

Rosa set the scales, placed a brass container on one side. She then opened the first sack and poured the dust into the bowl-like container. The scales tipped. They all looked at the number indicating the weight.

“At sixteen dollars the ounce,” Rosa said, almost to herself. She marked down the weight on a piece of paper, poured the gold back into its sack and set it aside. She continued until she had weighed all the gold dust. Then she added up the figures.

Ollie peered over her shoulder. His eyes widened when he saw the number of ounces totaled up. He let out a long, low whistle.

“I'll get the money out of the safe,” Rosa said, walking around behind her desk.

Just then the music stopped abruptly, and there was a loud clatter coming from the cantina. There were yells and the sounds of running boots, and a louder sound that puzzled everyone in Rosa's office.

Ollie froze. The others whirled as the noise grew louder.

Rosa gasped and threw her hands up. It sounded as if someone was tearing down the cantina, board by board, adobe brick by adobe brick.

Then there was the sound of a gunshot, and they all ducked toward the floor.

Voices rose to a high pitch, and there was no mistaking the terror behind the horrified screams.

There was another shot and the sound of stampeding footsteps and men yelling, yelling in fear as they scrambled to escape a cantina that had turned deadly.

Ollie drew his pistol. So did the others.

But none of them moved toward the door to open it.

“Do something!” Rosa screamed. “Ollie.”

Ollie stood there, watching the door as if waiting for someone to burst through it. Someone he could shoot dead the minute the door it opened.

The cacophony of sounds coming from the cantina was now deafening.

Rosa shook with fear.

She pulled out a desk drawer and picked up a loaded Smith & Wesson .38 with pearl-handled grips.

She pulled back the hammer to full cock, her hand trembling.

Then, with her other hand, Rosa crossed herself, and her lips moved in a silent prayer.

22

THEY RODE THROUGH THE NIGHT LIKE A PAIR OF HIGHWAYMEN traversing a desolate landscape in search of prey, their shirttails flapping against their cantles, the leather cinches creaking under the strain. The dappled gray looked like some ghost horse galloping past ancient gravestones that had turned to rust with dried blood, those gaunt rock outcroppings on both sides of the road, jutting up like ancient trail markers, cairns left by some long-dead traveler. And John, atop the black horse, might have been riding on air, except for the white stockings and the star blaze on the horse's long face, just below its topknot.

The Mexican blacksmith in Fountain had done a good job on Dynamite's hoof, putting a thick salve in the wound and a cushion of folded leather under the shoe before he shaped it and nailed it back on. The man's name was Guillermo Horcasitas, and he had been working late to fix a wagon wheel for a sheepherder who wanted it the next day. Dynamite favored his sore foot for a time, then began to walk without limping, so now they were riding fast, with Dynamite none the worse for wear, apparently.

They galloped and they walked, trying to push back time, gain on the men they hunted, knowing they would never catch up to them on the road, but hoping to catch them in Pueblo at Rosa's Cantina.

The air smelled of sand and creek water until the gloomy outlines of buildings appeared on the horizon and the acrid smoke of the smelters filled their nostrils, scratched their throats, and bit into their lungs with noxious fumes.

The town was half asleep, but the first person they saw, when asked, told them the way to Rosa's Cantina, and they rode there through dark streets shrouded in shadows, past lighted windows that washed them with pale yellow sprayings, and empty store windows gathered their reflections and bent them into distorted shapes that flowed like rivers in dreams and left vacancies in their wake, as if they had never passed by, nor ever existed.

Around corners and up streets they rode, brushing past people and places they barely noticed, so intent were they on reaching their destination.

Finally, their horses breathing hard, rubbery nostrils flaring, flexing, blowing foamy mists, they saw the lights of the hotels and the cantina, and the livery sign illuminated by a lantern dangling from a standard just outside the large barn doors. They reined up in the shadows on the opposite side of the street, John and Ben breathing hard, too, holding their sides as they puffed for oxygen, and burned holes in the night with the intensity of their stares.

Three men emerged from the stables, passed under the golden light of the lantern, their legs wobbly from riding a long distance. The men headed for Rosa's Cantina, a few doors away, and John let out a breath, then drew another.

“That's them,” he whispered. “That one is called Dick.”

“Ollie one of 'em?” Ben asked, wheezing still, his heart pounding faster than he could think.

“No. I think that one in the middle is named Army something and the other one is Red. I can't forget him, the little bastard.”

“You got good eyes, Johnny. Whew, I'm all out of breath.”

“Look, they're going in to the cantina. Ollie must already be inside.”

“Or maybe he's the one laggin' behind.”

“We'll wait,” John said. “Wind the horses some.”

“Then what?”

“I've got a plan.”

“Seems like you always got a plan, Johnny.”

“It's always good to have one.”

Ben snorted. They could hear the sounds of voices and laughter coming from the cantina. It was quiet inside the stables except for the gentle whicker of horses, the swish of hay being forked into a trough, the jingle of saddle rings, the soft slap of leather.

Five minutes passed.

“Let's tie our horses to that hitchrail in front of the hotel, then walk over to the stables,” John said.

“You think Ollie's already inside the cantina?”

“I do. Makes sense he'd go in first, let his men put the horses up.”

“You reading minds again, Johnny?”

“More like thinking through some things.”

They rode to the front of the hotel. They could see shadows moving in the lobby, moving through gradations and layers of soft lamplight that made their features look waxen, as if they were shades risen from open caskets. They wrapped their reins around the rail.

Ben started to pull his rifle from its sheath.

“Leave it, Ben.”

“Somebody might steal it.”

“We won't be gone that long.”

Ben snuffed puffs of air through his nostrils in exasperation. He followed John next door to the open doors of the stables. They went inside. He noticed John had his right hand dangling near the butt of his Colt.

Two men were inside. Both of them were Mexicans. One was forking hay into a stall, the other was removing the saddle from a piebald mare, the horse belonging to Red Dillard.

“You there,” Johnny called. “Don't take that bridle off.”

“Eh?”

“We'll need a halter on one of the others you just put up.”

“But, you are not . . .”

“We know them,” John said. “We're going to play a little joke on them.”

“Oh, a little joke, eh?”

The man forking the hay appeared. He leaned the fork against a stall, tines buried in the straw that littered the floor.

The two men spoke in Spanish.

“Bring out the dun,” John said.

“You will take just two horses?” the first man said.

“Yeah. Two is all we'll need.”

The hay forker took a halter from a nail on one of the posts and entered a stall where the dun horse was chewing on lespedeza. He emerged a moment later, leading the dun. The first man handed the reins of the piebald to Ben. Ben grabbed the dun's reins.

“Now what?”

“Just follow me, Ben.”

“You will be back soon, no?” the stableman asked.

“Soon,” John said.

Outside, Ben stopped walking, looked at Johnny.

“Now, maybe you'll tell me what we're going to do with these two horses, Johnny. Steal them?”

John chuckled.

“We're going to run them into that cantina and start looking for those men. Especially Ollie.”

“This is crazy.”

“They won't expect this.”

“I reckon not. You just going to start shooting once we get inside?”

“Let's see who shoots at us first.”

“Crazy.”

John said nothing. He got in front of Ben, strode up to the bat-wing doors. The Mexican band was in full swing. Voices rose and fell underneath the music. There was the clink of glasses, the sound of muffled laughter. John held up a hand to hold Ben in place with the two horses. Then he beckoned to him.

“I'll run the piebald in, then you whop the rump of the dun,” he said. “Then, we go in.”

“Behind the horses.”

“Yeah, and you better stay low and have your pistol in your hand.”

“Christ, Johnny.”

“If that's a prayer, Ben, and not a blaspheme, it won't hurt.”

John drew his pistol, moved the piebald up against the gap between the two doors. He looked back at Ben, who nodded that he was ready.

“Now,” John said, stepping back, then slapping the piebald on the rump. The horse jumped ahead, parting the bat-wing doors. John stepped aside, letting Ben come on with the dun. They both slapped the rump of the dun, as the people inside yelled in surprise and confusion.

The horses panicked, tried to escape, but they were blocked by people running in all directions. A woman screamed. Men shouted at one another.

Customers, in their race to avoid the horses, turned tables over, knocked down chairs and sent spittoons spinning away like minor planets shotgunned from their orbits. A glitter girl screamed and fell over a man in a backward somersault. Two men collided head-on in the center of the room, their heads smacking together like wooden mallets.

The bartender brought out a billy club and jumped atop the bar. He drew the weapon back to smash Ben in the head. Ben whirled and fired his pistol. The bullet struck the bartender in the calf, and he crashed to the bartop, screaming in pain. The billy sailed harmlessly into the back bar, smashing bottles and glasses to glittering crystal shreds.

Two other men in the room drew pistols not five yards from John. One of them fired. His shot went wild, ploughing a furrow at John's feet. John went into a fighting crouch and fired his Colt. The man went down, his throat gushing blood onto the sawdust around the bar. The other man ran straight at John, forgetting to fire his weapon until it was too late. John brought his pistol down, cracking the man on the top of his head. Then the man's pistol fired. The bullet dug a hole two inches deep, erupting wood splinters that speared his face as he fell. He screamed in pain and dropped his pistol. John stepped on his hand, breaking his arm at the wrist.