Pistolero Read online

  He was reaching to unfasten another flap when he heard the kuh-LICK-tick cocking of a revolver behind his right ear.

  ~

  There was not even time to turn around. A trigger was pulled and a shot was fired. The explosion – close as it was – deafened him, though only for a fraction of a moment.

  The explosive gases from the revolver's muzzle burned his hair and the back of his head, and a lead, round-nose .44 caliber bullet plowed in just at the right of the occipital bone. He was slammed forward with the force of a hammer blow, and he tumbled into the dirt. Into darkness.

  ~

  The biggest man, one they called Chaco, pushed his sombrero to the back of his head with the barrel of his revolver. He looked from the little mountain of bank notes and gold to the dirty brown seats of the saddles in the open grave. "Llénelo," he said. Fill it in.

  The others pressed forward and fanned around to have a better look at the dead gringo. "Por qué?" one said. Why?

  The big man looked from the many bundles of bank notes to the fat, unopened saddlebag lying alongside. "Pendejo," he growled, and spit into the ground.

  "They will never stop looking for this money," he said in Spanish. "Leave them nothing to follow. Fill it in." He nudged the shoulder of the dead gringo with the toe of his boot. "Throw this one in too."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Chapter Eight

  - 1 -

  He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. He couldn't even see, and then he realized he couldn't open his eyes.

  But, as he struggled for clarity, he realized that at least one of his five senses still worked: there was feeling...

  He could feel dirt. Dirt. In his mouth and in his nose and against his eyes; and, he could feel a headache that filled his head like a solar flare. Then, he recognized the taste of dirt in his mouth and on his tongue. That's two, he thought. He could taste and he could feel.

  Dirt? He had been buried, he knew suddenly, calmly. He had taken a shot to the back of the head, and now he was either dead and in hell or buried alive.

  The need to fill his lungs with air was overwhelming. He tried to raise a hand to claw his way to the surface which he knew was a foot or two overhead, but couldn't. He was encased in dry, hot earth, head to toe; he couldn't move even a finger.

  He twisted his body, shifting one way and then another, pushing hard against the dirt with his shoulders and hips to give himself an inch or two of room in which to move. Then, he was able to begin clawing at the dirt with the fingers of his right hand, and he began digging. The earth was soft and he clawed first a little sideways, then up. His lungs felt like they would burst.

  Always knew I'd die alone, he thought. Just never figured to drown in dirt...

  ~

  The six bandits rode a leisurely pace west toward the Santa Marta Range, a bumpy ridge of boulders and canyons thirty miles distant.

  Their sombreros were pulled down over their foreheads to keep the sun out of their eyes, and they all wore big silver Mexican spurs on their boots. In addition to their sidearms, each carried a rifle or carbine in a saddle boot and ammunition for it in a bandolier slung diagonally across his chest. Two of them had a pair of bandoliers that criss-crossed their chests.

  The one called Chaco led a big bay horse by the reins; scabbards on the bay's saddle held a shotgun, a lever action Winchester, and a long, heavy Sharps rifle. Another man had a black leather gunbelt hanging from his saddle horn, in the holster a .45 caliber Smith and Wesson Schofield, and sheathed inside the belt, a derringer and a short bladed gambler's push dagger. Two others each carried a pair of saddlebags slung across their saddles in front.

  The big man grinned wide. "Algunos días son diamantes," he said. Some days are diamonds.

  They all laughed.

  "Sí," one said.

  - 2 -

  His right hand broke through the dirt and clawed at the air. He could feel it on the tips of his fingers and on the palm of his hand. Air. It felt cool and even a little moist compared to the rest of his body.

  His lungs were cannon balls in his chest; he was dizzy and going black from lack of oxygen. He pulled his hand down and scratched a frantic, wider opening, then twisted a little at the waist and pushed up hard, putting all the strength left in his body behind his right shoulder.

  His upper body exploded through the dirt and out of the grave. He sat up straight and spit out a mouthful of dirt. Then, he sucked in air, and his torso heaved as he gasped and filled his lungs with one huge breath after another.

  He wiped dirt from his face and out of his eyes. Spit out some more dirt, and then ran the fingers of one hand through his hair, casting off a shower of dust and dirt and pebbles.

  He shifted his weight a little and looked down, saw he was sitting atop the dessicating body of one of the Mexican soldiers he had buried. He could see the rotting head between his legs; skin was peeling away like parchment revealing muscle that was crinkling and browning, and the eyes were shriveled like grapes in their sockets and seemed almost to be looking up at him. Under that body, he knew, was another. The smell was ghastly.

  He put a hand to the back of his own head. The ache inside was beyond anything he had ever experienced before, beyond even the Enfield butt to the head he had taken at Centralia. His hair was crusted with blood, and came off in rusty little flakes on his fingers. He felt gingerly around the area where the pain was the greatest and where blood was encrusted the thickest, and found that a little furrow had been plowed, through the flesh and even through the bone. A glancing blow at eight hundred feet per second from a one-ounce chunk of lead. His lucky day, really. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to shut out the pain.

  To no avail – he knew it was going to hurt like hell for a long time – so he put his mind to something else. He shoveled dirt away with both hands and uncovered his legs. He brought up one, then the other, and saw that he was without boots; the only thing on his feet were his grimy, dirt covered socks. They had taken his boots. Bastards.

  He put a hand on either side of the grave, pushed himself up, (which rocked the pain in his head) and rose unsteadily to his feet. He lurched a little, and there was a sound like a branch snapping underfoot as he put his weight down on a corpse's dry leg bone.

  ~

  They came to the Rio Bonita and its adjoining ribbon of bushes and trees. The sun was nearing the horizon, and so they stopped to camp. The Santa Martas were still fifteen miles distant, and Los Perdidos – a village of farmers and campesinos – eight miles, maybe nine.

  The one leading the bay stepped down out of the saddle. He tied the reins of his own horse to the branch on a bush, then secured the bay alongside. He ran a hand down the animal's neck, then from the shoulder to the knee. Amazing musculature. Best damn horse he had ever seen.

  The bay turned his big head and gave him a baleful look.

  The Mexican turned and walked a few steps toward the others. He reached back and gave the horse a proprietary slap on the flank. "Mio," he said. Mine.

  One had taken the Schofield from its holster and stood examining it. He looked up. He took a few steps forward. "Usted piensa?" he said, cocking the weapon. You think?

  They stood ten feet apart. For a brief moment, just a flicker in time, the big man, Chaco, looked surprised at being challenged, then he smiled a dark smile.

  The man with the Schofield spit into the dirt and glared at him.

  "Sí," the big man said softly. "Sí, yo pienso así." Yes, I think so. He brought up a hand to the brim of his sombrero and pushed it off his head; it fell onto his back, held by the leather neck lanyard, and his fingers reached skillfully and secretly for the hilt of a knife he carried in a sheath strapped to his back.

  The man with the revolver
brought it up, his finger moving into the trigger housing.

  The others froze where they stood or squatted, and watched.

  It was very nearly a simultaneous thing. One flung a big, wide-blade Bowie; the other pulled the trigger on a .45 caliber Smith and Wesson Schofield.

  And both men died. A bullet tore into the heart of one, a blade split the heart of the other, and they fell into the dirt, dead.

  The others stared at the bodies for a few moments, then one looked around and said, "Más dinero para nosotros, no?" More money for us, no?

  There were nods and shrugs and mumbles of assent all around. One went over and picked a dead man's sombrero off the ground. He looked at it this way and that, then removed his own and tossed it aside. Another moved quickly to claim a dead man's boots.

  They dragged the bodies a short distance away, then began gathering firewood and laying out their bedrolls.

  ~

  His head pounding, Cole Matthews stood looking down at the dirt encrusted socks on his feet. The bastards had taken his eighty-dollar boots... That really pissed him off. He turned and glanced at the milking stool; it was empty, his hat gone as well. Then, a look at the nail in the wall where he had hung his gunbelt and saw that it was missing, and, he knew without looking that his big bay horse and everything on it had been stolen. He clenched his fists.

  Then, with a little grumbling sound, he crouched down at the foot of the open grave. He leaned over, reached in, and grabbed hold of a khaki trouser leg. He lifted a dead man's foot up out of the dirt and looked closely at the boot it wore.

  Close enough, he decided, and got down on one knee. He unlaced it, then began to work at twisting and pulling it off.

  ~

  They sat cross-legged on their bedrolls next to some bushes and beneath the branches of a tall sycamore tree. There was nothing to eat in their saddlebags, but one had most of a bottle of tequila, and they passed it around, making jokes and laughing. They were four now, four very rich men, hombres muy ricos; each of them could buy a restaurante – fifty restaurantes! – if he wanted. They would eat mañana. In Los Perdidos. Tonight there was tequila. And celebration and laughter.

  They decided to divvy up the weapons with a round of High Card. Four cards dealt face up, high card taking the black leather holster rig and its Schofield, little dagger, and derringer; the Winchester would go to the man with the next highest card; third highest, the ten-gauge, and low card would take the Sharps. A separate round of High Card, or maybe a hand of Showdown, would determine whose was the big bay stallion.

  A wiry, ropy little man – one they called Lobo – had a scuffed and tattered pack of playing cards in his shirt pocket. He took it, dumped the deck into his hand, and dropped the slipcase to one side. He set the cards down on the bedroll in front of him and squared them up.

  "Corte de acuerdo?" he said. Cut for deal?

  ~

  He had to haul the bodies up out of the grave, and so he was going to need the handkerchief after all. He pulled it from his back pocket and put it over his face, under his eyes and down over his chin like the mask on a road agent, and tied a little knot behind his head

  He put his hands on his hips and stood for a moment looking down at the bodies, stacked one atop the other like cordwood. He tugged at the pointed bottom of the hanky, pulling it down a little tighter over his chin, its sole purpose being to keep him from breathing in any dust or body particles he might stir up. He crouched down.

  Breathing through his mouth, he took hold of the first body. It lay chest down, back up, the head turned to one side; the face was the rotting, peeling thing he could see between his legs while he was still sitting in the hole.

  He grabbed a handful of shirt with one hand and took hold of the belt with the other, then heaved the corpse up out of the hole and dumped it on the ground. The dead man seemed to weigh considerably less coming out than he had going in. He dragged the body to one side by the shirt collar and rolled it over on its back.

  He went through the trouser pockets and found six crumpled one-hundred peso notes in one. A little walking around money liberated from one of the saddlebags, no doubt. There was a folding pocket knife in the other trouser pocket. The shirt pockets were empty.

  He stood up and turned back to the hole. He stuffed the bills into one of his own pockets and dropped the folder down into the other. Crouched down again. The other body lay on its back, its sunken, grape-like eyes staring up at him.

  He took two handfuls of shirt because this one still had his pants down around his shriveled, rotting legs, and he heaved another dead man up out of his grave. He laid the body alongside the first one and went through the pockets. Five more one-hundred peso bills, nothing more.

  He stuffed the money in his trouser pocket and went back to the hole. Pulled the handkerchief off his face and let it hang. He stood looking down for a few moments at what he had really come for.

  And there they lay. Two Whitney-Laidley rolling block rifles and two bandoliers of .43 caliber ammunition.

  ~

  It was getting dark, and there was the sound of crickets and the occasional yip-yip-yip of a coyote. They built a cheery little fire and positioned their bedrolls around it. The Rio Bonita rolled pleasantly nearby.

  All a little drunk on tequila, they were soon asleep and dreaming of the ranchos and the haciendas and the many fine horses they would buy.

  ~

  It was getting dark and he was bone weary, but there was much to do. He sat down on the milking stool with a pair of brown Mexican Army-issue boots in one hand. He set them down on the dirt floor beside him and then took one. The right. He put his foot in and pulled and wiggled it on. Didn't bother to lace it up. It fit surprisingly well. A little tight, but not as tight as he had expected.

  He pulled on the left boot, then stood and flexed his toes and walked around a little. Not bad. Tight, yes; a little more than snug, but acceptable, and he didn't feel like trying another pair by wrestling the boots off another corpse.

  He took one of the Whitneys in one hand and a bandolier of ammunition in the other and headed for the house.

  Inside, the place was a shambles. Whoever had carried away the bodies of six dead soldiers had tossed the place, looking to take what they could find. The shelves in the cooking area had been stripped of canned goods, and the other things the shelves once held – plates and bowls, forks and spoons, cups and drinking containers – were scattered about the floor. The place throughout was strewn with clothes and assorted debris: a candle holder, a broom, a crucifix that had been snatched from the wall, a curled and beaten daguerreotype that he didn't bother to look more closely at. The little table and both chairs had been overturned, and nearby, the shattered remains of the oil lamp he had once read by.

  He looked at the overturned table and thought of Isela sitting there, a teasing little smile on her face. Not a cuchillo, a navaja... He glanced over at the bed, saw her lying there broken and bandaged. Yo soy Isela...

  He went to the bed – the sheets and blanket had been torn off and flung aside and lay on the floor in a heap. He laid the Whitney up against the side of the bed and sat down on the bare mattress. To clear his head some. To think.

  He laid the bandolier of ammunition – a wide, buckled canvas belt with ten fat pouches all around – across his lap. He flipped the metal latch on a pouch, opened it, and counted ten rounds of .43 Spanish Centerfire. So that was the arms inventory. An archaic, single-shot rifle and a hundred rounds of ammunition for it. Two hundred, if he took both bandoliers. He thought he should probably go back to where the two soldados lay, and get one of their bayonets.

  He set the bandolier on the bed beside him. He reached over and took the rifle, held it in both hands and looked closely at it. It was a couple of inches over four feet long, and narrow, with a three-banded black walnut forestock that went almost to the end of the barrel. T
here was a bayonet lug, a hinged, leaf-type rear sight, and a leather sling loosely slung.

  And, it was filthy. Layered from one end to the other with dirt and grime so thick that it came off on his hands. He could bet on there not being any gun oils or solvents around, and so he would have to wipe it down with a cloth and clean it inside and out with water. He wasn't going to be using it long enough to worry about rust, but he would look for some kitchen fat, lard or something, to give the moving parts at least some lubrication.

  The breech was the interesting part. The so-called rolling block action gave the appearance of two hammers, one under the other, but only the rear one was really a hammer; the other was a breech-block, which protected the shooter's face and eyes from the exploding cartridge when the trigger was pulled. So, to load the thing, you brought the hammer back to full cock, which allowed the breech-block to be thumbed back, then you inserted a round of .43 Spanish and thumbed the breech-block forward again. More than a little slow, to Matthews' mind. And a slow, clumsy fire and reload, fire and reload. How many rounds per minute could a good man get off that way? Fifteen? Maybe twenty? Well, he told himself, clunky maybe, but there's more use for Mister Whitney's rifle right now than for his cotton gin...

  He set the rifle back down on the floor, resting it up against the bed. He would need to wash. He was grimy all over with dirt, and there was the stink of death on him, and in his clothes.

  It occurred to him that he would need to carry water into the desert. He looked around for a canteen, a water carrier of any sort.

  And a hat. His had been taken, and he would need a hat's protection from the sun. His eyes fell on the khaki army cap with the black leather visor that lay in one corner. He came to his feet.