The Killing Shot by Johnny D Boggs

Author:Johnny D Boggs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2010-03-30T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The artesian well at Gonzales’s ranch turned this patch of desert into a verdant oasis, and the water looked like paradise. While Pardo picked out six mounts, Reilly cupped his hands in the pond near the large corral to drink, but his reflection stopped him. Gunpowder and dirt blackened the beard stubble on his face, except for around his eyes. He looked like a raccoon in reverse. His hair resembled a bird’s nest. Reilly ran the back of his right hand across his beard, dipped his hands into the water, and began to scrub his face.

He thought of Pontius Pilate, washing his hands, remembered a preacher back in Indiana when he was a kid saying that Pilate was in hell now, washing his hands for all of eternity. Reilly pictured himself beside Pilate, at some washbasin, trying to wash off their sins, but the vision was quickly shattered by Pardo’s voice.

Pardo had the horses—two blacks, a bay, a roan, and two pintos—ready and had mounted one of the blacks and held a rope in his left hand to pull the roan behind him. Looking up, finally slaking his thirst with the cool, sweet water, Reilly saw Gonzales and Marshal McCutcheon standing in front of the revolver Pardo held in his right hand. When Pardo thumbed back the hammer, Gonzales dropped to his knees, clasped his hands, and began begging for his life in Spanish. McCutcheon tried to stand up straight, but his knees began to tremble.

“I wouldn’t do that, Jim,” Reilly said calmly, patting his face dry with his dirty shirtsleeve, then putting on the bullet-riddled hat he had picked up in the dry riverbed.

“You ain’t me,” Pardo said.

“Yeah, but those posse members will hear your shots. A gunshot’ll carry a long way in the desert, in the morning. They hear that, they’ll know what’s happened, and they’ll come charging back.”

Pardo looked skeptical.

“He’s right,” Swede Iverson said.

The skepticism transformed into irritation as Pardo glared at the dynamite man. “Who the hell invited you into this conversation?”

“I don’t want that Yavapai on our trail,” Reilly said.

Pardo turned back toward him. Gonzales had buried his face into his hands and was bawling like a newborn kid.

“You think that injun’s heading back to Wickenburg with them others?” With a mirthless chuckle, Pardo waved his gun barrel toward the hills across the dry riverbed. “That injun’s out yonder. Waiting, likely watching us.”

“You shoot those two men,” Reilly said, “and the Yavapai won’t be alone.”

“I ain’t afraid of that injun,” Pardo said.

“I am.” Reilly stared hard at Pardo, and let out a short breath as the gunman shook his head and slowly holstered his revolver.

“You’re soft, Mac,” Pardo said. “I don’t know why I like you. All right, you take care of these two hombres. But just for that, you ride the two pintos.”

“That’s all right,” Reilly said. “I like paint horses.”

Pardo shook his head. “No self-respecting white man likes a paint horse. Mount up, Swede. Mount the bay. Lead the black.”

As Iverson went

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