AZUL HAD HUNTED game along the high flanks of the Mogollons, and taken fish from the streams. Mary Taggart smoked and dried the food, storing it in the cave dug out of the ridge behind the cabin. She added jars of preserved fruit and vegetables from the garden she had built, so there was a reasonable supply of food for the cold months. But they were short of basics.
Azul came back from cutting hay one evening to find her making up a list. They needed flour and salt, sugar, lard; sundry other items that were part and parcel of life in a white man’s cabin.
The half-breed said that he would ride into Comstock the next morning to collect the supplies.
It was a clear, bright morning, early sun burning the chill off the land and promising a warm day. Azul decided to test the young stallion, using the mustang as a pack horse. By now, he had transferred the older male horse to the meadow and kept the younger in the corral beside the cabin. He saddled both animals and pocketed the money Mary Taggart gave him, then started out.
The part-Arab was troublesome at first, fighting the drag of the lead rope connecting the mustang to the saddle. Azul calmed it by the simple expedient of bunching a fist and punching the animal hard between the ears. After that it stopped frisking and settled down.
He reached Comstock by mid-morning.
The town was busier than he had seen it on his previous visits, the streets alive with people. Women gazed into windows, or clustered in groups, talking. Old men occupied rockers along the sidewalks and younger men rode their horses down Main Street. There were buggies and flatbed wagons parked outside the stores and the saloons, along with individual horses that looked, mostly, to be cow ponies.
Azul never paid much attention to time or calendars, but now he recalled seeing a crudely printed chart in the Taggart cabin, and realized that it was the end of the month. And a Saturday.
That meant the Fogarty spread would have paid the hands and released most of them to ride into town until the next Monday.
That meant he could expect trouble.
He rode the big grey stallion up to the nearest general store and swung clear of the saddle. Hitching the animal to the rail, he tugged the mustang in and fastened that, too, to the post. Then he went inside the store.
An old man looked at him curiously, leaning forwards in his chair to angle a long streamer of chewing tobacco across the sidewalk. He mumbled something about ‘goddam half-breeds’ that Azul ignored.
The store was dark and cool. Barrels of apples and of flour stood along the twin counters, their surfaces shaded by the hams and sides of bacon dangling from the low roof. At the far end, three women were discussing the merits of a length of calico, and off to one side another woman was matching lengths of ribbon to a faded poke bonnet.
Azul went up to the counter on the right hand side. That way, his gun was towards the door.
A clerk came up, a tired smile on his face. He wore a blue-striped shirt with the collar missing, and long duster sleeves over his arms.
‘Yessir?’
Azul produced the list Mary Taggart had written out and handed it over.
‘Fill that, will you?’
The man looked at the scrap of paper, then at the half-breed’s face. He shook his head, a glisten of sweat forming beneath the dark lines of his greased hair.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t.’
He looked around, hoping for help either from his colleagues or the other customers. The women at the end of the store were too busy looking at material, and the remaining clerk was tied up with the one buying the ribbon.
‘Why not?’ Azul’s voice was low, and harsh with anger.
‘Orders.’ The clerk swallowed hard enough that his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘That’s for the Taggart spread, ain’t it?’
Azul nodded.
‘And you’re the one they call Breed?’
Azul nodded again.
‘I got orders not to sell a damn’ thing to you.’ The clerk leaned over the counter, dropping his voice. ‘From Mr. Fogarty an’ Sheriff Mengers both. Were I you, I’d get out of town fast as I could.’
Azul looked at him. ‘You’re not me, so take some advice: fill the order. If you don’t I’ll kill you.’
The clerk went suddenly pale. A tic started up under his left eye, making it blink like a mule’s that was trying to dislodge a fly. He licked his lips and shook his head. His fingers drummed on the countertop.
‘Fogarty’ll kill me if I do.’ His eyes blinked, tears forming at the corners. ‘Please, mister. For Chrissakes, Dan Fogarty owns this town, an’ I have to make a living here.’
‘Or a dying,’ rasped Azul. ‘Your choice.’
He drew as he spoke, bringing the Colt’s Frontier up from the holster in a single movement that left the gun cocked and pointed at the clerk’s belly from over the counter.
‘Oh Jesus!’ A dark, damp patch spread across the front of the man’s trousers. ‘Oh, Christ!’
‘Good thing to say a prayer before you die,’ grunted the half-breed. ‘Could make it easier.’
The clerk swallowed some more and picked up the list. Azul followed him as he shuffled out from behind the counter and began to make up the supplies.
When he had them all ready, the clerk carried them over to the door before totting up the price. Azul settled the bill and began to carry the sacks out to the mustang. When he came back for the last one, the man was waiting for him, just inside the opening.
‘Listen.’ His voice was a throaty whisper, dried out by terror. ‘You won’t tell them I sold you this, will you?’
‘Tell who?’ Azul asked in a normal voice. ‘Who do you mean?’
‘Oh, Christ!’ The clerk looked about to wet himself again. ‘Fogarty or Mengers or Rack, that’s who I mean.’
Azul grinned. ‘Why should I? All I did was buy some supplies. There a law against that?’
He hefted the final sack and turned away before the man could answer him, stowing it with the others on the back of the patient mustang.
Then he walked across the street to the gunsmith’s. The store was empty except for the man behind the desk that occupied the only clear space between the glass-fronted cabinets filled with weapons.
The man looked up from his perusal of a Colt’s brochure, seeming vaguely surprised by his customer.
‘I thought you’d been warned off,’ he said quietly.
‘No one told me,’ grunted Azul, ‘and I need some shells. Or does Fogarty own you, too?’
‘I’m my own boss, friend.’ The man was middle-aged, with gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of his nose and a few strands of brown hair covering small sections of his scalp. ‘I sell to who I want. Dan Fogarty can go favor his cows before he tells me what to do.’
Azul grinned: ‘I thought I was warned off?’
‘Not by me.’ The gunsmith folded the brochure and took the spectacles from his nose, closing them and tucking them into a pocket on his vest. ‘I’m just surprised to see you here is all. Name’s Garrett. Charles C. Garrett. Picked up most of what I know from a man called Ryker. Best goddam gunsmith who ever lived. Good at using them, too. One thing he taught me was not to take shit from no one. What you want?’
‘Six cartons of .44-40,’ Azul grinned. ‘Need them for hunting.’
Garrett grinned back and began to pile the boxes on the desk.
‘Hunting what?’ he asked. ‘Way I heard it, you was the quarry.’
‘Depends,’ said the half-breed, ‘on who’s hunting what. Man worms around enough, he finds he might be turned back on himself.’
‘Yeah.’ Garrett took the customers money and nodded as Azul picked up the cartons and made for the door. ‘Take care, though. Them bastards still got sharp teeth.’
‘I’ll remember that when they draw,’ said Azul. ‘Thanks.’
He went out of the store with the cartons of shells cradled in his left arm. His right was hanging close to the butt of the Frontier Colt, and his cold blue eyes scanned the street for unexpected movement.
There was none: the unexpected thing was the absence of both his horses.
He paused, adjusting his gaze to cover both ends of Main Street, squinting into the growing brightness of noonday.
The grey stallion and the pinto mustang were hitched outside the Golden Knife.
Azul let a long, slow sigh escape from his mouth. And walked up the planks on the far side of the saloon to the sheriff’s office. He ignored the two horses and the three men watching him from the shade of the saloon’s verandah, making directly for Mengers’s office.
The lawman was inside. He had his feet up on the desk and his mouth wrapped around both sides of a big sandwich. He looked surprised to see the half-breed walk in. He spluttered, spitting crumbs and little chunks of meat over his knees.
‘What the goddam hell do you want?’ Crumbs joined the grey of his beard along with spittle. ‘You got a nerve comin’ here.’
‘Want to report two stolen horses,’ Azul said; quiet and deadly. ‘I left them outside the store. Someone took them off. Right now they’re outside the Golden Knife. I thought I’d best come tell you, seeing that you’re the law round Comstock.’
Mengers swung his feet clear of the desk and came close to choking. His eyes watered, and a fine spray of spittle floated clear of his mouth. His face got red, then pale, and his lips moved as though he was trying to swallow something too large for his gulping throat.
‘Outside the Simpson store.’ Azul kept his voice quiet. ‘They said I was warned off, but I couldn’t see that. I got no word from you. Nor any reason why. Way I see it, you have to give a reason, otherwise you got no call. Not unless you’re crazy. Or bought out.’
‘That’s a big mouth you got for a goddam half-breed.’ Mengers climbed up on his feet, dropping the remnants of his sandwich and easing the spread of his gut clear of the desk. ‘You want to back it?’
‘You want to explain it?’ Azul said. ‘I’m just telling you what I heard from people around town.’
Mengers shrugged and seemed to shrink in on himself. It was as though he could not face a personal argument for fear of losing his job. Or his life.
He mumbled something Azul couldn’t hear and glanced around his office as though looking for someone to take the responsibility away from him.
‘My horses,’ said Azul, pressing the point and enjoying it, ‘what about them?’
‘Be a joke, I guess.’ Mengers went on wobbling his chins and looking round the office. ‘Whole lotta Flying F hands come in on a Saturday. Could be they moved ’em down for a bit of fun.’
‘Might be.’ Azul stared hard at the fat peace officer. ‘But then again, it might not be. Either way it amounts to horse stealing.’
Mengers chewed his lip some more and began to sweat. He looked like a man with nowhere to run and no one to hide behind. And terrified at the prospect. Sweat exploded from his forehead and began to run down the fleshy protuberances of his cheeks. It dribbled past his nose and fell into his beard. It mingled there with the crumbling remains of his sandwich, so that sweat and bacon and cheese all gathered together in the hairs.
‘What you want me to do?’ Mengers sounded frightened.
‘Get my horses back,’ said Azul. ‘That’s your duty, isn’t it?’
‘Why not go over and fetch them yourself?’ Mengers tried to smile. ‘Be the easiest way.’
‘They were stolen,’ Azul said patiently. ‘That’s an offence against the law. Like killing a sheriff.’
‘So you want me to come in with you?’ More sweat dribbled over Mengers’s face. ‘You want me to go in, an’ tell Dan Fogarty’s boys they got caught on a horse stealing charge?’
‘Something like that,’ grunted Azul. ‘Maybe if you just let me talk to them, and you let them know they’re on the wrong side of the law it’ll be all right.’
Mengers sighed: ‘I got a choice?’
Azul grinned: ‘Not really.’
Mengers said: ‘Right. I’ll do it.’
They went over to the Golden Knife and Azul dumped his cartridge boxes in the sacks hung over the mustang’s flanks. Then they went inside.
Dan Fogarty was settled back against the wall, feeding cards to Cyrus Rack with a complacent smile on his face. He was wearing a full suit: white shirt, the collar tugged in by a black string tie; a matching vest, jacket and pants. All in black. He looked happy.
Rack had topped his blue shirt and pants with a black jacket. It was folded away at the sides, the forward edges buttoned back to fasten over studs sewn into the rear, so that the whole thing was lifted clear of his waist, exposing the Smith and Wesson American holstered on his right hip.
Azul smiled as he walked in behind John Mengers.
The smile left Fogarty’s face like snow melting under the sun: slow and slushy and undecided. He stared at Mengers, then at Azul, and nodded to Rack.
The gunman turned his head, fixing a squint-eyed stare on the half-breed. Carefully, using very precise movements, he folded his cards and stacked them face-down on the table. Then he rested his hands on the: polished wood, out flat, either side of the pasteboard rectangle. He smiled.
‘Breed,’ His voice was expressionless, flat and. cold and totally indifferent. ‘Didn’t think you’d have the nerve.’
Azul smiled back. And his own face stayed as empty as Rack’s.
‘Someone stole my horses. The sheriff here came over to find out who.’
Fogarty glanced at Mengers, who shrugged and licked his lips.
‘Seems like someone took them, Dan. I told him it was most likely a bit of funnin’, but he insisted. You understand?’
Fogarty nodded. ‘Sure, John. I understand. Now tell the bastard he ain’t welcome in Comstock. Do your job.’
Mengers fidgeted with his beard, his face switching from Fogarty to Azul. He looked like a man too frightened to act for himself, not knowing what to do and afraid of offending either side.
‘Guess one of your boys moved them, Dan,’ It took him a long time to get the words out. ‘Be a joke, I guess. Like I said.’
‘Tell him, John,’ Fogarty’s voice got cold. ‘Do your job.’
‘Right.’ Mengers nodded, essaying a watery smile. ‘All right, Dan.’
He turned to Azul.
‘You got your horses back. No way to find who took them, so I can’t do anything about that. Take ’em and get out. Now.’ He tried to put some authority into his tone. ‘You ain’t welcome here. I’m posting you out of Comstock. You come back here and I’ll arrest you.’
The half-breed looked at him, his eyes cold and blue, the smile still on his face. Like ice on a lake in winter.
‘Sure, Sheriff,’ The title came out as an insult. ‘I’m on my way.’
He turned and went over to the doors, pushing through as a hoot of laughter echoed from the Flying F hands lining the bar. His body was taut with raw fury, but he knew it was hopeless to start anything in the saloon even as he made himself a promise.
Mengers was going to die. So was Fogarty. And Rack.
It came sooner than he had expected.
He was tightening the straps holding the supplies on the pinto mustang’s back when boots drummed on the sidewalk.
‘Hell of a good horse for a goddam half-breed.’ Rack’s voice was pitched low, dull as a gila monster’s eyes. ‘You steal it?’
Azul turned, his hands lifting clear of the pack saddle to come down by his sides.
‘Wages,’ he said softly. ‘You think it’s time to pay?’
‘I reckon,’ Cyrus Rack raised his voice. ‘I reckon you got that fine horse by screwing a fine filly. I reckon you got a nice little thing going up there with Mary Taggart.’
Mengers and Fogarty came out of the saloon, grinning as they watched Azul. Waiting for his next move. Confident.
‘You got a dirty mouth,’ said the half-breed, still quiet. ‘Best shut it. Or back it.’
‘He called me out.’ Rack grinned; confident. ‘You all heard that.’
Fogarty and Mengers and the waiting cowhands nodded.
‘Step clear of the horses, Breed.’ The gunman’s voice was higher now, excited. ‘I wouldn’t want to damage them when I kill you.’
Azul nodded, feeling the anger settle into a cold, dangerous intention: he wanted to kill Cyrus Rack, and now the gunman had given him the chance. He reached up, adjusting the set of his hat so that his face was shadowed. At the same time he checked the sidewalk.
People were gathering, anticipating a fight. Mostly they were townsfolk, merely onlookers: no danger. But there were also about fifteen of Fogarty’s men coming out of the saloon. The majority looked like ordinary cowhands, so they probably wouldn’t take part. The three who had watched him go to the sheriff’s office were something else, however, and he wondered if they might not join in.
He looked up at Mengers, and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.
‘I’ll fight him in the street. One on one. I’ll expect you to keep the rest out of it.’
Mengers looked at Fogarty, who shrugged and nodded.
A voice from the crowd shouted, ‘Fair fight! No one else involved.’
Azul recognized it as belonging to Garrett.
‘Be the only way.’ The second voice came from Doctor Shelby.
The crowd began to murmur approval: Fogarty and Mengers began to look worried.
Cyrus Rack went on smiling and stepped down from the porch.
Azul backed away from the two horses and walked out to the center of the street.
The sun was almost directly overhead. Hot and bright, seeming to suck all noise from the town and set a great quiet over the place. A dog barked twice, then fell silent.
Rack paced off twelve steps and turned to face Azul.
‘All right if the sheriff calls it? Count of three, then draw?’
The half-breed nodded. ‘Sure.’
Mengers stepped up to the edge of the porch,,
‘One.’
Cyrus Rack tensed. His knees bent slightly and he shifted his right shoulder forwards, setting the foot on that side ahead of the left. His face, too, angled round, compensating for the cast in his left eye so that he resembled nothing so much as a black—and very deadly—crow.
‘Two.’
Azul stood loose-limbed, staring at Rack’s face, watching the eyes. Peripheral vision allowed him to see the hands as well, thus granting him full sight of any movement on Rack’s part.
‘Three.’
Rack was fast. Very fast. His hand closed over the grip of the Smith and Wesson and began to lift the long-barreled revolver clear of the holster, angling the pistol at the half-breed’s stomach as he thumbed the hammer back.
But Azul, too, was fast.
He fisted the Colt and got it out from the holster at the same time as Rack. His thumb settled over the hammer, dragging it back before the muzzle of the Frontier model was away from the leather. At the same time, his forefinger closed down the trigger, so that as the gun swung up and out he needed only to release the hammer in order to fire.
The two shots were close together, one blast of sound echoing like a memory of the other.
The half-breed felt something pluck at his left arm and was oddly aware of pain and the sensation of falling. Then there was a blackness that came on the heels of a terrific blow that jarred his body and numbed him. Then there was nothing.
It happened so fast that few of the onlookers actually saw what happened. Cyrus Rack drew. Azul—the man called Breed—drew. Smoke and thunder bellowed from the muzzles of both guns. Then both men were down.
Azul’s left arm jerked clear of his side, and a froth of blood sprayed out from the rear of his bicep. He fired again as he fell, angling his shot to fire past his lifting legs and take Rack a second time: one’s dead, two’s sure.
The first bullet hit Cyrus Rack in the belly. It landed just above his belt and tore through the muscle walling his stomach and glanced his spine.
The gunman was hurled backwards by the force of the .45 caliber slug, doubling over as the pain hit him, then twitching upright as the lump of lead struck the nerves connecting his brain to the rest of his body. That meant that Azul’s second shot caught him in the chest, smashing through a rib to blast a hole clear through the left lung.
The front of Rack’s shirt got suddenly dark and his coat fluttered out as the two bullets ripped clear. Twin fountains of blood, mingled with pieces of flesh and sticky chunks of internal tissue, gouted from his back. A gobbet of blood erupted from his gaping mouth, spurting over his chin and neck. He fell down on his back, the force of his landing producing another spurt of blood from his mouth and nostrils.
This time, the blood was brighter, spuming redly as a fountain fed with wine. It came out in three columns that joined together to plaster Rack’s torn shirt against his chest and belly. His legs twitched once, then were still. His face stared up at the sky, blood filling the warped eye and dribbling slowly clear of the socket to join the spreading pool beneath his body.
Someone in the crowd said: ‘Christ! He’s killed him.’
Someone else said: ‘They’re both dead!’
‘No!’ It was Shelby who spoke. ‘The half-breed’s only wounded. Let me through: he needs a doctor.’
The crowd parted and Shelby ran over to Azul.
The darkness went on until the pain came back and drove it away. Then there was just the pain. That and a faint, vague feeling of hands upon him and voices murmuring about him.
Instinctively he reached for the pistol resting in the dust beside him. Someone blocked his hand, holding it.
He reached for his Bowie knife, trying to drag his left arm clear of the retaining grip.
‘For Chrissakes! Hold him still. How the hell can I get a bandage on his arm if he’s twisting around like a goddam fish on a hook?’
He opened his eyes and saw three faces.
One belonged to Morton Shelby. The second to Charles C. Garrett. The third to Joe Hedges, the undertaker. He smiled. ‘I guess Rack’s dead?’
‘Dead as a man can be,’ grunted Shelby. ‘You came close to joining him.’
Azul nodded and sat up.
‘So now Fogarty doesn’t have any hired guns left. You people could be out of business.’
The three men looked confused together.
‘What the hell d’you mean?’ Shelby asked. ‘You delirious?’
Azul shook his head. ‘No. But I just killed Fogarty’s last gunfighter. That has to put a stop on your trades.’ He looked at each man in turn. ‘Bullets, blood and bodies.’