I waited, listening, then Virgil called out, “Got him.”
“That’d be it,” I said, calling out from the back hallway.
“So it seems,” Virgil called back.
“Skillman dead?” I called.
Virgil waited some before he replied.
“No,” he said. “But I got him, he’s down . . . What about the other two?”
“Eight-gauge.”
I moved out into the main room and, sure enough, lying dead were Dekalb and Wythe. The double-ought from my eight-gauge made a mess of both men and the room. I could see Virgil out the front door as he walked to Skillman, who was lying flat on his back in the middle of the street. Virgil kept his Colt pointed at his head as he neared. When he got close he kicked a Colt that was in the dirt beside Skillman off to the side.
Skillman moved a bit and looked up to Virgil.
“Providing you live, Mr. Skillman, we’ll be taking you back to Cibola.”
“Cibola,” Skillman said with a moan. “Who are you?”
“Marshal Virgil Cole,” Virgil said, then looked over to me. “Bring a lamp out here, Everett.”
I looked to the bar, where a barkeep, the heavyset woman, and another woman, a small, skinny gal with big eyes and stringy hair, were all huddled together, looking at me.
I turned my collar and showed them my badge.
“We’re U.S. Marshals, these men here were both escaped convicts, serving time for murder. The one on his back out there in the street is the same, also an escaped killer.”
The barkeep nodded then reached up, grabbing a lamp that was hanging just above his head, and handed it to me.
I walked out into the street to Virgil. Skillman was on his back, looking up at him. When I got close with the light it was clear Skillman was very much alive, holding his bleeding right shoulder.
“Sit up,” Virgil said.
Skillman winced in pain but did as Virgil asked.
“Shit,” Skillman said.
“You hit anyplace else?” Virgil said.
Skillman looked down at his body with a disgusted look on his face, then back to Virgil and me and shook his head.
“No,” he said.
“What happened out here?” I said.
“Right after you started off toward the back, Skillman here come walking out to his horse there, getting something from the saddlebag.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Oh, we know your name and your prison number,” Virgil said, then looked to me. “I told him to stop, and he turned and fired on me.”
Virgil looked back to Skillman.
“Didn’t you?”
Skillman just looked at the dirt between his legs.
“When the gunning started up inside, I took a step back around the corner and Skillman here managed to get mounted and took off.”
“He thought he could get gone?” I said, looking at Skillman.
“He did.”
The bay horse Skillman had been riding came walking back faithful-like, as if Skillman was his owner, and stopped. He looked at us sort of expectantly. I reached for the reins as he took a short step back.
“Easy,” I said.
I got ahold of the bridle, then I looked to Virgil.
“Nobody was interested in going back to Cibola,” I said.
“No,” Virgil said as he opened the loading gate on his Colt and let the spent casings drop.
“Kind of what we figured,” I said.
“Was,” he said.
Virgil reloaded his Colt and slid it back in his holster.
“What were you getting out of this here saddlebag, Mr. Skillman?” Virgil said as he moved toward the bay.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Virgil said.
“A cigar is all . . . I was gonna have me a cigar.”
Virgil opened the bag and looked inside.
“I got them on the way here . . . I . . . I was saving ’em,” he said.
Virgil pulled out a newspaper that was folded around three cigars. He smelled one, then wrapped them up and put them back in the bag.
“Saving them for what?”
“I don’t know . . . A good time, I guess.”
Virgil looked to me, then moved back to Skillman.
“Think your good times are done, Mr. Skillman.”
Skillman remained looking at the dirt.
“Up,” Virgil said.
Skillman did not move.
Virgil nudged him with his boot and said, “Get up.”
Skillman just looked at him.
“Now,” Virgil said. “Let’s go.”
Virgil got Skillman’s good arm and helped him to his feet, then pointed to Lavern’s.
“Inside,” Virgil said.
Skillman was a little wobbly but managed to walk back to Lavern’s. A handful of onlookers drifted toward Lavern’s.
“This is marshal work,” I said, looking to the people gathering. “Everybody go back to what you were doing. Go on, everyone . . . go on.”
When we got back inside Lavern’s, Skillman stopped when he saw Wythe and Dekalb dead on the floor.
“Goddamn,” he said.
“And then some,” Virgil said as he pulled out a chair. “Sit.”
Skillman stared at the dead men as he took a seat.
Virgil looked around the room. There were three whores sitting on the stairs, peering out between the railings like curious alley cats.
“Don’t imagine there is a doc in the town?” Virgil said to the barkeep and the two women next to him.
“Not really,” he said. “Me and Lavern here have done as much mending of the hurt as anybody else ’round here.”
The big woman who had previously been sitting with the men was no doubt Lavern, the namesake of the establishment. She moved out and around the bar and looked down to Skillman sitting slumped in the chair, then back to us.
“Most men that come through here are good men,” she said.
Virgil nodded a bit.
“They ain’t most.”
She stared at Virgil for a moment, then moved closer to Skillman. He raised his head, looking at her. His eyes were red and full of tears. She walked around him and looked at the back of his shoulder. Then she circled around to his front, opened his shirt a little, and examined his shoulder wound.
“You shot anyplace else?” she said.
Skillman shook his head.
Lavern looked over to the skinny woman with the big eyes. “Lucy, put some water on to boil and fetch some clean rags, salt, and liniment.”
The skinny gal nodded and moved off through an open door behind the bar.
Lavern put her palms on her hips and looked to Virgil and me.
“We never know who is who here,” she said. “Not really.”
She pointed to Wythe.
“The old fellow there I met a long time ago, right here, when we first opened this place. He used to come in now and again, but then he stopped coming. I guess now I know why . . . I had no idea he was a convicted murderer and damn sure no idea until now that he was an escaped convicted murderer. I talked to him for a good while tonight. He seemed pleasant enough, odd but pleasant and . . . well he never said . . .”
“No,” Virgil said, “don’t imagine he did.”