CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jed Breen had given up seeing out of his left eye as long as blood continued to pour over his eyebrow and eye, a slow, oozing flow that seemed as thick as maple syrup. But, hell, with a long rifle, he usually closed his left eye before taking aim and squeezing the trigger. He rose up just low enough so he might not get his brains blown all the way to Austin but high enough so that he could see what the hell was happening on the Presidio-Purgatory City pike.
“Señora,” Breen heard a man’s voice say, but he couldn’t make out the rest of the words, though he could figure things out once he got the lay of the land.
The man on the buckskin gelding wore striped britches, a white cotton shirt, and colorful serape of orange, red, purple, white, and black stripes. Bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossed his chest. His sombrero was of the sugarloaf style with a fancy concho headband. His hair was black, greasy, stringy and hung well past his shoulders, and his mustache and goatee needed the scissors and talents of a tonsorial artist in a Kansas cattle town. His left eye was covered with a black patch. He held a big pistol, hammer cocked, at Charlotte Platte’s ample bosom.
Breen could blow that bandit out of the saddle easily, but then he’d have to reload the Sharps. And two other bandits blocked the road. One of them held the reins to a fourth horse, but Breen saw no fourth man. That was troublesome. He slid down a few inches, no longer able to see the men, but listening to what the leader said, while mainly trying to hear something unnatural—the chime of a spur, the turning over of a stone, or the cocking of a weapon, the slipping of a knife from a scabbard, even a sneeze or some heavy breathing.
Surely, the bandits, undoubtedly based on the other side of the Rio Grande, had made a hard ride north looking to waylay some travelers. They’d make their haul and hightail it for the Rio Grande at Presidio. They’d never make a move on anyone without someone covering their behinds. But, Breen had to figure out, where?
The black-patched leader fired question after question, always speaking Spanish, at Charlotte Platte, who never answered. Maybe she didn’t understand the Mexican lingo. Maybe she just didn’t want to say a damn thing. Perhaps she was even too busy silently praying that the man whose head she had cut open, the man who she had almost run over with the wagon he had bought in Deep Flood, and the man who had promised to split the reward for that still-moaning Kruger brother might rescue her from that old fate worse than death. Breen figured that was exactly what those four bandits had in mind for Poison Platte.
Breen’s problem was that some stupid, worthless, miserable idiot kept moaning, making it harder to figure out where the fourth man might be. The guttural-throated hombre with the black patch over his left eye spit out a slew of ungentlemanly curses and barked out an order to one of the other bandits. Breen only understood a few words, but he easily filled in the blanks of what had been ordered.
“Tomás, go put a bullet in the head of that gringo before his wails drive me insane.”
As Breen slid farther down the edge of the arroyo, the sweat dripping from his matted hair burned the deep cut in his forehead. His eyes began to tear from pain and the grit, dust, and heat. Clopping hooves neared, while the Mexican kept hitting the taciturn widowmaker with question after question.
Moving over a few feet to his right, Breen sucked in a deep breath, which he held for a count of ten before letting it out slowly and silently, then peered over the arroyo’s rim. As he expected, the rider—a younger, thinner bandit in the white cotton outfit most Mexican peasants donned south of the border—focused on the writhing, moaning, idiot Otto Kruger, and did not even notice Breen’s head in the weeds. The rider carried an old-fashioned muzzle-loading musket in his left hand. His right held the reins to a palomino. He appeared to be riding straight up to Otto Kruger, where he would likely rein in, put the barrel of the old long gun on Kruger’s head, and blow the jasper’s brains out.
That would bring the bandit into revolver range. The others to were too far away to hit with a short gun, and he could only take out one of t with a long gun. He would still have that tricky little problem of finding that fourth killer. His good eye moved away from the slowly approaching young bandit, and the savvy bounty hunter saw Providence was smiling down upon him one more time.
Only God knew why.
Wetting his lips, Breen wondered if the one eye he could see out of was playing a cruel joke on him. Ignoring the approaching rider, Breen focused on the two bandits by the wagon. The one with the eye patch began shouting, while the other man, potbellied with silver hair and a thick mustache the color of salt and pepper began laughing. That caused the leader to turn away from Charlotte Platte and berate the peon, who barked back with language meaning that he was not a man to be trifled with.
Breen could care less about what kind of conversation the two men were having. What amazed him was how they lined up. In a perfect line. If they didn’t move, Breen reasoned one bullet, one shot, two dead men. That would definitely make the odds a little better, especially since the young fool with the long gun kept riding straight up to Otto Kruger.
Breen lowered his head slowly, looked at the Sharps, and pulled back the hammer as slowly and as quietly as he could, trying to time the cocking of the big rifle with the slow clopping of the palomino’s hooves on the hard-packed road.
Knowing the trickiest part came next,
Breen rose slowly, hoping the grass and brush might conceal the long barrel of the Sharps, and that the sunlight wouldn’t reflect off the brass telescopic sight. He also had to hope that the two Mexicans by the wagon had not moved since he had slid back into the hole.
He sighed with relief. They remained in perfect position.
With his head tilted and the blood still flowing over his left eye, Breen closed the eye and looked through the telescope. He wet his lips, trying to remember everything he had learned about long-distance shooting, about shooting uphill, about breathing out and remaining calm before touching the trigger. About not worrying how hard a Sharps kicked.
He couldn’t see the young Mexican with the muzzle-loading rifle. He just saw the back of the serape worn by the one-eyed leader.
Breen exhaled. Waited. Stilled every nerve in his body. He touched the set trigger, and the click sounded like thunder in the desert.
The palomino stopped, and it’s rider called out in Spanish, “Juan, where are you?”
Breen couldn’t see that bandit, but he did spot the one-eyed monster begin to twist around in the saddle, just as Breen touched the second trigger on the Sharps.
For more years than he could count, Breen had been shooting that weapon, and every time he pulled the trigger, he felt the bones and muscles in his right shoulder lose just a little bit more tissue and feeling. The big rifle roared like a mountain howitzer. White smoke blocked out everything he had been looking at through the telescopic sight. He moved quickly to his right, pitched the heavy—and now hot—weapon onto the floor of the arroyo, and palmed the revolver.
A bullet kicked up dirt above him, spraying gravel toward Otto Kruger and the young, slim Mexican with the long, antiquated musket, telling where Juan, the fourth of the bad men, had positioned himself—somewhere behind Breen and on the west side of the arroyo—but Juan would have to wait. The young killer from Mexico had abandoned his orders to kill Otto Kruger, brought the old rifle up, and spurred the palomino into a run—heading straight for Breen.
Steadily, with patience instilled by years of surviving on the rugged Southwestern frontier, Breen cocked the hammer on his revolver and raised his arm straight at the rider, who was screaming in Spanish. Another bullet from the far side of the arroyo whined off a rock just over Breen’s head, and the Mexican on the palomino pulled the trigger of his old single-shot musket. Breen heard and felt the leaden ball as it sailed just past his left ear. Breen touched the trigger and leaped down to his right.
Hitting the arroyo’s wall, Breen slid down, feeling the gravel and cactus bite into his back. The palomino galloped down the sandy ramp and took off at a high lope down the arroyo, its hooves pounding as it raised dust on its way toward Deep Flood. The saddle on the palomino’s back, Breen could see, was empty.
Another bullet kicked sand into Breen’s left eye—or would have, if his eye had not been protected by thick, clotted blood and dirt. Breen snapped a shot, knowing that he shouldn’t have, but not wanting to be shot at without defending himself. He could not risk looking above the rim, seeing who he had hit, who he had wounded, who he had killed, or, God forbid, who he had missed. Not with Juan somewhere above him with a pretty good aim.
Breen lunged up onto the loam that made the ramp, and rolled over to the other side. He landed on a bed of prickly pear, and kept rolling over till he reached the far wall of the arroyo His pistol was cocked, the barrel pointed above. Breen sucked in a deep breath, held it, exhaled, and wondered how in the hell he was still breathing.
“Hombre,” called Juan somewhere above Breen and to his left. “I have you in my gunsights, amigo.” He spoke English, though with a thick Mexican accent.
Breen remained quiet, but he made himself turn around and look up and toward the road that led to Purgatory City.
Naturally, the way this day was shaping up, he couldn’t see a damned thing on the road above him. He did hear Otto Kruger sobbing, saying that women never should be given the reins to a wagon, that he didn’t deserve this, and that he was in mortal agony.
The Mexican named Juan snapped back. “You pathetic gringo coward. Of course you deserve this. You are a fool. An idiot.”
Hearing that made Breen decide to take a chance. He called out,
“Hey, Juan.”
“Sí.”
The man had not changed position. Unless he moved, he wouldn’t have a clear shot at Breen. On the other hand, Breen wouldn’t have a clear shot at old Juan, either.
“Do you know who that pathetic gringo coward is?”
“Mark Twain?” asked Juan.
“Who?” Breen said.
The bandit muttered something in Spanish. A moment passed. A longer pause. Finally, “No, amigo, who is that pathetic gringo coward?”
Breen smiled. Juan had moved over closer toward him so he moved slowly, silently about twenty feet toward the south.
“His name is Otto Kruger.”
Breen moved farther down the arroyo as the Mexican asked just who in hell was Otto Kruger.
“In your land, he’s no one. But to the Rurales, so to speak, of us norteamericanos, he is worth mucho dinero.”
In Spanish, Juan asked, “How much is mucho dinero?” He had moved closer to Breen.
The bounty hunter took two steps back to where he had been, cited the amount posted on the wanted dodgers, and quickly added, “And the woman in the wagon . . . she’s worth mucho dinero, too.”
A long pause was followed by, “What did the señorita do?”
“Hell, Juan,” Breen said after moving ten paces farther. “She has killed more men than Otto Kruger.”
“I have not seen her up close, but la señorita must be very pleasant to look at.” Juan laughed. “Otherwise, Daniel would have killed her already.” He pronounced the name Dan-yell.
“I suppose,” Breen said, “That Dan-yell, Tomás, and your other pard would bring in money if they were taken to the Rurales or a town constable in Mexico.”
“Perhaps,” said Juan who kept moving one way or the other, trying to keep track of Breen’s position.
“Well, we could become partners, amigo,” Breen said. “Split the bounties for Kruger and la patróna on this side of the river. Take your dearly departed amigos south into Mexico and collect the rewards for them. Split the profits even—except the girl gets two hundred and fifty dollars. She did help me capture Kruger.”
Juan spit out multiple curses in Spanish. “If they plan to hang her anyway,” he said, “Why does she get any dinero?”
“Because deep down,” Breen said as he moved in another direction, “I have a streak of honesty in me.”
“¿Es verdad?” Juan asked.
“It’s true,” Breen answered.
Above, Juan laughed.
Breen grabbed a handful of small stones in his left hand, his right still holding his revolver, and took two steps forward, making as much noise as he could without being overtly obvious. “Then let’s make a bargain, amigo. Fifty-fifty split. We can trust each other, is it not so?” The last sentence he called out in Spanish, kicked one stone forward, then flung the stones on the arroyo bed in front of him, while taking six long steps backward.
Juan leaped down just in front of Breen, snapped a shot into the empty arroyo, then cursed and spun around, thumbing back the hammer of his pistol while dropping to his knee.
Breen shot him plumb center in the chest and felt Juan’s shot fly over his head.
The bandit crashed against the arroyo wall, let the revolver slip from his fingers, and then he rolled over and fell facedown on the dirt. Breen cocked the revolver and stepped to the Mexican in the denim trousers and colorful shirt with a purple sash around his waist. He wore no hat, but Breen figured he had taken that off before starting his ambush.
Using his right boot, Breen turned Juan over onto his back.
The Mexican’s eyes fluttered, and finally opened, focusing dully but steadily on Breen.
“Amigo,” Juan said, laughed, and turned his head to spit out a glob of blood and pus. “You are too wily to be the partner of me.”
“That’s a shame, amigo,” Breen said. “I’ve been working alone for so many years, I thought having a partner would be a good change for business.”
The man coughed, shrugged, and smiled wider. “Qué será, será.”
“I reckon so,” Breen told him, and put a bullet into Juan’s forehead.
Leaving his spurs, hat, and Sharps in the arroyo for the time being, Breen climbed out of the arroyo on the ramp. Otto Kruger kept moaning, but Breen walked past him without pausing. He saw the young bandit lying spread-eagled. Breen’s shot had caught him dead in the throat, and ants were already marching to slake their thirsts—if ants ever got thirsty—on the river of blood surrounding the corpse who looked silently at the blue sky. The bullet had severed an artery and broken poor Tomás’s neck.
When he looked at his horse, the wagon, the two other dead Mexicans and Charlotte Platte, Jed Breen broke into a hard sprint. He leaped over the body of the dead leader, lying facedown in the sand, a bloody hole staining the colorful serape and telling Breen that his shot had gone right through one of the Mexican’s lungs before drilling the fourth of the bad men in his gut. It likely had taken that poor slob some time to die, but there was no mistaking that he was dead.
Breen slowed, realizing the danger had passed. Smiling, he knelt and holstered his revolver before reaching across the dead, gut-shot Mexican’s corpse to take the Winchester rifle—probably the weapon the gut-shot man had been wielding—from the hands of Charlotte Platte.
She resisted Breen’s first tug of the Winchester, but let to of the carbine when he yanked harder the second time.
“It’s a hell of a thing, Poison Platte. It’s just so damned hard to work a repeating rifle when your hands are in iron manacles.”
Platte smiled and tilted her head toward the dead bandit. “If he hadn’t landed on the holster of his short gun, and had the flap of that holster not been fastened, and had your shot not blown that damned killer out of the saddle and sent his Colt sailing into the cactus over yonder, you, Jed Breen, would be a dead man.”
“Yes, ma’am, I suspect you’re right.” He touched the wound over his eye from which he couldn’t see a damned thing. “But for the rest of this trip, which isn’t all that far, your hands are going to be cuffed behind your back.”
She spit in his face.
He punched her over her left eye.
When she woke up, he did hand her that hat she wanted to keep her pale skin from burning more. And folks said bounty hunters weren’t gentlemen.
Of course, the only reason it hadn’t blown out of the back of the wagon was because the stampede string got caught on a nail.