WYATT STOOD STARING at the two graves. Early morning sunshine slanted shadow from the white-painted crosses over the mounds of turned soil. Fading flowers drooped in vases at the base of each cross, their wilting somehow emphasizing the poignancy of the moment. He stooped; taking the flowers from the receptacles and scattering them over the patch of ground Black Rock used to inter its dead, then he ran the fingers of his right hand gently over the letters carved into one cross: Josie Wyatt.
‘They’ll pay,’ he murmured. ‘I promise you that, Josie. I’ll make them pay.’
He stood up, walking slowly back into town. It was too early yet for Black Rock to be fully awake, but a few people were already moving on the street. They greeted Wyatt, and he answered them, but there was a reserve on both sides, the old, easy friendship absent now. It was as though he stood apart from them, as though they sensed the transformation that had taken place and no longer regarded him as one of them. In turn, Wyatt knew that he was different, that Black Rock was no longer his home. Maybe sometime in the future—after he had satisfied the vengeance hunger burning inside him—he could come back. But now there were too many memories, too much pain there.
He collected his gear from the house, stowing it on his horse. There wasn’t much: a change of clothing, some ointment Mortimer had given him, food, boxes of shells. He slid the Winchester into the saddle scabbard and took the reins, leading the pony down Main Street. Mortimer was standing outside the Belle, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
‘Doc.’ Wyatt halted, looking up at the disheveled physician. ‘Thanks for everything.’
Mortimer nodded, for once uncertain what to say. Then: ‘You’ll be back?’
‘Sometime.’ Wyatt swung into the saddle, putting their eyes on a level. ‘After.’
‘Yeah.’ Mortimer raised the glass in parody of a toast. ‘Don’t get killed.’
A taut smile crossed Wyatt’s face and he said, ‘I won’t. I got something to live for.’
He drove his heels against the pony’s flanks, lifting the animal to a canter, not looking back as he rode down Main Street. Mortimer watched him go, eyes sad. Then he shook his head and drained the glass in a single swallow and went back inside the saloon.
Wyatt rode south and west, moving steadily towards the border. The landscape was arid, parched by the summer sun, the grass drying yellow, the streams he crossed low and sluggish. Each day he halted a little before sundown to practice with Colt and Winchester, repeating the performance when he rose. He was becoming steadily more confident, more sure of his skill with the weapons; his marksmanship was better than it had ever been, and his draw became a little faster every time. He exercised his damaged arm, building muscle to compensate for the extra weight of the metal hand, teaching himself gradually to become almost as adept as if his non-existent fingers held a knife. And all the time, his fury drove him on.
He came in sight of Terlingua just after noon on the sixteenth day. The town sprawled along a fold of the land, low ridges to east and west funneling towards the Rio Grande, the adobe buildings burning white in the sun. They were clustered either side of the trail leading down to the border, not many more than flanked Main Street back in Black Rock. There was a livery stable and a few stores, three saloons, and—to his surprise—a marshal’s office. He fingered the beard he had grown during the ride down, hoping it was sufficient disguise that Jennings and his men wouldn’t recognize him straight off.
He dismounted outside the livery, ignoring the curious gaze the stable-hand fixed on his left arm as he dragged his saddlebags clear and cradled the Winchester.
‘How long you fixin’ to be here?’
Wyatt followed the man into the tall, sweet-smelling interior of the stable.
‘I ain’t sure. It depends.’
The stable-hand nodded, accustomed to sudden departures.
‘Cost you fifty cents a day. All in. An’ in advance.’
Wyatt handed over a dollar, glancing round at the stalls. There was no sign of the horses he had seen the gang riding.
‘Where’s a good place to stay?’
‘There ain’t much choice.’ The stable-hand scratched at a wart on his left cheek. ‘They all got bedbugs, an’ the clap’s the same wherever you catch it.’
Wyatt shrugged, going out of the livery and walking down the street with his eyes flicking over the horses tethered there, over the sidewalk. There was still no sign of the Jennings bunch and he began to wonder if he had waited too long. Taken too much time letting his arm heal. Enough that they had ridden on. But then he decided it couldn’t have been any other way, so there was no point getting hazed by it. He had needed the time, needed it to heal and get himself ready for this. And the way Tansy Moran had spoken of the place, Jennings used it as a regular base, a safe place to run to. Which, he thought as he passed the marshal’s office, meant that the peace officer turned a blind eye. LeFevre had told him there was a bounty on the gang, rewards offered for all the members. Jennings himself was worth most—$500 in New Mexico, the same amount in Texas, $300 in Kansas—the others less, down to the $250 posted on Wade Martin. So the lawman in Terlingua had to be bought off: Wyatt could expect no help from that quarter.
He went into the first saloon, a place boasting the grandiose name, Regal Palace. Inside it was like any other border cantina, wood floor and adobe walls, a plank bar running down one side of the room, chairs and tables scattered down the center. He went up to the bar and asked for whiskey. The barkeep looked at his metal hand without saying anything, and Wyatt ignored the question in his eyes.
Instead he asked: ‘You got a room?’
The barkeep nodded. ‘Sure. A dollar a night. Food’s extra.’
‘Show me.’ Wyatt emptied his glass and dropped coins on the stained planking. ‘Can I get a bath?’
‘Bring you a bucket.’ The barkeep wiped his hands on a striped apron, leading the way towards the rear of the building. ‘Best we got.’
The room was small and hot. Shutters failed to keep out the heat and flies buzzed slumberous in the shadowed stillness. There was a narrow bed with a ragged mattress sprouting ticking from the holes and some sheets piled at the end. A few hooks were hammered into one wall.
‘It’ll do.’ He tossed his gear on the bed, handing over a dollar. ‘You can fetch me that bucket.’
The barkeep nodded and went out.
A few minutes later he returned with a bucket. It was empty, and he directed Wyatt to a rusty pump in the yard behind the saloon. Wyatt filled the bucket and took it back to the room. He stripped off and scrubbed down, letting the water spill out through a hole dug in one corner. He dried himself on a sheet and pulled on a fresh shirt, then dropped a cartridge into the empty sixth chamber of his Colt and went back into the saloon.
He drank whiskey, watching the occupants of the place, not seeing any faces he recognized. He tried the next place down Main Street. It was called The Border Star, which was the only way it differed from the Regal Palace. There was still no sign of Jennings. The third saloon was named simply The Longhorn. It smelled the same as the others; it served the same whiskey. And it was just as empty of Jennings. He moved back down the street with the sun settling low in the west, thinking that he might have to start asking questions when a big man with tow-colored hair and a badge pinned to his shirt lounged out of a rocker and blocked his path.
‘Saw you ride in.’ He let his eyes shift from Wyatt’s face long enough to take in the metal hand. ‘Ain’t seen you before.’
‘Ain’t been here before.’ Wyatt saw that the man’s right hand was close to the long-barreled Colt on his hip. ‘Just passin’ through.’
‘Most are.’ The marshal nodded. ‘Why we got rules.’
Wyatt stood waiting for the rules to get spelled out.
‘No trouble,’ warned the lawman. ‘Not here. Not in Terlingua. That way I don’t hafta ask you questions. You understand?’
Wyatt nodded, not speaking.
‘You drink all you want. Whore around. Just make sure you pay yore bills an’ keep yore nose clean. Then we stay friendly.’
‘I got it,’ Wyatt said.
‘You aimin’ to stay long?’ The man’s eyes kept moving back to the metal hand.
‘Depends.’ Wyatt shrugged.
‘On what?’
‘My business.’ Wyatt’s voice was even. ‘Something personal.’
The marshal nodded, moving aside to let Wyatt pass. The grey-eyed man went by, thinking that if Jennings had bought off the peace officer, the man would be running soon with the news. If he had recognized Wyatt through the beard.
Wyatt went back to the stable and found the ostler whittling on a stick outside. He tugged a five-dollar bill from his pants.
‘Could be there’ll be some people askin’ about me.’ He watched the stable-hand’s eyes following the bill. ‘I’d like to know.’
He extended his arm, letting the man take the bill.
‘Where you sleepin’?’
‘Regal Palace.’ Wyatt touched the man with the metal hand. The ostler jumped back, eyes getting wide. ‘You tell me right, there’s five dollars more. You try anything fancy …’
The metal hand shifted to brush the ostler’s cheek. The eyes got wider, Adam’s apple bobbing in the throat.
‘I’ll tell you, mister. Don’t worry. Ain’t no skin off my nose.’
‘Will be,’ Wyatt said, cold. ‘You try double-cross.’
He turned away, going over to the saloon. There was a smell of food in the air, and he sat down at a table. He ate chili, washing it down with tepid beer, then made a circuit of the saloons. There was still no sign of Jennings, and he returned to his room, settling down to sleep with the metal hand still in place and the Colt under his right hand.
He was eating breakfast when the stable-hand came in, glancing around the near-empty saloon before sidling up to Wyatt’s table.
‘Got the other five?’
Wyatt fetched a bill out. Set it on the table, pinned down under the metal hand. The ostler licked his lips.
‘The marshal was askin’. Wanted to know if you took yore pony out.’
Wyatt tapped the metal hand. The points of the tines made little pinprick holes in the five-dollar bill.
‘That usual?’
‘No.’ The stable-hand shook his head.
‘Fine.’ Wyatt pushed the bill across the table. ‘Get the horse ready. Tell him I’m headed south. Towards the border.’
He watched as the man scuttled for the door, smiling as he finished eating. He felt good—felt he was getting closer to Jennings. And if he was right, he wanted the outlaws—all of them—to know him. To know who it was killing them, and why. He asked the barkeep for hot water. When it came, he took it back to the room and shaved off his beard, then he got his horse from the stable and rode southwards.
He followed the trail towards the border, taking it slow as he studied the terrain. It might be that the lawman was just watching him, but somehow he felt it was more than that; felt that maybe Jennings had left word to stop him. If so, the lawman had to get ahead of him. It didn’t seem like he was prepared to risk a killing in Terlingua, so he would most likely try for an ambush. In which case, that patch of scrub ahead was the best spot. The ridges flanking the town curved in close there, narrowing the open ground so that a man hidden up on one of them would have a clear field of fire with a rifle. It would be a long shot, but a good marksman could bring it off. If his quarry suspected nothing. Wyatt went on riding slow, giving the lawman time to get round in front.
The short hairs on his neck prickled as he approached the place. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew there was someone up there, waiting for him. Most likely on the eastern ridge, where the sun would be behind the shootist’s back, shining down into the gap. He heeled his mount to a faster pace as the ridges closed in and the feeling of being watched got stronger. The air was warm, still. He felt sweat trickle down his back. Felt rage curdle in his gut.
And then he saw a brief sparkle of light.
A flash, like the sun might make, striking the polished barrel of a rifle as the lever was worked.
He was going down off the horse on its right side as the detonation echoed off the western ridge. Something hot and wet splashed over his right hand and the pony screamed, its forwards momentum abruptly transformed to a skidding fall as its legs went out from under. Wyatt hit ground, rolling, still clutching the reins so that the neck-shot horse was dragged down and round, tumbling onto its back with its legs flailing.
There was a second shot and the horse screamed afresh. Then a third, and it stopped. Wyatt flattened behind the sheltering bulk, not moving, not even reaching for his Colt.
He waited. There were no more shots. Instead, he heard hoofbeats, slowing as the rider got closer. There was a stand of pinon over between the dead horse and the ridge, and from the sounds and the silence that followed, he guessed the ambusher had halted there. Was maybe watching. He went on waiting, still, one ear pressed to the hard dirt.
There was a rustle of branches, the faint sound of cloth snagging on a limb, then he could hear bootheels drum against the soil. A shadow fell across the horse, affording him an instant’s warning. Not much, but enough that he was moving as the peace officer came around the horse with the long barrel of the Colt’s Cavalry model pointing ahead.
He was squeezing the trigger as Wyatt came up on his feet, left arm swinging hard. The metal hand struck the barrel, knocking the pistol up and out as flame gouted from the muzzle. Wyatt’s shoulder hit the man’s belly and they were going down, Wyatt reaching for the pistol as the marshal tried to bring it round, to get the muzzle close to Wyatt’s body. The brown-haired man saw that he wasn’t going to get his good hand on the lawman’s wrist. Realized that he had to use the claws of his artificial left. He curved his arm, driving the blades at the marshal’s gun hand. They hit flesh. Wyatt felt them cut, driving deeper as he put his weight behind the blow. The marshal screamed, fingers opening as the tendons severed, the Colt falling from his hand, cylinder and butt slick with blood. Wyatt brought the hand across, smashing the solid part against the man’s jaw. The head snapped sideways, eyes glazing, and Wyatt reached down to grab the pistol and hurl it off into the mesquite.
He rose to his feet, towering above the marshal. His mouth was set in a hard line, complementing the cold fury in his eyes. The man on the ground stared at him, face paling, terror showing stark and ugly in his gaze …
Wyatt could hear Wade Martin sobbing as he went out of the hacienda. It was a choking, broken sound that was filled with pain. It brought a cold smile to Wyatt’s lips as he walked towards the stand of cottonwoods. Halted there to wash the blood from his hands, both flesh and metal. He felt calm, at peace with the animal fury lurking inside him. Andy Chance was dead. Wade Martin was dying, wouldn’t last much beyond sunset. And they had known, as they died, who it was killed them. Why he did it.
He rose to his feet, the sun drying the water on his face, and paced towards the rocky funnel opening into the bowl. He climbed the ridge and moved to where he had left the bay stallion. The horse grunted as he approached, cropping lazily on the grass. Wyatt looked up at the sun and saw that it was halfway across the western sky, thinking about what Chance had told him before the metal hand tore out his heart.
Jean DuPré was coming up to meet them, to alert them to the time of the silver shipment.
But they wouldn’t be waiting for the Creole. Instead, he would find two corpses.
And he might just guess who had killed them.
Wyatt wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter, because DuPré would see his face before he died. The man with the metal hand would make sure of that.
Wyatt was smiling again as he hunkered down against the bole of a big pine tree, the sun on his face as he watched the trail coming up out of Villalta. He didn’t know how long he would have to wait—it didn’t matter.
What was important was that the Creole was coming, and Wyatt knew where Jennings would be. Jennings and Strother Cannon and Simon Coltrane. Men riding to their own funeral.
His smile got uglier as he waited for DuPré, honing the blades that jutted cold and deadly from the metal hand.