All of a sudden there came a flurry of shots whipping dirt up on the front edge of the wash and clipping through the greasewood. One of the shots hit so close to Longarm’s face that it would have knocked dirt in his eye if he hadn’t shut it just in time. Longarm reflected that the shots were too accurate to have been fired from a pistol, at the distance the cabin was. He guessed that Shaw had fired and reloaded as fast as he could work the lever of his rifle. It had been an impressive display, and served to remind Longarm that he was fooling with a seriously dangerous and competent man. And intelligent.
But Shaw had something else that made him far more dangerous. Or better yet, he was missing something. Longarm knew there was a word for it, but he couldn’t call it to mind. Shaw didn’t seem to care about anything, especially the wrong or right of matters. He just flat didn’t seem to have a conscience of any kind. Longarm had heard it said of some men that they’d “as soon shoot you as look at you.”
Jack Shaw was the only man he’d ever met whom he felt that was completely true of. And yet Shaw could be just as good company as a man could want. Longarm had had many a drink with him, many a conversation, maybe even shared some of the same women. But Shaw didn’t seem to have what most people had inside them, something that told him when he’d come to a stopping place.
Longarm could feel his left shoulder start to cramp, and there was another itch developing at the back of his head. The sun burned down hotter and hotter. The packhorse was still standing near the corral fence, his head getting lower and lower. Maybe the night would bring the animal some relief, Longarm thought. Maybe it would bring him some relief. One of them damn sure needed some.
Longarm could feel his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He wasn’t even sure he could open his lips without pulling skin loose. He was also beginning to wonder how much longer he could last. When he’d chosen the safest and most comfortable position, it had seemed fairly restful. He had his whole body, down to his boots, pressed up against the front slant of the wash, with just his head and neck turned back to the left to watch the cabin. As the minutes passed, another muscle in his body began to cry out for relief. Pretty soon he’d be so sore and stove up that Shaw could just walk out and beat him to death with the end of a rope. He’d known, when he’d put the plan in action, that it was going to be a waiting game of long duration, but now he wasn’t sure if it was worth the risk. He hadn’t had a sip of water in well over two hours, and he knew he was getting badly dehydrated. The only way to use what little water he had was to space it carefully over the time he’d calculated he was going to have to wait. To go too long without water was as foolish as drinking it all at once.
Shaw said, “Now look what you gone and made me do, Custis. Waste ammunition. You know a man in my position ain’t supposed to be doing that. I got plenty, but you can’t never have too much. Why don’t you quit playin’ possum and let’s have a little talk. Tell you what. I got a two-gallon canvas bag of water here I’ll sling over to you if you’ll ask for it. All you got to do is ask and it’s yours. Now, what do you say? You know I’d keep my word on something like this, Custis.
Me and you was good friends a long time. I wouldn’t treat you like that worthless trash I have to use to get my living.” He paused. “Say something’, Custis, an’ I swear I’ll sling you this bag of water.”
Longarm lay still and gritted his teeth. Shaw had to be curious. He wouldn’t be human if there wasn’t some hope in his mind that he had hit Longarm, hit him and killed him. Shaw had suggested the whole business about the cigar with the idea in mind of getting Longarm to expose himself with the smoke. A man of Jack Shaw’s vanity would almost have to believe he was right. At least that was the way Longarm had it reasoned out. Now all he needed was for Shaw to act like he was supposed to. If Longarm couldn’t believe in the success of his own scheme, what could he believe in?
Shaw said, “Custis, if you don’t show yourself I’m gonna go on out back, get me a horse, and ride for the border. I know you ain’t got nothing wrong with you except you eat too much hair pie. Now sing out ‘fore I ride off taking all the horses and leave you to bleach in the sun.”
Longarm was not at all worried about that threat. Before Shaw would put himself on a horse on the open prairie, he’d make sure Longarm was either dead or unable to use a rifle.
It grew quiet again. Longarm now had cramps in three muscles and at least four distinct itches. His mouth was so dry he could almost feel his tongue swelling to fill up the whole cavity. He wondered if he dared move enough to sneak a sip out of his canteen. The thought of the water in his mouth was like a torment, a temptation he wasn’t sure he could resist much longer.
Then, just as he was about to give up, he caught a slight movement at the far corner, the furthest front corner of the cabin to his left. It wasn’t much, just a flash of motion at the corner down near the ground.
Longarm figured Shaw had taken a very quick peek to see how much distance he’d have to cover to get close enough to the wash to look down and discover what condition Longarm was in.
After that nothing happened for a few moments. Longarm kept his eye riveted on the corner. When it seemed he could stare at the corner no longer, he saw Jack Shaw take a cautious step out into the open. He was holding a rifle with both hands, but he had a revolver shoved into his belt. He was perhaps fifty to sixty yards away.
As Longarm watched and held his breath, Shaw took a step. Then he stopped and glanced back as if to reassure himself that cover was near.
He took another step toward the wash, and then another. His line of approach was taking him at an angle from the corner, an oblique approach pointed straight toward where Longarm lay watching.
Shaw took two more steps and then stopped. He put the rifle to his shoulder, sighted down its length, and swept the muzzle up and down the length of the wash. Longarm was becoming uncomfortably aware of how close Shaw was getting. In a few more steps he’d be able to see into the wash.
Shaw lowered the rifle and took two more steps. Longarm calculated he was no more than thirty to forty yards away. The land Shaw was standing on was slightly higher than the land around the wash. It gave him an advantage.
Longarm steeled himself, willing his muscles to be ready to spring into action. He knew he would have to use the carbine. It was far too long a shot for his revolver, especially since it was the one with the short barrel. Shaw started to take another step and Longarm knew it was time. In as fluid a motion as he could make, he rose from the wash, going to one knee, bringing up his rifle, and cocking it as he did. He had been afraid to cock it before for fear that the noise would alert Shaw. It seemed to take him forever to swing the rifle up to his shoulder.
Shaw’s face briefly registered surprise and then an instant of confusion. But that passed quickly. It was clear he didn’t have time to get his own rifle in firing position. In a single move he whirled and began running for the safety of the corner of the rock shack. He’d been twenty yards away from the cabin when Longarm had suddenly risen up out of the wash. By the time Longarm got the rifle to his shoulder and cocked it Shaw was within twenty feet.
Slowly Longarm tracked the fleeing figure with the muzzle of his rifle. Slowly his rear sight and front sight lined up. They were aimed directly at the small of Shaw’s back. It was the biggest target because Shaw was running hunched over.
When Shaw was within eight to ten feet of the corner of the shack, Longarm slowly squeezed the trigger.
There was a faint click. There was no explosion, there was no gunshot, there was no bullet whizzing through the air to strike Jack Shaw in the small of the back and knock him flat.
Longarm did not know what had happened, but he dropped instantly back into the ditch. He worked the hammer of the carbine back and forth near his ear. He could hear the sound of grit. He ejected a shell, catching it in the palm of his hand, and looked at the end where the firing cap was. There was a very faint indentation on the edge of the rim-fired shell. He cursed silently and long to himself. Grit and dirt had gotten into the working parts of his rifle, enough to slow the hammer down so that it didn’t strike the cartridge cap with enough force to explode the cartridge. He felt stunned, heartsick. He said softly, “Son of a bitch.” He knew he’d never get a better chance. All that effort, all that discomfort, all that patience, all for nothing.