“I figured we owe the boys who rode in the Trailback outfit with us the first chance,” Jim said. “But if nobody shows up, we’ll hire some men in El Paso. You got any idea how many out-of-work cowboys would kill for this job?”
The two cousins continued to ride through land that was red, brown, and open. They were in southwest Texas, where there were few houses, fields, or even ranches to break up the vistas. The horizons were studded with red mesas and purple cliff walls, and in the distance they saw blue mountains. When night came, the stars and moon shed so much light that, though everything was in shades of silver and black, they could see almost as clearly as at midday.
The next morning they found themselves in the small village of Sierra Blanco. Hot and dusty, the town was little more than a two-block-long main street with flyblown adobe buildings on either side. The cousins stopped to stable their horses; then they crossed the street to the saloon for food and a few drinks.
Lunch was steak and beans liberally seasoned with hot peppers. They washed the meal down with mugs of beer.
“Those beans’ll set you afire,” Frankie warned. “But damn me if they aren’t about the tastiest things I’ve put in my mouth in quite a while.”
“You ate them so fast, how would you know what they taste like?” Jim teased.
Whereas Frankie was already finished with his meal, Jim was less than halfway through.
“I wanted to get the eating out of the way so I could get on to the more important things,” Frankie said. He smiled at one of the bar girls, and she caught his smile and returned it.
“Yes, I see what you consider more important.”
“Oh, now, look at that smile, would you, cousin? She sure is somewhat more winsome than Dog Woman.”
“Anyone is more winsome than Dog Woman.”
“I do believe that little girl is falling in love with me,” Frankie insisted.
“She’s in love within anyone who has two dollars to take her upstairs,” Jim replied.
“Well, then, doesn’t this work out well? It just so happens that I have two dollars.” Frankie stood up. “I won’t be long.”
“You never are,” Jim replied with a chuckle.
Shortly after Frankie went upstairs with the girl, a man came into the saloon and stepped up to the bar. He moved down to the far end where he could see the whole saloon, and he examined everyone through dark, shifty eyes. He was small, wiry, and dark, with a narrow nose, thin lips, and a scar, like a purple lightning flash that started just above his left eye, hooked through it leaving a puffy mass of flesh, then came down his cheek to hook up under the corner of his mouth. He used his left hand to hold his glass while his right stayed down beside the handle of his Colt .44. The pistol, Jim noticed, was being worn in such a way as to allow for a quick draw.
Of all the customers in the saloon, only Jim had actually noticed the man, and as he continued to eat, he studied the small dark man carefully. Jim knew that this man, whomever he was, was about to kill someone. He knew it as clearly as if the man had been dressed in a black robe, carrying a scythe, and wearing a death’s-head.
The beaded strings that hung over the front door clacked loudly as two men came into the saloon. The new arrivals were wearing badges, and they stood just inside the entrance for a moment, peering around the room. One of them had eyes to match his gray hair and mustache, and wore a sheriff’s star. His deputy was much younger, and from the man’s dark hair and eyes, Jim guessed he might have been Mexican.
The two lawmen studied the room until their gaze found the beady-eyed man at the bar. Their muscles stiffened, and when Jim looked toward the small dark man, he realized this was what he had been waiting for.
“Mister, would your name be Will Shardeen?” the sheriff asked.
“What if it is?”
“You got a lot of gall, comin’ into my town.”
“I ain’t got no argument with you, Sheriff.”
“Don’t matter whether you have or not. I’ve got a whole drawerful of dodgers on you, so I’m goin’ to have to put you under arrest. You goin’ to come easy, or hard?”
“I ain’t comin’ at all,” Shardeen answered.
“Oh, you’re comin’, all right,” the sheriff insisted.
“I’d advise you to back off, Sheriff,” Shardeen said. “Like I told you, I ain’t got no argument with you, unless you push it.”
Shardeen’s voice was high, thin, and grating. In a world without weapons he might have been a pathetic figure among men, but his long, thin fingers, delicate hands, and small, wiry body were perfectly suited for his occupation as a gunman. “Now why don’t you just back on out the door before this goes any further?”
The sheriff shook his head. “I can’t do that, Shardeen,” he said. “I can’t just walk away from this. This is the way I make my livin’.”
“All I can say is, it’s a hell of a way to make a livin’,” Shardeen replied.
Using his left hand, Shardeen put his drink down, then stepped away from the bar. The sheriff’s deputy stepped several feet to one side while still facing Shardeen. He bent his knees slightly and held his hand in readiness over his own pistol.
“Well, let’s do it, Sheriff,” Shardeen said.
“You don’t want this, Shardeen.”
Shardeen smiled, an arrogant little smile. “Yeah, I do want it,” he said.
Jim saw the sheriff lick his lips nervously, then look around the room.
“Any of you fellas willin’ to sign on as my deputy?” he asked.
No one volunteered. In fact, several men who considered themselves too close to any possible action got up and moved away. Only Jim remained at his table.
“You?” the sheriff called hopefully to Jim. “You want to sign on?”
“Sorry, Sheriff. This just isn’t any of my business,” Jim replied.
“Yeah,” the sheriff said. Again, he licked his lips. “Can’t say I blame you.”
“Looks like you’re on your own, Sheriff,” Shardeen said. “It’s still not too late for you to walk away.”
“No, I . . . I can’t do that,” the sheriff said. He held his hand out toward his deputy. “Er nesto, you better stay out of this. Your wife just had a baby.”
“I’m no’ goin’ let you face this hombre alone, Senor Martin,” the deputy said. His swarthy face was bathed with sweat, though it wasn’t that hot right now.
Jim turned his attention back to Sheriff Martin. The lawman was so nervous that he telegraphed when he was going to make his move by the narrowing of the corners of his eyes, the glint of light in his pupils, then the resignation. Martin lost the contest even before it began.
The sheriff started for his gun.
The arrogant smile never left Shardeen’s face. He was snake fast. He had his pistol out and cocked, before Martin could clear his holster. When Martin saw how badly beaten he was, he let go of his pistol, and it slid back into the holster. At that moment Shardeen fired, his gun spitting a finger of flame six inches long.
“Bastardo!” the deputy yelled as he pulled his own gun.
Shardeen’s gun roared a second time. Ernesto, like Sheriff Martin, was unable to get off a shot. A large cloud of smoke billowed up from Shardeen’s gun. As the smoke drifted to the ceiling Shardeen stood there, the smoking gun in his hand, the arrogant smile still on his face. The sheriff and his deputy were dead on the floor.
Jim heard footsteps running upstairs, and when he saw Shardeen whip his gun around, Jim drew his gun behind Shardeen’s back. Shardeen heard the deadly click of sear on cylinder as the hammer came back on Jim’s gun. He looked around to see that Jim had the drop on him.
“Mister, you already dealt yourself out of this. Have you gone crazy?” Shardeen asked.