The Killing Shot. Johnny D. Boggs
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“Christ almighty!” W.W. Kraft yelled. “We’re unarmed. You can’t shoot us—”
“Can’t I?” Reilly’s voice was hoarse, but he made sure all of the Krafts, and that coward Gus Henderson, could hear him. He jacked another shell into the rifle and slid over a few feet, while K.C. started talking.
“Don’t you fret, boys. Reilly, your bullets won’t go through iron. You can’t get a clear shot from where you’re lying down, and if you stand up or move, you’re dead. You’re making a fool’s play.”
The Evans boomed. The bullet slammed into the iron wall behind the driver’s box, put a dent in Marshal Tidball’s prized possession, cut down, and whined off the floor somewhere out of his view. L. J. and W.W. cried out in terror.
“Bullets don’t have to go through iron,” Reilly said. “Ever seen how bad a ricochet can tear a body up, K.C.?”
“Reilly!” K.C. yelled. “Reilly, that’s murder!”
“I don’t give a damn.”
Silence.
“Odds are against you, Reilly,” K.C. Kraft tried again, but he no longer sounded so sure of himself. “Hitting one of my brothers—”
He shot again, jacked the lever, fired again, and again, and again. Let the smoke cleared, then shot twice more, listening to the bullets whine, and the Kraft brothers scream. His bandana was soaked with sweat and blood, so he unloosened it to wipe down and cool off the rifle barrel. As far as Reilly knew, he was the only man in Arizona Territory with an Evans rifle. Marshal Cobb called the weapon a pain in the arse, and sometimes Reilly would agree with him. He had to go to Tucson to get the ammunition, and even that was getting harder to come by since the Evans Repeating Rifle Company had gone out of business three or four years back, and the big rifle was damned heavy and cumbersome, but Reilly loved it. Especially right now.
“K.C., you stupid ass!” L.J. shouted when the din faded into the desert heat. “You ain’t the one stuck in here. Bastard just nicked my left earlobe.”
“I’m hit, too!” W.W. whimpered. “He blew off my damned boot heel.”
Reilly shot again, pushed out cartridges from his bandolier, and began reloading the rifle.
“He’ll be out of bullets soon,” K.C. said.
“Like hell,” W.W. argued. “That rifle of his holds more rounds than an armory.”
Reilly almost smiled. W.W. was right. Designed by, of all people, a Maine dentist, and featuring a rotary magazine in the walnut stock, the Evans had a 30-inch octagonal barrel that could chamber twenty-eight .44 cartridges—earlier models could hold more than thirty shells—and Reilly had filled every loop on the bandolier with a cartridge before leaving Charleston.
He wouldn’t die for a lack of ammunition.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of light, and rolled, pulled himself closer to the dead horse, already drawing flies. Off to the northeast, maybe three hundred yards, among a couple of spindly ocotillo cactus that were probably in a dry wash. That would be the man with the Sharps. At least, that’s where Reilly would have gone.
Reilly wiped sweat off his brow, rested the barrel against the buckskin’s stiffening forelegs, adjusted the tang sight he had a Tombstone gunsmith add two years back, and waited.
“Reilly!” K.C. yelled. “Looks like we’re at a standoff. I don’t want my brothers dead, especially not shot without a chance. And you don’t want you dead. Let’s work out a deal. A deal that’ll leave everybody alive.”
“Everybody?” Reilly said, never taking his eyes off those ocotillo. “What about Denton and Chisum?”
The wind kicked up.
He drew a breath. Waiting. Exhaled.
He made out the figure, or what he guessed to be the man with the Sharps, adjusted his aim for the wind, and squeezed the trigger. The Evans roared, but he detected something behind him and rolled, working the lever, cursing, seeing that Gus Henderson had found his courage, was leaping from the driver’s box, swinging up the Winchester.
Reilly’s lever jammed. If the Evans had one flaw, it was its tendency to jam. That’s one reason the company had gone out of the rifle business. Reilly swore again, pitched the .44 aside, reached for the revolver. Henderson’s shot spit sand into Reilly’s face and kicked away the Merwin. Reilly grabbed for the pistol again, Henderson’s shot almost tore off a finger or two, and the deputy was pleading: “Don’t, Reilly. Please don’t.”
He made another play for the revolver. Had to. This time, the Winchester’s slug spanged off the pistol, and Reilly let out an exasperated sigh. Slowly, he rolled away from the revolver, knowing it was over, that Gus Henderson wouldn’t give him another chance, that the Merwin was ruined, that his rifle was useless.
That he was as good as dead.
“I got him, Mister Kraft,” Gus Henderson shouted, smiling. “I got him covered.”
K.C. Kraft smoothed the handlebars of his reddish brown mustache. Except for those big ears of his, most people considered him a good-looking man: cowlick that gave a little height to his hair and forehead, a firm jaw, angular nose. He wore a brocaded vest, and, satisfied with his mustache, removed his wide-brimmed straw hat, and began running his fingers around the sweatband. Waiting. Studying Reilly with his brilliant hazel eyes while W.W. exchanged boots with the dead Slim Chisum and other men rolled smokes or reloaded their weapons.
One man rode up from the ocotillo-dotted arroyo, but didn’t bother to dismount.
“Carter’s dead,” the man said. “Gut shot. Bled out mighty quick.”
K.C.’s eyes twinkled, as he set the straw hat back on his head. From his vest pocket, he found a cigar, and nodded at Reilly. “You that good?”
“Scratch shot,” Reilly admitted.
“I’m reckon Carter’ll appreciate knowing that.” Still looking at Reilly, he said, “You about done, W.W.?”
“Just about.”
They had stripped the dead of money and watches, gone through the weapons—tossing Reilly’s jammed Evans, bandolier, and busted revolver atop the dead buckskin—and tied a silk rag tightly over L.J.’s bloodied ear. One of the riders had taken his gunbelt and shoved Frank Denton’s weapon into the holster. Another was pulling coin and scrip out of Reilly’s pouch.
“You probably could have held us off,” K.C. said, “if it hadn’t been for Judas here.”
Gus Henderson’s head dropped.
Reilly spit. “No. You would have killed me.”
“Maybe. But you probably would have shot one, or both, of my brothers to pieces.”
He jutted his jaw at the Evans. “Jammed. That ended it.”
“Would have been interesting, though,” K.C. said, “if not for Judas.”
Gus Henderson choked back something, and toed the sand with his right boot.
K.C. Kraft struck a lucifer against the butt of his holstered Colt and fired up the cigar. He took a long pull, removed the cigar, and asked, “You want a smoke, Reilly?”
He shook his head.
“What about you, Henderson?”
The deputy looked up.
“Don’t give me that look, boy. So you sold out your pards. You had good reason. Woman in the family way. You making hardly no money to speak of, risking your life for Arizona’s finest citizens. Reilly don’t blame you none, do you, Reilly?”
If Reilly had planned to answer, he never got the chance. Heavy iron slammed into the back of his head, and the next thing he