Part 19 (1/2)

Unlike the Chinaman who'd taught him the maneuver, Yakima had never been able to s.n.a.t.c.h the beating heart from a man's chest. But his own hand was nearly as effective. The big half-breed raked a hoa.r.s.e breath through gritted teeth and froze, eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. His fingers uncoiled around the knife handle.

As the bowie hit the ground near Yakima's shoulder, Yakima slid his .44 from its holster, rammed the barrel into the half-breed's gut, and fired twice.

The man sagged forward. Yakima shoved him aside and got to his feet. He picked up the Henry and looked around the moonlit scrub as he thumbed more sh.e.l.ls into the rifle's loading gate. His chest rose and fell sharply, and his breath puffed visibly in the air before his face.

Behind him more shots rose from the other side of the ruins.

With one more glance around the quiet scrub, he wheeled and sprinted across the trail toward the cathedral, following the erratic reports to the north front corner of the hulking ruins.

Thirty feet beyond lay a low adobe wall. Two men crouched on Yakima's side of the wall about fifteen feet apart, triggering rifles over the wall's lip and into the small cemetery beyond.

As a gun barked among the silhouetted shrines and crosses limned by the milky moonlight, one of the men behind the wall cursed and sucked air through his teeth. ”Son of a b.i.t.c.h d.a.m.n near took my ear off,” Speares yelled.

To his left, Patchen triggered his Henry repeater over the wall, then ducked down and glanced at the sheriff. ”What did you think they were gonna do-shower you with roses?”

He jerked up again and triggered two more quick shots, eliciting a sharp curse from deep in the cemetery's shadows.

Yakima ran crouching toward the wall, announcing himself to the lawmen. He ducked behind the wall between them, pressing his back against the crumbling adobe bricks.

”s.h.i.+t,” Speares said, thumbing fresh sh.e.l.ls into his Winchester's breech. ”I figured you was dead.” The sh.e.l.ls clicked on the rifle's loading gate as the sheriff stared at Yakima. ”You find my girl?”

Yakima glanced at him, lips parted, hesitating. He was glad when Patchen cut in: ”You kill all them sonsab.i.t.c.hes on that side of the church, Yakima, or do we gotta watch our backsides?”

”I killed all the ones that tried to kill me,” Yakima said, pausing to return a shot from the cemetery with three from his Yellowboy. When the sh.e.l.ls had clattered into the dust behind him, smoking, he levered another fresh round. ”That isn't to say I got 'em all all.”

”We accounted for two over here,” Speares said, reloading his Winchester as Patchen fired behind Yakima. ”But three more pinned 'emselves down in a stable yonder.”

Yakima thumbed the last of his .44 sh.e.l.ls into his Yellowboy and squatted on his haunches, looking up and down the wall. ”I'll try to swing around behind-”

A man called from the shadows, cutting him off. ”Hey, a.s.sholes!”

Patchen chuckled. ”Speares, I think you're being summoned.”

”Funny.” Speares edged a glance over the wall's lip, toward a ruined stable hulking up at the far end of the cemetery. ”Are you you a.s.sholes ready to give up?” a.s.sholes ready to give up?”

”Don't count on it, friend,” the desperado yelled. ”But we are are tired of hunkering down out here like greaser cowards, using up all our ammo. What do you say we all show ourselves like real men, finish this thing out in the open?” tired of hunkering down out here like greaser cowards, using up all our ammo. What do you say we all show ourselves like real men, finish this thing out in the open?”

Yakima turned toward Patchen, who was crouched behind the wall, his hat off, staring toward Yakima. Yakima looked at Speares. The sheriff shouldered up to the wall, rammed a fresh sh.e.l.l into his Winchester.

Yakima edged a look over the wall toward the stable. The pearl moonlight angled over the thatch roof, silhouetting the two small windows. ”No one starts shooting until we're all out in the open?”

”Square's square,” rose the reply.

”Hey, Yakima,” Patchen said. ”You got a couple extra .44 sh.e.l.ls?”

Crouching, keeping his head just below the wall's lip, Yakima moved down to where Patchen sat in the dust, his back against the wall, his hat on the ground beside him. A bullet had burned a b.l.o.o.d.y line across his right cheek.

Yakima ejected two sh.e.l.ls from his Yellowboy. He held them out to the marshal, who plucked them off the palm of his gloved hand, then shoved the first sh.e.l.l into the Henry's loading tube.

He squinted one eye. ”Sorry about the misunderstanding at Saber Creek, huh?”

Yakima glanced over the wall, spying a couple of moving shadows near the stable. ”Just don't be late with that Henry.”

He stood, stared across the cemetery. The three men were moving out from the stable, one with his rifle barrel resting on his shoulder. The other two carried their rifles at port arms.

Yakima swung a leg over the crumbling wall. To his right, Speares followed suit, moved up beside Yakima. Patchen stepped up on his left.

Moving out, the three matched their strides to those of the three desperadoes walking toward them, the moonlight dropping down over the outlaws' hat brims to limn their unshaven faces and deep-set eyes. The one on the left wore an eye patch and bowler hat, and had two pistols strapped low on his thighs. The man in the middle had long hair and silver hoops hanging from his ears. The right side of his face was badly scarred, that eye as white as the moonlight pooling on his broad hat brim.

As the three moved to within twenty feet, the short man on the right pa.s.sed under a leafless sycamore, and the moonlight angled across his hatless head to reveal a Mexican woman's plump, round face and her flaccid b.r.e.a.s.t.s jiggling behind her heavy ta.s.seled poncho.

Her expression was as hard as any man's, and she carried a carbine repeater in her gloved hands.

”Just my luck,” Speares grumbled. ”I been wantin' nothin' more than to drill a pill through Jack Considine's forehead, and here I am facing a woman woman.”

”That's no woman,” Yakima said. ”That's a killer.”

When the desperadoes were about fifteen feet away, the man facing Patchen stopped suddenly, jerked his rifle up, and swung the barrel forward. The man with the hoop earrings stopped and crouched a half second later, grinning savagely as he spread his feet and snapped his Winchester toward Yakima.

As the man with the bowler fired at the marshal, smoke and flames stabbing from his rifle, Yakima snugged the Yellowboy to his right hip and fired, the Winchester leaping in his hands. The man with the hoop rings fired his own Winchester twice in the time it took Yakima to squeeze off three rounds.

As the woman shrieked and hurled Spanish epithets amid the gunfire that she and Patchen exchanged, Yakima fired two more shots at the man with the hoop rings. Concentrating solely on his own target, he continued striding forward through the smoke and echoing reports and gun flashes.

The man with the hoop rings shrieked and dropped to one knee, firing his own rifle one-handed, the bullet plunking into the ground three feet in front of Yakima. The gun flash revealed bloodstains in his torn duster and a gus.h.i.+ng wound in his right cheek.

As Yakima moved forward, his rifle clicked. Calmly, he set the empty Yellowboy down against a wooden cross, then, hearing shouts and rifle reports behind him, slid his Colt from its holster and thumbed back the hammer.

The man with the hoop rings fired another errant shot, pushed to his feet, and ran staggering off toward the stable, his b.l.o.o.d.y duster flapping like wings around his legs.

”Turn around,” Yakima said.

Behind him, Speares yelled above the sporadic shots behind him, ”Why won't you die, you b.i.t.c.h b.i.t.c.h?”

The man with the hoop rings dropped his rifle and continued past the stable. Near a cl.u.s.ter of pecan trees, he dropped to his knees, facing away. Suddenly, he spun, aiming a revolver.

Yakima continued walking toward him, firing once, twice, three times. The outlaw jerked with each shot, triggering his own revolver skyward. Yakima's last shot blew the top of the man's head off.

He fell on his side, kicking for a long time before he lay still.

Holding his pistol straight down at his side, Yakima turned. The shooting had stopped. A couple of figures were slumped amid the stones and crosses. Striding back through the cemetery, he saw the woman lying on her side to his left. To his right, the man with the bowler hat lay slumped forward over a gravestone.

Continuing forward, he found Speares lying on his side, clutching his chest with one hand, his upper left thigh with the other. His hat was off and his hair flopped in his eyes.

”b.i.t.c.h shot shot me!” me!”

Yakima knelt beside him, ripped the sheriff's neckerchief off his neck, and wadded it up. As he stuffed the cloth into the hole in Speares's chest, footsteps rose on his right. He turned to see Patchen staggering toward him. Blood shone on the marshal's forehead, above the previous bullet burn. He cradled his left forearm across his chest, wincing, sucking air through his teeth.

The marshal glanced at Speares. ”How bad he hit?”

”Can't tell,” Yakima told him.