The Killing Shot(10)
“And your ma? What’s her name?”
“Dagmar.”
“Dagmar what?”
“Dagmar Wilhelm.”
“All right, Blanche Wilhelm, we’re going—”
“I’m not Wilhelm. My name’s Blanche Gottschalk.”
Pardo blinked.
“My father died,” the girl had to explain. “My mother remarried.”
“Gottschalk. Wilhelm. I don’t know which name’s ornerier on the tongue.”
“Gottschalk,” Chaucer said. “It means ‘God’s servant.’”
“I wouldn’t know nothing about that,” the kid said, which got a laugh out of Chaucer.
“Where were you bound?” Pardo asked.
“Tucson,” she said.
“That where your pa, your new pa, lives?” Pardo asked. He was thinking that a husband might pay a handsome reward for a woman like this, maybe a few bucks for the spitfire of a stepdaughter, too. It was something, he figured. Something to keep a lid on the tempers of the boys, because, no matter what he could claim about burning Army money, Chaucer had been right. This damned robbery was a bust.
“Sigmund Wilhelm,” the girl said, “was probably that poor, dumb, screaming bastard we just heard.” She turned away, dropped her head, and whispered, “He was a poor, dumb bastard, too.”
“That ain’t right, girl,” Pardo roared, his finger back in Blanche’s face. “You don’t speak like that of your pa, stepfather, no kin. You don’t speak of them like that.” But he was thinking: My pa was the same, kid. Just a poor, dumb bastard.
He rode in the wagon with Ma, the kid, and the woman. Wouldn’t trust any of his men with such a fine-looking lady. He also rode with the watches—one with the glass busted, no longer running, but the gold would bring enough for a whiskey—broach, money belt, and other items Harrah hadn’t bothered to mention, their loot for their first, and last, train robbery. Pardo decided he’d stick to other ventures such as stagecoaches, banks, and the like.
They had left the burning wreckage, camped that night in an arroyo, and crossed Alkali Flat the following morning. Most of the boys wanted to stop at Dos Cabezas, but Pardo and his mother knew better than that. Yankees weren’t fools. Nor were the Southern Pacific brass and Cochise County’s law. Probably, a posse was already raising dust from the bend in the tracks, moving south, heading for Bloody Jim Pardo and his gang.
He bathed the woman’s face again with a wet bandana. Her eyes fluttered, opened, and darted from Pardo to the sky, to quiet little Blanche, who firmly held her mother’s hand. The woman might live after all, Pardo thought. Thanks to his doctoring. He’d even set her busted nose. Swollen, purple, but it would look almost normal in a week or two. So would Dagmar Wilhelm.
“Ma’am,” Pardo said, but the kid’s voice drowned him out.
“Mama!”
Dagmar Wilhelm wet her lips, tested her voice, forced a smile. Then her face changed. “Where’s…” Barely audible. “Sigmund?”
Blanche didn’t answer. The woman’s eyes locked on Pardo.
“She’s awake, Ma,” Pardo said happily. He couldn’t look away from the woman. Green eyes. Just like her kid.
“That’s fine, Jim.” Ma showed no interest in the woman, but she had never liked any woman, especially not Three-Fingers Lacy. “Just fine.”
“What happened?” Dagmar tried again.
The kid cleared her throat. “These bastards derailed the train. Killed every—” She stopped herself.
Pardo smiled. “James B. Pardo, ma’am. At your service.” He tipped his hat. “I pulled you out of the pits of perdition, Miss Dagmar. Saved your girl’s hide, too.”
Her eyes squinted. “Par-do?”
“Call me, Jim, ma’am. I’d be honored.”
He put his hand on her shoulder, felt her entire body tense. Closing her eyes, she mouthed the words: Bloody…Jim…Pardo…
With a sigh, Pardo shot Blanche an angry look, then felt the buckboard stopping. He turned toward the driver’s box, saw his mother setting the brake, reaching for her Winchester. The boys had reined in their mounts, too, atop a ridge.
As Pardo rose, drawing his Colt in the same motion, he saw the turkey vultures circling overhead, and the black wagon and dead horses, mules, and men down below.
CHAPTER FOUR
The buckskin’s front legs buckled as Reilly swung his left leg over the saddle, trying to pull the Evans rifle from the scabbard, yelling something at Denton and Chisum, looking for the powder smoke to find the location of the bushwhackers, watching Gus Henderson dive for cover into the driver’s box, searching for something that might resemble cover, all in one motion, in a matter of seconds.