Will nodded in their direction. “Who’s the crew?”
“They ain’t mine. We done a little bank together and that’s the end of it. We split equal four ways an’ then we’ll ride off in four different ways.”
“How about you pull the saddle offa your horse an’ we’ll set at a table an’ drink some beer an’ talk things over?” Will said.
“You betcha,” Austin answered. “Hell, I ain’t seen you in . . . what, six, seven years? Not since you—”
“Closer to eight,” Will interrupted, moving to a table. He watched as his friend pulled cinches.
There’d been four of us figurin’ to take the Wells Fargo stage. Rumor had it the coach was carrying pay for silver miners—American bills, not army script. The trail at one point was a long, sweeping curve around a marsh and there were trees on both sides. We heard the rumble and rattle of the coach long before it came into sight. Each of us outlaws pulled his bandanna up over his nose, covering most of his face.
“Don’t feel right,” I said quietly, our horses standing together.
“Why? It ain’t the shotgunner’s nor the driver’s money. They ain’t gonna die for it.”
“I dunno. Seems like we been tappin’ coaches a little too hard around here, Austin. This one’s it for me—I’m takin’ my split an’ haulin’ ass.”
Austin thought that over as the sounds of the stage grew louder. “Might could be you got a good idea there, Will.”
We had planned the heist out pretty thoroughly. Austin and me would come out from the trees in front of the coach and hold our guns on the shotgunner and the driver. The other two men would drag out any passengers and get the cash box secured under the front-facing seat. We’d collect the guns any passenger might be carrying—and those of the shotgunner and the driver—and ride off, rich, happy, without having spilled a drop of blood.
That’s when the plan went straight to hell.
The fellow riding shotgun raised his weapon toward me and I shot him in the chest. The driver reached for a holstered Colt and Austin put a slug into his shoulder, slamming him off the seat and onto the ground.
There was a barrage of pistol shots and the percussive boom of a shotgun at the passenger door, and both of our partners went down. Three Pinkertons shoved their way out of the coach and opened fire on Austin and me. Austin’s horse—a strong, fast bay—caught a bullet that tore off one ear and a good piece of his head, and he went down, hard. Austin did his best to push off, but his horse came down on his lower left leg and boot, pinning him. He fired at a Pinkerton as he struggled to get free, but missed. His second round took the man in the stomach. He screamed and went down. The Pinkerton with the shotgun was looking for me, butt of the weapon to his shoulder, but the coach horses were between us. The battle was over. We were outgunned, and Austin, although he was able to free himself, was a target for a pair of angry, bloodthirsty hired guns who’d just seen their partner gutshot.
I spun my horse away from the carnage and slammed my heels into him. Then, after a couple of long strides, I hauled back on the reins, rolled the horse back over his haunches, and pounded back to the stagecoach, thinking what a damned fool I was. I wrapped the reins loosely around my saddlehorn, pulled my hide-out derringer, drew my rifle from its scabbard at my right knee, and rode in firing and shouting like a goddamn madman.
The Pinkertons hustled to the rear of the coach. Austin, face as pale as that of an alabaster doll, leaned against the open stagecoach door, his left foot held off the ground. I galloped directly at him, my good horse picking up speed, coming at Austin like a runaway train. Austin latched onto my horn with both hands and swung on my horse behind me. A cluster of pellets from the shotgun snarled by us like a swarm of angry hornets, and a couple of pistol rounds weren’t too far off—but we made it.
“My foot’s busted,” Austin yelled into my ear, “but I can ride OK.”
“Ya damned idjit,” I called over my shoulder. “You let that pissant Pinkerton kill your horse . . .”
“I figured I’d git us a bottle of rotgut, too.” Austin grinned as he set a tray of beer and the bottle of whiskey on the table.
“I shoulda warned you,” Will said. “The whiskey here tastes like it run straight outta Satan’s boot.”
“Don’t make no matter. Booze is booze, no?”
“Not this dragon piss.”
Austin drank off a half schooner of beer and poured from the whiskey bottle until the mug was full. He tasted it and smiled. “Ain’t bad this way,” he said.
“Well.”
The silence between the two men settled in very quickly and very uncomfortably.
“Look,” Austin said, “I never seen you since you dumped me off onto that sorrel stud. He was a good horse.”
“Yeah. He was. Best in our crew—’cept mine. His owner didn’t have no use for him, not with all that Pinkerton lead in him.”
“Mmmm. What was that feller’s name—you recall?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Decent fella, though.”
Will took a sack of Bull Durham from his vest pocket, offered it to Austin, who refused, and rolled himself a smoke.
“Ya know, I never knew why you come back when the Pinkertons was gonna shoot my ass off,” Austin said. “Thing is, Will, I never got to tell you thanks or nothin’.”
“No need,” Will said. “I guess I woulda done it for any outlaw.”
“Well, here’s the thing: I owe you, Will, an’ I wanna pay you off.”
“I got all the money I need, Austin. There’s—”
“That ain’t what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Austin said. “I . . . uhhh . . .”
“What?”
“I worked for Hiram for a bunch of months when the law was hot after me while you was in Folsom, Will. He was a good man. Me an’ him, we usta throw horsehoes an’ so forth. He was my boss, but he was my friend.
“An’ when his ol’ . . . when Sarah wasn’t about, I used to ride the girls on my horse—at a gallop, Will. They loved it. They’d laugh an’ so forth an’ have one he . . . heck of a good time.”
Will nodded and began to roll another cigarette. “I wonder, can we talk about somethin’ else—?” Will began.
“No. No, goddammit, Will Lewis. That devil One Dog killed folks I . . . I loved. I’m goin’ to put a lot of lead into them sonsabitches—but One Dog, he’s all yours, Will. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. That’s the way it will be.”
Will sucked down a beer, thinking. “You ride with me, you’ll more’n likely die,” he said, “an’ probably die hard.”
Austin grinned. “So will a pile of them murderin’ scum.”
Will considered for a long moment. “This ain’t a pleaure ride, Austin—no robbin’, no stealin’, no whor-in’. It’ll be hard ridin’ an’ lots of blood.”
For the first time in the saloon, the grin disappeared from Austin’s face. His eyes caught and held Will’s. “Understood,” he said. Then, he repeated, “Understood.”
Will shook his head. “Dammit, Austin, you don’t know what you’re gettin’ into here. One Dog an’ his crew are—”
The grin came back to Austin’s face as he interrupted Will. “What those loons are is not as tough as we are. Right? All we gotta do is kill the whole goddamn bunch an’ then we’ll be all set. Right?”
Will shook his head again. “Damn,” he said.
“Looky here, Will,” Austin said. “You ever seen a man as good with a gun as me?”
“Yeah. Me. An’ I seen this gunnie standin’ on one leg waitin’ to see how many holes the Pinkertons could put into him.”