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  The Prisoner of Gun Hill

  Paul Lederer writing as Owen G. Irons

  ONE

  He didn’t like being a killer.

  Luke Walsh felt that he was already being tormented adequately by a bad decision. He needed no hell like the one he was passing through. The purgatory wind of the white desert buffeted him as he rode on across interminable miles of sand. The wind bent back the brim of his Stetson and threatened to blow it from his head. He could not lose his hat – not out here. He paused to drop the drawstring and run the bead up along the two strands, tightening it under his chin. As he did so he lifted his eyes to the ranks of serrated, chocolate-colored hills ahead of him. He reached for his canteen and was able to milk a drop or two from it.

  His big gray horse was shuddering under him, lathered with foam, nearly ridden to death. There was nothing Luke could do for the animal. He had no water, he could not pause to rest. They were back there, somewhere, following. The hot desert breeze continued to blow fitfully. It tugged at his clothing with hot grasping fingers. Luke had not seen a signpost, but he was certain that he had made a wrong turn and ridden directly into Hades.

  He rode on, the horse foundering beneath him. Luke’s body collected no perspiration; the wind evaporated it before it could collect, denying him even that much cooling. His tongue had begun to cleave to his palate and his lower lip was split open. The sun was raising blisters on the back of his neck despite his hat now being tugged as low as it would ride.

  The sand began to grow thinner, whisked away by the gusting wind, and he found himself looking across a vast playa, the remains of an ancient sea. It stretched out bleakly toward the distant hills where he hoped to find water even though he was not familiar with them. He and his gray horse were the only living creatures on the vast expanse. Not a rattlesnake, perching bird or crawling insect could survive on the playa. All creatures require some sort of moisture to survive.

  Luke squinted against the glare of the sun, reflected now off the patchwork of dried clay molded by the passing eons into cracked, haphazardly shaped tiles. His horse shuddered again and made a pitiable sound in its throat. This was it, then. He glanced behind him at the white-sand desert and considered going back. It was a brief, desperate thought. There was nothing back there. He would only be giving the land a second chance at killing him, and riding back toward his pursuers, and there surely must be men pursuing him, men on fresher horses, better outfitted and supplied with water for the trek.

  He took one moment to damn that faithless Dee Dee Carson and started his faltering gray out on to the endless stretch of gray-white playa.

  The sun was now lowering itself behind him as he continued his eastward ride. But the demon sky was not cooling; it seemed to grow hotter, and the wind that he had cursed abated and left the desert flats a breathless frying pan. Luke felt his horse stumble again and he tried to jerk its head up, but it would not rise and the gray plodded on, the hard-baked playa under its hoofs too dry to even raise dust as they passed. Something odd, bright red and angry flickered across the desert wasteland, drew closer and struck Luke in the eyes.

  When he opened his eyes, he found himself flat on his back against the heated clay of the playa. Confused, he tried to sit up, found that he could not. He couldn’t understand how this had happened until he realized that he was lying next to his faithful gray, that the animal was dead and already stiffening. From somewhere a group of all-knowing buzzards had appeared over them. A dozen, two dozen. Soon there would be hundreds of the carrion birds. They, too, had to have moisture to survive, and theirs was extracted from flesh.

  It took long minutes for Luke to drag himself backwards on his palms and sit up, resting his back against the dead horse, the silver-white sun in his eyes.

  Well, then, he thought. This was the end, unless he moved, got to his feet and somehow found crude shelter. He would have to do that or die where he sat. On his knees he pulled his Winchester rifle from its boot, unstrapped his saddle-bags from the saddle ties and with one massive surge of his flagging strength, managed to pull the bags from underneath the downed horse. Exhausted with the effort, he slung the saddle-bags over his shoulder and sat down again, unsure if he could continue onward.

  Probably because the whipping devil wind had died down, perspiration now began to trickle into his eyes, down his throat and under his arms. It did nothing to cool him. It seemed now to Luke that he had two choices: to die where he sat, or to stagger ahead as far as he could and die there. Only one of these options held even the smallest bit of hope.

  He turned and rose, using the horse’s body to lever himself to his feet.

  He walked on.

  If, in fact, his stumbling, staggering gait could be called walking. He veered left and right like a drunk. Finally, inevitably, he fell. He skidded face first against the hot, unyielding surface of the playa, which was as solid as ceramic tile; he remained there, his arms outflung, his hat lost beneath his body. He would rise again. Soon, he promised himself, but his first attempt to do so was a failure as was his second an hour or so later. His movements were uncoordinated, his limbs unresponsive. It was as if all of his body had given up the will to live. Except for his mind, which urged him to do something, try anything to survive.

  But there was nothing to do but die. He closed his eyes against the glare of the sun and waited to find out what it was like to be dead.

  Something jerked at him. Something rolled him over and raised him to a seated position. He was roughly handled, and then thrown on to his back again. This place was just as hard as the desert earth, but somehow different. Luke’s head felt wet, as if someone had dumped a bucket of water over it, which was exactly what had been done. He opened one swollen eye to discover that he was lying in the back of a heavy wagon carrying lumber. Used lumber, judging by its weather-grayed, splintered appearance.

  Someone, then, had found him and was taking him … somewhere.

  Or maybe he was dead and this was the burial party. He shook the absurd notion out of his mind and tried to lift his head to see who was driving the large wagon, where they might be headed, but it required too much effort and he lay back again, listening to the metronomic beating of the mules’ hoofs as they traversed the wide desert, going … somewhere. Which was a better place than the nowhere he had imagined ending up.

  He found he could not sleep, but in the end it didn’t matter. The bright red thing appeared again and he simply passed out in the bed of the freight wagon as it wended its way toward its uncertain destination.

  Only half-alert, he heard someone say, ‘No sense in letting him die now.’ Someone clambered from the seat of the freight wagon into its bed and again poured water over his head. Some of it streamed toward his moisture-starved mouth. Luke sucked in the remarkably delicious, life-saving trickle of refreshment.

  He thought he nodded his thanks, but it might have been more a thought than reality.

  The wagon rolled on; it was moving noticeably slower now, apparently climbing a grade. Luke, still only half-aware of what was happening to him, thought he could smell the pungent scent of mountain juniper. Had they made it into the foothills then? So soon?

  He realized he had no idea of how long they had been traveling, so it might have been possible. He had faded in and out of consciousness the day long as the punishing desert sun crept across the sky. A shadow crossed his face and he opened his eyes. The shadow had been cast by a single cedar tree standing beside the trail. So they were in the hill
s, on the flanks of the chocolate mountains. The temperature seemed not to have fallen; his ride had gotten no more comfortable; his future looked no brighter, except that he now had a future of some sort.

  He must been a pathetic figure if anyone were looking at him, which no one was: sunburnt, blistered by the heat, hair lank, clothes torn, eyes nearly sealed shut, his body battered in the fall from his horse.

  But he was alive.

  No thanks to Dee Dee Bright. That was not the name she had been christened with, but it was what she called herself. Not many women in her profession used their real names. He had met her in Tucson, Arizona while traveling with the Havasu Ranch bunch, and decided that it might be a good idea to stop over awhile. Dee Dee had that effect on men.

  She was an entertainer, a hostess at one of the larger saloons in Tucson, the Hamilton House. Well, those were the words she used to describe her profession. In truth she was one of the many women who have discovered that taking off her clothing for lonely men is an easy way to avoid doing work of any sort. It paid well and seldom got her hurt. It beat washing pots and pans in some hot kitchen.

  Luke wasn’t trying to rescue her; she had gotten beyond that point, but he was willing to help her when she explained her predicament.

  ‘Virgil Sly is back in town. I saw him. He sent a note to me saying he wants to take me with him,’ Dee Dee said as they sat on the edge of her bed with its flouncy blue coverlet. Luke nodded. He had been in Arizona Territory long enough to have heard of Virgil Sly. A killer with a fast gun and an ugly attitude. Half of the law enforcement agencies in Arizona were looking for him. He was shadowy, slippery, and he had once been Dee Dee’s lover before he had been forced to flee Tucson after holding up the Union Bank, killing a teller and a stander-by.

  ‘I know you won’t believe this,’ Dee Dee said softly, ‘but he is the only man I ever could love. The rest are just bookmarks in my life. Virgil thinks we can make it to Mexico without getting caught. He says he’s enough money for us to live there comfortably the rest of our lives.’

  Which he probably did, considering the numbers of robberies he was reputed to have staged.

  ‘I hope it works out for you, then,’ Luke said, feeling a little uneasy. Her small, pale hands gripped his work-hardened sun-browned one.

  ‘We haven’t known each other long, Luke, but you’ve treated me right and I count you as a friend.’ Moist blue eyes lifted to his. ‘I need you to help us.’

  ‘Me?’ Luke asked, stunned. He didn’t know the law, but did know that any help he gave a criminal like Virgil Sly was illegal.

  ‘I can see you don’t understand what I’m trying to tell you,’ Dee Dee said, letting her hands fall away. She rose and walked to the window of her room, the sunlight streaming prettily through the sheer fabric of her negligee. ‘I’m in danger, Luke,’ she told him, suddenly swirling to face him, her eyes still damp.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Luke encouraged, still dubious.

  ‘A man who used to ride with Virgil, a man named Cotton Werth, is looking for Virgil – that’s the reason Virgil hasn’t been to meet me. Cotton thinks that Virgil cheated him out of the proceeds from certain … endeavors.’

  ‘No honesty among thieves?’ Luke suggested.

  ‘I’ve heard that before, but Virgil isn’t like that.’ She sat on the bed again and sighed. ‘But Cotton Werth is convinced that it is so.’ She waved a hand in the air. ‘Oh, it’s all too complicated to be explained.’ She settled for: ‘Cotton Werth thinks he was shorted and he’s mad. So mad that he’s been to the town marshal’s office and told Marshal Stoddard that Virgil is in town.’

  Luke frowned. Even among criminals, that was out of bounds. You don’t rat on your friends to the law.

  ‘And so?’ Luke prodded.

  ‘And so Virgil cannot come to meet me. Marshal Will Stoddard has men watching all around the Hamilton. Virgil can’t get to me and I can’t sneak out to meet him.’

  ‘I see,’ Luke replied, ‘and just what is it you’re planning to do, and what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Nothing illegal,’ she told him, taking his hand once again, sincerity filling her pale blue eyes. She gulped twice, then turned her eyes down and told him, ‘I told you Virgil has been sending me notes. If we can’t manage to shake Cotton Werth, we’ll never get to Mexico. Virgil has asked me to invite Werth up to my room a little after midnight.

  ‘Virgil wants to offer Werth a share of the money that Werth claims is due him in exchange for our freedom. Worth can always tell Marshal Stoddard that he had news that Virgil had escaped from town and was headed for Flagstaff, or somewhere. Any story will do. Then the marshal will lift his surveillance, you see.’

  ‘Do you think Werth will go for it?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he? This all started over money; it’s all he cares about.’

  That made a kind of sense. Luke ran his eyes over Dee Dee, from her sleek dark hair to her small, somehow beautiful feet. He was grateful to her for having let him know her. He knew it was never going to be a lasting arrangement – she was not that sort of woman. She had a man she loved. The killer, Virgil Sly. He didn’t like it, but the words spilled out of his mouth.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked again.

  ‘Just this,’ Dee Dee said, bouncing excitedly on the bed as if she were a young girl. ‘Cotton Werth can be dangerous – he’s one of those Red Butte boys, and they’re all wild. Virgil can’t be around to protect me, so I would like you to just be near by in case Werth doesn’t like the offer, or in case he tries to….’ her voice trailed off, and Luke thought he knew what she meant.

  He considered the plan for a long minute, took a deep breath and said, ‘If that’s all you want – someone to make sure Werth doesn’t hurt you, I can do that.’

  ‘You’re a generous man, Luke Walsh,’ Dee Dee said, pulling him down to her on the bed. She was generous as well.

  After midnight, as Luke stood in the shadows of the Hamilton House’s alley, he shivered slightly in the chill of the night. He was clothed only in jeans and a light flannel shirt. Hunching his shoulders, hands thrust deep in his pockets, he pondered the wisdom of the bargain he had made with Dee Dee Bright.

  He did not know Werth, did not know his inclinations. He had only the vaguest of descriptions of the man. Yet despite Virgil Sly’s well-known perfidiousness, he was Dee Dee’s man and she deserved a chance at a little happiness after the life she had led. Or so he had convinced himself. Even if all went well, if Werth could be bought off and they could elude Marshal Will Stoddard, they would have to live life on the run, even if they made it to Mexico. That, he knew, was none of his business and there was no point in telling that to Dee Dee.

  She only wanted to be with her man, and even if it included a rough ride across the desert with men pursuing them, she would have her moment. Luke Walsh had promised her that, reckless promise though it might have been.

  As he stood shivering in the darkness a lantern flickered on behind Dee Dee’s upstairs window. He thought he heard low voices communicating. He moved slowly toward the outside door of the Hamilton and slipped inside. No one was watching. Strangers came and went at all hours of the night. Luke stood looking up the stairwell by the narrow light of a lantern.

  Dee Dee screamed.

  ‘Help me. Someone please help me!’ Luke was bounding up the stairs, pistol drawn. Something had gone wrong. It seemed that Dee Dee’s mistrust of Werth was well-founded. Rushing toward her room, Luke slammed his shoulder against the wood of the door; it opened with a splintering of wood around the latch. Dee Dee was flat on her back on her blue bed. On top of her was a bulky man without clothing. All Luke could see was rounded white flesh and a curious look of surprise as the man’s head turned toward him.

  Luke fired twice, the Colt bucking in his hand, filling the room with acrid gunsmoke. The sound of the shots was still echoing in his ears as the fat man rolled off Dee Dee and slammed against the floor, dead.

  ‘That
worked out all right, then!’ Dee Dee said, sitting up in bed, nude to the waist. There was a satisfied smile on her full lips. Luke started to cross the room, saw the strange man’s clothing folded neatly on the wooden chair, his coat positioned over its back. There was a shiny badge pinned to it.

  Luke didn’t have to ask. He already knew that he had just killed Marshal Will Stoddard.

  TWO

  Luke figured he would never know if the plan Virgil Sly and his girlfriend had devised had worked out. He only knew that he had been suckered into killing the Tucson marshal by a bit of leg and a false smile. A man never seems to learn. Dee Dee had obviously invited Stoddard up to her midnight room for the sole purpose of having him killed. When Luke, pushing in like some false cavalier had made his play, he had ended every chance he had ever had for his own advancement in life.

  He had become a vagrant killer in the long desert, presumably pursued by a posse, his life dependent on his horse, which was not strong enough in the end to preserve it.

  Now he was … where was he? What was he? Who were these men he found himself traveling with – if lying inert on the bed of a freight wagon can be called traveling with someone. There was a burlap sack filled potatoes stuffed under his head as a pillow. Other similar sacks holding some sort of supplies were strewn around him. He opened an eye; even that smallest of movements seemed painful. He caught a glimpse of a yellow half moon, of scraggly, water-deprived juniper and desert cedar trees. He knew they were ascending a trail by the tug of gravity on his battered body. Now and then the wagon hit a chuck hole or a stretch of washboard, which might have been what jolted him alert in the first place. If his present state of awareness could be called being alert.

  More trees appeared, dusty and stunted, and the moon cast shadows through them. It was cooler now; the dying sun had tucked itself away beyond the horizon, heading toward the distant sea. They had gained altitude. Enough to cool the searing heat of day. The trees, wretched unkempt creatures that they were, seemed to aid the coolness.