The Last Good Day, стр. 47
They rode up to within earshot and Rance yelled, “That’s close enough, what do you want?”
“Ah, gringos,” the lone rider said. “Need your horses.”
“Never gonna happen,” Rance said.
The rider placed his hand on the butt of the Colt in his belt, the initials WP carved in the walnut handle. B.W. looked at Rance and he nodded.
The exhausted horses had their heads almost to the ground, sweat salt covering their chest ready to go down at any time, the one with the two riders in the worse shape.
The lone rider turned his horse sideways, dismounted, slid his rifle out of the sleeve and pointed at them over the horse’s saddle. “Your horses now, señors, or you die.”
The two riders on the other horse didn’t move.
“No way,” Rance said.
The horse with the two riders suddenly collapsed, dumping the riders off over his head to the ground and fell over on his side, dead. The two riders jumped up and ran to the dead horse for cover.
The lone rider’s horse was frightened but too weak to run. He shook his head and staggered backwards, leaving the rider standing in the open.
He raised his rifle and Rance drew his Colt and put a bullet through his right eye and out the back of his head. Blood gushed out, covering his face and his dirty black shirt before he hit the ground.
The two riders stuck their heads up from behind the dead horse with their pistols in their hands and B. W pulled the triggers on both barrels of the twelve gauge and blew the guts out of the dead horse, and the faces off the two men, into buzzard meat.
The exhausted horse still on his feet stood there in a stupor, shaking, too tired to move from the spot.
“Looks like some of them did get away,” B.W. said. “That was Preston’s Colt he had.”
“I saw it,” Rance said. “Tommy, see if there’s any water left in your goat bag and give it to that horse. I’ll share mine with you.”
Tommy grabbed the bag off his horse and shook it. “Some,” he said and headed for the horse. The horse smelled the water and his ears went up. Tommy took the cap off, held his head back and poured what was left of the water in his mouth.
“I know what you’re thinking, B.W. See if they have any of the money,” Rance said. “I’ll pick up the weapons.”
B.W. sat the shotgun down and checked the saddle bags of the still-standing horse, nothing. He rolled the dead man over and searched him. He had twenty or thirty dollars in gold coins in his pockets.
“Not sure I want to do this one,” he said, looking at the splattered horse’s guts and what was left of the bloody faces of the two men.
“Suit yourself,” Rance said.
B.W. frowned and pulled the saddle bags off the dead horse, blood and guts dripping from them. “Same as the other, empty,” he said and quickly dropped the saddle bags. The two men had about the same amount of coins in their pockets. No more than a hundred dollars between all of them.
“Not much,” B.W. said. “Nothin’ to say to say it came from the robbery.”
“Not surprised,” Rance said. “Unger and his boys probably got the money off the dead.”
“You don’t want me to bury them, do you?” B.W. asked.
“Nope, we’ll take the weapons and there won’t be nothin’ left but the saddles by sundown.”
“You’re learnin,’ major. In time you might even be realistic,” B.W. said. “Wasn’t goin’ to anyway.”
Rance gave him a smirk, didn’t say anything.
“We’re not goin’ to leave the horse are we?” Tommy said.
“No,” Rance said. “Coyotes would have him in an hour. Unsaddle him.”
“Good saddle,” Tommy said.
“Don’t need it,” Rance said. “Get him some oats.”
They gathered up their things and rode away.
Further down the trail B.W. pulled up his horse and looked at the surroundings. “Getting into some territory I remember on the way out,” B.W. said. “That water hole we came by shouldn’t be more than two or three miles from here.”
B.W. kept turning back and forth in his saddle. “Yep, this is right,” he said.
“Hope it’s still got water in it,” Rance said, as an afterthought.
In the distance behind them they could see the buzzards gathering over the dead.
At high noon on the fourth day, they were sitting on their horses under the shade of a big cider on a ridge overlooking Traversville, Tommy hanging on to the desperado horse.
“You were right, B.W., four days and we’re here. Maybe you really are an Indian,” Rance said.
Tommy smiled. “I knew he was right all along,” he said.
“Of course you did,” B.W. said and smiled. “You have a plan, major, or do we make one up as we go?”
“We’ll go to the livery first and go from there.”
“Then you don’t have a plan,” B.W. said.
“Not exactly,” Rance said.
“Think Riley will be alright with us being in his livery stable?” B.W. said.
“Hope so. Don’t have any other place to go,” Rance said.
“I hate my Pa,” Tommy said.
“Hate is a powerful thing boy,” B.W. said. “Can keep a man from seein’ the truth.”
“Let’s go find out what the truth is.” Rance spurred his horse and took off, B.W. and Tommy right behind him.
Riley Jones was having supper in the livery with his two boys when they rode into the stable and dismounted.
Riley dropped a chicken leg onto his plate and stood up. The boys took a quick look and went right on eating the fried chicken.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Riley said. “You did come back.”
“Told you,” B.W. said.
“You get the money?”
“Nope,” Rance said, “someone beat us to it and roasted the culprits we were after.”
“Indians,” Riley said.
“Mixed.” Rance said. “Looks like you’re doing okay,” and pointed at the fried chicken.
“Miss Julie brought that over for the boys and I horned in on it.”
“Julie,” Rance said, surprised.
“Your friend, Julie