Free The Killing Shot by Johnny D. Boggs

for that. I guaran-damn-tee you that. How much money did you get?”
    â€œI don’t know. I lost the strongbox crossing the Pecos. Kept riding, but Texicans and the Army have a long memory, and a longer reach.”
    â€œYankees get their money back?”
    â€œI don’t think so. They were asking me about it when they caught up with me in Bisbee.”
    â€œThat’s good. That they didn’t get that money, not that they arrested you. Me, I had me a little plan. Robbed us a train. That’s how come I got the kid and that handsome woman with us. Derailed that son of a bitch, but everything went to hell. Boiler blew in the engine, express car and everything else went up in flames. The boys didn’t care much for it, but I say, at least the Yankees didn’t get their pay.” He clinked his mug against the cup in Mac’s hand in a rebel toast.
    â€œSo they caught you,” Pardo continued. “They started hauling you back to Texas. Who ambushed you in the valley?”
    â€œApaches.”
    â€œThat’s too bad.” Pardo emptied the coffee into the fire, watching the ash bubble and boil, and pitched the cup aside.
    â€œWould have been,” the man said, “if you hadn’t happened along.”
    Pardo rose. “Let’s take a ride, Mac. Don’t give me that look. Man’s strong enough to walk, he’s able to ride, I say. Saddle us up a couple of horses. I’ll ride that roan. Saddle the sorrel mare for yourself.”
    The man kept frowning. Hell, Pardo didn’t blame him for that. Suspicious. Maybe a little scared—he ought to be—but it didn’t show in his face.
    â€œNo offense,” he said softly, looking at the corral, “but that sorrel’s not much of a horse.”
    â€œDon’t matter. We ain’t going for much of a ride. That’s my saddle yonder. You take the McClellan.”
    â€œMcClellan?” The man frowned. “That’s a Yankee saddle.”
    â€œMakes you feel better, I took it off a dead Yank. Get to it, Mac. I need to talk to Ma and the boys before we light out.”
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    Ruby Pardo drowned an ant with a waterfall of brown juice when Pardo walked up to her. Working the lever of the Evans rifle, she grinned, and tossed the weapon to Pardo, saying, “Good as new.” He caught it but didn’t return his mother’s smile, and butted the stock in the dirt.
    â€œSomething’s the matter,” she said.
    â€œYeah.” He bowed his head. “I wanted to like Mac, Ma. Wanted to trust him. Says he hails from Johnson County.”
    â€œJohnson County ain’t Cass County, son,” his mother said bitterly. “Damned Yankees didn’t force Southern folks from their homes over there. That was us good people in Cass, Jackson, and Bates counties. A few families down in Vernon County. You remember Order Number Eleven.”
    He made himself meet his mother’s hard stare. “I remember, Ma.”
    She hooked the dip of snuff out of her mouth—a few flakes still stuck in her teeth—and shot a quick glance at the corral. “I never trusted him. You’d be better off killing him, plus that woman and her kid with a mouth like a privy.”
    â€œHe says Apaches jumped him.”
    She squinted. “Apaches, eh? But you said—”
    â€œI know what I said.” He hefted the rifle, tried to change the subject. “Heavy, ain’t it?”
    â€œIt’s loaded,” she said. “Where you taking him?”
    â€œDown below.”
    â€œBe careful.”
    â€œI always am.”
    â€œI’m sorry he didn’t work out, son.”
    â€œIt’s all right. He ain’t family. And like you said, Johnson County ain’t Cass County. I got to go talk to The Greek.”
    Â 
    Carrying and studying the Evans, he stopped where the boys were playing poker in front of the Sibley tent. Wade Chaucer didn’t bother to