Peacemaker, p.3
Peacemaker!, page 3
He stood aside as the sheriff flung the batwing doors of the What Cheer open with the protrusion of his belly.
‘Jesus Christ!’ The voice cut through the noise of the busy saloon as Ryker followed Nolan inside. ‘Jack Ryker! The prodigal son returns. I hope you’re loaded with money that you want to spend here.’
Ryker smiled as a blonde woman ploughed through the crowd like a schooner in full sail. She was short—little over five feet—but advantaged by expensive slippers with inches-high heels and a pile of golden hair that lifted up not far off a foot above her scalp, the carefully-tangled ringlets dangling around a face that still held the memory of youthful beauty. Even now, with layers of powder and rouge camouflaging the wrinkles, and a mixture of heavy eye-shadow and garish lipstick hinting at the lost years, she looked good. She wore a full-length dress in gold, picked through with silver threading that looked close to bursting where the dress bulged over her breasts. A corset ridged visible lines beneath the gold material, picking in her waist and thrusting up her breasts, the nipping-in of her waist emphasizing the sensual sway of her hips.
She threw both arms around Ryker’s neck and planted a kiss on his mouth that left a sticky smear of cosmetic half-way over his face.
‘You look as good as ever, Dolly,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘And you, Jack.’ She stood back, looking up at him, her blue eyes filled with genuine pleasure. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘I never get a welcome like that,’ grumbled Nolan. ‘Maybe I should go off a while.’
Dolly Harman smiled and patted the lawman’s vast belly. ‘You’d starve, you great fat-gut. Come an’ eat.’
‘For free?’ Nolan’s face lit up. ‘On you?’
‘On me,’ she grinned. ‘On account of Jack.’
They went through the saloon to the ground floor rooms Dolly reserved for herself. She owned the What Cheer, and as it represented the best saloon in Tucson, she was something of a celebrity. Not approved of by the parson—for the upper story of the building was occupied by a series of small rooms that were only seldom used for sleeping in—but accepted as an honest citizen. One whose removal, no matter what the parson might say to the contrary, would be argued by over half the male population and most of the cowhands working the outlying ranches.
Dolly shouted orders, and a table was set. A linen cloth covered the scrubbed pine. Plates were laid out, flanked by silver cutlery. The barkeep left his post to bring a bottle of wine, taking care to wipe the neck of the bottle and check that the glasses were empty of cork.
Dolly lifted her glass in Ryker’s direction. ‘Welcome home, Jack.’
Ryker grinned and touched the rim of his glass to Dolly’s. The crystal rang like faint Christmas bells.
‘Got any beer?’ asked Nolan. ‘This stuff just winds me up.’
‘So blow away.’ Dolly sipped her wine. ‘This is a celebration.’
Ryker sipped the rich, red vintage. There was a label on the bottle depicting some kind of building that looked like a fort, and a whole lot of words in a language he guessed was French. The only part he could recognize was the date: 1840. Knowing little about wine, he wondered how a bottle that was better than thirty-three years old could taste so good.
The food was even better. Whatever Dolly served to her customers in the saloon outside, she ate better herself. Ryker spooned up the last remnants of a pudding that tasted like a mixture of pastry and cream and brandy, and followed Dolly’s instructions to open the decanter of amber fluid on the side-table.
Throughout the meal they had talked over old times. Ryker had brought his two friends up to date on his activities and they had kept him in line with local news. Now Nolan grinned at Dolly, refilled his glass, and smirked like a cat with a full bowl of cream.
‘Sounds like ole Sam Colt’s brought a revolution.’ He swallowed brandy. ‘I ain’t never heard of a gun sounds so good as this new model.’
‘I heard he was workin’ on something,’ Ryker said, cautiously. ‘But what? I got jacket shells for that Winchester I picked up, but they don’t load a Colt’s Navy. Folks been trying to create single load cartridges for years. Jesus! They been trying to make single shells in England an’ France since 1846. Smith & Wesson already got a rim fire cartridge out, but the best they offer is .38 caliber. That don’t stop no one, not unless you hit dead right. That .44 model they offer has the power, but it’s a clip-breach model. An’ hinging the chamber with a latch weakens the gun. You bust the barrel on some guy’s skull an’ the whole damn’ thing’s likely to fall apart. Only way to use all-in-one shells is to make an’ all-in-one pistol. Anything less ain’t worth the trouble.’
Nolan chuckled. ‘Way I hear it, Colt’s done just that. Got hisself a pistol that’ll stand up to heavy use an’ still load fast on ready-mades.’
‘I’ll take a look,’ said Ryker. ‘But I’ll only believe it when I see it.’
‘You never was a trustin’ kinda man,’ said Nolan. ‘You better come watch tomorrow.’
Dolly Harman chuckled and glanced at the sheriff. ‘Won’t be the only thing he watches, Frank.’
‘Guess not.’ Nolan finished off the brandy and scraped a finger round the rim of his plate. ‘There’s weapons worth watchin’. And there’s weapons worth usin’. Ain’t that right, Dolly?’
The blonde woman laughed and nodded, the movement of her body jouncing her breasts against the stiff confines of her dress. ‘Be a shoot-out worth watchin’, Frank.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Ryker asked. ‘I don’t understand.’
His friends went on laughing, refusing to answer his questions. All they would say was, ‘Tomorrow.’
Ryker spent the remainder of the day getting cleaned up. He took a long, hot soak in a tub while his clothes were sponged and pressed in the Chinese laundry that also washed his dirty shirts. He got his boots polished and sat in his room cleaning his guns as the afternoon faded into evening.
It was past twilight when the wagon rumbled into town, its sides emblazoned with the legend: The Gun of the Future. The Colt .45 Single Action model. The Pistol You Need.
He was tired then, and ready for sleep. He slid the blinds down over the windows and stretched out on the bed. So far his own guns had proved adequate to his needs. This new invention could wait until the new day.
Chapter Three
SHE WAS TALL for a woman. Around five and one half feet, with about two more inches added by the high-stacked heels of her boots. They reached up almost to her knees, though when she moved, her skirt swirled to expose a length of black-stockinged calf between suede skirt and boot-top.
The skirt was tugged in by a wide belt that simultaneously narrowed her waist and supported a holster containing a pistol. Above the narrow confines of her waist her body spread out under a stark white blouse, buttoned neatly to the neck, where a string choker held in the laced collar. It couldn’t hide the swell of her breasts, which thrust forwards unhindered by stays or corset, the excitement of the moment lifting her nipples so that the blouse was peaked on either side by twin points of interest. A tumbling fall of jet black hair framed her face, drawn back by a white ribbon that was wound around her forehead and then looped to hold her hair back in semblance of a pony’s tail. Her eyes were large and green, set either side of a straight nose that led the way to wide lips, red and full even without the aids of make-up.
She was one of the most attractive women Ryker had ever seen.
Her name was Ruby Turner.
And the last time he had seen her was when he left her in a Mescalero Apache campiv.
‘Ruby.’ He stood back, wanting to touch her, but unwilling to spark off the reception his touch might bring. ‘You working for Colt now?’
‘Jack Ryker!’ Her answer was cold and clear, lifting to the people gathered around the meadow where targets had been set up. ‘The man who left me to the Apaches. Who are you working for? The Indian Agency?’
The insult stung Ryker. ‘I’d kill a man for that.’
‘You could try.’ Ruby turned to face him. ‘But I’d back this new gun against that antique of yours.’
Ryker shrugged. He felt almost guilty. ‘No call to draw, Ruby.’
‘Bastard!’ Her voice was pitched lower now, so that only the two of them could hear it. ‘You left me! You left me to the Apaches.’
‘I didn’t have much choice,’ said Ryker. ‘It was you or the Gatling.’
‘And guns mean more than people.’ Her voice was a soft hiss; like a snake’s. ‘Jack Ryker—Gunslinger. Match me now.’
Ryker stared at her, confusion filling his mind. Clouding his thoughts. Had she been a man, he would have drawn and killed her on the spot. But Ruby Turner was something else—something compounded of respect and a feeling that was almost akin to love.
‘Targets,’ he said. ‘I'll not draw against you. We’ll use targets.’
Ruby smiled and nodded. ‘Sure. That’ll be good advertising. Like before.’
Ryker turned to study the marks set up at the far end of the meadow. They were about forty paces distant, easily in range of the Colt’s Navy model. There were two dozen bottles and two planks, each one painted with the figure of a man, the face and heart and stomach outlined in red paint. He nodded.
‘Two shots in each part,’ said Ruby. ‘Head, heart and belly. Then the same again. Fastest wins.’
‘All right.’ Ryker moved to stand beside her. Then stopped as she spoke again.
‘We load before firing.’ She smiled at him. ‘Starting with empty guns.’
Ryker frowned. ‘What you want me to do? I’m loaded on five.’
‘So shoot your load, Jack.’ Her lovely lips spread in a satisfied grin. ‘You’re good at that.’
‘What the hell d’you mean?’
‘We start on empty guns. Load and fire. Six chambers. See who wins.’
Ryker had learnt to hold his temper under control. It was one of the talents that had helped him stay alive, but now it burst out violently at the sneering confidence in Ruby’s voice. He drew the Colt’s Navy and blasted five shots into the fall grass on the left side of the field.
Ruby smiled. ‘Best take those spent caps off, Jack. I’ll give you time before we start.’
Ryker stared at her, wondering just how good the new Colt could be. And began to clear the cap and ball pistol ready for a fresh load.
‘You got your chambers all clean, Jack?’ Ruby stood with her hands fisted on her trim waist. ‘You ready to shoot off again.’
‘Call it!’
Temper took hold of Ryker again. Ruby just went on smiling.
‘Mr. Engell will count to three. After that, we start to work.’ She glanced back at the short, dark man standing nervously behind her. ‘All right, Lyle? You understand that?’
He nodded. ‘Sure thing, Miss Turner. I counted shots before. So long as you both understand you don’t do nothing until I say so.’
‘Start countin’,’ Ryker snarled.
‘Wait,’ said Engell. ‘I’ll begin in exactly one minute.’ He lowered his voice so that only Ryker and Ruby could hear him. ‘It’s better that way. It builds up the excitement. Gets folk really interested.’
It was a long minute. Maybe one of the longest in Ryker’s life. For no reason he could clearly define he was anxious to prove himself a better shot than Ruby Turner.
It was a long wait.
‘... 50 seconds . .. 49 ...’ Engell’s voice droned on ... ‘Ten … Three … Two … One … Load!’
Ryker’s right hand slung the Navy Colt clear of the holster. Slung it to his left as his fingers delved into his jacket pockets to haul the ready-made paper cartridges out and into the chambers of the Colt’s Navy model. They fitted down into the chambers like a cowboy’s pleasure.
He worked the ramrod, tamping each shell tight into the breech.
Began to set the fulminate caps over the nipples, forgetting the caution of greasing the loads in the need for speed.
He was still fitting caps as Ruby’s gun began to shoot.
She was firing two handed, balancing the revolver between both hands as she used her right thumb to claw back the hammer and her right forefinger to clutch the trigger.
She got off three shots before Ryker had the Navy Colt ready to fire.
He lifted the pistol, aiming from the hip.
He placed his shots carefully and fast. Two blending together on the outline of the face; two more in the belly area; the last two overlapping on the heart.
Ruby laughed and thumbed fresh cartridges into the strange new Colt.
Ryker began to load again, listening to the solid blast of the woman’s gun and the steady, relentless sound of shattering glass.
He got the Navy Colt reloaded and fired again. The six bottles on his side of the plank targets were gone into sunlit fragments scattered over the sand. When he fired he hit each target, breaking-, bottles with the same accuracy as Ruby.
But with one terrifying difference: Ruby had emptied her gun while he was still reloading.
She smiled at him, enjoying her triumph.
‘I beat you, Jack. Your load shoots too slow.’
Suddenly Engell appeared from the smoke, lifting a new model Colt above his head.
‘The gun of the future now!’ he shouted. ‘Forget cap an’ ball! Buy the Colt Single Action Revolver! It fires faster and it works harder. You can get shells in any good store! And they don’t backfire! It’s the Westerner’s friend! Solid! Reliable! You just seen how good it does! Buy now! I got two for auction an’ I’m ready to take orders for more.’
Ryker moved alongside Ruby. ‘How much?’
‘You bastard!’ But she still let him slip an arm around her shoulders and steer her clear of the crowd. ‘You still want a white squaw?’
He spun her round and kissed her.
‘Yeah. You still look good. How much?’
‘Jack Ryker, you are possibly the worst bastard on this ugly earth.’ She reached up to kiss him. ‘Let’s go talk about it.’
Ruby’s room in the What Cheer was larger than Ryker’s, and their dual presence brought an unusual frown to Dolly Harman’s face. But she still sent up a bottle of whiskey and a plate of sandwiches.
They ate them in bed, ignoring the crumbs that fell over their naked bodies.
‘It’s the best gun I ever seen,’ murmured Ruby. ‘It’s solid and accurate. Fast loading and quick firing. Same weight as the Navy Colt, but easier to use.’
‘Yeah?’ Ryker shoved the sheets down. ‘Like this?’
‘Ummh! Harder load. It’s .45 caliber. Shells match the Winchester.’
‘Long cartridges. Big bang when they hit.’
‘That’s right! Oh, yes! That is definitely right!’
‘Rim fire?’ asked Ryker. ‘Or center point?’
Ruby sighed. ‘Center, you bastard. You scored a bull’s eye.’
‘How many you got?’ said Ryker. ‘Of those new Colts.’
‘Two.’ Ruby eased her hands back through her hair. ‘Plus the one they gave me.’
‘What loads do they carry?’ Ryker eased up on one elbow, stroking her nipples.
‘Bastard! You want me or my guns?’
Ryker nuzzled a nipple. Then moved to the other before saying, ‘Both.’
‘.44-40.’ Ruby stretched back. ‘The whole idea was to match everything. Colt agreed to forget rifles and Winchester agreed to forget pistols. So the new shells fit the Winchesters and the handguns, both.’
Her hands dug into Ryker’s hair, pushing his face down.
‘Like this?’ he murmured. ‘Patch a deal on a snatch?’
‘Yeah!’
The room got filled up with silence for a while.
Chapter Four
MOST OF TUCSON and the surrounding territory was come in for the big display of the new Colt handguns.
Apart from the ranchers who thought it might be an idea to kit their hands with more efficient pistols with which to fight off wolves and Apaches and rattlesnakes, there were storekeepers who could see a whole new market opening up like the Strike of ’49.
And then there were the shootists: the men who had heard about the new pistol and its easy load. And recognized—like Ryker—the advantage of a hard-hitting gun that emptied out and reloaded fast.
Tucson filled up with so many vagrants of one kind or another that Sheriff Frank Nolan got a callous on his shoulder from wearing his new sling-strapped scattergun. He also got mental worries about what could happen if all the gunslingers got to fighting over the pistols.
So he deputized Ryker.
‘You’re crazy.’ The gunslinger shook his head. ‘You can’t deputize me.’
‘Lift yore right hand.’ Nolan dragged the final fragments of a sausage from his mouth and spat the pieces over the floor. ‘And say after me …’
He lifted a book from the desk, then shook his head. ‘Shit! Just take it as read. You’re a deputy. Here.’ He pulled a badge from the drawer and tossed it at Ryker. ‘Pin it on and do what I tell you. Or do what you want. So long as it don’t cross the law too much.’
Ryker looked at the six-pointed star and shrugged. ‘It ain’t gonna do you much good, Frank. Takin’ on a bounty hunter as deputy.’
‘I’ll worry about that,’ said Nolan. ‘You want to pin that thing on, or not?’
‘What’s it pay?’ Ryker asked, staring at the star.
‘Gets you one dollar a day,’ said Nolan. ‘An’ my gratitude.’
Ryker pinned the badge to his vest. ‘Yore gratitude don’t pay much, Frank.’
‘Don’t argue with yore boss.’ Nolan heaved his bulk from behind the desk and slung the scattergun around his shoulders. ‘Now you got that thing on you, you’re my deputy. You also stand in as marshal on this goddam shooting contest.’
‘I’m taking part,’ Ryker protested. ‘How can I do both?’
‘Stop askin’ questions fer a starter.’ Nolan waved him through the door. ‘After that, just do like I say an’ we’ll get us as fine a pair o’ handguns as I ever seen.’
