Norman Partridge - The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists

Kirby kicked the canteen out of Sanchez’s hands. It skidded across the dirt at a slight angle, leaving a mark like an especially long comma.

No one said anything. Kirby and Wyatt paced the Mexican as he bellied across the floor of Apache Canyon like a crippled sidewinder. The canyon was deep here. There were many shadows. But it was August and this was Arizona, and shadows did not make a difference. It was hot.

Sanchez hooked the strap of the canteen with his forearm and pulled it to his chest.

“You’ve got to hand it to the little bastard,” Kirby said. “He doesn’t give up, does he?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know how,” Wyatt said.

“He’ll learn,” Curtain said.

Curtain’s first name was Walter. No one called him Walt. He had a lot of money, and he was very wise with it. As far as he was concerned, all that buyer beware stuff was a load of crap. He didn’t believe in it. He believed in getting what he paid for. He figured that was the least a man should expect out of life.

Kirby drew his Glock M22 and aimed at Sanchez’s face. “Want me to finish him?”

“No.” Curtain sighed. Normally, the question wouldn’t have bothered him, because — normally — Kirby would have been the one to handle someone like Jesus Sanchez. But there was nothing normal about this situation. Apart from some minor assistance, Curtain was handling this job himself. And when he handled a job personally, he handled it start to finish. His own way.

Consequently, Kirby’s question was insulting. If Curtain wanted to finish this particular job with a gun, well then, he had his own. But this wasn’t a gun kind of job. This was a claw hammer kind of job. And as far as Curtain was concerned, he’d finished it.

Curtain glanced at the hammer in his hand, wondering why he was still holding it.

He dropped it in the dirt.

It landed without a sound, a bloody exclamation point.

“Let’s go,” Curtain said.

Kirby looked astonished. “You sure you want to leave him like this?”

Curtain glared at the bigger man, nodding very slowly.

“What about the canteen?” Kirby asked. “It’s a long way back to the Mercedes, you know. And it’s fucking hot today.”

“It’s fucking hot everyday,” Wyatt said, as if sarcasm would defuse the simmering tension. “This is Arizona.”

“Yeah,” Kirby said. “This is fucking Arizo — ”

“We’re finished here,” Curtain said quickly, because he was the boss, and his word was the word.

If Curtain said they’d leave Jesus Sanchez, they’d leave him.

If Curtain said they’d leave the canteen, they’d leave it too.

Right or wrong didn’t matter. A cast iron non-negotiable don’t-fuck-with-me attitude did. And as far as Curtain was concerned, Kirby should fucking well know that.

Curtain turned his back on the whole mess and started up the shadow-choked throat of the canyon. A few steps and he realized that Kirby and Wyatt weren’t following him. He didn’t have to look back to know that. The rut that passed for a trail was thick with shale and gravel. Even an Apache couldn’t move quietly in Apache Canyon.

So his ears told him that the gunmen weren’t walking, but they were talking. Whispering, really. And nothing singed Walter Curtain’s bacon quite as thoroughly as employees whispering behind his back.

He was ready to lose his temper when he heard footsteps.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Wyatt was coming.

Kirby stood below, looking long and hard at Jesus Sanchez.

Curtain whistled loud and shrill, the same way he whistled at his dog.

Kirby looked up at him.

Just like an Irish Setter, he came right along.

The first part of the hike was the toughest. The canyon rose at a steep, straight angle for a quarter mile. Twenty feet and Curtain wanted to stop for a breather. But he couldn’t do that yet. He kept at it. Switchbacks would have made the climb easier. But while the canyon was on government land, no park service crew was going to cut a trail in a meandering gash that any sensible billy goat would avoid.

Rock and shale slipped beneath their boots. Two miles hard and they’d be at the Mercedes. Even then, twenty miles of desert separated them from the slightest rumor of a town.

But it would be good to get back to the Mercedes. The ride was a first class toy. An ML320 — king of the sports utility vehicles, these days known as SUV’s. Curtain figured he deserved the best.

Wyatt would ride in the back seat. In a bigger car, that spot was reserved for Curtain. But in the SUV, there wasn’t much leg-room in the back, and the air-conditioning was less effective. So Curtain would ride shotgun.

Kirby would drive. He always drove. In a way, it bothered Curtain, because the car was his. But Curtain was the boss. The only time he drove was when he was alone. Kirby was his employee, so it was only right that he play chauffeur. If that was the price of keeping up appearances, then —

Damn, Curtain wanted to stop and catch his breath.

Below, Jesus Sanchez screamed in Spanish. Still proclaiming his innocence. Now adding his curse.

Curtain had his excuse. “Hold up,” he said.

Looking down, Curtain experienced a little spin of vertigo. They’d climbed higher than he thought.

The Mexican was not where they had left him. He had crawled about ten feet, onto a forked tongue of rock. He had the canteen, but the cap was still in place.

“Will you look at the little bastard,” Kirby said.

“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “Seems like Jesus isn’t a very quick study.”

“Give him time,” Curtain said.

They stood there in silence. Curtain tried to control his breathing. He thought about taking a shot at Sanchez, just to shut him up. Curtain was packing a Glock M24, which was just a little larger than the M22’s he’d purchased for Kirby and Wyatt.

Chalk the selection up to Money magazine. Curtain had read an article about corporate hunting retreats. Tips for managers, that kind of thing. The gist of the article was that the boss should always carry the biggest gun as a symbol of his authority.

But when it came to guns, Curtain knew that size didn’t matter. Skill was what counted. And Curtain doubted that he could hit Sanchez from this distance. If he missed, he’d hear it from Kirby. Even at this range, the big Irishman could probably pick off the Mexican. He was damn good with a gun. Even Wyatt ran a distant second to Kirby when it came to small arms work.

But there wasn’t any need, because Wyatt was right about one thing. Jesus Sanchez wasn’t a quick study.

Still, Walter Curtain had faith in his teaching methods.

Sanchez would catch on sooner or later.

Eventually, he’d shut up. Eventually, he’d have to.

Eventually, he’d be dead.

Curtain sidled past Kirby and Wyatt and took the lead.

“Carne muerta,” he whispered.

“What?” Kirby asked.

Wyatt translated. “Dead meat.”

Curtain’s heart pounded in his chest. Leading was harder than following. He had to set the pace, and it was disheartening to find that the pace he set wasn’t anything the hired guns couldn’t handle. The way they dogged his heels — Wyatt in the middle and Kirby in the rear — you’d think that he’d grown a couple of shadows.

Curtain grinned. That’s how it is when you’re the boss, he thought. And he liked being the boss. He liked to see people jump when he snapped his fingers.

Wyatt had figured that out a long time ago. Kirby was still learning. Jesus Sanchez was another story completely. And so was Curtain’s wife.