Ralph Compton - Blood and Gold

The warrior cupped his hands around his mouth and cried out: “Matanzas con Sus Dentes!”

Kills with His Teeth. It must have been he who had given me that name after my fight with the Apache at the hogback.

“What the hell is he hollering about?” Wingo asked, his face puzzled.

“It means Kills with His Teeth,” I answered. “It’s a name the Apaches gave me.”

Wingo looked at me in surprise. “Hell, for a younker, you sure got around, boy.”

I ignored the man, mustered my Spanish and yelled: “Qué usted desea?”

“What did you say?” Wingo asked, irritation edging his voice. “I don’t speak that damned Messkin lingo.”

“I asked him what he wants, but it seems he don’t much feel like telling me.”

The Apache had given me a name, but I didn’t know his. For him, this was powerful medicine that would weaken me if we ever met in a fight.

A few moments passed, the warrior sitting his horse, never for one moment taking his eyes off me. Finally, the Apache raised his arm and pointed in my direction, aiming his forefinger like a gun.

He stayed like that for a long time, in complete silence, then swung the gray around and loped away.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Apache had just warned me. He was telling me by his sign that he knew me and had me marked as a mortal enemy, someone he must destroy.

Maybe he was kin of the Apache I’d killed among the rocks, for he sure seemed to be holding a grudge.

Wingo realized that too, because he looked at me, grinning. “Boy,” he said, “near as I can tell, you got a powerful lot of enemies and mighty few friends.”

I nodded. “Seems that way.”

The big gunman slapped me hard on the shoulder. “Well, don’t you worry about it none because very soon now it will be all over for you.”

“Go to hell,” I said, my anger flaring as I pushed him away from me.

Wingo didn’t answer. He just took a single step back and went for his gun.

Chapter 18

Ned Tryon came out of nowhere.

As Wingo’s Colt swung up, Ned dived for his arm. The old man’s forward motion slammed Wingo’s gun hand downward and the outlaw triggered a shot into the dirt at his feet.

I palmed my Colt but didn’t shoot because suddenly Lila ran between me and Wingo. The outlaw cursed and grabbed the girl, holding her in front of him. Then he directed his attention to Ned Tryon.

“Damn you, you old goat!” he roared, his face twisted in fury. He leveled his gun and pumped a shot into Ned, then another.

My own gun was ready, but if I shot at Wingo, I’d likely hit Lila. The outlaw grabbed his rifle and backed up toward my saddled black, Lila shielding him. I sidestepped to the cover of the wagon, all my attention riveted on Wingo, desperately hoping for a clear shot.

I had already felt the outlaw’s strength, and now he demonstrated it again, effortlessly swinging Lila into the saddle. Keeping the horse between us, Wingo mounted, then hugged the girl close, and I knew he was going to throw a shot at me.

Lila was sobbing uncontrollably, limp as a rag doll in Wingo’s arms. I stood there tense and ready. Could I fire and take the risk of hitting her?

Wingo sat the black, grinning at me. His Colt swung up fast and level.

Suddenly Lila came alive.

She turned in the saddle and raked her fingernails down Wingo’s face, opening up bloody furrows in the man’s cheek from his left eye to his chin.

Wingo roared in pain and fury, his hand jerking to his face and Lila took her chance to squirm away from him. She jumped off the black and landed on all fours on the ground. Wingo, his ruined face streaming blood, cursed and swung his gun on her.

I fired. Too fast.

My bullet clipped the lobe from Wingo’s ear and the outlaw roared again, a cry soon dwarfed by the louder roar of his Colt. I felt a sledgehammer blow to my left shoulder and I was jerked around from the impact. That movement saved my life. Wingo’s second shot—the one that would have crashed into the center of my chest—whined past harmlessly. I was hit hard, but still strong enough to stay in the fight. I triggered another shot at Wingo, missed as he battled the scared, prancing black and shot again.

But the outlaw had decided not to stick around. He spurred the black and all I could do was waste a couple of bullets firing at his fast-retreating back.

Staggering from pain and shock, scarlet fingers of blood trickling down my left arm from my shoulder, I stumbled toward Lila, who was kneeling beside her pa.

“How is he?” I asked.

Lila looked at me, her face gray. “He’s dead, Dusty. He’s gone.”

The old man’s eyes were shut, like he was asleep, and his face was more peaceful than at any time since I’d met him. Whatever his inner torments, he was at rest now.

“He was so strong once,” Lila whispered, “a good farmer when he was younger.”

“I guess he was once,” I said. “The hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary, but the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory.”

Lila’s eyes searched mine. “Dusty, did you just think that up?”

I shook my head at her. “No, I heard it once. I don’t recollect where.”

“It’s true,” Lila said, her voice breaking on the words. “I will always remember him as he was when Ma was alive, not what he became.”

“Ned saved my life,” I said. “That’s a thing I won’t forget.”

Suddenly deathly tired, I slumped against the wagon. Lila saw the blood on my shirt and gave a little gasp of alarm.

“Dusty, you’ve been shot.”

I nodded. “Took one of Wingo’s bullets in the shoulder.”

Her father lay dead beside her, but Lila decided her duty was to the living. She said, her dark eyes concerned: “Unbutton your shirt and let me look.”

I did as the girl asked and after she examined the wound her face was pale with shock. “The bullet’s still in there, Dusty. It’s very deep.”

“Figured that,” I said.

I dug into the pocket of my pants and brought out my folding knife and opened the blade with my teeth. “Lila, you’re going to have to cut the bullet out of there. With this.”

Looking back, I don’t know what I expected: Lila to faint maybe or shriek and say she couldn’t do it. That was what pretty Sally Coleman would have done, I’m sure, since she wasn’t big on blood and such.

But Lila surprised me. There was steel in her and she was stronger, a lot stronger, than I had ever imagined.

The girl took the knife, her face frightened but her little chin was set and determined. “This will hurt,” she said.

“Figured that,” I said, smiling, pretending I was a lot braver than I really was.

Lila nodded. “Now I wish you’d saved some of Pa’s whiskey.”

“So do I,” I said. “Right about now, I’d be ready to swallow the whole jug.”

“Not for you, Dusty,” the girl said. She wasn’t scolding me, just being practical. “To clean the knife blade.” She managed a small smile. “God knows where it’s been.”

I nodded toward the dying fire. “Stick the blade in the reddest part of the coals. Heat will clean it as good as whiskey.”

Lila did as she was told, and when she came back to my side after a few moments, the point of the blade glowed a dull cherry red.

The girl pushed aside my wide suspenders and held the knife close to my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dusty,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t get a chance to answer because she immediately plunged the blade into my shoulder and I went rigid, my mouth wide-open, screaming silent screams I heard only in my head.

Lila dug deeper, her eyes intent only on the knife. Pain slammed at me time and time again and sweat trickled down my face. I clenched my teeth and arched my back, each hissing breath coming quick and shallow.