Read Online The Killing Shot by Johnny D. Boggs - Free Book Online

son?” Ruby Pardo spit into the fire, the tobacco juice sizzling against a stone.
    He shrugged. If Mac had told him they were taking him to Yuma, he would have killed him then and there. ’Course, they could have been headed to Yuma, could have turned the wagon around when they were ambushed, could have turned back because of some other problem, but Texas made sense. Extradition , Wade Chaucer had mentioned. Some big word like that.
    â€œIf he robbed the Yankees at McKavett or killed one of them, he might be all right,” Pardo said.
    â€œYou trust him, then?” His mother put a screwdriver to the Evans.
    Reilly filled a cup with black coffee. “You know me better than that, Ma. Man still has some questions to answer. Like how come he wasn’t killed? Like who ambushed them? Like what exactly is he wanted for in Texas?”
    â€œMaybe Apaches done it,” Ruby said.
    â€œNo, Ma. Apaches wouldn’t have left him to bake to death in that wagon. They would have had their fun with him.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    â€œWait. I’ll see the major before long. Major Ritcher would know something about this guy.”
    Ruby set the rifle and screwdriver aside. “That’s smart, son. Real smart. Don’t trust nobody, and keep your eye on that Wade Chaucer.”
    â€œI always do, Ma.”
    â€œSmart. You’re smart, and brave. You pa’s proud of you, Jim. Real proud.”
    Pardo rubbed his nose and frowned. Pa. If only his father could tell him that, to his face, but he had been shot down like a mangy dog during the war. Kansas redlegs had burned down his home, turned Pardo and his ma into outlaws. Well, a lot of bluecoats had paid for what they’d done to his family, and Pardo hadn’t finished collecting.
    â€œI’m proud of you, too, Jim,” his mother said. That meant more to Pardo than anything. He sat a little straighter.
    â€œAnd what about the woman and her kid?” Ruby asked. “The woman’s fit as a fiddle now.”
    â€œWe’ll see about them, too.” The coffee tasted as bitter as his mother’s voice had turned when she spoke of Dagmar Wilhelm.
    Â 
    The girl’s face had changed. A slim hand lifted a spoon, but pulled away.
    â€œYou are staring at me,” she said. A trace of a German accent.
    Reilly tested his voice. “Either I’ve slept as long as Rip Van Winkle…”
    She tried to laugh, but couldn’t. Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them down. “I’m Blanche’s mother,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Wilhelm.”
    She was tall and slender, her clothes torn, stained with blood; face, hands, and arms purpled with bruises, cuts; her eyes filled with a pain caused by something other than those injuries. He could see her in the kid named Blanche, but this one wasn’t so tough, and her lips were full, round, not the thin, frowning, hard lines of her daughter. Mrs. Wilhelm had fashioned a bandana into a bonnet, and grimaced when she lifted the spoon again.
    â€œI’m…” He stopped. Who could he trust in this camp? The kid had said she and her mother had been taken by Pardo. The kid had saved his life. But…still…
    â€œCall me Mac,” he said. He slid up, and took the spoon from her shaking hand. She seemed grateful, and quickly lowered her arm, pressing it slightly against her side. Ribs , Reilly thought. She had busted a rib or two. He wondered, How long have I been here?
    â€œI can feed myself, ma’am,” he told her.
    When he had finished eating, he tried to stand, but needed Mrs. Wilhelm and Blanche to help him to his feet. He leaned against a tree, aware of every eye in camp trained on him.
    They were far from the sagebrush and desert, higher, much cooler. He felt the trunk of the tree supporting him, looked up at the giant limbs, and shade. A massive oak. Piñon and sycamores also hemmed them in, stretching