The Killing Shot Read Online Free PDF Page A

her concern. “Be fine. Let me catch my breath.”
    â€œThat was a brave thing you done, son.”
    â€œIt was nothing, Ma.”
    â€œGet me some water,” the girl demanded.
    Harrah spit at the unconscious woman’s head. “There,” he said.
    Pardo took a step past his mother, watched the girl manage to stand and face Harrah. “My mother needs water,” she said, her voice cold, firm.
    â€œYou got balls, girl, but I ain’t wasting precious water on no woman who’ll be dead in ten minutes,” Harrah said.
    Pardo saw the little Sharps in her waistband, saw her pull it, long before Harrah did, and grinned at the girl’s spunk. It was a four-barreled .32 Triumph, and the kid jammed it into Harrah’s crotch.
    â€œYou don’t get some water, you’ll not have any balls to speak of,” she told him, and thumbed back the tiny hammer.
    The Greek laughed.
    â€œWhat the hell’s the matter with you people?” Pardo snapped. “That’s a lady lying there, and she needs water.” He went to Harrah and the girl, jerked the .32 from her hand, and gave Harrah a savage shove. “Fetch a canteen. Phil, I reckon we’ll need the buckboard after all.”
    â€œWe’re takin’ ’em with us, boss man?” Duke asked.
    â€œYes. Of course we are. Ain’t that right, Ma?”
    â€œWhatever you say, Jim.”
    Chaucer shook his head. “This whole thing has been a bust.”
    â€œYou think so, Wade?” Pardo dropped to a knee, put the back of his left hand against the woman’s cheek. If not for the blood, the busted nose, she’d probably be a fine-looking woman, and her breasts put Three-Fingers Lacy’s to shame. He grinned. Lacy would be almighty pissed to have this woman tagging along with them. She might strangle the woman in her sleep.
    Harrah handed him a canteen, and he wet down his bandana, put it on the woman’s forehead. She stirred slightly, shivered, and went still again. Pardo bit his lip until he detected her chest rising and falling.
    â€œI don’t think it was a bust, Wade,” he said again, washing the blood off her pale face. “Not at all.”
    â€œWe didn’t get that money,” Duke reminded him.
    â€œAnd the Army ain’t, neither. Blue-bellies can’t spend ashes, and that’s all that’ll be left of that damned Yankee payroll.” He looked up at Harrah. “What’d you collect off the people inside?”
    â€œNot much,” Harrah said timidly.
    â€œWhat?” Pardo demanded.
    â€œA couple of watches and a money belt. And a broach.”
    â€œToo busy looting the dead to notice a kid and her ma, I reckon.”
    â€œYou told us to—” Harrah stopped himself.
    â€œGive your plunder to Phil. Have him put it in the wagon. We’ll split it up when we get back to the Dragoons. Like we always do.” He handed Harrah the canteen, checked the woman’s ribs, her arms, her legs. “I don’t think she broke anything except the nose and some ribs,” he told the girl. “And I can fix the nose.” He winked at the kid. “I’m right experienced with busted noses.”
    The kid lifted her mother’s head, and let Harrah give her a sip from the canteen. Most of it ran down her face and into the dust.
    â€œShe might be bleeding inside,” the girl said.
    â€œCan’t do nothing about that,” Pardo said, “except bury her when the time comes.”
    Somewhere from the bowels of the wreckage, a scream suddenly sliced through the morning air. The whippersnapper of a girl went rigid, and Harrah dropped the canteen.
    â€œCareful with that water, you damned fool,” Pardo barked.
    Another scream. Then nothing but the roar of the inferno.
    â€œPoor bastard,” Pardo muttered. He looked at the girl again. “What’s your name, kid?”
    She glared at him. “I don’t