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  Bullets droned overhead. The enemy knew where he was but could not see him. But soon Savage could see them, one of them at least. It was a Mexican standing in a shielded doorway with a rifle to his shoulder and blasting at the gate house.

  Savage took his time aiming. His bullet caught the Mexican in the temple, spattering tissue all over the red brick wall.

  Savage lay on his side, feeding fresh bullets into the magazine. Soon he heard hoofbeats. The ambushers were making a run for it. But he still hadn’t identified who they were until, running away to his left to gain a sweeping view of the battle scene, he saw the band of horsemen thundering away.

  The biggest of the party glanced back once over his shoulder … and Savage recognized the striking features of Vinny St. Claire!

  SAVAGE 12: BIG ADIOS

  By E. Jefferson Clay

  First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  © 2022 by Piccadilly Publishing

  This Electronic Edition May 2022

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One – The Family Man

  Chapter Two – Of Pimps and Whores

  Chapter Three – I Am Yaqui Joe

  Chapter Four – Streets of Socorro

  Chapter Five – Shadow of an Outlaw

  Chapter Six – Rolling Death

  Chapter Seven – Gun Flame

  Chapter Eight – Ambuscade

  Chapter Nine – Unholy Alliance

  Chapter Ten – The Big Kill

  About the Author

  Chapter One – The Family Man

  RED SLOTTER WAS a train robber from Texas and his companion Jim Avis was an evil man who liked to torture people with knives and hot pokers. Both men were standing by their horses on a knoll overlooking a nameless Sonoran village, trying to figure out a plan of action.

  This was no mean feat for this pair of expatriate American killers. They’d cheerfully allowed the genuinely clever Vinny St. Claire to make all their decisions since shooting their way across the border into Old Mexico two desperate years earlier.

  They’d been ambushed by Federales at Lazaro and St. Claire, ‘Sainty’ to his pards, was missing and presumed dead. Slotter had suffered a head cold while they were being chased fifty miles across the desert, and Avis had been run out of a no-name town by irate citizens because of what he did to that girl in the room above the Sierra Saloon.

  It wasn’t unusual that the first decision they came to was that they should kill everybody.

  Sounded good considering what they’d been through. But even they soon realized that shooting everyone was both costly and impractical.

  A full hour of debate followed until it was agreed that the only sensible thing to do was to mount a full-scale search for their leader. Without Sainty they doubted they could survive a week.

  In the time it took to reach their decision, the gloom of false dawn had given way to the real thing—a cold and shivery sunrise which threw trail, scarred landscape and town into harsh relief as the first rays came streaking over Mount Blanco. It was the scene of one of the gang’s earliest triumphs when they raided the Federales’ armory and stole a cannon that they later used to blow up a train. That little incident netted the gang a cool three thousand dollars in cash.

  Gone were the days.

  As they started off, hard, hatchet-faced gringos on fine horses and carrying gleaming weapons, redheaded Slotter flicked his battered Army field glasses at the distant town. He then suddenly jerked his buckskin to a halt.

  “What is it?” grunted Avis, hauling rein.

  “Big geezer just showed up on the street,” Slotter said slowly, thinking hard. All this for the second time in the same morning. Had to be a record for Slotter.

  “American, two shooters ... looks kinda familiar.”

  “So?” Avis was impatient to start the search for Sainty, and they sure as hell weren’t going to find him up here.

  “Dunno,” muttered his companion, massaging the back of his neck. “But I got a feelin’ I oughta know him. Here, take a look.”

  Avis fitted the glasses to his beady eyes and grunted. The slow-moving figure was American all right. He was also tall, wide-shouldered and gun-hung. He was hatless and the field glasses brought the broad-boned face into sharp focus. Avis’s first reaction was to shake his head. But then he frowned, took a second look, and scowled as he handed them back to Slotter.

  “Cain’t say as how I know him, but I do believe you’re right, amigo. There’s somethin’ familiar about him, that’s for sure.”

  An eagle soared overhead, the sun was clear of the mount and the horses were getting restless. They swung away from the little village like a pair of coyotes looking for mischief and promptly forgot about the tall gringo on the streets of Nacozari.

  But in time they would remember him and the way he wore those guns ... and remember him well.

  It was one of those rare and dazzling Mexican mornings.

  The town was asleep and the sights, scents and sounds beyond the humble village were telling the tall stranger that this was the Mexico of dreams.

  Savage hated the place.

  It was a safe bet that the big black dog rooting in the trash can ahead of him had no sniff of his aversion of the place, even had it been aware of him.

  The dog, a scavenger like many in Nacozari, was at that moment aware of only two things—the gnawing hunger in its belly and the waft of chicken bones coming up from the bottom of the can.

  Savage halted with his cigar halfway to his lips. He was heading for the livery stable to check on Stud and the dog happened to be in his path. In villages like Nacozari, they would steal a man’s horse while the rider was still in the saddle. A month ago, Savage had turned down an offer of one thousand American dollars for his sorrel and regarded every citizen in this vast and penniless country as a prospective thief and rogue.

  Clint Savage, adventurer, manhunter and sometime government agent, wasn’t always this anti-Mexican. He was here under sufferance and he hated every minute.

  The animal’s head was now deep in the overturned can, its paws clawing at the mountain of garbage.

  “Beat it!”

  The hound stopped its clawing and its big ugly head came out of the can. He looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. This happened to be the biggest and meanest dog in Nacozari, and was the prized possession of one of its toughest citizens. It’s owner never fed it from one year’s end to another to teach it all about hunting and survival.

  “Get out of my way, mutt, or I’ll have your balls on a plate.”

  The dog’s lips peeled back in an ugly snarl. Its teeth were big, sharp and dripped saliva. A deep growl followed.

  Savage kept his eyes on the dog and pulled a broken slat from a rickety fence at his shoulder and whacked it ha
rd against the fence. The dog left the ground, spraying garbage and barking loud enough to wake the dead.

  While it was flying through the air, Savage raised a big boot to place it square in the dog’s belly. Then the irate owner shot through a tiny gate close by.

  The man had witnessed the whole affair from his front window.

  Although Savage had been known to do a little brawling in his time, he was not looking for trouble now. He simply wanted to check on Stud then get out of here as quickly as he could.

  “Neighbor—” he began, but that was as far as he got. A cursing owner and a snarling hound were coming at him from different angles.

  “Shit!” Savage said disgustedly, hauling a Colt and touching off two shots that seemed to shake the village to its foundations.

  When the bullets hit the cobblestones beneath the aggressive feet of dog and man and drilled a hole through the owner’s gate, the fracas was over before it had begun. In their haste to escape the crazy gringo with the gun, the blacksmith and the dog got tangled up with each other and fell untidily amongst the trash. The blacksmith’s wife and overweight daughters then appeared, hastily drawing on robes and clutching saucepans and whatever they could lay their hands on.

  The women screamed and attacked.

  Savage swore as he was backed into a corner. Friends, neighbors and total strangers joined the women in a screeching, gringo-hating mob. They came at him with everything.

  Savage cursed his desire for that early-morning cigar—cursed himself for being here in the first place, and cursed the ugly mutt.

  He’d been shot at so many times of late he decided to give himself a two-week break, taking his time to get back Stateside. He was traveling with his sidekick Yaqui Joe, enjoying the southern sunshine and a little peace and quiet—rare commodities indeed for Clinton Dylan Savage.

  A woman caught him between the shoulder blades with a mop. That was the last straw!

  “No, amigo, please do not shoot!”

  The cry came from directly behind him as Savage lined up a plump and rosy-cheeked grandmother in his gunsights.

  Whirling from the hips, he was astonished to see Yaqui Joe astride Joachim with a saddled Stud on a lead—ready for the trail.

  Just for the hell of it, Savage emptied both six-shooters above the heads of the mob, sending them diving for cover. Then smoothly vaulting the fence, he hit leather and dug.

  Within minutes, Nacozari was far behind them, just another memory to add to the nightmares of Old Mexico.

  “So, did your companero rescue you in the nicks of time or what, companero?” Yaqui Joe beamed.

  Short, bowlegged, big-nosed and of questionable integrity and uncertain courage at times, the Mexican had not stood too high in Savage’s esteem of late. But today, Yaqui Joe had come through in fine style and all he sought was a little acknowledgment.

  Savage was not in the mood to give him one sniff.

  The day was hot, a wind was blowing dust in their faces and his belly was empty. The best he could do was growl.

  “Tell me again, why am I down here with you gettin’ battered by fat women with mops when I could be playin’ poker with Hickok up in Dodge?”

  Yaqui Joe’s features were a mixture of enthusiasm, guile, optimism and deceit.

  “We are here because my cousin Francesca writes me to tell me that my favorite uncle, Ignacio, is dying. She says to come quick so her rich old father will leave his favorite nephew, that is me, some of his vast wealth. Is simple, no?”

  Things were never that simple with Yaqui Joe.

  This was so typical of the breed, the loving family man who had not seen his uncle once in the last twenty-five years. How he could call him his favorite Savage could not tell.

  But this time Savage’s snaggle-toothed companion was telling a smidgen of truth.

  Uncle Ignacio Martinez had been a gold miner. Yaqui Joe had shown Savage photographs of the old man standing outside his mine with his darling daughter.

  Now the old man was dying and his daughter was his only child. If what Francesca said was true, if ever there was a timely hour for Yaqui Joe to pay his favorite uncle a visit, it had to be now.

  Even Savage saw the merit in that, and he was almost feeling good again as he thought of the fat old man and his big fat mine.

  “Good old Uncle Ignacio,” he said with a grin.

  “Wonderful and generous Uncle Ignacio!” Yaqui Joe beamed, flinging skinny arms wide. “Lord Jesus, may he not die until we are certain he will leave his nephew some riches.”

  Savage turned serious.

  “There ain’t any doubt about you gettin’ that dinero, is there?”

  “None, companero, none in the whole wonderful world,” Yaqui Joe insisted, successfully concealing the slightest twinge of uncertainty. He clearly recalled a then youthful Uncle Ignacio as a capricious, snide, underhanded, unpredictable son of a bitch. “Francesca and myself shall be rich, and naturally, as my great good crazy companero, you too shall drink from the golden cup of good fortune with us.”

  Savage liked to hear that kind of talk. He found his smile again. “Well, in that case, I also pray he lives a little longer.”

  All over San Rafael, in every adobe, roomer, hotel or hovel, there was the rattle of coat hangers as people took from their closets the special clothes worn only on Sundays, fiestas or important funerals.

  And how much more important could today’s funeral be when they were to lay one of San Rafael’s most affluent citizens to rest?

  It was true that the deceased had very few friends and admirers in this town of some six hundred souls. Yet poor as so many such towns dotted across Sonora were, San Rafael respected the rich and successful for their rarity if for nothing else. So they brushed off the dust and pomaded and posed before their mirrors with that sense of excitement that comes with an important occasion, and soon the early-comers were out on the streets and heading for the square. There, amongst other important buildings, was the church, the padre’s house, and opposite, the premises of Señor Felizardo, San Rafael’s undertaker.

  Felizardo had an easy time with this funeral. Often he had to labor long into the night to repair bullet holes and generally improve the features of the deceased so people could see how good they once looked. But no amount of creativity could make Ignacio look handsome. This was a fact even admitted by the sole relative living in the province. Michelangelo would have his work cut out making Ignacio Martinez look good.

  It would be a closed coffin.

  Felizardo’s main concern as he put the finishing touches to casket, coach, horses and floral tributes, was whether or not he would be paid.

  It was typical, he thought, that when the richest man in town went to his reward, there should be uncertainty about payment.

  Convinced he would never die, and having made no provision for his death, Martinez was survived only by his daughter, Francesca, although there was some rumor that her missing cousin could show up.

  In making the arrangements, Francesca promised to make restitution from the legacy she expected to receive.

  Francesca was kept as poor as a church mouse by her father. But not too poor, so the undertaker thought resentfully as he screwed the lid down tight to make sure the deceased stayed put. Francesca spent what little money she had not on the service but on hiring Mama Acuno.

  Mama Acuno was San Rafael’s professional mourner.

  It was rare that a planting took place these days without Mama’s highly specialized skills.

  Mama gave an occasion the style, class and drama which might otherwise be lacking. There were people in the town who despite a fine turnout and all the trappings, never believed a soul had been properly laid to rest without San Rafael’s premier griever in attendance.

  Everyone turned up at the church to find the gleaming casket in place surrounded by garlands of flowers. Francesca had ordered them from herself and her missing cousin.

  The Veg
as were there in their private seat by the altar as befitted the province’s elite. While the deceased had money, Luis Vega, his lofty wife and dashing son, Rodrigo, boasted both wealth and aristocratic bloodlines. They had the finest rancho in a hundred miles and enough arrogance to sink a Mississippi steamboat.

  Teniente Chalo, lawman of San Rafael was also there despite the fact that these days he was occupied with the Vinny St. Claire bunch’s activities in the region.

  Also present in their Sunday best were the mayor, the merchants, the moneylenders and the landlords. They were spilling from the front row seats normally reserved for the peons, vaqueros, teamsters, miners and the out of work.

  They were all there to see Martinez off, and the last of the celebrities arrived arm in an arm to make their way down to the very front seat, the loveliest woman in the province and the dead man’s daughter.

  Despite the yawning gaps in their social position, Francesca Martinez and Amanda Buell, daughter of the town’s major businessman, had been lifetime friends. They went back to the days when the girls and Francesca’s cousin, Jose, played together in the church yard, learned their catechism and shared the mysteries of adolescence until Jose was stricken by wanderlust and simply disappeared.

  A buzz of whispering greeted the women’s arrival and eyes flicked from Amanda to Rodrigo Vega, reported to be romantically involved despite Don Luis’ opposition.

  Next the good padre appeared in his robes, yet appeared to be waiting for something before commencing.

  That something arrived. A large woman in somber black with a red rose pinned to her bodice and broad-brimmed black hat worn at a dramatic angle, swept down the aisle, eyes fixed on the casket containing the earthly remains.

  “Such insupportable loss!”

  Mama Acuno’s hushed words barely carried to the closest pew. But the intensity could almost be felt.

  “Oh sweet, sweet Ignacio ... that this should be the end!”

  Her voice was a little louder now as she halted some ten feet from the casket. She pressed the rose to her breast, eyes rising slowly from the mortal remains to the crucifix above the altar. “My Lord, why hast thou taken the purest of heart first?”