Showdown in West Texas

“How far is that?”

“Thirty, forty miles.” His breathing was becoming more labored by the minute. Cage thought he looked on the verge of passing out.

“What happened to you, anyway?”

“Been on the road for hours. Started feeling poorly so I pulled over and got out to walk around for a spell.” He took another swipe at the blood trickling down his face. “Damned if I didn’t pass clean out. Never done that before in my life. Must have hit my head on the bumper when I went down. Didn’t feel a damn thing.”

“Look, it’s none of my business,” Cage said. “But you really need to get to a hospital. You don’t look so hot.”

“Don’t feel so hot. But I can still put a lead cap in your ass, you try anything.”

“Tell you what,” Cage said. “I need a ride and you need a driver. What do you say we help each other out?”

“Do I look like the kind of ignoramus that goes around picking up strangers? Why, hellfire, boy, for all I know, you could be one of them serial killers I read so much about. I pass out again, you’re apt to slit my throat and steal my car.”

“Mister, if I wanted to steal your car, I’d already be ten miles down the road by now.”

He drew another bead. “You sure about that, son?”

Cage grinned. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

“Big talker,” the man said, and then he laughed. “But damned if I don’t believe you.”

“WHAT’S YOUR NAME, SON?” the stranger asked over the roar of the wind as the convertible glided like a sailboat down the highway.

Cage hesitated as he pretended to fiddle with the rearview mirror. “Frank. Frank Grimes.”

“Pleased to meet you, Frank. I’m Dale Walsh.”

“Where you headed, Dale?”

“Up the road a ways.”

“Where you coming from?”

“Galveston.”

Cage shot him a glance. “You’re a long way from home. What brings you out west?”

“On my way to see a man about a job.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m headed to a place called Jericho Pass. Ever hear of it?” He laid his head back against the red leather seat and closed his eyes.

“Can’t say as I have.” Cage’s gaze dropped to the gun that rested on the top of Dale Walsh’s thigh. “What do you do?”

“I guess you could say I’m a people person.”

“People person?” Cage said. “You mean like, sales or something?”

“Or something. Business ain’t been so great lately. Damn recession’s killing me.”

“I hear that,” Cage muttered. “So, what do you sell?”

When Dale didn’t respond, he glanced over at him. “Hey, Dale? You okay over there?”

Dale’s head lolled back against the seat. “I don’t feel so good.”

“So you said. You need me to pull over?”

“No, just keep driving, boy. I think you better get me to a doctor real quick. Something’s not right.”

“Hang in there,” Cage said. “And try to stay awake, okay? That head injury worries me.”

“I just need to rest my eyes a spell.”

“Here. How about I turn back on some music? Maybe you could try singing along or something.”

He turned up the volume, but Dale was already looking pretty out of it and Cage was starting to worry that he might be more seriously hurt than either of them had first thought. Head injuries could be deceptive. Cage had seen a guy walk away from a car crash once, perfectly lucid with only a few scratches and bruises, only to die a few hours later from brain swelling.

Hitching a ride with a guy on death’s door was not exactly the way he’d planned to make his getaway, but there was nothing he could do now but get the poor bastard to a doctor.

As they neared the next town, Cage stopped at the first gas station they came to and asked about a hospital. By the time he drove up to the E.R. entrance, Dale was unconscious. When Cage couldn’t rouse him, he flagged down a couple of orderlies to help him.

They loaded Dale onto a stretcher and whisked him into the hospital. The woman behind the desk gave Cage some paperwork to fill out.

“But I don’t even know the guy,” Cage said as he looked down at the form.

“Just do the best you can,” she said wearily. “When you’re finished, bring it back up here to me.”

Cage sat down in the noisy emergency room and looked over the questionnaire. A news broadcast on the television caught his attention, and when he looked up, he saw a map on the screen with San Miguel circled in red.

He laid aside the clipboard and went over to the television so that he could hear over the E.R. chatter.

The bodies of six gunshot victims including one female had been found in a bar in the small border town of San Miguel in Presidio County. A man who was seen entering the establishment was wanted for questioning in the shooting, which authorities believed was drug related. The suspect was described as being a white male, midthirties, six feet tall, lean, and walked with a noticeable limp.

Cage stared at the news anchor in shock. She’d just described him. He was the suspect.

And it was a damn clever ploy, too. By going public with his description, the bad guys would have every local lawman and highway patrol officer in the area on the alert for a man fitting his description. Cage had just become the target of every hotshot cop in West Texas looking to make a name for himself.

“Sir?”

Cage spun, startled. The man who had come up behind him was a doctor, not a cop, thank goodness.

He gave Cage a curious look. “Are you the man who brought in the heart-attack victim?”