by Caleb Rand
Will dismounted, eased his holstered Colt and started towards the store. Gaining shelter of the loading platform, he untied the two horses, sent them on an eager, veering run into the rainy darkness. He glanced at the irregular run of lighted windows along the street, wondered if the townsfolk would stay safe until the noise and general mêlée was over. He saw Henri walking towards them, his gait made more awkward by the suck of greasy mud around his boots.
‘So let’s go fight. You first,’ Latch said and followed Will up on to the mercantile’s covered landing.
Edging along the clapboarded walls, Will came to the front door, warily looked into the gloomy interior. He could see the long, stacked counter, the slice of light that showed under the door along the rear wall. He stepped into the store, wondered about the murmur of voices that held no hint of identity or purpose. The shortest moment later he cursed silently and crossed the floor.
In the office, Bruno Ogden was holding up a document in his left hand. His face was flushed, his lip almost curled with pleasure. ‘I can only guess at what’s going on out there,’ he started. ‘But for this, I’m obliged, Marge. In signing, you’ve granted me all four shares in Bolas. So whatever happens next. . . .’
Before Ogden could finish, the door crashed open. From the darkness of the store, Will caught the lamplight, sensed it almost blinding. Then he saw Marge Highgate turn her face towards him. In the same moment, from looking over Ogden’s shoulder, Copper John let out a roar of anger and flung himself away from the pool of light, his hand reaching for his high-belted pistol.
Ogden let the papers fall. Without rising from the desk, he lifted his right hand and fired in one, fast movement.
But Will had the advantage of preparation and surprise. His bullet hit Ogden in the middle of his chest, slamming him back into the chair, a surprised, futile look already etched into his face.
Will knew the gravely wounded man could still bring him down. He jerked to one side, almost tripped on Mower’s body as Ogden’s Colt fired. Then Latch and Copper John were firing at each other and Will cursed loud and wild, felt a sliver of dread as Latch stumbled to the floor across the doorway.
With his chin dropping, Ogden raised his Colt in both hands and fired again. Will felt the pulse of air as the bullet passed close to his neck. He turned sideways on, raised his right hand and shot calculatedly at Ogden’s bloodied chest. The dying man jerked once and lapsed into total stillness.
Will shouted Copper John’s name and swung his Colt into the low swirling haze of gunsmoke. But there was a noise like someone or something had blasted through a wall of the store. The shot wildly stirred the room and Copper John died trying to figure out what had happened.
Henri stood over Latch. He was grim and resolute, cradling his old Army Colt. ‘Usually only needs the one shot,’ he grated. The tall metis stepped forwards into the lamplight, looked contemptuously at the bodies of Copper John, Mower and Ogden. ‘I guess Bluestem’s done what it had to,’ he said icily.
Marge Highgate remained slumped in the chair, too tired and depressed to do more. She stared dully, pulled long wisps of grey hair away from her usual tight bun. ‘He killed Elmer Broad,’ she said. ‘It was him . . . Mower.’
Will heard her strained voice, saw the embittered shell of an old woman – the woman who’d loved Mollie’s father for half her life.
‘Trouble is, justice don’t mean much when it’s delayed for so long. The son-of-a-bitch,’ Marge continued, as much to herself as anyone else. She shuddered, raised her face to look at the bodies. ‘What a price to pay.’
Will holstered his Colt, looked to see if Latch was OK.
‘A lump on my head an’ a cut on my leg. Hah, walkin’ wounded, as usual. Nothin’ that the Bello Hotel can’t take care of,’ Latch said.
‘Well, there’ll be no more fighting. Everyone’s dead,’ Will murmured. He looked again at Marge, wanted to say she wasn’t included, but he didn’t. ‘Let’s get away from here,’ he offered instead.
Marge raised herself from the chair, stooped to pick up the paper that Ogden dropped. ‘I’ll take this with me,’ she said. ‘There’s an erratum I need to take care of . . . some re-alignment. I’ll get it to young Mollie when it’s done.’
‘Why? What is it?’ Will asked.
‘A deed. At the stroke of a pen, Mollie Broad’s going to own Bolas. But she’ll probably want to change that name.’
Henri and Latch followed Will down the street to where, oblivious to the rain and mud, Mollie was kneeling beside Ben Shoeville.
Grimacing at body pains, Shoeville raised himself as the three men approached. ‘Henri, you ol’ goat. You left me here to die, goddamnit,’ he growled.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ the metis replied. ‘I thought you were dead already.’
Mollie shook her head, smiled at Shoeville. ‘You once told me you wouldn’t rest until I was safe with Bluestem. Well I am, so you can. God bless you, Ben.’
‘An’ there’s one or two cows to round up an’ take home,’ Henri added.
A small crowd had gathered on the broad stoop of the Bello Hotel. They were restless, anxious, sharing thoughts on the night’s events. Latch coughed, licked his lips, looked hopefully at Will.
‘You think they might be wantin’ to stand me a drink or two, Will?’ he said.
‘Absolutely certain of it, old friend. They’re reckoning you’re all that’s stood between this town and the hounds of hell.’
‘Hmm. What about you?’
‘Young Mollie’s got a surprise coming her way. I wouldn’t mind hanging around to see the look on her face when she reads about it. Then, maybe I’ll let you decide.’