by Neil Hunter
A faint smile touched his lips at that thought. The hell it couldn’t go wrong. He knew just how wrong it could go. Olsen let his gaze rove across the busy saloon. Bastards. Like a bunch of damn vultures. Everyone of them was going to sit and wait and see how this turned out. He knew they all disliked him, but none of them was big enough to buck him. There was only Jim Talman with enough in him to defy Olsen’s Boxed-O. In a way Talman was akin to himself. Talman knew what he had and how to hang on to it. He was his father’s son all right. That was why Olsen had to get rid of him. Careful, he warned himself, or you’ll be feeling sorry for him in a minute. He poured himself another drink and downed it quickly.
He’d placed his watch on the table before him, and now he glanced at it. Well over an hour yet until Talman was due to put in an appearance. Only Talman wasn’t going to appear. As far as Garnett was concerned Jim Talman would vanish from the face of the earth.
Olsen drew a cigar from his pocket and lit up. He sat back in his chair, wondering just what moment would see Jim Talman’s departure from life.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘He comin’ yet?’ Cal Jarrett asked.
From the place they had chosen to carry out the ambush, Olsen’s would-be-killers were afforded a clear view across this section of Rocking-T. A few miles farther along ran the regular trail into Garnett. Here plenty of trees and brush gave ample cover, and this was the reason why Howser and Jarrett had chosen it.
They had slipped out of town in the early morning and had found this place without much searching. Concealing their horses in a stand of trees close by they had settled down to wait, taking turns to keep a watch on the approach that would bring any rider their way.
Dunc Howser was close to finishing his watch now and he slid down into the hollow where his partner was stretched out on the ground. ‘Ain’t a sign of nobody,’ he said.
‘Maybe he decided not to come,’ Jarrett suggested. ‘I mean, maybe Talman figures he don’t need to parley with Olsen. Hell, Dunc, he’s doin’ pretty well at Boxed-O of late.’
‘True enough. Only Talman’s not the kind to drag on a thing like this. If he can settle it peaceful like he will.’ Howser took himself a long drink from his canteen. ‘Don’t worry, Cal, he’ll be along.’
Jarrett fell silent for a moment. ‘Hey,’ he said suddenly, ‘what happens if he has a bunch of Rocking-T riders with him?’
A grin creased Howser’s unshaven face. ‘You look worried.’
‘I don’t fancy havin’ a run in with any of Talman’s crew. Hell, look what they done to Olsen.’
‘He’ll be alone. I know Jim Talman. This is between him and Olsen. Anyhow he won’t be too trusting about Olsen’s offer. His crew will be watching Rocking-T and the homestead.’
Jarrett still remained a little doubtful. ‘Man, I hope so. ’Cause if he ain’t alone the deal is off. All the dough in the country ain’t no good to a dead man.’
He picked up his rifle and bellied his way up to the crest of the hollow. Scanning the sweep of land before him he watched for any movement. The sun was hot now and he was sweating badly. It ran into his eyes and made them smart.
Time passed slowly. It was very quiet until the distant buzzing of some insect broke the stillness. From time to time a bird whistled, the sound high and shrill.
‘Hell, Dunc, I could use a smoke,’ Jarrett complained.
‘I told you no before. We can’t chance anything that might give us away.’
‘Christ, Dunc, a cigarette is all I want.’
‘Shut-up, Cal.’
‘Yeah.’
Jarrett faced about again. He rubbed a hand across his dry mouth, raised his eyes and found himself staring straight at the approaching figure of Jim Talman. For a long minute he lay just where he was, his eyes fixed on the oncoming rider. Then he found his voice and croaked a warning to Howser.
‘Where?’ Howser asked as he joined his partner.
Jarrett pointed and Howser grunted. ‘He’s makin’ it easy,’ he said.
‘Maybe too easy,’ Jarrett muttered.
‘Quit cryin’ off, Cal, there ain’t no trick. Talman’s alone, an’ in a while he’s goin’ to be dead and buried. Now ease over and get ready. When I shoot, you drop that horse of his.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’
Jarrett settled himself, his rifle on Jim Talman’s horse. And beside him Dunc Howser began to draw a bead on the man himself, waiting for the moment when the range was too close for anything but a hit.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jim had left Rocking-T expecting to get answers, but the way they came almost killed him. At the back of his mind lay the thought that perhaps Olsen had set him up for some kind of ambush. He’d thought about it, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Even so he had remained on the alert in case something came up. And when it did he was almost caught out.
He got a brief warning, in the form of sunlight dancing on metal. It was only for a second, coming in from amongst trees and brush at the top of a slope some little way ahead and off to his right. As he saw it he thought, damn good place for an ambush, and danger warnings sent his body into action.
Jim kicked his feet free from the stirrups. He grabbed for his rifle and began to clear his saddle. It was then that he felt something slam into his left shoulder. The impact threw him to one side as he left the saddle. As he fell he heard the crack of the shot.
Jim hit the ground hard. His rifle slipped from his grasp. His hat was gone too. He heard his horse shrilling, could feel the vibrations of its hooves through the ground. He forced breath through his body. He realized he had to move quickly. Here he was an open target. He pushed to his feet, snatching up his rifle.
A rifle blasted from up on the crest. The slug struck the earth close to him. Jim turned and ran, making for the cover of a fallen tree that lay to one side of the trail. He threw himself over it, twisting round so he was facing the source of the rifle fire. As he raised his head shots tore into the silence. Tree bark and wood chips exploded around him and Jim pulled himself back into cover.
There were two rifles, he realized. The knowledge came as something of a shock to him. He was going to have to play this one carefully. They’d almost nailed him at the first try. Now they would be sizing the situation up, deciding on what course of action to take.
Down on his stomach Jim crawled along to the far end of the tree. Peering around the jagged end Jim eyed the green slope above him. He saw only the tangled greenery at first, with the mass of the background showing almost black. Jim watched, waited, and saw, suddenly, a brief flicker of movement; he saw a man’s shirt, the paler blur of the face above it, and again the glint of sunlight on metal. He made no attempt to fire yet. For the moment he was content to watch and to wait for his chance. He had to be sure when the time came. He wanted to see them, for he knew that he would get no second chance.
Pain was filtering through now. His shoulder and upper arm felt sodden. Twisting his head a little Jim was able to see where he’d been hit. He wasn’t sure whether the bullet had stayed in, but at least the bone was intact. Fishing his kerchief out of his pants Jim shoved it inside his shirt, pressing it over the wound. He hoped it would help to stem the flow of blood. It would have to do. He had no time for anything else.
He turned his attention back to the spot where the ambushers lay. The man he’d spotted was still there, in the same position. Jim scanned the area around him, wondering where the man’s partner was. Was he close by the first man, but out of sight? Or was he somewhere else, moving to a better position?
Jim’s question was answered by the sharp crack of a rifle from a position some way off to the left of where he lay. The slug struck the tree above Jim’s head and he jerked back instantly, but not before he’d spotted where the shot had come from.
They were on the move. And that meant he was going to have to be ready.
Jim levered a round into the rifle’s breech. His left arm hurt him badly, but sheer determi
nation made him lift the rifle.
Another shot crashed out, sending more wood-chips into the air. They were trying to flush him out, make him show himself.
Maybe he ought to, Jim thought. He couldn’t stay here forever. He glanced up at the sky. The day was getting warmer all the time. He could end up shot or he could end up dead from the heat.
He crawled back to the end of the tree, eyes searching. The first man was still in the same position, head and shoulders an indistinct shape amongst the foliage. Jim eased his rifle into position, aimed briefly and fired.
The crash of his shot was echoed by one from the rifle of the second man. Jim felt it tug his shirtsleeve. He arched around and fired at the source of the shot. He fired again, then moved back to his original position as he heard a hoarse yell of anger, coming from the place where the first ambusher was concealed.
A figure burst out of the brush on the crest, rifle in hand. Blood made a bright smear across one cheek. A growth of whiskers darkened the man’s face, but Jim easily recognized Cal Jarrett, and thought that at least this told him who the other man was.
Jarrett began firing as he stumbled down slope. He was yelling too, in a half-angry, half-confused way. His shots were wild, but still too close.
Coming to his feet Jim swung his rifle on Jarrett. He knew he was presenting himself as an open target to Howser. It was a risk he had to take.
‘Hold it, Jarrett,’ he yelled. ‘Quit or I’ll drop you.’
He might just as well have told the sun to stop shining. Jarrett, his face glistening with sweat, came on. He was at the bottom of the slope now, no more than twenty-feet from Jim.
‘Goin’ to get you, bastard,’ he screamed. ‘Bastard ...’ He lunged forward, working the rifle’s lever.
Jim knew he had only seconds to make his choice. It was him or Jarrett.
Jarrett’s rifle tilted up a little. His eyes were bright, too bright.
The rifle in Jim’s hands crashed out its shot. He levered and fired again before the first ejected casing hit the ground. His first shot caught Jarrett in the left side, just above the hip. The next one hit him lower, smashing his thigh-bone. Jim was close enough to see the slugs punch dusty holes in Jarrett’s clothing before the man fell.
Jim was still levering his rifle as he spun away from Jarrett. His searching eyes found Dunc Howser as the man stepped out of the undergrowth. Howser held a rifle in his hands and he threw it aside as he saw Jim.
‘You’re a hard man to kill, Talman, but I aim to do it. You man enough to face me?’
‘I don’t have anything to prove,’ Jim said.
‘Me neither, only I don’t aim to let you take me in.’
Jim watched as Howser moved down onto level ground. ‘One thing.’
‘Ask it.’
‘You doing this for Olsen?’
Howser smiled, ‘He pays well.’
‘I figured that was it.’
‘He set you up good. Right now he’s sitting in town playing peacemaker, knowing right well you ain’t goin’ to show.’
‘Then I’ll just have to disappoint him,’ Jim said.
Howser smiled again, shook his head. ‘Can’t oblige,’ he said. ‘See, I got a date with him. Got money comin’ in on your hide an’ I don’t aim to miss out on spending it.’
He went for his gun as he spoke, and he was fast, but not fast enough.
Jim shot him where he stood, triggering his rifle from hip level, his shot taking Howser in the chest, knocking him to his knees. Howser still tried for his gun, getting it halfway clear before Jim put another shot into him. This time Howser toppled over onto his back. His body arched violently, then collapsed in the dust, and by the time Jim reached him Howser was dead.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Philip Olsen’s watch read twelve twenty-five. Eying it Olsen felt a surge of elation race through him. Jim Talman should have been here by now. Obviously Howser and Jarrett had carried out their part of the bargain. Olsen cautioned himself against being too sure. Something could have gone wrong. The plan could have misfired. Olsen glanced across the saloon. The place had quietened down. Everyone was waiting now. He looked at his watch again. He’d give it until one o’clock before he made his exit. By then something would be settled one way or the other.
Through the open door of the saloon he could see out onto the dusty street. All he needed to see was Howser and Jarrett ride by. Just a simple thing. He felt in his pocket for another cigar.
Biting off the end he reached for a match. The sound of it striking and bursting into flame sounded abnormally loud. Olsen realized that the saloon had gone utterly silent. He raised his head — and held it in surprised shock; the match dropped from nerveless fingers.
Supporting himself against the doorframe was Cal Jarrett. He looked a mess. His face and clothing were dust grimed, and his left side, from the waist down was a mass of blood.
Olsen found himself turning his gaze from Jarrett to the man who now appeared by Jarrett’s side. Dusty and with a blood-stained shoulder, hatless and disheveled as he was, Olsen had no difficulty in recognizing Jim Talman. A coldness swept over Olsen. There was a look in Jim Talman’s eyes that told Olsen more than words could ever express. It was a killing look, and it told Olsen that this was one thing he wasn’t going to be able to talk his way out of.
The cards had fallen and he’d been dealt a losing hand again. Anger swept aside his other feelings — anger at himself, at Jim Talman, at everything and everybody. Yet, even while his anger rose, he was figuring what he might salvage from all this. Talman was still alive — but so was he, and while he still lived there was always another day. He hadn’t given up yet. By God no, not by a long way.
He focused his attention on the two men by the door. Talman had moved forward, pushing the stumbling Jarrett before him. His voice broke through the silence.
‘Jarrett, here, has something he wants to say.’
Swaying unsteadily, his hands clasped to his bleeding side, Jarrett muttered a few words. He turned to look at Jim. ‘You hear,’ he said loudly. ‘I need a doctor. I’m bleedin’ to death.’
‘Say your piece,’ Jim told him. ‘Say it before I finish what I started out there.’
‘All right, all right,’ Jarrett yelled. ‘Goddam you, Talman.’ He turned back so that he was facing Olsen across the saloon. ‘He done it,’ he said, pointing a bloody hand at Olsen. ‘He set up this whole deal. Fixed it so it looked like he was ready to talk peace, then paid me and Dunc to kill Talman and bury him where nobody’d ever find him.’
All eyes were suddenly on Philip Olsen, and he felt the open hostility in them. The way things were going his future was being reduced by every heartbeat. Right now all he had to concern himself with was the way out of this. If he managed to come out alive, then he could worry about his future.
Olsen got slowly to his feet. His eyes were searching the saloon for a way out. The door was effectively barred by Jim Talman. There were stairs to Olsen’s right, but he discounted these. Getting himself trapped up there was a sure way to finish himself off. As he rose to his full height, his searching mind recalled the window at his back. Beyond was the alley, running the length of the street.
Once out there he could make for the livery, get his horse. If he could reach Boxed-O he would be in the clear. His crew would back him, and with them at his command he could dictate terms. It would be an easy thing to recruit more men of the type he needed. With them behind him he might yet achieve his desires.
Jim Talman, perhaps suspecting some sudden move by Olsen, eased forward, putting up a warning hand. ‘Hold it, Olsen. You don’t walk away from this one.’
But Olsen was committed now. His course of action was decided, and he acted without pause. His right hand swept his coat aside, snaking his gun free of its holster. The hammer was back well before the weapon was leveled. Olsen snapped off two swift shots, not waiting to see if he hit anyone. He spun on his heel and hurled himself bodily through the window
.
As Olsen crashed through the window, Jim, his own gun in his hand, turned and ran out of the saloon. He had a fleeting glimpse of Cal Jarrett spinning around, his face a bloody mask from being hit by one of Olsen’s bullets.
Jim hit the boardwalk and went onto the street. He paused for a moment, indecision holding him. Which way would Olsen go? The answer came swiftly, spurring him into motion. The livery. Olsen would want his horse.
He ran, his boots slapping the dust up in fine clouds. Each step caused a fresh jolt of pain to explode in his shoulder, but he kept running, ignoring the hurt. He knew only one thing — that he wanted Olsen, wanted this man who had coldly ordered his death. He wanted him and he wasn’t about to let anything get in his way.
Midway down the street Jim stopped. Somewhere along here Olsen would have to leave the protection of the buildings to cross over to the livery. The question was where? When?
Jim moved slowly on, his eyes searching each shadowed alley between the buildings. He noticed how deserted the street was, then remembered that it was always this way each day between noon and one o’clock; Garnett had always clung to the midday siesta and for once Jim was thankful for this tradition.
Movement caught his eye. Jim glanced up. A single horseman was riding down the street, coming Jim’s way. Jim watched his approach, for the newcomer was a familiar rider.
The rider drew rein some distance from Jim. He sat his saddle easy, eying Jim coldly. He wore a gun on his hip and his right hand was close to the butt. It was Curly Browning. Curiosity shadowed his face as he took in Jim’s appearance and his behavior.
Olsen suddenly appeared, coming out of a narrow alley. He was level with Curly, some way ahead of Jim. He saw both Jim and Curly the instant he emerged from the alley.