by Ralph Cotton
“That’s all I was saying,” Sieg concluded.
Reye sat quietly for a moment, then spit in disgust, looking out at the spot where Blind Simon sat with his senses tuned to the trail toward New Delmar.
“I’ll tell you something else,” Reye said. “That right there goes straight through me.”
“What?” said Sieg, both he and Little Deak Holder looking toward Blind Simon.
“Him,” said Reye. “That blind son of a bitch pretending he can hear this, and smell that, and sense one thing and guess the other. It’s all horse dribble, and I know it.”
“My God!” said Sieg. “I thought we were through with all that.”
“We’re not through with nothing,” said Reye standing, slinging grounds from his coffee cup. “I just overlooked it for a while.”
“When a man is blind, his other senses step in and take up the slack,” Deak ventured quietly. “Everybody knows that.” He paused, then said in the same low tone, “You want to know what I think, pards? I think we—”
“Nobody wants to know what you think,” Reye said coldly, cutting him off. “We’d be a damned sight better off if it wasn’t for having you two freaks of nature with us.”
“Shut up, Reye,” said Sieg. To Deak he said, “Pay no attention to Chic, Deak. He’s just a turd when he first wakes up.”
“Damn it, Sieg,” said Reye. “I’m tired of skirting around the matter. This one knows what he is. He was born like this because his pa only let off half a squirt instead of a full one—like jerking it out at the last second, but not fast enough. Left just enough goo to make a mess of things.”
“Why, you rotten—!” Deak stood and spread his feet shoulder-width, both of his tiny hands near the butt of his belly gun.
“Oh, look, he’s going to draw on me. Ain’t that cute?” Reye said in a mocking tone.
“Both of you settle down,” Sieg demanded, “before everything takes a bad turn here.”
Reye ignored him.
“I heard Oldham talk about what a fast and deadly gunman you are, Half Squirt,” he said to Little Deak, still goading him. “But I figure he was just saying that to make you feel welcome. The fact is, your hands ain’t even big enough to draw a gun and fire it. If you did, the kick would knock you on your ass.”
“Stop it, Chic, damn it!” Sieg said.
“Let’s see you draw it, Half Squirt,” said Reye. “We like a good laugh.”
Little Deak’s face turned cold and stonelike. His hands dropped to his sides.
“I’m not drawing it,” he said.
“Yes, you will draw it, Half Squirt,” Reye said down to him. “Else I’ll burn you down where you stand.” His hand went for the big revolver holstered on his hip.
• • •
Across the camp, both Coyle brothers dropped their coffee and jumped to their feet, seeing what was going on.
“Whoa! Stop!” Oldham shouted as the two ran forward.
But it was too late. They saw Reye’s hand wrap around the butt of his bone-handled revolver; they saw Little Deak’s right arm come up from his side and point up open-handed at Reye. But they didn’t see the two-shot derringer slip out of Little Deak’s coat sleeve into his small hand until fire streaked from the barrel and the bullet hit Reye in the face like a hard-flying hornet. The shot made a sharp popping sound.
Reye’s gun flew from his hand. He staggered backward a step and slapped his cheek with his left hand as if that might help. He struggled to stay on his feet.
“By thunder!” said Simon, springing to his feet. “Little Deak shot that sumbitch, didn’t he?”
“He sure did,” Sieg said, wincing at the sight of blood spewing from the hole in Reye’s cheek.
“One more coming,” Little Deak said matter-of-factly to the dazed, staggering gunman. He waddled forward, pointing the barrel straight out against Reye’s navel.
“Holy!” said Dave Coyle, he and Oldham sliding to a halt as Deak fired again. This time the bullet punched into Reye’s belly and jackknifed him at the waist. His arms went around his bleeding lower belly. He fell onto his side, thrashing in the dirt, his boots scraping, walking him in a circle on the ground.
“I knew he’d do it,” Oldham said quietly to Dave. “I tried to tell him.”
“Now for your big surprise,” Little Deak said almost to himself, looking down at the writhing gunman. The smoking derringer slipped back up inside his coat sleeve. He drew the big Colt from across his belly and cocked it. Holding the big Colt with both hands, he leveled it down at the side of Reye’s bloody head. The first derringer bullet had hit the gunman right beneath the ball of his cheekbone and come out in front of his right ear, leaving a ragged hole. Deak aimed the big Colt just beside the ragged bleeding exit hole and started to squeeze the trigger.
“Hold it, Deak,” said Oldham with authority. “Don’t kill him.”
Deak kept the gun pointed as he turned his head and faced Oldham with a bemused expression.
“Why not?” he said, as if having trouble understanding Oldham’s reasoning on the matter. “I’ve already cocked the gun,” he added.
“Because I said not to,” Oldham said firmly. “Uncock it, put it away.”
“Can I mark him?” Little Deak asked with a thin, devilish grin. He reached down to unbutton his fly.
“You’ve marked him plenty,” said Oldham. “Back away and leave him alone. Don’t make me tell you again.”
“Damn it. Please! Somebody help me here,” Reye said in a strained, pain-filled voice. “The sneaking little son of a bitch shot me!” His voice sounded stiff and unreal from the bullet having sliced through his cheek. Blood ran freely down from both the small entrance and the larger exit holes.
“Shut up, Reye,” said Oldham, he and his brother stepping in closer, looking down at their wounded comrade. “Or I’ll let him finish the job. I warned you to leave this man alone. You had to keep running your mouth.”
Little Deak stepped back, sliding the big Colt into his belly holster. The derringer smoke still curled up from the cuff of his coat sleeve.
Sieg and Dave Coyle helped Reye to his feet and guided him, bowed at the waist, to a rock.
“I need you to cut this bullet out of my guts, Oldham,” Reye said, clearly in pain.
“You don’t want me dipping my fingers around in your guts, Reye,” Oldham said.
“Especially not this morning while he’s still got rats dancing on his brains,” Dave put in.
“Somebody’s got to do it,” Reye said pitifully.
“I’ll do it,” said Little Deak. Feeling much better for having avenged himself, he gave Reye a secretive wink and a smug grin.
“You little bastard!” Reye shouted. He tried to lunge forward at Deak, but Oldham grabbed him, stopped him and pressed him back down firmly onto the rock.
“Somebody get some water. Let’s wash his face some,” Oldham called out. “Jesus, Chic,” he said to the wounded gunman, examining the ragged exit hole in front of his ear. “Can’t you ever just keep your mouth shut? I told you Deak Holder is not a man to fool with.”
“I didn’t believe you, boss. I’m sorry,” said Reye. “How bad is that anyway?”
“It’s not good, that’s for sure,” said Oldham. “If you were anybody else, I’d be surprised you’re able to talk.”
“I ain’t going to no doctor,” Reye said.
“You can say that again,” Dave cut in as Sieg handed him a canteen and a wadded bandana. “We’re not going to New Delmar. We’re headed in the opposite direction.”
“Huh-uh,” said Oldham. “He’s got a bullet in his belly. Either we all ride in or one of us rides in and brings the doctor back. You decide, brother Dave.”
“Damn it to hell,” Dave said, kicking the ground. “Just when I thought we might get out of here.” He rubbed his face in frustr
ation and said, “All right, we’ll send a rider. Get the doctor and get him right back here. We’re not dallying around here any longer than we have to.”
“Some things are meant to play themselves out, brother,” Oldham said. “We’ve no choice but to roll with them.” His hungry gambler’s look came to his face.
“Yeah, right,” Dave said. “I’ve heard enough of that malarkey to last me a lifetime.”
“Who’s going to ride to New Delmar, you or me, brother Dave?” Oldham asked.
“I’ll go,” Sieg put in.
“Huh-uh, it’s going to be me or Dave,” said Oldham.
“Hell, I’m going,” Dave said. “There’s no way in the world you’re riding in there.”
“There you have it, men,” Oldham said. He gave his brother a slight grin. “Our problem has been well considered and reasonably solved.”
Chapter 12
A few miles outside New Delmar, the Ranger, his prisoner and Adele turned their horses onto a short, wide path leading to a large shack out in front of Antioch Ore and Trade Alliance, a near-defunct mining company. As they rode up to an open well that drew its water from an underground stone tank, Sam stepped down from his saddle and looked around. A thin man came trotting out from the shack, glancing over his shoulder at another shanty farther back on the rocky hillside.
“Hello the camp,” Sam called out as the man neared. “We’d appreciate watering our animals before riding on into New Delmar.”
“Ranger, this is not a good place to water!” the man said with a worried look, having noticed the badge on Sam’s chest before leaving the shack.
The Ranger looked at the drawn water contained behind a low stone wall, and at a mule standing under a ragged canvas overhang chewing on a muzzle-full of hay. A long pole hitched to the mule’s back ran to a water wheel, which drew water from the earth in a series of clay pots and poured it into the open containment well.
“It looks like you’ve got plenty,” the Ranger said. He turned and looked back at the nervous man as he picked up a gourd dipper, dipped up a swig, swished it around in his mouth and spit it out. “Tastes all right to me.”
“I’ve got plenty, and it’s good, Ranger,” the man said. “You’re welcome to it. But I’ve also got three drifters who blew in here last night drunk as hoot owls. All they talked about all night was killing you.” He paused and looked the Ranger up and down. “If you be Ranger Sam Burrack, that is—and I take it you are.”
“Yep, I am,” the Ranger said. He raised the gourd to his lips and drank as he motioned Lang and the woman down from their saddles.
“That’s what I thought,” the man said. He nodded at the Ranger’s dusty pearl gray sombrero. “I recognized your hat. I always heard you wear a sombrero.” He smiled, squinting in the glare of sunlight. “I’m James Hilton. Pleased.”
“Pleased,” Sam replied. “You heard right, Mr. Hilton.” He touched the brim of his sombrero. He led Black Pot in closer to the short stone wall and allowed the stallion to draw water. “Where’s all your men?” he asked. “I don’t hear any work going on.” He casually drew his Winchester from its boot as he spoke.
Beside him, Lang and Adele watered their horses and themselves. They listened closely as the nervous man spoke to the Ranger.
“They’re all in New Delmar, celebrating,” Hilton said.
“The guards too?” the Ranger asked, sipping more water, gazing toward the second shack as he spoke.
“The guards too,” Hilton said. “I’ve sold out to the John Bulls. There’s no ore to guard right now, and there won’t be until next week when the new owners take over.” He paused, then said, “Say . . . Ranger, you don’t seem awfully concerned, these men wanting to kill you.”
“Wanting to is never the problem,” Sam said, still looking off toward the shack. “Somebody is always wanting to, I expect.”
“These are bad ones,” Hilton cautioned.
Sam watched the shack, hearing the door start to squeak from forty yards away.
“They always are bad ones,” he said wryly. “Else I’d be greatly disappointed.”
“Oh dear!” Hilton said, seeing the door to the shack open slowly.
“Ranger . . . ?” Lang said, standing beside his horse, cuffed to his saddle horn. His voice sounded muffled behind his swollen purple jaw. His broken nose stood large between two eyes still black from his previous move against the Ranger.
“I see them. Keep watering, Cisco,” Sam replied quietly. “This would not be a good time for you to try another getaway plan,” he added, cautioning him.
“I’m not trying nothing else,” Lang said. “I’m running out of places for you to hit.”
“That’s a good attitude,” Sam said, not believing a word of it. He watched the three men step down from the porch and start walking slowly toward him, spreading apart on their way.
The tallest of the three approaching gunmen called out to Sam as he walked forward.
“Did he tell you what we said last night?” he asked.
“Some,” Sam replied.
“Obliged for you shooting your mouth off, Hilton,” he said, staring hard at the mine manager as they drew nearer. “We’ll talk more about it later on,” he threatened.
“Stop where you are,” Sam called out, “or later on won’t matter to you.” He held a hand up sideways, his thumb up, and deftly compared its length to the height of the gunman.
The three continued defiantly another step, but stopped short as the Ranger levered the rifle and put it to his shoulder.
“Whoa, hang on, Ranger,” said the tallest gunman of the three. “I saw you pull the rule of thumb on us.” He tried a sly grin. “We’re not even in pistol distance yet.”
“I know that,” Sam said. “I like it that way.” He lowered his left hand back to his Winchester and raised the rifle, pointed and cocked at the tallest man.
“Ranger,” Lang said from beside his horse. “That’s Toy Johnson, one of the gunmen I told you about. The one on his right is Randall Carnes. They’re both wicked good with a pistol.”
The Ranger only nodded in reply.
“I don’t know the third one,” Lang said.
“I do,” said Adele. “It’s Dan Stubach. Watch him,” she warned.
Sam nodded again, staring out at the three gunmen, wondering if they would all three make their play, in range or not.
“Ranger,” Toy Johnson called out. “It’s true that last night we got a little drunk and got our bark on. But all we want to do now is talk, okay?” He got set to take a step, testing the Ranger.
“No talking,” Sam said. “One step will get you killed. If you want to play three on one, play it from there, or else crawfish out of here like the poltroons you are.”
The Ranger’s words were harsh and goading, but that was all right; he’d meant them to be. If there was going to be a fight here, it was going to be his way, not theirs—not with three of them facing him.
“Nobody calls me a coward! I’ve never crawfished from a gunfight in my life,” said Dan Stubach, a stocky young gunman with a ruddy whiskey-blotched face, partially hidden by a stringy beard.
“Today will be a good day to start,” the Ranger said, moving his aim away from Toy Johnson and leveling it on Stubach’s chest, the hammer cocked, his finger on the trigger.
“Come on, Ranger Burrack, be reasonable,” said Toy Johnson, sounding like a man who knew he’d made a big mistake and only wanted to correct it. “We only wanted to talk. That’s not against the law, is it?”
“Today it is,” Sam said. “I know about the bounty.” He nodded sidelong toward Lang. “Cisco here told me the other day you and Carnes were interested in collecting.”
“Thanks a hell of a lot, Cisco,” Johnson said, recognizing Lang for the first time. Looking back at the Ranger, he said, “That was just more whiskey
talk. Hell, look at us, we didn’t even bring our rifles.”
“Poor planning,” Sam said, unrelenting. “Now back away and get out of here.”
“Ha,” said Stubach. “He ain’t going to shoot a man out of range and I know it.” He took a step forward as he spoke. “He’s a lawman. He won’t do nothing that—”
His words stopped; the Ranger’s first bullet ripped through his chest. As Stubach flipped backward, leaving a boot spinning in the air, Sam levered a fresh round and brought his rifle back to Johnson, aimed at his chest.
Johnson and Carnes had both drawn their revolvers and commenced firing when the Ranger made his move on Stubach. Their bullets struck the hard ground fifteen feet in front of Sam.
Seeing their pistol shots fall short, Johnson was suddenly wide-eyed in fright.
“Run!” he shouted at Randall Carnes.
The two turned, still firing, and tried to sprint back to the safety of the shack.
Sam’s next shot hit Johnson low in his back, a little to the left. The bullet sliced through Johnson’s gun belt and bored down into his hip. The severed gun belt fell and tangled at Johnson’s knees as the impact of the bullet in his hip spun him around like some lopsided top.
Before Johnson even hit the ground, Sam turned the rifle toward the other fleeing gunman, knowing that once Carnes made it into the shack, it could take all day to get him out.
Sam took aim as Carnes raced away, having enough savvy to zigzag across the dirt. Still, the Ranger’s shot hammered him in his left shoulder and hurled him forward, facedown on the ground.
With one man dead and two struggling in the dirt, Sam lowered the smoking rifle and stepped sidelong over to Lang. As he kept watch on the two downed gunmen, he reached for the key to the handcuffs and unlocked Lang from his saddle horn.
“I want you to help Adele and Mr. Hilton round these two up and get them bandaged,” he said. “Think you can do that without getting yourself killed?”
Lang looked at the body on the ground, and at the other two badly wounded gunmen knocked off their feet by rifle shots.
“Yes, I can do that,” he said in a somber tone. He started to turn and hurry toward the first wounded gunman, but Sam grabbed the third dangling cuff and jerked him back.