“Coming from you that’s high praise.” Dixie rose in her stirrups and looked behind them. “The men have all checked their guns?”
“I saw to it personally. Whatever is waitin’ for us in there, we’re going in with our eyes open.”
Randy Quin had come up beside Lin. “I’d go in alone if I had to. Sally would still be alive if not for those—” He glanced at Dixie and settled for saying, “No-accounts.”
“Strong feelin’s can make a man careless,” Lin cautioned.
“I don’t much care what happens to me,” Randy said. “It’s Braden I want, and Braden I’ll have, and God and the Devil be hanged.”
Lin was alert for the telltale silhouettes of riflemen on the roofs or at windows but he saw none. “Mighty peculiar,” he commented. “They could pick a few of us off before we got there if they tried.”
“Maybe they lit a shuck,” Randy said. “The Twins were bound to tell Black Jack we tumbled to their rustlin’ scheme.”
“Black Jack is as mean as they come,” Dixie said, “but no one has ever accused him of lacking a backbone.”
“True,” Lin said. He had a hunch the outlaws would make a fight of it and his hunches were seldom wrong—although in this instance it might be better if he were. “Some of his bunch are as gritty as fish eggs rolled in sand.” Longley, Towers and Craven alone had a string of thirty kills to their credit, and if they went down, it wouldn’t be with bullets in their backs.
“Nowhere looks deserted,” Dixie commented. “You’d think people would be up and about by now.”
There wasn’t a soul to be seen.
Lin scoured the roofs and windows again. He was willing to swear unseen eyes were on them.
“There’s Joe,” Randy said.
Joe Elliot and the rest were approaching from the north, riding four abreast, most with their rifles shucked. Elliot spied them and waved.
Lin returned the gesture, then motioned for Joe’s riders to fan out. Joe nodded in understanding. Within moments Hap Evans and three punchers were swinging to the east while Toby Gill and three more looped west.
Shifting in his saddle toward Amos Finch and Kip Langtree, Lin said, “Amos, take three men and link up with Hap. Kip, you do the same with Toby. We’ll enter Nowhere from four sides at once.”
“On my way,” Amos said, using his spurs.
Lin slowed so the encirclement would be complete before they moved in. He noticed something he hadn’t noticed before; sprawled forms scattered here and there. “Look at all those bodies.”
“Land sakes!” Randy exclaimed in horror. “They’ve wiped out the townsfolk.”
“We should send someone on ahead,” Dixie proposed. “Maybe get them to show their hand.”
“I’ll go,” Lin volunteered.
“You’re the ramrod,” Dixie said. “We can’t afford to lose you. Any one of our hands will be glad to go in your stead.”
Randy said, “I know I would.”
“You’ll stay with Mrs. Storm,” Lin directed. To her he said, “I’d never ask a puncher to do something I wouldn’t do myself.” He motioned for his contingent to halt, then signaled to Joe Elliot and the riders coming in from the east and west to stop where they were.
“You do a woman proud,” Dixie said.
“Mr. Storm isn’t buried yet,” Lin reminded her, and cantered forward until he was fifty yards from the stable, at which point he slowed to walk, his right hand on his Colt. The stable doors were closed, as was every door in sight. His skin prickled as he came abreast of the blacksmith’s shop. He thought he heard a sound so he drew rein but it wasn’t repeated and after a minute he rode on.
The general store, the feed and grain, the barbershop, all were closed. A Conestoga down the street had been left unattended, its tongue in the dust.
Lin noticed that the inner doors to the saloon were open and one of the batwings was moving ever so slightly, as if someone had peeked out and then ducked back when they saw him coming. The feeling of being watched was stronger. He peered from under his hat at every shadowy nook and recessed cranny but still saw no one.
Lin’s gaze alighted on the marshal’s office. On an impulse he kneed his horse over. The door was unlocked, the air stale and musty. “Lunsford?” he said, and when there was no reply, he started to back out.
“Cooley? My God, is that you?” A pale shape assumed substance behind the cell bars and a pale hand groped between them. “Don’t go!”
“Marshal?”
“Let me out of here! The key is on the desk.”
Lin took it over. “Here you go. But what are you doing locked up in your own jail? Was it Black Jack?”
“Who else? Lunsford was haggard, his clothes a mess. Jamming his hat on his head, he brushed past Lin, picked up the scattergun, and broke it open. Then, without a word, he strode toward the door.
Lin beat him there. “Hold up. What’s your rush?”
“I have a score to settle. You best ride back to the Circle C. Your boss will be upset if you get involved.”
“Mr. Storm is dead,” Lin revealed, and brought the lawman up to date, concluding with, “You’re the only living soul I’ve seen.”
Marshal Lunsford was stuffing extra shells into a pocket. “Yesterday I heard a lot of shots and screams and people yelling for help. “ He shouldered out the door and despite the clouds, squinted at the nearest body. “It was a slaughter. They counted on me to protect them and I let them down.”
“You’re only one man.”
“Don’t sugarcoat it.” Lunsford stalked toward the saloon. Wedging the scattergun between his bad arm and his body, he pulled back the twin hammers. “I failed. I’ve been failing all my life but this is the worst. And the last.”
“Let’s wait for the others,” Lin suggested, but he wasted his breath. The lawman barged through the batwings and stood glowering like a mad old bull but there was no one to shoot.
“Dub?” Lunsford called out.
“Let’s try the general store,” Lin said. “Someone is always there.” He wheeled and had taken a couple of steps past the overhang when a noise from above brought him around in a crouch, his right hand stabbing for the Colt.
Belle James and Susie Metzger were on the roof, only their heads and shoulders visible above the false front. “Hey there, cowboy,” Belle James said.
Marshal Lunsford had trained his scattergun on them. “What are you ladies doing up there? Where’s Black Jack and the rest of his butchers?”
“They burned the breeze for safer pastures,” Susie Metzger said. “We didn’t want to go so we hid.”
“That won’t wash,” Lunsford responded. “I want the truth, or so help me, it won’t make a lick of difference that you’re a woman.”
Belle James used language no churchgoing lady ever would, then said, “Why is it so hard to believe? Do you think we liked Black Jack bossing us around? Do you think we liked all the killing?”
“I never saw shackles on your ankles,” Lunsford said.
“His threats were enough,” Belle James said. “When a man like Black Jack tells you he’ll blow out your wick if you try to run off, you take him seriously.”
Lin was more interested in something else. “Where are the rest of the townspeople?”
Susie Metzger covered her face with her hands. “It was awful. Ben Towers and Craven and the rest went from door to door on a killin’ spree. No one stood a prayer.”
“The women and kids too?” Lin asked. He had been taught to hold womanhood in the highest esteem, and harming a child was unthinkable.
“Black Jack took some of the ladies with him,” Susie said. “I have no idea what he did with the half-pints.”
Belle James was staring at the scattergun. “I wish you wouldn’t keep pointing that thing at us. It makes me nervous.”
Lowering it, Lunsford said to Lin, “We need to search the whole town. For that we need help.”
Lin stepped to the middle of the street and beckoned to Dixie
and then to Joe Elliot. He couldn’t see the riders to the east and west but Amos and Kip would start in when the others did.
Marshal Lunsford hadn’t taken his eyes off the fallen doves. “Come on down from there. You’re safe now that Black Jack is gone.”
“If you don’t mind,” Belle said, “we’ll wait until you’re sure. We heard them ride off. We didn’t actually see them.”
“Now you tell us.” Marshal Lunsford trained his scattergun on the other side of the street.
Lin’s skin crawled but nothing happened, and presently the clomp of hooves heralded the arrival of the Circle C hands and their allies. The cowboys converged on the saloon, jamming the street from side to side.
“Well?” Dixie asked, with a nod at Belle James and Susie Metzger. “What did the tarts have to say?”
“Now see here, lady,” Susie said.
“Dearie, the day anything you say matters more than a pile of dog shit to me is the day cows sprout wings and fly.”
The color of Susie Metzger’s face matched the color of her hair. “I’ve half a mind to come down there and box your ears.”
“Feel free to try.”
Susie had more to say but Belle James nipped it in the bud by barking, “Enough! We’re on their side now, remember? We can’t ask their help unless we stay in their good graces.”
“Our help?” Dixie said.
“We want to go back East,” Belle said. “Some where people aren’t always killin’ one another. But we need a stake.”
Marshal Lunsford mentioned what was on Lin’s own mind. “All the money you made in those back rooms and you don’t have enough to get you there?”
“Black Jack barely gave us enough to live on. He kept ninety percent of what we made for himself.”
Randy Quin had dismounted. “Why are we jawin’ with them when there’s a town to search? Billy Braden might be here somewhere and he has a lot to answer for.” He moved toward the general store.
Lin had it in mind to divide the men in half and conduct the hunt from opposite ends of town. Then he saw Dixie threading her paint toward him, and he waited to hear what she had to say.
The next instant, up the street, a rifle crackled. Lin’s instincts shrieked at him to hunker and seek the source but instead he ran to the paint and reached up to help Dixie down. She was lighter than he thought she would be and she clung to him a few seconds longer than he thought was necessary.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Amos and some of the other hands had reined in close, forming a protective ring. “Is anyone hit?” the old puncher hollered.
Everyone was looking at everyone else. No one was wounded or down and none of the horses had been shot.
“Where did it come from?” Joe Elliot bawled. “Did anyone see?”
Belle James and Susie Metzger had dropped from sight.
Marshal Lunsford was close to the batwings, and to gauge by his expression, he was as puzzled as Lin.
The paint began acting up and Dixie held tight to the reins. “Joe! Kip! Go find the shooter!”
It was an order Lin should have given. He had to stop thinking about her and concentrate on the reason they were there. “The rest of you spread out! We’re too bunched up!”
Both Elliot and Langtree had to work their way through the press of horsemen. They had barely begun when Lin caught movement out of the corner of his eye, on the roof of the saloon.
Belle James and Susie Metzger had reappeared and were leaning out over the false front. Each held one end of a wooden keg.
For a few seconds Lin couldn’t make sense of what they were up to. Sparkling sprinkles of light gave him a clue.
Sticking out the top of the keg was a lit fuse.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Grabbing Dixie around the waist, Lin Cooley propelled her toward the other side of the street. Belle James and Susie Metzger had already let go of the keg of black powder. Raising his Colt, Lin snapped a shot on the fly. Not at them. It would do no good. He shot at the keg in the hope that detonating it in midair might spare a few punchers and their mounts. Then Lin fell flat, pulling Dixie with him. He was looking over his shoulder and saw the result.
A tremendous explosion blew apart the saloon’s false front and sent chunks of Belle James and Susie Metzger arcing through the air. A few riders were also blown apart. Six or seven were punched from their saddles. A horse lost its head in a spectacular spray of blood while others were slammed onto their sides or reared and plunged.
To Lin it was like being rammed by a longhorn. He had tried to spare Dixie by shielding her with his body but she involuntarily cried out. The world faded to silence and Lin thought his eardrums were ruptured. Chaos swirled on all sides but he couldn’t hear it. Dixie was saying something to him but he couldn’t hear her. Amos Finch was firing his pistol but he couldn’t hear the shots.
A cloud of smoke and dust coalesced outward, swallowing everyone. “Cover your mouth and nose!” Lin shouted to Dixie, and couldn’t hear his own words.
The cloud slowly dispersed. Lin rose on his elbows and beheld cowboys sprawled in the street, a few with missing limbs, one with half his face gone. A horse had a jagged spear of wood imbedded in its neck and was thrashing in a panic, posing a threat to other riders and animals.
Heaving to his knees, Lin winced as a cacophony of sound assaulted his senses. Men were shouting, cursing, screaming; horses were nickering and squealing; guns were firing on all sides.
Dingus Mechum was in the Conestoga down the street, firing a Henry over the seat. Clell Craven was in the doorway of the barbershop, working a Winchester’s lever. Other outlaws were firing from other vantage points.
“It’s a trap!” Dixie cried. She had drawn her Bisley and was banging shots at someone near the stable.
A Circle C puncher clutched his ruptured throat and toppled from his saddle.
Another fell to a slug that cored his head from front to back and left bits of his brain clinging to his mount’s flank.
Gripping Dixie’s left arm, Lin hauled her toward the jail, and cover. A young outlaw came running around the corner, fired from the hip, and missed. Lin’s answering shot did not.
Somewhere a shotgun thundered. Somewhere else a man screeched his death cry.
Amos and Kip and Joe Elliot and Toby Gill were firing like madmen.
Pandemonium ran riot.
Marshal Paul Lunsford was crouched near the batwing doors, watching Circle C cowboys drop right and left, and helpless to prevent it. Then the saloon window abruptly shattered and the twin barrels of a shotgun poked out. It went off, a cannon among peashooters, and twenty feet out, Amos Finch’s head disappeared from his shoulders in a spray of gore.
A long stride brought Lunsford to the batwings. He dived under them and rolled on his good shoulder and came up on one knee with his scattergun level, but Ben Towers had seen him and was running toward the back rooms. Lunsford resisted the temptation to rush his shot and gave chase. He wanted to be sure.
Towers was reloading. He had removed the spent shells and was inserting a new one. Suddenly he stopped and whirled and fired.
A doorway was to Marshal Lunsford’s right. He flung himself through it and was spared but came down hard. As he rose, he saw one of the newcomers to Nowhere, the man who had planned to open a hotel, on his back on the bed, gaping lifelessly at the ceiling.
The slam of the back door spurred Lunsford into flying down the hall. Without thinking he grabbed the latch but in a flash of insight realized his mistake and threw himself to the floor. The door exploded inward, leaving a hole as big around as a watermelon. He rose high enough to see out and spotted Ben Towers running north.
Flinging what was left of the door open, Marshal Lunsford pumped his legs as he hadn’t pumped them in more years than he cared to remember. He was terribly out of shape, and had been since he lost his arm and much of his zest for living. But now he dug deep down inside himself, deep into the reservoir of stamina he possessed
when he was decades younger, and found the spark he needed to keep running.
Ben Towers darted into a space between the barbershop and a house.
Lunsford slowed so as not to make another blunder. Removing his hat, he risked a quick peek. Towers wasn’t there. He sprinted toward the street and almost too late saw the business end of Towers’s shotgun jut past the corner. It went off as Lunsford hurled himself at the ground. He felt a stinging sensation in his side and a warm stickiness under his shirt, and then he was up and running again, out into the seething herd of bedlam. Outlaws and cowboys were engaged in a mad melee of lead swapping. A riderless horse galloped past, nearly bowling Lunsford over.
Ben Towers was in front of the restaurant, taking deliberate aim.
Lunsford brought up his scattergun but Towers fired first just as a horse galloped past. The horse took the brunt of the twin barrels, and staggered. Lunsford squeezed one trigger and then the other. His slugs lifted Towers off his feet and cartwheeled him into the restaurant window, which shattered into a thousand shards.
Off to Marshal Lunsford’s right, Joe Elliot and Kip Langtree were swapping shots with two outlaws. To his left, Randy Quin was charging the general store, firing as he ran.
Hurriedly reloading, Lunsford reentered the frenzied fray.
In the initial confusion, Randy Quin was racked by brief indecision. He had never been in a gunfight, never killed another human being in his life. But when he saw his friends being blasted from their saddles and heard their screams and the buzz of leaden hornets seeking his own life, he drew his revolver and squeezed off shots at targets as they presented themselves.
More hornets buzzed him and Randy sought the source. His blood ran cold when he saw Billy Braden in the general store, shooting out the doorway. Caterwauling like a panther, Randy rushed him, firing as he ran.
Billy spun and vanished among the display goods.
Randy figured Braden would expect him to come in through the door so he did something Braden wouldn’t expect; he launched himself at what was left of the front window. He didn’t give any thought to being cut by the glass, or the consequences of having his neck or wrist slashed open. He wasn’t thinking of anything except revenge. Sweet, glorious revenge.
Ralph Compton Nowhere, TX Page 21