by P. A. Bechko
So preoccupied was Hollander with his thoughts and determination that he hadn’t seen the flicker of movement behind Berglund. The startled look on the faces of the banker’s helpers was the tip off, but by then so much was in motion the best he could hope for, as the tinkling of broken glass sounded in the back alley, was not to shoot Laura Chambly.
Hollander flashed Berglund a look of triumph and that threw the banker off. The breaking glass distracted him, but he gave his men the nod as he turned back toward the house.
Amanda was already moving when gunfire exploded all around her, Berglund spun, his gun slapped into his palm, and one of his men staggered, hit in the leg.
That rifle shot had come from ear-shattering nearness, it had come from the window of Laura’s back room.
Berglund was turning when a bullet whipped past Amanda’s ear and her hand snatched the gun from her holster with more speed than she’d ever before managed. Long, strong fingers curled around the wooden butt of her weapon and she cleared leather as she spun into the fray.
Hollander’s gun spit lead and flame. The shot took the banker dead center, throwing him back against the closed door with a solid thump and sent him sprawling on the stoop as Hollander dove for the ground. One of Berglund’s men was sighted on him, following him down with the roar of his six-gun, bullets snapping through the air, plucking at his clothes like angry hornets.
Amanda moved like a well-oiled machine, everything coming together at incredible speed as Berglund’s wounded man swung his gun toward her. With nerves of steel, she kept her focus on the man trying to take out Hollander and squeezed the trigger with reflex precision that took him out him with a nerve-shattering suddenness. Amanda heard a shriek from the house as Hollander’s gun exploded again and the first man wounded went down for good, his weapon firing a couple more times as his finger jerked convulsively on the trigger.
An odd shock took Amanda in her right side just above where her holster rode at her hip, doubled her over and took her breath away. She straightened, hand pressed to the peculiar pain-edged numbness, and it was then, Laura burst through the back door, clutching a rifle, screaming hysterically.
A deep and deathly silence settled instantly over them as Hollander rolled to his feet, gunsmoke curling from the barrel of his six-gun. Her eyes wide with fear, Laura gasped and fell silent, staring at the bodies strewn in the alley.
Amanda spun and dropped to her knees beside Berglund. Her heart beat a rapid pulse in her throat, her flesh crawled and she laid a small hand beneath his ear feeling for a heartbeat. Laura began a soft keening, swaying on her feet.
Their last chance lay sprawled at their feet and Hollander remained where he was.
“He’s dead,” Hollander said calmly, realizing at the same time, and with some surprise, that he hadn’t been so much as scratched in the fray. “And that’s an end to it.”
In the distance there were sounds of stirrings as the sleeping town awoke and came to life.
Amanda sat back on her heels with a deep, heart-felt sigh. “I thought you could shoot better than that. You just killed our last chance.”
“His shooting was just fine,” the voice, soft but backed by ice, drifted across the dark alley. “What he killed was a snake few are going to miss.”
A woman, tall and slender, dressed in a rich blue dress trimmed with a high white lace neck and white cuffs which stood out against the darkness like stars in the night sky, drifted down the dusty alley toward them.
Laura, round-eyed, stepped back, dropped the rifle and put her thumb to her mouth to chew the nail.
“Clarissa! I mean, Mrs. Berglund!”
John Berglund’s wife stopped just the edge of being seen, stiff and erect. She stared at them with a penetrating gaze.
“I’m going to say this fast because I do believe half the town is on its way here now.” She gave a hard look to Laura and then Amanda. “I knew what my husband was. I know only too well what he’s done. He’s dead, and frankly I thank you for that. I can clear your names and I will. I’ll even return whatever money you’ve recovered if you care to give it to me. But I’m not returning what he had hidden away at the house. That money is mine. I’m going to use it to make a new start. I deserve that much.”
“Now I suggest you get out of here because if they find you here, like this, they’ll hang you both before I can open my mouth.”
Clarissa turned to Laura. “If you have any brains at all you’ll get inside and shut up. What we have here plainly is a situation where these two thugs killed my husband.”
Amanda tried to stand, and staggered.
“This wasn’t one of my better ideas,” Hollander admitted with a sardonic twist of his lips and reached out to steady her, giving a start when his hand came away wet and sticky with blood. “What the . . .”
“It’ll do,” Amanda countered. “Give her the money and let’s get out of here.”
“Stay put,” he muttered to Amanda before stepping to his horse to retrieve the bundle of recovered money he had kept separate from what he intended to return to Texas.
He placed the package in Clarissa’s hands, took the rifle from Laura, then turned back to Amanda.
“Get on my horse.”
“How do we know she’ll give the money back?”
“Get on my horse.”
“But . . .”
“I believe her. Now get on my horse.”
Laura disappeared into the house as Amanda awkwardly mounted and Hollander swung into the saddle behind her, taking Colorado on lead.
Clarissa took a step closer to them, holding the package Hollander had given her. Her face was pale in the odd play of the town’s light.
“I will return this, you know.”
Hollander nodded.
“And I will clear your names. I’ll just be a long way from here when I do it.”
The sounds of scuffing feet and voices, roughly calling back and forth, raised in question, drifted through the short back streets, growing steadily louder.
Hollander touched his heels to his horse and faded into the night shadows at a quiet walk to keep from drawing attention with the rush of running hoofs.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Hollander’s voice was rough against her ear as he slid his folded neckerchief inside her shirt, pressing it tightly over the raw wound in her side.
Amanda gasped at the contact and laid her hand over it to hold it in place.
“We were kind of busy at the time and I didn’t really feel much.”
The din rose behind them and Hollander just grunted, holding the horses to a steady walk.
“You’re the damnedest woman I’ve ever known.”
“Where are we going?” Amanda asked as Hollander directed them into open desert.
“Away from here,” Hollander answered her quietly, and eased their horses further into the night.
* * *
From behind a tattered flour sack that served as a make shift curtain, Rubin peered out through a raveled hole, still clutching the five dollar gold piece John Berglund had given him. He’d heard the gunfire and he’d seen it all, oh yes he had. And then he’d run back here. He bit down on his gold piece again. Maybe Mrs. Berglund would keep him in whiskey to keep his mouth shut.
From out of the thick night shadows he saw them coming: the man and the woman, riding double. He watched them walk the horses quietly to the edge of town, the muffled sounds of their horses’ hoofs going unnoticed by all save Rubin. He watched the desert swallow the riders amongst the dips and folds of the night’s soft blackness, then went to the dirty cot and fished around beneath it for his spare bottle. He clenched the glittering coin in one grubby fist and the neck of the whiskey bottle, bringing it to his lips, in the other. Yep. He’d go visit Clarissa Berglund tomorrow. He’d knew he’d remember that.
– THE END –
Peggy Bechko (writing as P.A. Bechko) has been published by Doubleday, Harlequin, Pinnacle, and The Fiction Works. One of her screenp
lays made the quarterfinal of the Nicholl Fellowship in screenwriting, and the semi-finals of the America’s Best screenwriting competition.
BOOKS BY PEGGY BECHKO
Blown To Hell (Western)
To Hell and Back (Western)
Stormrider (Adult Fantasy)