Six-Gun Law

by Jory Sherman

  “What the hell happened here, Ed?”

  Lew stepped toward him. Ed’s hands were shaking, his fingers trembling as if he was gripped with palsy.

  “She—she’s gone,” Ed said. “They got Seneca, the bastards.”

  Lew stood there, staring at Ed’s eyes, eyes that were wet with tears. He felt as if someone had just struck him full in the chest with a sixteen-pound maul. All of the air was gone out of his lungs and he couldn’t drag any back in.

  And that cold iron ball in his stomach swelled to a gigantic mass, freezing his senses as if he had been plunged into an icy river.

  Lew felt as if he were drowning in those gelid waters off some snowy Alaskan coast and he was in a torrent racing him out to some bottomless Arctic sea where all was blackness and bereft of all hope.

  4

  ED JONES STOOD THERE ON WOBBLY LEGS, HIS LOWER LIP swollen and caked with dried blood. He touched a lump on his forehead, just below the hairline on the right side of his face. He winced and took his hand away.

  Lew looked at him with narrowed eyes, then shifted his gaze to the back door, the streams of tracked-in dirt on the floor. The door was open, gaping as if some untold story lay just beyond, out there in the darkness.

  “What happened, Ed? Where’s Seneca? You said they took her. Who? When?”

  Ed leaned back against the counter to steady himself. He rubbed one wrist, then the other. The ropes had left deep indentations in his skin, bloodless lattice patterns attesting to the tightness of his bonds.

  “They jumped me, musta been a coupla hours ago. Virgil Pope and Luke Canby. Out back, as I was comin’ back in from the privy. Whacked me good, tied me like a damned Christmas turkey, and waited for Seneca to come back in from milkin’. Put a gag in my mouth so’s I couldn’t warn her they was here.”

  “They took Seneca?”

  “Said if she didn’t go with ’em, they’d shoot me dead. I gotta ride down now and tell Swanson what they done.”

  Lew felt the anger rise in him like a boil swelling to a redness just before it bursts.

  “Ed, they must have given you a reason why they took Seneca. She’s done them no harm.”

  “Oh, yeah, Lew. They took her because they want you. Told me to give you a message. And I hate like hell to give it to you, but my daughter means the world to me and they got her. Took her up to Alpena, said you could come get her.”

  “You’re damned right I’ll go and get her, Ed.”

  “I ought to go with you. But I gotta tell Sheriff Swanson so’s he’ll go after ’em and arrest them for kidnapping my daughter. I think they mean to kill you for shooting down their boys. They’re plumb mad at you, Lew, for what you done.”

  “Those boys murdered my folks, Ed, and they got what they deserved. They tried to kill me, remember?”

  “I know, I know. Lew, this is turning into such a mess I don’t know where to start in. They got my girl and I itch all over to get her back before they do something to her just to get at you.”

  Lew raised his hands, pressed them together, held them to his lips. He bowed his head, not to pray, but to think. He hadn’t foreseen this. He knew that Pope and Canby hated him for killing their sons, but he had acted in self-defense. If the law had gone after those two murderers, as it should have, Wiley and Fritz would still be alive. They would be in prison, but they would be alive.

  He had no doubt that Pope and Canby were behind all the threats he had been getting, and they had even tried to hire his friends to kill him. They were desperate men, so desperate that they had kidnapped an innocent girl and were using her as bait so that they could kill him. Revenge. That’s what those two men wanted. And Seneca was the pawn in their deadly game.

  “I’ll get her back, Ed.”

  “I—I’m going with you, Lew.”

  “No, you better not. I’ll go it alone.”

  “Why not? I owe it to my daughter to rescue her from those brigands.”

  “Brigands? They’re worse than that, Ed. And you’d best not come with me because they’re not going to give Seneca up without a fight.”

  “That’s why I want to go.”

  “And that’s just why you can’t. You’re liable to either get killed or arrested. Those two are gunning for me. I’ll make it easy on them.”

  “There’s two of them and only one of you. Lew, I’ve got to go with you. If for no other reason than to even up the odds.”

  “Look, Ed, Pope and Canby mean business. I wouldn’t put it past them to have the Alpena sheriff in on this.”

  “That’s three against one.”

  Lew pressed his lips together like a fist.

  “Maybe more,” Lew said.

  Ed pushed away from the counter, tried to stand straight. But his legs wouldn’t let him. One of them wobbled and started to give way. Lew walked over to him, put his hands on his shoulders.

  “You’re in no shape to ride all the way up to Alpena, Ed.”

  “No—no, I can make it. I’ll get my rifle and pistol, saddle old Mose and—”

  Lew cut him off.

  “Best thing you can do is put some liniment on places where it hurts, Ed. If you want to be useful, you can maybe ride down to Osage and tell Sheriff Swanson what happened. It probably won’t do any good, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Yeah, I could do that.”

  Lew took his hands away. Ed wobbled some, but didn’t fall down.

  “Why do you say it won’t do any good to tell Sheriff Swanson what happened?”

  “Because the law doesn’t mean anything around here. Maybe all over. The people put a badge on a man and expect him to protect them. The man gets the badge, struts around like a damned peacock, and runs when trouble comes along. Making a man a sheriff just gives him more power than he deserves and doesn’t do anything for the law.”

  “Just because Sheriff Colfax did you a bad turn, Lew, doesn’t mean they’re all corrupt. Don’s been a pretty decent man, to my way of thinking.”

  “Don doesn’t have any power in a little old town like Osage. He’s supposed to keep the peace, and I reckon he does that. But if he rides outside the city limits, he’s just another farmer from Osage.”

  “You may be right. I’ll ride down there and tell him about Seneca. Maybe he’ll know what to do.”

  “Oh, he knows what to do, but if he goes up to Alpena, Colfax will back him down just like he did before when those boys killed my folks. Look, Ed, I’m going. We’ve already wasted too much time. You get well before you do any riding, hear?”

  “I’m all right, Lew.”

  “If you say so. But stay the hell away from Alpena. I mean it.”

  “I will,” Ed promised.

  Lew stalked through the kitchen and out the front door. Moonlight glazed the land, the leaves of the trees. He set off down the Possum Trot trail, heading for Osage.

  There probably was a shorter way to Alpena, but he didn’t know those parts of the hills beyond Possum Trot. Only a few did. There were so many roads, only a born native knew where they led. In the dark, anyway, and it was pitch dark. Clouds had moved in to obscure the moon and stars, and in the air, when he sniffed, there was the distinct tang of an oncoming storm. The air was full of moisture as if the earth was gathering a head of steam for one hell of a rainstorm.

  Lew did not cross the creek after he left Osage, but rode along the creek. There would be some fences to jump, he knew, but Pope and Canby could be waiting for him on the Alpena road. In the distance, he heard the faint rumble of thunder, and wished that he had thought to tie on a slicker behind his saddle. He kept the road in sight when he could, but he saw no sign of anyone. The road was quiet, deserted.

  When he got to Carrolton, he crossed the creek and took Ruben back on the road. The sky to the north flashed with far-off lightning, followed by rumbling peals of thunder. As he rode north, he counted the seconds between the flashes and the sound of thunder, figuring the distance before the storm hit. One second was roughly equal to
a mile. One slow second.

  The air had thickened so that he could almost swallow it, it was so wet. The lightning flashes got closer, but he had only a few short miles to go before he came to the crossroads. Where, he wondered, would Pope and Canby have taken Seneca? To the lumberyard? Or to Canby’s hardware store? He would check the hardware store first. It was the handiest.

  Ruben started dancing as they came into the blacked-out town. Heavy black clouds swarmed overhead like elephants. Jagged veins of lightning streaked through some of them still off to the north, etching a broken lattice of mercury for just a brief moment. The thunder boomed so close, he couldn’t finish his count. Less than a mile away, and there was death in those lightning strikes that pierced the ground like ragged silver lances. Ruben was as skittery as a newborn colt, prancing right and left, wanting to fight the bit and run to shelter.

  Lew came to the crossroads, saw the dark lumberyard off to the left. The rail tracks glistened like molten silver with each flash of lightning. And he heard the rain, stalking across the land with a steady tattoo that became a single sound, water rushing down a spout. He turned to the right, toward the hardware store in the next block. The rain caught up to him, and a gust of wind lashed him, splashing his face with freshets of water, brisk, but not yet cold. The rain stung his eyes and he wiped them with two fingers drawn across the lids. The darkness seemed to close in on him, enveloping him in a wet shroud.

  He saw a light in the back of the store as he approached. A lamp was burning and that meant that someone was inside. There were no horses at the hitch rail out front, but he had not expected Pope and Canby would make it easy for him. Yet he was sure that they wanted him to come after Seneca. Why hide the horses?

  He circled the block and came in at the rear of the store. Light spilled from a back window, a pale yellow glow that illuminated the back steps to the loading dock. And there, he saw three horses tied to posts, their saddles slick and shiny with fresh rain. The horses switched their tails as if trying to bat the raindrops away like so many flies, and Lew’s heart leaped in his chest.

  Seneca was surely inside, he thought, and his next move was to figure out how to get in and not get killed before he even fired a shot.

  He kept on going, past the store, and found a place to tie up Ruben. He slipped his rifle from its sheath and stalked back up the alleyway, walking slow, looking at every clump of shadow, listening for sounds through the insistent sawing of the rain on his hat, the ground, the roofs, the wooden sides of buildings.

  He reached the loading dock and stepped carefully up the stairs until he was level with the window. He drew close and peered inside. There was a wall blocking his view of the back room of the store. He put his ear to the pane and listened.

  He heard voices, tried to decipher the words.

  “—anytime now, Virg.”

  “Check the front again, Luke.” Pope’s voice this time.

  “Aw, he won’t come in that way.”

  “Then, check the back, damn it.”

  Lew stepped away from the window, froze his body to the back wall, next to the door. He could barely hear the sound of boots on the hardwood flooring. The light in the window shuddered and broke up as a body passed close to the pane. The dock plunged into darkness for a few seconds; then the light wavered again as Canby walked past the window to the door. Lew heard the latch rattle, as if Luke was testing to see if it was still locked.

  Then, silence.

  Canby was still at the door. Lew heard the sound of pressure on the wood.

  He figured Canby was pressing his ear to the door, listening for any alien sounds.

  Lew held his breath, his right hand gripping the butt of his pistol.

  His heart jumped when he heard Seneca scream. The sound pierced his eardrums and all traces of the rain faded into the background.

  Then Lew moved, his muscles bunching, his eyes narrowed to burning slits.

  And Seneca screamed again.

  5

  LEW LEANED HIS RIFLE AGAINST THE BACK WALL. HE CHARGED the door, grasping the latch. He gave a mighty tug, then slammed his shoulder into the door. He felt it give way as the echoes of Seneca’s screams died away. He heard an angry grunt from Canby, then an explosion that blasted his eardrums, deafened him.

  The door fell inward, sagging from the lower hinge. Canby grappled with him, tried to club Lew with the butt of the pistol he held in his hand.

  A shout from the other room. Lew recognized the voice as Pope’s.

  “Shut up,” Pope yelled at Seneca.

  Luke Canby was strong, stronger than Lew. Lew grabbed the wrist with the gun, trying to force Canby to drop his weapon. Canby grunted and blew hot breath in Lew’s face. His muscles corded up, giving him enough strength to resist. Lew was panting from the wrestling effort, but he held on. He danced Canby to one side, then brought a knee up into his groin.

  Canby groaned and doubled over, but he sprang back swinging. The fist with the pistol in it struck Lew on the cheekbone, driving a sharp pain into his face, almost paralyzing it for a second. Stars danced like silver lightning bugs in Lew’s brain and he staggered under the impact of the powerful blow. He regained his footing in time to throw up an arm and ward off still another blow, as Canby drove his pistol down toward Lew’s head. Lew felt the air rush past his ear as Canby’s arm completed its arc, brushing only against the brim of Lew’s hat.

  “Luke, what the hell’s goin’ on out there?” Pope yelled.

  “Damned Zane,” Canby spat, almost out of breath.

  “You stay put, gal,” Pope shouted.

  Lew heard footsteps pounding on the hardwood flooring.

  He doubled up a fist and threw an uppercut at Canby. He struck the man just under the chin. Canby’s head snapped back, and his eyes rolled like errant marbles in their sockets.

  Lew followed up his advantage, grabbed Canby’s wrist, and wrested the pistol loose from his grip. Canby fought back, clawing at Lew’s eyes, grabbing at the pistol. The two men tugged back and forth. Then Lew heard a click as Canby thumbed the hammer back. He heard the cylinder turn and snap into place on a fresh round. He pushed on Canby’s arm, trying to keep the pistol from being turned on him. The pistol turned, pointed toward Canby at chest level.

  There was an explosion just as Pope rounded the corner and entered the back room. Lew felt the pistol jump into his hand, as Canby’s grip loosened. Canby staggered backward, a hole in his chest, a hole that gushed blood with every beat of his heart. Canby’s eyes widened with shock. He lifted a hand to his chest and blood spurted through his fingers.

  Lew grabbed the pistol, thumbed back the hammer. He whirled to face Pope, who was leveling a pistol at him.

  Both men fired at the same time. Lew squeezed the trigger and ducked. He heard the sizzling whir of the bullet as it passed just over his head at nine hundred feet per second. Pope’s slug caught Canby in the center of his throat and he went down like a sack of grain, gurgling out his last breath.

  Lew’s bullet made a smacking sound as it struck Pope’s abdomen. Pope doubled over, gasping for air, as the wind was knocked out of his lungs.

  “You . . . you bastard,” Pope rasped, clutching the wound. Blood threaded his fingers and he sat down, his face blanched with pain, his mouth moving with silent curses.

  Lew cocked Canby’s pistol again and stepped over to Pope, looked down at him.

  “You brought this on yourself, Pope.”

  “Damn you, Zane. Damn you for killing my son.”

  “Looks to me like he was cut from the same bolt as you, Pope. He tried to kill me. Just like you.”

  Pope struggled to lift his pistol for another shot at Lew.

  Lew raised his leg and brought it straight down on Pope’s wrist, forcing it to the floor. He stood on it with his full weight. He heard the sound of small bones crunching. The pistol slipped from Pope’s grip and clattered on the floor. Pope gasped in pain. He didn’t have enough wind to scream. Sweat bathed his face and tears
streamed from his eyes.

  “Ahh,” Pope said. He doubled over and groaned.

  Lew kicked Pope’s pistol well away from him, clear past the partition that shielded the back room where Seneca was held captive.

  “Lew?” Seneca called to him from the next room. “Lew, are you alive?”

  “I’m here, Seneca. Be a minute.”

  “Are they—are they both dead?”

  “Pert near,” he said.

  He dashed around the partition and into the next room, a storeroom and office. There were shelves stacked with boxes, nail kegs beneath, a desk, two chairs. Seneca was tied to a chair, her feet bound together, rope around her waist and arms. Lew shoved Canby’s pistol into his belt and began untying the knots.

  “They didn’t even use new rope on you,” he said, still panting slightly from the exertion of a few moments before. “This is an old horse rope.”

  “Oh, Lew, thank God you came. How did you know? Is my daddy all right?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “They wanted you to come after me. That’s all they talked about. All the way up here and after they tied me up. Virgil, he started getting familiar with me. I screamed.”

  “I know. I heard you.”

  “They’re bad men.”

  Lew finished untying the last knot, which was behind her and held the rope at her ankles as well as the one around her waist and arms. He loosened the rope and Seneca sat there, rubbing her arms. She bent down and massaged both ankles.

  “I’ll take you back home,” he said. “Soon as you’re ready.”

  She started to say something, and then both of them froze as they heard a scraping sound. Lew whirled and saw Virgil Pope crawling toward him. He had picked up the pistol Lew had kicked away. He raised it and thumbed back the hammer.

  “I—I thought they were both dead,” Seneca said, her voice flat and toneless, as if she were half asleep. That was the fear, Lew knew.

  Pope leveled the pistol. His entire midsection was wet with blood and Lew could smell his intestines, which were starting to bulge out of his abdomen. A bullet had torn through it, releasing the gases and the stench.