He heard a creak from the stairs.
He froze, turning back into the room, stepping high over Billy. He strode past Jody’s lifeless corpse, slung the saddlebags over his shoulder, and heaved up the window. A lean-to had been tacked onto the rear of the hotel, the shingled roof a few feet below him. Without hesitation he swung a leg over the windowsill, gun in one hand, the other steadying the heavy leather bags.
He landed with a rattle of boot heels. His feet came out from under him and he went down on his rump, sliding down the shingles to the lip of the roof. Feet kicking like a jackass mule, he went over, falling in an untidy heap in the dust of the back street.
A man came running around the corner. Long duster coat, hat pulled down. Emmett Green. On one knee, his other leg twisted awkwardly beneath him, Creech raised his arm and fired. Green threw himself sideways, back behind the protection of a wall. But as soon as he disappeared he leaned out again to shoot.
Dust danced by Creech’s leg.
He snapped off a shot then scrambled to his feet. He cursed as an ankle buckled. Wincing, he started to run with a leg-dragging limp.
Emmett was behind the wall. Grimacing, he flexed his gun arm. It had gone numb. As he bent it at the elbow he noticed the blood trickling into his palm, flowing around the butt of his revolver. The preacher’s first shot must have winged him. He swapped hands, and with the gun in his unfamiliar left, he leaned out again to shoot.
Creech was up and running, putting precious feet between them. Emmett swore bitterly. With his left hand he had no chance of bringing him down at that range. He abandoned his cover and began to run.
Inside the McQueen Hotel, Floyd, with Sophie in his wake, had crept along the passage, then on reaching number sixteen’s open door he had leapt into the room, almost falling over Billy. Seeing the room was empty, he had glanced down at Billy and seeing he was beyond help he took a fast look at Jody. Also dead. As he went past them he heard the shots from outside. He flattened against the wall by the open window, trying to peer around the frame to find out what was happening.
There were a couple more shots and the scuffle of running feet. He leaned out and saw Emmett running.
“Emmett?”
“Along the street!” Emmett hollered back, running on.
Floyd turned from the window. Sophie stood in the doorway. Her hands hung limply at her sides as she stared hollow-eyed at Billy and Jody. He strode over and hustled her out into the corridor.
“He killed them,” she said, almost in a trance.
“Stay out here until it’s all over,” Floyd snapped. “I’ll be back right off.”
Her eyes switched to him. “No. He’ll only kill you as well. And Emmett too. I’ve already lost Jack and Mary. I don’t want to lose you too…”
But Floyd was gone, back through the room and out the window. He skittered down the shingles then jumped down into the alley. He landed on springy legs like a cat, glancing in the direction Emmett had taken.
Then he ran.
Creech’s chest was heaving like a smith’s bellows and his face was screwed up in pain from his sprained ankle. But he kept on moving in an awkward half run, head turning each few paces to look back. Green was gaining on him. Creech tried to remember how many bullets he had used. One for Mackinaw. Two on Billy Robson. And two on Green? Yes, two. He was sweating. How many was that? Four, no five. He had to stop and reload or he was dead. But if he stopped, Green would catch up. Then he was dead that way too. Why wasn’t Green shooting? Another problem he didn’t have the time to work out. The sweat was coursing down his face now, running into his eyes. And his ankle hurt more with each progressive step.
He decided on a long shot.
Abruptly he halted. Pain seared up his leg as he spun into a crouch. Green was coming up fast. Creech brought up his gun arm, steady as his ragged nerves would allow. Help me Lord. He was aware of someone running up behind Green but he pushed them out of his mind, pulling all his concentration together on his target.
He squeezed the trigger.
Green’s head was wrenched back by an invisible hand, blood spurting from a ruptured neck artery. His running legs folded beneath him and he hit the ground like a felled bighorn deer, still almost graceful even in death. His gun, held on a hair trigger, went off. The bullet whined into the sky.
As the gun smoke cleared, Creech saw his victim. Green was twitching obscenely now, blood pumping from his throat. His arm rose a fraction, fist clenched as though he were trying to get up, then it went limp and fell back to earth.
Creech’s eyes switched to the running man.
Panic gripped him as he recognized Floyd. And his gun was empty! Frantically, he pushed out the Colt’s cylinder, knocking it so the spent shells scattered into the dust. With fumbling fingers he sought fresh cartridges from the loops of his gun belt. He grasped one—there was no time for more—and pushed it into a chamber. He snapped the action shut and spun the cylinder.
Almost level with Emmett’s body, Floyd slowed as Creech fumbled. Reflex and skill took over. He raised and fired his Colt in one smooth action. Creech was still in the act of bringing his own pistol to bear.
Floyd’s bullet took Creech in the breastbone, hot lead that burrowed through weak flesh until it splintered into his spinal column. It left him kneeling, crouched in position, but already dead. His mouth dropped open, then he toppled over. In his fear, his grip on the gun was such that his hand did not release it even when he hit the ground.
Floyd stood stock still, arm outstretched. He recocked the .44, not trusting Creech to stay dead. He spared the barest of glances for Emmett but saw that his throat was ripped out and a glaze had settled over his eyes.
The bastard had got all of them but Sophie and him. He edged toward Creech, watching the gun on the ground all the while. When he eventually stood over him, he kicked the pistol out of the reluctant fingers. There was nothing to fear. Creech’s eyes were open, unseeing.
“You’re all right!”
Floyd turned at the sound of Sophie’s voice and caught her as she threw herself into his arms. He patted her back in reassurance it was all over as she clung to him.
“He’s dead, Sophie. It’s over.”
She lifted her head. “Emmett?”
“He’s dead. All of us but you and me.”
“But you got him.”
“Yes.”
“Who was he? We still don’t know his name.”
Floyd steadied her on her own two feet then stooped to go through the dead man’s pockets. He pulled a wad from a vest pocket. A bundle of hundred dollar bills. A whole heap of them. At least five hundred dollars’ worth. He showed them to Sophie.
“Must be the reward on the Kid.”
She nodded, staring at the dead man’s face. As Floyd handed her an envelope addressed to Solomon Creech, care of the McQueen Hotel, Las Cruces, her eyes roved over the long angular jaw and those bushy eyebrows above the steely gray eyes that had been with her every moment of every day since Jack had been murdered.
“Solomon Creech.”
Floyd waved the bundle of banknotes. “Be a good stake for us.”
“I don’t think so. Stay right where you are.”
Floyd looked up. Two men were pointing guns at him. Two men who looked like cattle buyers. Now he thought about it, they had been in the restaurant when Emmett had heard the first gunshots. Floyd looked into the big bore barrels of a scattergun.
“Take off your gun belt and drop it.”
Floyd straightened up, then unbuckled his gun belt. Carefully, he let it fall so that the butt was towards him. Any chance.
“Hand over the money.”
“Who the hell are you?” Sophie asked, frowning.
“Detective Gallagher and Detective Keene of the Pinkerton Agency in Denver.”
Floyd stared at him.
“Floyd Benson, I am taking you in for your part in the robbery committed on June twenty-sixth, eighteen-eighty-three in Prowers County, Colorado
, on an express car of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad.”
Floyd rubbed a hand wearily across his eyes. Suddenly he was tired. Very tired.
“But…” protested Sophie.
“Aw, shit,” said Floyd.
THE END
Desperadoes Page 13