“Corporal—” Washington said warningly.
Jefferson didn’t listen. He pushed his chair back and put his hand on his gun.
That was when the batwing doors swung open and Bass Reeves entered the saloon.
FORTY-TWO
Washington suddenly realized what the plan had been, to divide him and his men by making him think Clint was there to distract them.
“Easy,” he said to Jefferson, who had not quite drawn his gun.
Reeves looked at Washington.
“This wasn’t your plan,” Washington said.
“No,” Reeves said, “it was Clint’s. Jefferson, take your hand away from your gun.”
Jefferson was frozen in place, his hand on his gun.
Washington was chuckling and shaking his head.
“You let him call the play,” he said. “I didn’t expect that.”
Clint could hear the footsteps above them.
“They’re coming back,” Clint said. “You two drop your guns now.”
Washington was staring at Reeves. Jefferson was watching Clint.
“Put your guns down now!” Reeves said.
Washington knew they needed only minutes for the others to come down.
“Jefferson…” he said.
Washington leaped to his feet as Jefferson went for his gun.
Clint and Bass Reeves drew.
Washington grabbed Jefferson from behind and used him as a shield. The corporal realized what was happening too late. As Washington dragged him back toward the rear of the saloon, Clint and Reeves fired. Washington felt the slugs strike Jefferson’s body. The corporal squeezed off a couple of shots into the ground.
When Washington reached the door in the back wall of the saloon, he shoved the dead corporal away from him.
At that moment the other four soldiers, hearing the shots, came running down the stairs, their guns in their hands. When they saw Clint and Reeves, they started firing.
Clint threw himself over the bar, landed on the bar--tender.
“Stay down,” he told the man.
“Don’t worry, I will.”
Reeves had backed out of the saloon, took cover outside so he could fire over the batwing doors.
The four men scattered, overturned tables to use as cover. But they were cheap tables. Clint rose up and fired three shots into one of them. The bullets went right through and killed Weatherby.
Reeves, seeing what happened, picked out an overturned table and fired four shots into it. They went through and killed Gordon.
“Give it up!” he shouted. “Those tables give you no cover.”
He and Clint waited a few moments, then fired high into the tables to illustrate their point.
“Okay, okay,” Webster shouted. “Stop firing.”
“Toss out your guns.”
Webster threw his over the table. They waited, and then Franklin did the same thing.
Reeves stepped into the saloon. Clint stood up.
“I’ve got them,” he said. “Go after Washington.”
“Thanks,” Reeves said.
He ran out of the saloon.
Washington heard all the shooting in the saloon as he went out the back door. He could have run around to the front of the saloon and tried to get behind Reeves and Clint Adams. Instead, he ran straight for the livery stable.
Reeves came out of the saloon watching for Washington to appear. He would have gone out the back and then run around to the front. That’s what he would have done, and what most Buffalo Soldiers would have done.
Washington would do the opposite.
Washington reached the livery on the run. The stable was empty, so he found his horse’s stall and started saddling it.
“It’s not gonna be that easy, Lem,” Reeves said.
Washington froze, then turned, saw Reeves standing in the doorway.
“You can’t outthink me,” Reeves said. “You wanna see if you can outdraw me?”
“Adams’ll be here any minute,” Washington said.
“He’s takin’ care of the rest of your men,” Reeves said. “What did you promise them to get them to follow you? Money? A big score?”
“I got them money,” Washington said. “The bank here was supposed to be a big score.”
“Now you’ll never know.”
“I will if I kill you, and then Adams.”
“That’s a tall order, even for a Buffalo Soldier.”
Washington turned away from his horse to face Reeves.
“Well,” he said, “I might as well get by you first.”
“I don’t understand you, Lem,” Reeves said. “You were a Buffalo Soldier.”
“We were still puppets, Bass,” Washington said, “with white men pullin’ the strings. Hell, your strings are bein’ pulled by Judge Parker. Another white man.”
“I got no strings.”
“You think you don’t—”
“You won’t convince me,” Reeves said. “Not like you did the rest of your men. Four of them are dead, and you used one of them as a shield.”
“It was his duty to help his CO escape.”
“What you did was the act of a coward, Lem,” Reeves said. “Now drop your gun. I’m takin’ you back.”
“To hang? Not likely. I ain’t lettin’ no white man hang me.”
“Then it ends here.”
Washington nodded.
“We agree on that, Bass. It ends here.”
Clint turned the remaining two men over to Sheriff Riggs and ran out of the saloon. The only place he could think Washington would go was the livery.
As he approached the stable on the run, he heard a shot. He increased his speed, but stopped short of the door. He drew his gun and moved slowly, peering into the stable. He saw one black man standing over another.
Reeves turned his head and looked at him.
“It’s over,” he said. “He wouldn’t go back.”
Clint walked in, holstering his gun. He looked down at the dead Lem Washington.
“Well,” he said to the black deputy, “at least you have two live ones to bring back to the Judge. He can still have himself a hanging party.”
“You think the Judge enjoys hangin’ men?”
“I think he does, yeah,” Clint said. “Why else is he always insisting you bring them back alive?”
Reeves studied Clint for a few moments, then said, “That’s somethin’ we’ll have to talk about another time. I have ta get those last two back to Fort Smith.”
“I’m not coming,” Clint said. “I’ve already spend too much time in the Territories.”
“Where are you gonna go?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “Maybe I’ll head back to Texas.”
Reeves stuck his hand out.
“Thanks for everythin’ you did.”
Clint shook his hand.
“Give my best to the Judge,” he said.
Watch for
THE DEATH LIST
363rd novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series
from Jove
Coming in March!
Gunsmith #362 : Buffalo Soldiers (9781101554388) Page 11