The bottle of whiskey sat on a low table between them.
There was other furniture in the room, and decorations on the walls, but Tucson only had eyes for the two men. Almost casually, he stepped into the room, covered them both with his guns and called out pleasantly, “Howdy, gents...”
For a moment Ed Thompson and Prince sat frozen, both men staring at Tucson as if they were seeing a ghost. Then Prince leaped to his feet and spun around, threw his glass at Tucson then went for his gun. At the same time, Thompson slid up and over the back of the couch and dropped from sight on the other side.
Prince's gun was half out of its holster when Tucson's bullet caught him square in the chest, exploding it in a crimson cloud of blood and bone. Then the impact lifted him off his feet and threw him backward over the chair. Landing on the floor like a rag doll, he slid across the polished boards for several feet, then he lay still.
In an attempt to catch Thompson before he got away, Tucson snapped off a few rounds with his left-hand gun into the back of the couch, but there was no response and Tucson decided that the rancher must have escaped through a door on the left.
Grimacing at the lost opportunity, he shrugged and moved to the right, heading for a rack in the corner where Prince's yellow duster hung. Then Thompson's head and the barrel of a gun appeared over the back of the couch. Tucson dove for the floor as the muzzle flashed and a slug bored a hole in the pine-wood paneling an inch above his head.
The windows rattled from the deep roar of gunfire, and the dark cloud of powder-smoke made it hard to see or breath. Flat on his stomach on the floor, Tucson fired into the couch, hoping to get lucky and hit Thompson. But the rancher was scuttling back toward a doorway leading into another room, shouting for his men as he crawled.
Tucson heard stamping feet and shouting voices coming from the bunkhouse. The whole crew had been roused by sounds of the gun-fight, and they were racing to Thompson's rescue.
Tucson had just run out of time.
Staying down, he reached the coat-rack and put his hand into a pocket of Prince's duster. He sighed with relief as his fingers closed over the familiar rosewood grips of his .45. Then he pulled the .32 from the second pocket. Tossing the other guns aside, he took precious moments to check the rounds in the chambers and test the firing mechanisms to satisfy himself that they hadn’t been jammed with dust from being dropped in the dirt.
Renewed confidence surged through him as he slid them into their holsters.
Tucson ran in a crouch back to the door, passed out into the hall and sprinted down to the kitchen then stepped outside onto the porch. Pausing in the darkness, he put his fingers to his lips and blew a sharp whistle, then leaped to the side. He wasn't a split-second too soon, as the roar of gunfire split the stillness; the night exploded into day from the flash of twenty flaming muzzles.
Squatting down beside the porch, it seemed to Tucson that he had leaped into a hornet's nest. Hot lead popped and sizzled in the air around him, while splinters from the chopping slugs hitting the porch and wall snarled about his head.
Ed Thompson's harsh voice rang out in the night. “Half o' you men git on around to the other side o' the house. We need to come at the Kid from both sides. The rest o' you hombres keep pullin’ them triggers—don't give 'im time to breathe.”
Tucson pushed back his sombrero and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Then he heard the sound of a horse's hooves pounding the hard ground. Fearing the stallion would run into the gunfire, he called out, “Stay back, boy! Stay back...”
Tucson had no time to lose. In seconds the other gunmen would round the corner of the house and he would be caught in the cross-fire. With both guns blazing, he leaped from behind the porch, rolling over the ground, dodging, kneeling, and rolling again as he fired.
The roar of the guns was deafening; slugs threw up showers of dirt all around him and he felt them nip and tug at his clothes. When he neared the stallion, he stopped firing so his muzzle-flashes wouldn't betray his position and put the horse in danger.
The gunmen rounded the corner of the house and called out to the others not to fire in their direction. Some were shouting, now that Tucson had stopped shooting, asking if he had been hit. Gunfire slowed as the men approached cautiously to investigate.
“Be careful, men,” Thompson shouted. “The Kid’s as slick as a coyote. He could be waitin' out there for us to git within range.”
Hearing the soft nickering of the stallion, Tucson leaped into the saddle without touching the stirrups. Unwrapping the reins from the saddle horn, he nudged the stallion with his heels then bent low as it bolted into a gallop and took him away from danger.
Behind them, the night lit up as the gunmen realized what was happening and opened fire.
Then Ed Thompson's voice rose above the din. “Gawdammit!” he bawled in exasperation. “Quit shootin' an' go git your hosses, boys. We gotta ride if we're gonna catch 'im!”
* * * *
While Ed Thompson and his crew of gunmen ran for their horses, Tucson headed out around the cattle pens. Once past the corrals, he lay along the stallion's neck and urged it on to greater speed. The stallion responded, stretching out its long legs and settling into a mile-eating gallop. The moon was sinking below the horizon, and the stars swept across the sky like a river of sparkling light. Tucson experienced the prairie as a shadowy blur of brush and cactus, with an occasional butte looming up out of the darkness like a giant roused from slumber.
Once on the open prairie, Tucson knew that the cow ponies of his pursuers could never catch the stallion. Now was when all the care he lavished on the horse paid off. The stallion could easily keep up this pace all the way back to Howling Wolf. Tucson's mind began moving ahead to what he would do once he arrived back in town.
The stallion found its own way as Tucson gave himself over to his thoughts. This was the way Tucson habitually rode; he pointed the stallion in the direction he wanted it to go, then he let the horse pick the best way to get there. His relationship with the stallion was a partnership; the horse knew what was expected of it, and did its part as if it enjoyed it.
They were about half-way to the Old Spanish Trail, when Tucson spotted a lone rider ahead. He was coming on at a walk, with his head down as if he were studying the ground. After a few more paces, the rider raised his head and Tucson recognized young Tom McMannus.
Tucson bit his lip then headed for the boy.
“What're you doing out here?” he shouted as he reined in, the stallion rearing back on its hind legs and pawing the air.
“Jeezus, Tucson!” McMannus was wide-eyed as he looked Tucson over. “You didn't come in last night, so I did what you told me to do and started trailin’ you to make sure nothin’ bad happened.” He glanced along Tucson’s back trail, then asked, “How come you're ridin’ so hell-for-leather?”
Tucson glanced over his shoulder and pointed at the heavy cloud of dust that was moving swiftly toward them. “You see that? That's Ed Thompson and his gunmen, and they're after me.”
“What for...?” McMannus cried in alarm.
“I don’t have time to explain,” Tucson rasped, with another anxious glance back. “Get on out of here before you get killed.”
The boy’s chin came up stubbornly. “If you're in trouble, Tucson, I'll stick it out with you.”
“Don't be a fool, Tom...!” Tucson insisted. “Get out now.”
“No,” McMannus shook his head. “I'm stickin’!”
With no time to argue, Tucson stopped talking and nudged the stallion back into a run. Tom McMannus whirled his mount around on its hind legs, sank in the spurs, and the two men rode on together.
It didn't take long for Tucson to realize that it wasn't going to work. McMannus' mount was game, but it just couldn't keep up with the stallion—in fact it was already faltering. A glance behind revealed that Thompson and his men were gaining fast. Soon they'd be within firing range.
For all his concern for Tucson,
McMannus' stubborn insistence on staying with him had put both of their lives in danger. Without the boy holding him back, by now Tucson would have far outdistanced the pursuing riders. The stallion was still running easily; it hadn't even begun to dip into its reserves of power.
Tucson thought of riding off and leaving the boy, but he knew that Ed Thompson would kill Tom when he caught him. Misguided or not, McMannus was risking his life for his hero, and Tucson couldn't let him go down for it.
With a sinking feeling in his guts, he reined the stallion in until McMannus came abreast of him. “Is there any place around here where we can make a stand?” he shouted.
McMannus thought for a second. “There's an arroyo about half a mile south o' here,” he called back. “We might be able to make it.”
“Is there a way into it?”
McMannus nodded.
“Okay,” Tucson shouted. “You lead the way.”
McMannus veered south and Tucson turned after him, glancing behind him as he rode. Ed Thompson, riding a huge white horse, was out in front of the band of gunmen, and they were coming on fast. One of the men let loose with a shot, but they were still out of range and it fell harmlessly short.
Then Tucson bent low in the saddle and concentrated on staying with McMannus in the dark. The boy’s horse was lathered with sweat and was beginning to blow. Probably McMannus had been riding most of the night trailing Tucson, and his mount hadn't had any rest or feed.
Then a gunshot popped the air by Tucson's ear, and he knew Thompson was in range.
“How much farther?” he called to McMannus.
“Just a ways...” the boy called back, pointing ahead.
Tucson wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and pulled his Winchester from its scabbard beneath the stirrup. Twisting around in the saddle, he levered off a series of shots to remind Thompson that he still had teeth. He was gratified to see one of the gunmen topple from his saddle, and the other riders reined back.
Then McMannus shouted and Tucson turned around to see a steep ravine open up on their right. It was a black serrated gash in the prairie; Tucson couldn't see the bottom. Another quarter of a mile and McMannus reined to the side and started down a trail leading along the canyon wall. Tucson, still unable to pick out any landmarks, followed him blindly, letting the stallion find its own way.
Halfway into the arroyo, Tucson reined the stallion to a rearing halt and called to McMannus to stop. Then he leaped from the saddle, still holding the rifle, and climbed on foot back up the slope. Throwing himself down just below the crest, he raised his head until his eyes just cleared the lip and looked over.
Thompson and his gang were coming up fast; evidently the rancher knew the trail and was going to lead his men down into the arroyo. As McMannus fell to the ground beside him, drawing his Colt, Tucson took aim with the Winchester and squeezed the trigger.
Thompson's horse must have thrown its head up at just that moment, because the bullet that would have taken the rancher in the chest hit the horse in the forehead, killing it instantly. Thompson was an expert horseman and knew what he was doing. As his horse stumbled, he got his boots out of the stirrups then rolled when he hit the ground. His men, shouting and cursing, swerved to miss him. Rolling to a stop, Thompson came up into a kneeling position and called to his men to back off and take cover.
Sighting through the swirling dust, Tucson fired another round that caught Thompson in the left shoulder, spinning him around and laying him out. McMannus was firing at the fleeing gunmen, and two more fell from their saddles.
Then darkness swallowed them up and they were out of range. As the horsemen disappeared, Tucson glanced back to where Ed Thompson had been lying, but he was gone. He must have crawled away with his men under the cover of dust and darkness.
Tucson automatically reloaded his rifle as his eyes scanned the terrain, but he couldn't see anything. A breeze swept through the chaparral and ruffled the prairie grass. It carried the sounds of creaking leather, the chink of bridle chains, and Ed Thompson's deep voice barking orders.
Then it all stopped, and an ominous silence fell over the prairie.
McMannus looked around at Tucson, and his blue eyes were haunted. “You could've gotten away if it wasn't for me!” he cried bitterly. “I could see that your horse wasn't even workin' hard, and mine was almost done in. I wanted to help you,” he wailed, “but it's because o’ me that we're in this fix.”
Tucson shrugged, his eyes ceaselessly probing the darkness. “There's no use going into that now,” he replied quietly. “You put your life on the line to save my hide, Tom.” His eyes were steady as he glanced at McMannus. “When a man does that for me, I don't ever forget it.”
McMannus smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Tucson!” His voice was a little choked. Then, “What do we do now? We can't stay down here forever. We'll fry when the sun comes up.”
Tucson snorted. “Thompson will have us picked off long before sunrise.” The shadows emphasized the harsh lines of his face as he stared bleakly out over the prairie. “I'll bet they're sneaking up on us right now,” he muttered. “When they get close enough, they'll make a charge.” His eyes shifted to the boy. “We won’t be able to get them all before we're overrun.”
“Gawdalmighty, Tucson!” McMannus almost shouted with alarm. “Why did you have us pull into this arroyo, then? Now we're trapped!”
“Your horse was done in,” Tucson replied simply. “We'd both be dead now if we had kept running. This was our only chance. Besides,” he chuckled mirthlessly, and in the dim light his face became a death mask, “we're not waiting for Ed Thompson and his gang to come in here after us. We're going out there and get them.”
“Out there...?” McMannus stared at Tucson as if he were insane. “There must be twenty of 'em out there. A snowball in hell would have a better chance than us.”
Tucson pulled his eyes away from the prairie and gazed levelly at McMannus. “You can stay here if that’s your decision, Tom, but if you want to be a lawman you've got to learn to take chances—that is, chances that have to be taken. Anyway, I figure we've killed maybe five of them. That leaves about fifteen men against two. Those odds aren't too bad.”
McMannus looked down at the ground for a moment then he shook his head. “I'm sorry, Tucson,” he muttered. “You're right. What do you want me to do?”
“You go that way.” Tucson pointed to the south. “I'll go north. Then we swing around, outflank them and take them from behind.”
“How'll we know when each of us is in position?”
“You wait until I start the fandango,” Tucson replied. “Don't make a move on them until I come up.”
“How'll you know I'm there?” McMannus asked. “Somethin’ might happen to slow me down.”
“I'll just figure you made it,” Tucson replied. “And don't make me wrong!”
* * * *
As Tucson crawled through the prairie grass, gravel bit into his elbows and knees and the chaparral scratched his face and tugged at his clothes. It was lucky the moon had set; his black sombrero, black leather jacket and dark trousers made him almost invisible in the night.
Pausing for breath beneath a yucca, he cocked an ear to listen.
A faint metallic ‘chink’ reached him from the right, like the sound spurs made when they struck a rock. He had known Thompson and his gunmen would be coming to get him and McMannus. The rancher couldn't afford to let this fight drag on too long—the sounds of gunfire may have already been heard in Howling Wolf.
Marshal Calloway could even then be riding out to find out what was going on. At this point, it was Ed Thompson who was running out of time.
The important thing had been to get out of that arroyo. It was a good place for a short term defense, but under a full scale attack it was a death trap. Tucson caught the sounds of whispering and the brush of several bodies passing through the chaparral. He buried his face in the dirt and let them go by, his nerves tingling at the nearness of his enemies.
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br /> When he was certain they had passed him, he came up into a crouch and moved south until he cut their trail—seen easily even in the darkness—then turned back west, following them. He had no intention of fighting them in the brush. He would wait until they were close to the arroyo, where the chaparral thinned out, then he would make his attack.
The sound of a boot slipping in gravel brought him around with his gun up. A few yards to his left, crouching behind a bush, was Tom McMannus, his Colt out and ready, staring at him apprehensively.
Tucson pointed west, and began moving.
McMannus came up alongside him, and the two of them went on together. Tucson glanced appraisingly at the boy. He was breathing heavily from nerves, but otherwise he appeared steady enough. This was going to be McMannus’ trial by fire, Tucson reflected, and he hoped the boy would be equal to the test.
Their lives depended on it.
The gunmen ahead dropped onto their stomachs as the chaparral thinned out and they approached the arroyo. Tucson looked beyond them to the crest. In the faint starlight, he could just make out a Stetson and his sombrero where they had left them propped up on sticks so they could just be glimpsed above the rim of the canyon. Tucson's Winchester was lying beside them in the dirt, pointing straight ahead.
Tucson grinned to himself. It was a pretty simple ruse, and it wouldn't fool Ed Thompson for more than a minute - but that was all the edge Tucson needed.
He spotted Thompson in the middle, favoring his left shoulder as he wriggled under a clump of brush. The rancher was motioning to his men to spread out. Tucson watched them getting into position as they came up onto their knees in preparation for a charge.
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