“Can’t you see I’m almost gone? Why waste it?”
“Need to be sure.”
“Miserable stinkin’ breed.”
Asa stroked the trigger.
24
Asa left the body lying there and retreated to the doorway of the bank where the outlaws wouldn’t see him until they were right on top of him. He quickly replaced the spent shells, sliding new ones from loops in a bandoleer.
The town might as well be a cemetery. Nothing moved, except for him.
No one came to help, either. Not that he blamed them. Yes, this was their home, but they were clerks and tellers and a butcher and a barber and others who’d hardly ever held a gun, let alone fired one.
Thanks to the lurid accounts of so-called journalists, folks who lived east of the Mississippi River believed that every man who lived west of it never stepped out the door without artillery strapped to their waist. But the journalists, as usual, were full of cow droppings. Most Westerners lived peaceable lives and went about unarmed except when they hunted or traveled through hostile territory.
Outlaws were usually heeled, but most couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn when sober, let alone when under the influence. Expert shootists were as rare as hen’s teeth. Wild Bill Hickok was justly famous for once shooting a man through the heart at seventy-five yards, a feat no one had duplicated and likely ever would.
Asa wasn’t Wild Bill. He was content to blow them apart at five yards. For him, skill didn’t count for much. But surviving did.
Hooves pounded, and soon the west end of Main Street filled with riders. Bull Cumberland and Jake Bass were in the lead, Cumberland a mountain on horseback, Bass coiled like the snake he was.
They didn’t slow. That was their first mistake. They stayed bunched together, too. That was their second. Bathed in the light from the houses they passed, they didn’t draw rein until they reached Crusty. That was their third mistake.
Asa stayed in the doorway. It was up to him to start the blood flowing, and he had to choose the right moment.
Bull Cumberland glared at the body, his hand on his revolver. “I told him to be careful.”
“Why, half his head is gone!” another man exclaimed.
“And the brains that were in it,” said a third.
Jake Bass was scouring Main Street. “Where’s that damn Town Tamer?”
“He has to be here somewhere,” Bull Cumberland said.
“Pair up and go door-to-door until we find him.”
Asa moved into the open. None of them noticed him until he was close to Cumberland’s sorrel. Cumberland was looking the other way but must have caught movement out of the corners of his eyes and jerked around. “I wouldn’t,” Asa said, the Winchester centered on Cumberland’s broad chest. “I can’t miss at this range.”
“No one try anything,” Cumberland said to the others without looking at them.
They obeyed. Jake Bass, though, had a wild look on his face that didn’t bode well.
“You figure on droppin’ all of us?” Bull Cumberland asked.
“No,” Asa answered. To claim he could would be foolish.
“Set down the cannon, and maybe I’ll make it quick,” Bull said.
“Steers fly now, do they?”
Bull wasn’t amused. “No, you’re right. After what you did to Old Tom and Tyree and now Crusty, you should beg for it to end.”
“Not in this life or any other.”
“You’ve got, what, five shots in that howitzer? There are ten of us left.”
“We’ll put more holes in you than there are in that foreign cheese,” Jake Bass boasted.
“Hush,” Bull Cumberland barked at him, again without taking his eyes off the Winchester.
“What are we waitin’ for, damn it?” Jake Bass said.
“Use your head,” someone snapped, “or Bull will lose his.”
Jake colored with anger. “You’ll answer to me later for that, Pike.”
Bull Cumberland was surprisingly calm. “How do you aim to do this? Have us drop our hardware and lie down in the street so you can have us hog-tied?”
“Do you see a tin star on my shirt?” Asa said.
“So it’s root, hog, or die?”
“Always has been,” Asa said. “Every town I’ve tamed. I never take anyone alive. They either die or they skedaddle for parts unknown.”
“We’re none of us skedaddlers.”
“You’re not,” Asa said. “But the rest of them aren’t you. Grit comes hard for most.”
“You have your share,” Bull Cumberland said, “comin’ out to meet us like this. You’d have been better off huntin’ cover.”
“I needed all of you sitting still.”
“Does it matter much with a shotgun?” Bull said.
“No,” Asa said, “but it does with rifles.” And he threw back his head and roared, “Now!”
25
Surprise was key. It was why Asa always sent them on ahead. Why he insisted they avoid one another once he arrived in a town.
The odds were always against him. Never once was Asa asked to tame a town where only one bad man was giving the locals fits. It was always a lot of bad men, always a wild bunch, and they always thought he was facing them alone. They were wrong.
Asa had an ace in the hole. Or, rather, two aces, since his daughter insisted on doing her part, and truth be told, she was as good at it if not better than her rhyme-loving brother.
So now, when Asa roared, Byron reared up on the flat roof of the millinery across the street, and Noona heaved up in the steeple atop the bank.
The outlaws who had pretended to be cowpokes didn’t see them. They were concentrating on Asa, which was exactly what Asa wanted them to do. He cut loose at Bull Cumberland even as he threw himself to the ground. He was sure he scored, but somehow Bull stayed in the saddle. Then the rest of the outlaws were jerking pistols, and Jake Bass, the quickest, snapped a shot that kicked up dirt practically in Asa’s face.
Then the rifles of his children opened up.
They were as important as the element of surprise. Rifles had range. Rifles were man-droppers. Rifles—some—held more rounds than his shotgun.
These weren’t ordinary rifles—not Winchesters or Henrys, even though both were popular.
Byron used a Colt rifle. The company was famous for their pistols, but they manufactured long guns, too, some of the finest ever crafted. Byron’s was a Colt Lightning, the large-frame model with a slide action, not a lever. For long range Byron had his choice of a detachable scope or a peep sight. Or, for night work, he could rely on the front peep sight.
Noona preferred a Spencer. She loved the thing. She practiced with it every chance she got. Hers was fitted with a Blakeslee quick-loader and a removable tube magazine. Instead of loading it cartridge by cartridge, she carried seven extra tubes in a special-tailored vest. It took her mere moments to replace an empty tube with a full one. She shot faster than Byron, faster than Asa, faster than anyone Asa knew.
The first blasts of the Colt Lightning and the booms of the Spencer were drowned out by the banging of six-shooters. The Circle K riders didn’t realize they were being shot at by shooters other than Asa, but they found out when four of them dropped in as many seconds.
Asa rolled, felt a sting in his side. Horses were plunging and whinnying, and he got one between him and most of his would-be killers.
“Up there!” a Circle K killer hollered. “Someone with a rifle!”
Asa didn’t know if they had spotted Byron or Noona. He had a more immediate concern, and couldn’t look.
Jake Bass had reined around the others and jabbed his spurs to send his mount straight at Asa. Asa did more rolling, but a hoof clipped his shoulder and pain exploded. His arm felt half-numb as he came to a stop on his back.
He fired at Ba
ss as Bass flew by, but he rushed his shot and misjudged the angle and did something a shooter with a shotgun seldom did that close up. He missed.
By now most of the bad men were firing at the millinery and the bank. One aimed his revolver at Byron and steadied his arm, and up in the bank steeple Noona’s Spencer thundered, and the man’s hat and no small part of his head went flying.
Noona had saved her brother’s bacon.
Asa unleashed a blast that smashed a rider from his saddle. Gaining his knees, he fired into the thick of them. Once. Twice.
A hornet buzzed his ear.
Jake Bass had reined around and was coming at him again, intent on riding him down.
Asa raised his Winchester, but he was a shade slow. The horse was almost on him. In another few moments he would be trampled and there was nothing he could do.
Then the Colt rifle on the millinery cracked and Jake Bass’s temple spurted blood, and in the same heartbeat the Spencer in the steeple crashed and the head of Bass’s horse did the same. The horse plunged to one side as if to escape the pain that had killed it. It didn’t trample Asa but it didn’t miss him, either. He was slammed to earth so hard, it was a wonder he didn’t break every rib in his body.
Just like that, the shooting stopped.
Stunned, his head ringing, Asa was vaguely aware of hammering hooves. A lone outlaw was taking flight. Heading east, not west.
Asa couldn’t lie there. Some might still be alive. He forced his legs to work and managed to stand.
Bodies were sprawled everywhere, and Bass’s horse, besides.
Asa reloaded. His arm was still numb, and he fumbled with the shells. He got done just as Byron came from across Main and Noona emerged from the bank at a run, her long hair tied in a tail.
They surveyed the slaughter and Byron said, “Well, we’ve done it again. Three cheers for us.”
“Not now,” Asa said, searching for signs of life in the riddled forms.
Noona said, “The one who got away won’t get far. I hit him solid.”
“Good girl,” Asa said.
Byron overheard and mockingly asked, “Am I a good boy, Pa?”
“Not now, I said.”
Byron motioned at the Circle K figures. “‘Our life is a false nature—’tis not in the harmony of things.’”
“You quote poetry now?” Asa said.
Byron didn’t get to answer.
Behind Asa and Noona a gun hammer clicked and a familiar voice said in vicious delight, “I’ve got you, you son of a bitch.”
26
Asa braced for a shot and searing pain, but nothing happened.
Noona had the good sense to freeze.
Byron started to raise his rifle but caught himself. “Thought you were dead,” he said.
Asa turned his head.
Bull Cumberland had risen on the elbow of his remaining good arm. The other arm and the shoulder it was attached to had been mangled by buckshot, and all that connected the arm to the shoulder was a shred of flesh. It also looked as if he’d been hit by the rifles. Yet he had life enough to clutch his six-shooter and train it on Asa. A wolfish grin curled his mouth and he snarled, “You’ve done me in, but now I’ll do you.”
Asa forced himself to stay calm. It was rare for anyone to get the drop on him. He was too cautious. It had only ever happened once before. That time, the gunman hadn’t realized he’d emptied his revolver while swapping lead and when he squeezed the trigger, they both heard the click. Asa had resorted to his shotgun to end it.
He couldn’t do that here. He’d have to spin and shoot, and Bull Cumberland, hurt as he was, would nail him.
“Drop your guns,” the man-mountain rumbled. “All three of you.”
Asa let the Winchester clatter at his feet. Noona was clearly loath to do the same with her Spencer, but did. Byron hesitated.
“I’ll kill your pa before you can blink, boy,” Bull Cumberland said. “So help me God.”
Byron held the Colt by the barrel, set the stock down, and let gravity take over.
Bull grunted. “Good.” He stared at the slain and at what was left of his other arm and shook his head. “You have shot us to ribbons.”
“How are you still breathing?” Asa stalled. Judging by the pool of blood there couldn’t be much left in Cumberland’s body.
Bull ignored the question and said bitterly, “But then, you had help, didn’t you?” He glared at Noona and Byron. “The newspapers never said anything about you havin’ helpers.”
“I try not to let that get out,” Asa said.
“So the boy’s your son.”
An icy spike of fear pierced Asa.
“Is the girl his wife?”
“Marry my own brother?” Noona said, and snorted. “I’d sooner slit my throat.”
Bull studied her face, his own so pale, he was the same white as a bedsheet. “They don’t look anything like you, Town Tamer.”
“We’re the fruit of his loins, all right,” Byron said. “More’s the pity.”
“You talk funny, boy.”
“He’s a poet,” Asa said.
“A what?”
“He likes poetry.”
Bull Cumberland did the strangest thing. He laughed. Not a short bark but a deep laugh that ended with him swearing and saying, “Don’t this beat all. Shot to pieces by an old man and a girl and a poet.”
“I’m not that old,” Asa said.
“He had us young,” Noona said.
“Shut the hell up, all of you.” Bull raised his revolver higher. “Time to end you, half-breed. And then the kids.”
Asa clasped his hands and put as much emotion into his voice as he could. “Not them. Please. I’m begging you.”
“Are you, now?” Bull said, and smirked in sadistic pleasure. “Get on your knees, then. If you’re goin’ to beg, do it right.”
“Gladly,” Asa said. He sank down, his hands still clasped, and held them out toward Cumberland. “I’m begging you with all my heart to spare them.”
“I’m glad I lived long enough for this,” Bull said. “Do you want to know why?”
Asa unclasped his hands. “Why?”
“Because I’m goin’ to shoot them first and then shoot you. I want you to see them die. I want to see the look on your face. Then I can go happy.”
“How about if we reverse it?” Asa said.
Under different circumstances, Bull Cumberland’s confusion would have been comical. “Reverse it how?”
“How about if you die first?” Asa said. He flicked his right wrist and the Remington derringer was in his hand. He cocked it as it cleared, and fired.
A hole appeared in the middle of Bull Cumberland’s forehead. His head snapped back and his good arm sagged. His wide eyes fixed on Asa in surprise as life fled them, and his bulk thudded to the earth.
Noona exhaled in relief. “That was close.”
Byron picked up his Colt rifle and came over and stared at Cumberland.
“Nothing to say?” Asa asked.
“Took you long enough,” Byron said.
Interlude
27
Weldon Knox was worried. His men should have been back by mid-morning at the latest. But here it was late afternoon and still no sign of them.
Knox sat in a rocking chair on the front porch of his ranch house and stared to the east. He’d been sitting there for hours. When the screen door creaked he didn’t look over. He knew who it was.
“No sign of them yet?” Esther asked.
“If there was,” Knox said, “do you think I’d still be sitting here?”
“I was only asking,” Esther said timidly.
“Well, don’t.” Knox gestured at the other rocking chair. “Join me.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a command. Esther folded her h
ands in her lap and perched as if she was ready to take flight if he lifted a hand to strike her. “I can understand you being upset.”
“I doubt that you understand anything about me, woman,” Knox said. “I doubt you understand anything at all.”
“As you say, dear,” Esther said.
“I should think you’d have gotten it through your head by now. You’re female. Women don’t think as deeply as men do. A lot of what goes through my head is beyond you.”
“I do keep forgetting that, yes.”
“Well, don’t. I would rely on you more if you weren’t so female.”
Esther did something she seldom did. She looked him in the eyes. “How do I not be me?”
“That’s simple. You listen to me and do as I tell you and when an idea of your own pops into your head, you ignore it.”
“That does sound simple.”
“Honestly,” Knox said. He reached into an inside pocket and brought out his pipe and tobacco. “I can use a smoke.”
“For your nerves?”
“Just to smoke. I don’t have a problem with my nerves, thank you very much.”
“I do. I’m worried sick. Mrs. Livingstone was telling me that this Asa Delaware is bad medicine.”
“What would she know?”
“She’s a friend. She wouldn’t make things up.”
Knox tore his gaze off the road that cut across his land to end at the miles-distant Ludlow. “Did I hear you right? You’ve struck up a friendship with the cook?”
“Why not?” Esther said defensively. “She’s a person like you and me.”
“Don’t lump me in with the help,” Knox said. “I have half a mind to fire her.”
“What? Why?”
“Hirelings should know their place.”
Esther squirmed in her rocking chair. “What gives you the right to put on airs?”
Knox turned toward her. “Did you just sass me?”
“No.”
“You certainly did. I heard you. You talked back to me.”
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