CHAPTER 31
In the next handful of minutes, several things happened very rapidly.
No sooner had banker Starbuck sang out with the announcement of a winner than another lightning-thunder combination ripped across the sky. In the illumination from the lightning flash, wind-whipped, silver-gray sheets of rain could be seen dancing across the open plains to the west, headed straight for New Town and the throng of people gathered all up and down the edge of the shooting range.
Clambering up onto a chair to make himself more visible and to help his voice carry above the buzz of the crowd and the increasing din of the approaching storm, August Gafford shouted, “Everybody! Inside immediately! The Crystal Diamond is now open for business and we will hold the prize presentation in there!”
The rear, side, and front doors of the big saloon were instantly propped open and people—men, women, teetotalers, heavy drinkers, and everything in between—began frantically swarming for shelter.
As the first of the hard, cold rain sluiced down over the side of his face, soaking and bending down his hat brim, forcing him to wince and turn his head, Bob raked his eyes in a quick sweep to determine where he could be the most help. At the same time he naturally also sought to find the faces of Bucky and Consuela somewhere in the swarm. He knew they had been watching him shoot—he’d caught a glimpse of them standing together in the early going. But, once knowing they were there and accounted for, as the contest had proceeded and his concentration became more and more tightly focused on continuing to advance, he’d lost exact sight of them. Then, even as he was facing his disappointment at failing to make the cut, there’d been the flare-up from Moses Shaw to deal with. And now the blasted storm had cut loose.
It wasn’t like Bob didn’t think Consuela and Bucky couldn’t withstand a little wind and rain, but he knew he’d feel a lot more at ease if he could see that they were gaining shelter okay. Nevertheless, he hung back, aiding others immediately around him, the elderly and the frail, making sure they didn’t get too badly roughed up in the crunch to get out of the storm.
The side door was the closest point of entry for Bob and those in his immediate vicinity. To his right, he could see the judges, Gafford, and some of the other shooters making their way for the rear entrance. Vern was in among them, as well as Simon Quirt and Delaney, the contest winner. A corner of Bob’s mouth quirked up as he noted that Delaney had a grip on the case holding the prize guns—they might not have been officially presented to him yet but he was stamping his claim on them all the same. And who could blame him? He’d damn well earned the right.
Another rumble of thunder rolled through the rain. At least that’s what Bob took it for at first. But there was something vaguely wrong about it. Yes, it was a rumbling sound, but it seemed closer, lower. Not quite . . .
And then shouts of alarm were raised and women began shrieking. This was quickly joined by the unmistakable bark of gunfire.
Bob wheeled about, turning this way and that, eyes scanning the scene. His left fist tightened on his Yellowboy and his right hand hovered over the Colt on his hip. Then he saw them—two men on horseback, spurring their mounts hard, straight into the thick of the crowd off to his right, overtaking the knot of people where Bob had seen Vern and the others only a moment ago. The riders had their bodies hung low over the far sides of their horses, Indian style, alternately swinging their rifles like clubs or extending forward to shoot under the animals’ necks. Through the mass of people, Bob couldn’t manage a clear return shot. But even in the slashing rain he got a good enough glimpse of the attackers to determine beyond doubt that they were Harley and Cyrus Shaw!
From somewhere up ahead, more shots rang out and a fresh wave of women’s shrieks cut the air. This ruckus seemed to be coming from inside the Crystal Diamond! Bob froze for a fraction of a second, bewildered, unsure as to the purpose of this violent outbreak and how to counter it without putting innocent citizens at even greater risk. As he wrestled with this moment of indecision, a third horseman came plowing out the side door of the saloon. Those in his way were either knocked aside like stalks of corn or trampled viciously under the chewing hooves of the horse.
A second rider emerged directly on the tail of the first. The propped-open door was torn from its hinges, crackling and shattering, sending shards of ragged timber flying like shrapnel, piercing and damaging some of the people who only moments ago had been clawing to squeeze through that very doorway.
Now many of the folks Bob had been assisting and herding ahead of him, trying to get them to shelter, were suddenly turning around and surging back against him in a desperate wave to escape the ruthless horsemen. The discomfort of some rain and wind were of small consequence compared to the threat of a bullet or falling under a horse’s hooves. The marshal was jarred and battered by the human stampede, twisted this way and that, so he was barely able to keep his bearings let alone draw a bead on any of the attackers. Although he had yet to get a good look at the pair who’d emerged from the side door, he had no doubt they’d turn out to be Moses and Wiley Shaw.
Even as he cursed the identity of these cold-blooded marauders, Bob suddenly found himself face-to-face with one of them. Staggered, barely able to maintain his footing and balance after being repeatedly pummeled by the tide rushing back against him, he looked up and saw Moses Shaw, mounted on his horse, looming high above him. Moses’s eyes were wide and wild, his teeth were bared in a maniacal grin, and he was backlit by a sizzling pitchfork of lightning that cast him in contrasting bars of shadow and brilliance that made him look like a spawn straight out of hell.
Moses raised his rain-glistening Henry repeater and aimed it at Bob.
Bob’s right hand clawed for his Colt. But, for once, Sundown Bob’s famed fast draw had no chance of turning the tables—his holster was empty, the Colt jostled loose at some point by the panicked horde fleeing back against him. As an alternative, he tried to swing the Yellowboy into play but even as he did so he knew he had no chance of succeeding.
“I told you it wouldn’t be very long before you were held to account, Hatfield,” snarled Moses.
A red tongue of flame leapt from the Henry’s muzzle. In the same instant, a tremendous blast of thunder rattled the sky and caused the ground under Bob’s feet to tremble. His awareness of this was very brief, however, as a streak of fiery hot pain snapped his head back on his shoulders and he had a fleeting sensation of starting to fall before he lost all sensation of anything.
CHAPTER 32
“Hang on a minute . . . I think he might be coming around.”
The voice sounded murky, as if coming from far away. Yet somehow Bob knew it was actually quite close. The odd tone, he decided, was the result of being filtered through the dull ringing that filled his head. A dull ringing accompanied by a sharp, pulsing pain.
Gradually, he became aware of other sounds around him. Other voices, several of them, chattering excitedly; footsteps moving about hurriedly; groans of pain.
And then he remembered Moses Shaw’s rifle firing at him from near point-blank range. This caused him to wonder if he were dead and if the voices he could hear were other souls clambering to get into the hereafter. But if this were the Pearly Gates of Heaven, there ought not be so much anguish, should there? Did that mean . . . ?
“Bob. Can you hear me?”
This time he recognized the voice. It was Mike Bullock’s.
He tried to open his eyes but the lids felt like they weighed a ton each and refused to cooperate. Plus he somehow knew that opening his eyes to the light was going to send the pain in his head spiking even higher.
“Pa. You’re going to be all right, you hear? You’ve got to be.”
Bucky’s voice. Quaking, intense, willing with all his might for the words he was saying to be true.
When he tried a second time, Bob got his eyes opened. The pain spiked just like he’d known it would. But it was worth it to see his son’s face looming over him. A face streaked by tear tra
cks and obviously wracked by recent anxiety but now suddenly flooding with hope.
“Hey, pal,” Bob managed to say in a raspy voice. He lifted one hand to stroke the side of Bucky’s face. “Sorry if I let you down by coming up short in that doggone shooting match.”
“That don’t matter,” Bucky was quick to respond, squeezing the words out between a half laugh and a half sob. “As long as you’re okay, that don’t matter at all!”
The pulsing pain subsided somewhat and Bob raised his head to try and get a better look at his surroundings. He was lying on his back on the floor of a high-ceilinged room—the main barroom of the Crystal Diamond Saloon, he recognized after a moment. He was still wet from the rain and outside, through the ringing in his ears, he became aware of the storm still ongoing, though somewhat abated.
Someone had placed a folded coat under his head. On all sides he could see other people laid out much like he was. Some were moving their limbs or heads, some were motionless. A few exhibited streaks of blood on their clothing. And Bob could make out at least two very still forms with an article of clothing spread smoothly over their faces.
Bob returned his focus to Bucky and the other faces hovering close about him—Mike Bullock, Maudie Sartain, and Angus McTeague.
“I know it was Moses Shaw and his boys,” he said. “But . . . but what happened?”
“They came back for those damned prize guns that Moses felt cheated out of,” said Bullock somberly. “They gave the slip to your two deputies, Fred and Peter, and came thundering back in on horseback. Clubbing and trampling, they rode straight into the mob of people just as everybody was scrambling to get inside out of the rain. In all the confusion, what with the storm busting loose and those maniacs riding roughshod over everything and everybody, a lot of people got injured, a few even killed.”
Bob tried to push up on his elbows but a piercing pain lancing through his skull triggered a wave of dizziness that caused him to fall back almost immediately.
“Take it easy,” Angus McTeague was quick to caution. “You didn’t exactly make it unscathed yourself.”
Bob reached up, probing tenderly. He felt a lumpy bandage perched atop his head, covering the direct source of his knifing pain. “I thought I was a goner,” he said as the dizziness subsided. “Why wasn’t I?”
“Just a freaky stroke of luck, was the only way the doctor could explain it,” said Maudie. “The way your head was tilted, looking up at Shaw . . . the angle of his bullet . . . maybe he hurried his shot or jerked at the last second from a thunderclap. Anyway, the bullet cut a groove in your scalp and then, well, bounced without penetrating through to the brain and without even much bleeding.”
“Jesus,” Bob muttered. “I’ve been called stubborn and hardheaded more than a few times in my life but . . .” His words trailed off, his expression bunching into a scowl. “Did they get the guns?”
“Afraid so. They ripped the case right out of the hand of that Delaney fella, liked to tore his arm off.”
“Where’s everybody else?” Bob wanted to know. “Where is Fred and . . . where’s Consuela?”
“Fred and Peter got wounded when the Shaws gave them the slip,” said Bullock. “Nothing too serious, but they each took a bullet. Fred got it in the leg, Peter in the shoulder. Vern is over yonder, helping to—”
“What about Consuela? Where’s Consuela?”
These questions were met by a tense, momentary silence. Until Bucky was the one to break it by saying, “They took her, Pa.”
Bob’s hand closed around his son’s wrist. “What do you mean? Who took her?”
“The Shaws,” Bullock answered. “They rode out of here with two hostages—Consuela and Alora Dane. They threatened to kill ’em if any posse came chasing too close.”
Bob surged to a sitting position and then to his feet, moving so fast that those around him were startled into taking a backward step. All except Bucky. As soon as he was standing, another wave of dizziness hit Bob, and he lurched unsteadily. Bucky grabbed his arm to steady him and Bullock and McTeague moved back in to also assist.
Bob found himself suddenly fighting to catch his breath. “When was this?” he puffed. “How long was I out?”
“About half an hour.”
“Where’s Fred? Is somebody getting together a posse?”
Bullock frowned. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Moses Shaw swore they’d kill those women at the first sign of—”
“And what did he say they’d do to them otherwise?”
Bullock had trouble meeting Bob’s fierce glare. “He said that once they were sure of being in the clear, they’d let Consuela and Miss Dane go at some point where they could safely make it back to—”
“And everybody was willing to take his word on that?” Bob’s voice was raised to nearly a shout by now. “Look around you. Do you think a piece of vermin who could do something like this can be trusted to keep his word? I can guarantee you he has every intention of killing those women, no matter what. The only question is what him and his twisted sons will do to them before—” Bob stopped short, not wanting to finish his thoughts with Bucky right there, gazing up at him. An expression of increasing alarm and dismay gripped the boy’s face.
The marshal swayed unsteadily once again just as Doc Tibbs turned from his other patients and came hurrying over. “You need to lie back down immediately,” Tibbs insisted. “You’ve suffered a serious head trauma and we must wait until—”
Bob cut him off. “Seems to me, Doc, that too damn much waiting has taken place already. So save your breath if you’re gonna try and talk me into doing more of it.”
“You push yourself too fast and too hard with an injury like that, there’s a strong chance that all you’ll do is finish what Moses Shaw attempted to begin with.”
“If that’s what’s written, then that’s the way it’ll have to go,” Bob replied. “But waiting here—split skull or not—and leaving those two women to the mercy of the Shaw clan . . . that I won’t do. That I can’t do.”
Vern suddenly materialized at the doctor’s side, a relieved smile on his face. “Marshal! Boy, is it good to see you up on your feet.”
“The doc here don’t agree with you. But that’s another story,” Bob told him. “Where are Fred and your brother?”
Vern pointed. “Over this way. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Bob took a step, lurched again. Vern and Tibbs were quick to assist him.
“Damn it!” Bob cursed his unsteadiness. “Just give me a minute—I’ll get squared away with this.”
They threaded their way through other citizens milling about, many in a state of semi-shock, some laid out on the floor due to injuries, like Bob had been. And here and there were the totally still bodies with their faces covered. Outside, the rain continued to hiss down, and infrequently there came a muted stutter of thunder.
“What’s the extent of the damage?” Bob asked.
“Five dead,” Doc Tibbs reported grimly. “About half a dozen injured seriously, at least that many more hurt to lesser degrees.”
They reached a point near the saloon’s front door where Fred and Peter sat on the floor with their backs to the wall. Fred’s left pant leg was slit wide open and a bloodstained bandage was wrapped around his meaty thigh. Peter’s left arm was in a sling that also bore some blood streaking.
“Thank God you’re okay, boss,” Fred exclaimed as he saw Bob approaching. But the elated expression on his face lasted only a moment before it collapsed into a look of regret bordering on shame. Hanging his head, he added, “No thanks to us and the sorry way we handled those Shaw skunks, letting ’em get the drop on us the way they did.”
“We let ’em get their horses and then followed right behind, all the way to the edge of town,” said Peter Macy, wearing his own forlorn expression. “They were mumbling and grumbling the whole way, mostly the old man complaining about how he got a raw deal in the contest. We couldn’t hear every word they said, though, and somewhere alon
g the way they must have passed some signals back and forth.”
“Then, just when we were ready to turn back and leave ’em go on their way,” said Fred, taking over the narrative again, “they wheeled on us with guns blazing. Cut us down and then tried to trample us. Warming up, I guess you could say, for when they got here.” His voice caught on the last few words and he barely got them out.
“What’s done is done,” said Bob, feeling sympathy for his deputies but at the same time knowing there was no time for wasted emotion—neither to lay blame nor to offer consolation. “The thing now is to take what’s left and try to make the best of it.”
Fred and Peter lifted their faces. “Whatever you want from us, you know you got.”
Bob turned to the doctor. “How bad are they? Are you finished patching them up? Will they be able to reasonably get around, function in a limited way?”
Tibbs scowled. “I’ve still got to dig the bullet out of Fred. I left it for the time being because I had more serious wounds to tend to. But it missed the bone and I’m pretty sure it didn’t do any serious muscle damage. So, yes, after I get the slug out I suppose he’d be able to get around with a crutch. That’s not to say there won’t be a good deal of discomfort, however.”
“Hang the discomfort. I can handle that,” Fred said.
“As for Peter,” Tibbs went on, “he got off a little better. His shoulder wound was an in-and-out. So there’s no lead in him and, once again, no bone damage as far as I could see initially. But there’s meat and muscle tear awfully close to the joint, which means a good deal of swelling and stiffness for a spell. But, with a sling, he, too, should be able to get around reasonably well.”
Bob nodded. “Good. I need to put together a posse as soon as possible and—”
“Wait a minute!” the doctor protested. “I said these men could function reasonably well, but surely you can’t take that to mean they’re ready to ride out in a posse. As far as that goes, you’re in no shape for such an undertaking yourself.”
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