A bullet smashed into the wood of the door arch, only inches above the girl's head. The shot echoed across the clearing a split second later.
Instinctively, his gun was in his hand and Miles dove at the girl, pulling her down on the porch. He yelled, "Get down, Gandy!" just as another bullet pounded into the wall of the house, and another.
The girl was screaming, and Gandy, hands tied behind his back, scrambled across the porch to reach her. Miles crouched and peered between the porch railings, trying to determine where the shots had come from.
Another crack of gunfire, and a bullet singed past his head. He said, "Gandy, get the girl back in the house." He glanced over his shoulder long enough to see that his prisoner was one step ahead of him—both Gandy and Clemmy were already in.
From behind the little shed, someone called out, "You ain't getting away so easy this time, lawman!" and another two shots rang out.
Miles still couldn't see them, but he knew he had to draw fire away from the house. About twenty yards away, near the middle of the clearing, sat Gandy's rickety mule cart—not much cover, but it would have to do.
He took a deep breath, and then vaulted over the porch railing and ran for the cart. Bullets chased him, kicking up dust at his heels, and he fired off a few rounds in the direction of the shed as he ran.
He dove behind the cart, heard lead pounding the wood, sending splinters flying. And then everything was quiet.
Someone yelled, "Did we get you, Marshal? You bleeding yet?"
Miles said, "Why don't you come on over and see for yourself?"
Laughter. Two men, as near as Miles could tell. One of them said, "Naw, not just yet. You still sound right healthy to me."
"I will admit," Miles said. "I'm feeling pretty sprightly. How about you, Swede?"
A moment of silence, and then, "Okay, so you know who I am. It ain't gonna help you none."
Miles laughed. "Well, maybe not. But it does put my mind at ease. It's a comfort to know I'm just up against another stumble-bum fiddlefoot, and not a real gunman."
"Stumble—" the Swede said, his voice choking with anger. He fired a few more rounds off that buried themselves in the cart. "I'll show you stumble-bum fiddlefoot!"
The other man said, "Easy, Lars, don't waste no ammo."
"We got plenty, Christian," the Swede said, and fired three more times to prove his point. That started an argument between the two, voices hushed and strained.
Miles used the lull to check his weapon. Two more rounds in the cylinder. He riffled through his pockets, found three more bullets, loaded them quickly.
His war bag, with another fifty rounds of ammunition, was in the pack on Smoke's back. Along with the Winchester rifle. Five bullets, that was all he had to work with.
Well, he thought. Needs must as the Devil drives, so they say.
The Swede yelled, "You may as well come on out from behind there, lawman."
"No, I think I'll stay. It's nice and cozy here."
"We can wait you out, then. Don't think we can't. You're gonna have to come out sometime, and when you do—"
Miles said, "I don't have any pressing engagements today."
The Swede said, "Son-of-a-bitch!" and Miles chuckled to himself. The big oaf didn't strike him as the patient sort.
But then the other one, the one called Christian, said, "If you don't come out from there, lawman, we'll start for the house. You hear me? We'll kill your man Gandy. And ... and the girl, too. We'll put a bullet right between her pretty little eyes, just see if we don't."
Miles' gut went cold.
He glanced at the house, and what he saw made him breathe a sigh of relief and frustration at the same time—the two mules were gone.
Gandy and his daughter had lit out.
But the Swede and Christian didn't know that. Miles grinned.
He got up on his haunches and said, "Don't do that. They have nothing to do with this. You leave them alone."
"You coming out?"
Miles didn't answer, and the Swede said, "So be it, lawman. Let it be on your head."
Miles pulled back the hammer of his Colt, waited.
The Swede and Christian lunged out from behind the shed, firing wildly in Miles' direction. They bolted for the house.
Miles popped up over the top of the cart, got a fast bead, and fired twice. The first shot missed, but the second caught the Swede in the left leg.
The Swede roared in pain, stumbled and fell. Christian squeezed off a shot at Miles that ricocheted off the cart, sent splinters flying into Miles' face. Miles flinched enough that his next shot was sloppy and kicked up dirt at Christian's feet. He dropped back behind the cart as another bullet whined over his head.
"My leg!" the Swede screamed. "Christian, help me!"
Christian stopped running for the house, torn. Miles scrambled around to the side of the cart, tried to get a clear line between Christian and himself. Popping out again, he fired. This bullet was truer, hitting Christian in his right side, spinning him around.
Miles rolled out from behind the cart just as Christian was turning to face him again, gun raised.
On the ground, the Swede was yelling and carrying on, clutching his ruined leg. He'd dropped his gun next to him.
Christian's face was twisted in agony, but he fired at Miles. He missed. Miles took a split-second for a clear aim, and squeezed the trigger.
His last bullet caught Christian full in the chest. Blood blossomed across his shirt and he dropped without a sound.
With gunfire still ringing in his ears, Miles holstered his empty weapon and stood up. They were a couple of stumble-bums, no question. But it had been uncomfortably close.
He took a step toward the two sprawled figures, and then the Swede had his gun in his hand, aimed at Miles.
"Got you, you son-of-a-bitch," the Swede said.
And he did.
The Swede cocked the hammer.
From behind the house, Gandy, carrying a pitchfork, came rushing into the yard. The Swede managed to turn his head and look at him, bewildered. He said, "No--"
Gandy swung the pitchfork as only a farmer can, and buried the sharp teeth into the Swede's chest.
Silence settled over the little farm by the creek. Blood soaked into the ground. The girl, Clemmy, came around from the back of the house, rushed to her father, took his hand. The two of them looked at Miles.
Miles said, "I thought you lit out."
Gandy nodded. "I did. But ... well, I had to come back. I couldn't let you face two gunmen all by yourself."
"They weren't gunmen. Just a couple of no-accounts. But ... thank you."
Gandy nodded.
On the ground, Christian stirred, moaning. He began to laboriously drag himself to the Swede's side, trailing blood behind him. He gripped the Swede's hand, whispered, "Lars ... Lars ... can you hear me?"
Flat on his back, looking at the sky, with a pitchfork sticking out of his chest, the Swede managed, "Yeah."
"I gotta tell you ... I gotta tell you something, Lars." He coughed blood all over his chin. "I ... I need you to know."
"What?"
"I love you, Lars. I always have."
And still gripping his hand, Christian died.
The Swede muttered, "Oh. Well, that's just goddamn embarrassing. You son-of-a-bitch ..." and followed his friend into the darkness.
Miles and Gandy and the girl watched the deaths play out, and gave them a moment out of respect. Then Miles said, "Gandy. For what it's worth, I believe you're innocent of the charges against you. But I still have to take you in."
"I just saved your life, Marshal."
"You did. And I'm going to testify to that fact in court. I'm going to do everything I can for you, Gandy."
"You could let me go, Marshal."
"No. No, I couldn't."
Gandy gripped his daughter's hand, and the girl looked up at her father. "Are we going into town now?" she asked.
"Yeah," Gandy said. "I reckon we are."
Then, to Miles, "You think it'll do any good, Marshal? You testifying for me?"
Miles said, "I don't know, Gandy. I really don't know. I sure as hell hope so."
†
About the Author
Heath Lowrance is the author of the cult novel The Bastard Hand, as well as a short story collection called Dig Ten Graves. Currently, he's penning a weird western series about the mysterious Hawthorne for Trestle Press (starting with "That Damned Coyote Hill"). His other stories have appeared at Crime Factory, Shotgun Honey, Pulp Metal, Chi-Zine, and others. He has been a movie theater manager, a tour guide at Sun Studio, a singer in a punk band, and a regular donor of blood for money. In forty-five years, he's engaged in a hundred years worth of anti-social behavior.
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Table of Contents
Credits
ONE: Christian and the Swede
TWO: By Ax or By Fist
THREE: An Uncomfortable Meal
FOUR: Re-Grouping
FIVE: A Lawman's Chance
About the Author
Connect with BEAT to a PULP
Miles to Little Ridge Page 3