Detective Shannon was in the thick of a fight ... of a type he had never before encountered. At the moment, he was exchanging shot for shot with the killers lurking behind the corner, perspiration streaming down his long face. He discarded an empty revolver and seized a rifle.
“You okay?” growled Valentine’s voice in his ear.
“Damn right I’m okay!” snapped Shannon, raising the rifle.
He got two fast shots away, then gave a gasp of pain and lowered his head. Valentine rolled over toward him, covering him with his body.
“Right shoulder!” panted the detective. “Me and my stinking luck ... 1”
“Stay quiet!” ordered Valentine, grabbing the rifle.
He rammed a cartridge into the breech and took aim at the corner. A gun-hand appeared there, and half of a man’s head. Valentine raised his sights slightly, then fired. The killer spun around and lurched out onto the sidewalk, blood seeping from the ugly hole in his forehead. He died as he fell, and the body rolled over into the gutter. “Where the hell’s Jethrow?” wailed Stretch again.
“Right here!” came the undertaker’s voice.
Gibbons was still under the rig, but now he was squirming toward the Texans, dragging his shotgun with him.
“Couldn’t come ’round the side,” he explained, as they helped pull him toward them. He added, somewhat unnecessarily, “Too dangerous.”
“Git that damn cannon filled,” growled Stretch, “and start bein’ dangerous to them owlhoots!”
“Pleasure,” grinned Gibbons.
Valentine peered up toward the roof of the emporium and said: “We got company.”
“I seen ’em,” nodded his partner. “Staked out on that there rooftop. They ain’t got much of a bead on them skunks at the corner ... an’ it’s likely they don’t know nothin ’bout them others that’s underneath ’em!”
“I figure they’re the real genuine detectives,” opined Gibbons.
“They are,” Shannon assured them, stifling a groan. “And one of them’s been downed already. See there?”
They saw. On the roof O’Hare and another man were supporting the body of a detective who had stopped a ricochet, hastily dragging him back from the parapet.
“How bad is it?” Regan asked his superior.
“Bad enough,” scowled O’Hare. “Smithy got it in the chest.”
The tubby Pinkerton man crawled back to the parapet and risked another quick look at the street. He had no view of Gil Sharkey and his group at the corner, but he knew they were there. Below him, he could hear the angry bark of Winchesters, as the four men hiding there raked the hearse with their fire.
Valentine and Emerson were hit simultaneously. Valentine muttered a violent oath, swore luridly, and went on shooting, painfully conscious of the numbness in his right leg. A rifle slug had found a mark in the fleshy part of his thigh. Stretch uttered a dispassionate curse and stared at his wounded left forearm, but his left hand was now effectively silenced.
Jethrow Gibbons lined the barrel of his shotgun toward the verandah and fired. Then he threw a swift glance at his three allies, grinned, and said:
“How ’bout that? I’m the only galoot hasn’t stopped a bullet!”
“Quit crowin’,” advised Stretch. “There’s plenty time left.”
“Somebody give me a pistol,” groaned Shannon.
“Just stay quiet, Shannon,” growled Valentine. “You re a right-hand shot. No point in you wastin’ lead ...”
He didn’t finish what he was about to say. A rifle slug hit an iron wheel-rim, near his head, and ricocheted, whining.
“Heck!” gasped Gibbons. “That’s too close!”
“They’ll git closer!” Valentine warned.
He cocked his six-gun and peered toward the verandah, watching for the killer whose bullet had come so close to ending his life. He spotted a rifle-barrel edging out from behind a crate. A throb of pain assailed him, from the region of his wounded leg. He stifled a groan, sighted quickly and squeezed the trigger. He hit the rifle-barrel and felt a surge of satisfaction as he watched the weapon clatter from its owner’s grasp.
“That’ll make the skunks stay low,” approved Stretch.
Gil Sharkey’s patience was at an end. He was ready for his final move. He signed to his companions to move back from the corner. They retreated with him, creeping a few yards back along the wall of the courthouse.
Of the five who had joined him in his dash for cover, only three were left. They eyed him expectantly, while reloading their weapons.
“I’m through waiting,” he told them. “Max an’ the others, over on that verandah, can keep them Texans busy. Were goin’ inside.”
“Hell!” gasped one of his men.
“What’s the matter, Laredo?” snarled Sharkey. “You turnin’ yeller?”
“You know better’n that,” protested the man called Laredo. “But this courthouse is fulla vigilantes. There must be more’n a dozen of ’em in there!”
“Yeah,” growled Sharkey. “An’ Hubbard’s in there ... an’ Galloway. They’ll have to back our play.”
“Sure, but ...”
“But nothin’! We’re goin’ in. With our guns pointin’ at that fool judge ... an’ the girl ... you think anybody’s gonna take a chance at shootin’ at us?”
“Maybe not,” shrugged Laredo.
“They’ll have the doors locked an’ guarded, Gil,” warned another man.
“I know it,” nodded Sharkey. He stared along the side of die building. “There has to be a window someplace,” he mused. “Let’s go see.”
They crept toward the rear of the courthouse, with Sharkey in the lead.
Another burst of shooting from the verandah sent a wave of lead smacking into the hearse. The Texans, disregarding their aching wounds, continued to hug the ground and return fire. A harrowing thought suddenly occurred to Jethrow Gibbons.
“If them skunks kill them blacks o’ mine, I’ll be outa business!”
“Damn wonder they ain’t been hit yet,” frowned Stretch.
“They’re takin’ care not to hit ’em, is my guess,” muttered Valentine.
Stretch squinted, drew a bead on a moving head and fired. His target dropped down behind a crate in the nick of time.
“Consarn it,” grunted the lean Texan. “Why don’t he hold still!” He glanced at his partner and asked, “How come they ain’t tried to kill them blacks?”
“They’re still aimin’ to git Curt Sharkey outa court,” his partner reminded him.
“So?”
“So they’re likely plannin’ to steal the hearse for a fast getaway.”
“They must have horses ’round here some place.”
“Uh huh. But supposin’ they plan to take the north trail out? At Saga Forks, they could use the hearse to block the trail.”
“They gotta git my hearse first,” scowled Gibbons.
“Valentine,” breathed Detective Shannon. “You notice anything?”
“What, Shannon?”
“That corner. Nobody ... shooting from there ... now ... uh!” he winced and shuddered.
“Take it easy,” muttered Valentine.
“He sure can bleed, that Shannon,” admired Stretch.
“He’s gittin’ weak, losin’ all that blood,” growled his partner.
“The corner …” insisted Shannon. “No shooting from there.”
“Yeah,” agreed Valentine, frowning.
“What d’you suppose they’re up to?” asked Stretch.
“They’d be just loco enough to try rushin’ them vigilantes, is my guess.”
“Hell ... they’d git gunned down rightaway.”
“Maybe ... but a crowded hall is no place tor shootin’!”
The retreat of Sharkey and his group had been noted, also, by Detective O’Hare. From his position at the parapet, he had kept up a careful observation of the course of the shooting. He turned away from the edge now and crawled back to his men. Regan gave him a sober nod
and said, “Smithy’s dead.”
O’Hare set his jaw determinedly. His men shifted their gaze from the face of their dead colleague and looked at their chief.
“Listen,” growled O’Hare. “That crowd by the corner aren’t shooting any more. You know what that means …”
“You think they’ll try getting into the hall?” queried Regan.
“I think we ought to get down there.”
“What about those killers down below?”
“We’ll have to silence them first, Regan. Were goin’ down, the same way we came up. Through the manhole. Let’s get started!”
~*~
The spasmodic racket of gunfire continued to assail the ears of the crowd. They exchanged nervous glances, then looked at the stern-faced old man on the bench. Corrigan had repeated his order that nobody was to leave the courtroom. An attempt had been made to proceed with the selection of a jury; but the noise of the shooting made questioning impossible. Corrigan was prepared to wait, however.
Galloway was keeping up a pretence of being perfectly at ease, his sardonic smile meeting Corrigan’s searching gaze, without wavering ... but Corrigan wasn’t fooled. He knew a worried man when he saw one. Galloway was taking care to avoid the murderous glare of his client.
Curt Sharkey slouched in the dock, chafing at the delay. He gave up trying to catch Galloway’s eye and began looking about the room, mentally debating as to which entrance Gil would storm to gain admittance. He had no doubts regarding the outcome. Gil would get in here, one way or another. When he did, the tables would swiftly be turned. In this crowded court, not one man, be he civilian or lawman, would dare to restrain them ... not while Sharkey men were covering their beloved Judge Corrigan with their guns. Yet. Gil would get in and, when he did, Curt would be ready.
Standing near the dock, Sheriff Hubbard mopped perspiration from his clammy brow and wished, fervently, that he had never fallen in with Galloway’s schemes. There appeared little doubt that Hubbard’s duplicity would be discovered. Was it too late to confess? Throw himself on the mercy of his fellow-citizens? Yes, he decided, it was too late. He was a doomed man. If he double-crossed the Sharkeys, he would die for it.
Lucille was maintaining her poise ... outwardly. To the stunned courtroom she showed the demeanor of a respectable schoolteacher. Inwardly, anxiety kept up an incessant attack on her nerves. It was too late now for evasion of issues, too late to ignore the true cause of her anguish, too late for anything except realities. And the great reality that revealed itself, in these terrible waiting moments, was that Lucille Furness, prim and genteel schoolteacher, was fervently in love with an unshaven cowpoke named Larry Valentine ... a man whose English was deplorable, but whose heart was valiant.
At the main entrance, Wilkes crouched by the locked doors and listened. From the racket distinguishable from the direction of the hearse, he deduced that his friends were still in violent action ... but he had no way of telling whether or not they were wounded. The bleak realization came to him then. With their scant cover, behind the undertaker’s rig, only a miracle could prevent their emerging unscathed. It was too much to hope for!
Fidgeting in his chair at the lawyers’ table, Nathan Bayliss would have been alarmed indeed, had he known that Gil Sharkey and his men were about to effect an entrance through the window a few feet behind him. The window was high, but the killers were resourceful.
“Hutch,” breathed Gil Sharkey. “Youre the biggest. You re gonna boost me, then Laredo, then Red.” He eyed his companions coldly and added, “When we git inside there, you know what to do!”
“Okay,” nodded Laredo. “Let’s do it then.”
Sharkey took another look upward. The window was wide enough to permit their climbing through.
“Now,” he grunted.
The big man, Hutch, made a cradle of his interlaced fingers, gripped Gil’s foot, and heaved upward.
As it happened, it was Judge Corrigan himself who first sensed the danger. His keen gaze caught a quick glimpse of a gun-hand and a head appearing above the windowsill. The old man’s first reaction was an instinctive one. He smashed his gavel sharply on the wood and yelled, “Everybody down ... on the floor!”
The response was immediate. Seats clattered backward to the floor, as the vast assembly went down. Corrigan pushed back his own chair, then froze.
“Hold it right there, Whiskers!” came Gil Sharkey’s snarled challenge. “This gun is pointin’ right at your fool head. You wanta die fast, all you gotta do is move an inch!”
Curt Sharkey’s eyes gleamed. He leaned across the dock’s rail, leered at his brother, and called, “Gil! Toss me a gun!”
A head and shoulder appeared in the window, beside Gil’s. The vigilantes stood like so many statues, in terrible indecision, grimly aware that, if one of them chanced a quick move, the life of a leading citizen would be forfeit. The second man at the window raised a six-gun, judged the distance, then hurled it toward the dock. Curt Sharkey watched its flight eagerly. It fell to the floor at the feet of the quaking sheriff.
“Hubbard!” snarled the outlaw-chief. “Unlock these damn cuffs. Then get me that gun! You hear me? Move!”
Quailing under the merciless stare of the old judge, Mel Hubbard did as he was ordered. He picked up the fallen weapon, unlocked Sharkey’s handcuffs, then handed him the gun. The boss-outlaw hefted it, glared at him, and said, harshly, “I oughta let you have it in the belly, Hubbard! You made a fine damn mess o’ your part o’ this deal!”
Wilkes lay very still, his gun cocked and ready, his head and shoulders immediately beneath the lock of the main doors. He turned his head and glanced toward the window. Gil Sharkey and another man were framed in the opening, their guns covering Judge Corrigan and the vigilantes. He heard their harsh voices, as they coldly threatened to gun down the first person to move, be it male or female.
He strained his ears, trying to estimate the extent of the battle outside. The shooting he now heard seemed to come from just opposite the courthouse. He could hear no shooting from the direction of the hearse.
Outside, Valentine gave a whoop of glee.
“Look there! The city lawmen! They’re pilin’ out from inside the store!”
“Glory, glory!” enthused Jethrow Gibbons. “I’m gonna help ’em with another load o’ buckshot!”
“Don’t be a damn idjit!” growled Stretch. “You wanta kill everybody?”
They watched the battle on the verandah. It was short and decisive. O’Hare and his four aides opened up on the killers from the main doors of the establishment, after a shouted challenge that was ignored. Two outlaws were put out of action with one blast. The remaining two leapt to their feet and raced away along the sidewalk, in a last desperate bid for escape.
“Your play, Jethrow,’ snapped Valentine. “They’re close together!”
The undertaker rose to his knees, swung the shotgun toward the running outlaws, and fired. The hail of shot caught both men from the side, just as they reached an alleyway. Their bodies jerked convulsively and they pitched headlong to the ground and lay still.
“That,” crowed the undertaker, “is somethin’ you cain’t do with one shot from a Colt.”
Wilkes could wait no longer. Curt Sharkey was free of his handcuffs ... and armed. Gil had dropped into the room, his henchman at the window taking over the chore of keeping the judge covered.
“Okay, Gil,” leered Curt. “You done real fine. Now, we’re gittin’ outa here!” He took two steps toward the prone figures of Nathan Bayliss and Lucille Furness and growled, “On your feet! We’re gonna use you two for shields ... just so’s no galoot’ll git any notions ’bout takin’ a shot at us!”
Wilkes acted then, with the speed of desperation. Rising, he brought his gun up, for one fast shot at the outlaw-chief. He didn’t quite make it. The sharp-eyed Gil Sharkey caught the detective’s sudden movement and fired twice over the trembling crowd of citizens. One bullet smashed Wilkes’s gun-hand, knocking his revol
ver from his grasp, the other striking him in his left side, digging a furrow along his ribs. The detective gave a gasp of pain and fell back against the door. Before sinking to the floor, he made a last effort to grip the key and turn it in the lock. Oblivion claimed him, the strength leaving his hand before he could complete a turn of the key. He slumped to the floor.
Outside, Valentine looked at Stretch and said, “Two shots ... inside.”
“I heard ’em,” nodded Stretch.
“Heck,” gasped Gibbons. “Them owlhoots at the corner must’ve got inside!”
“We’re movin’,” grunted Valentine, struggling upright on his undamaged leg. “Shannon?”
Shannon was unconscious. He lay with his face pressed into the dirt. Loss of blood had reduced him to the ignominy of fainting.
“Man!” grinned Stretch. “His pardner’ll never let him live this down.”
“Jethrow,” growled Valentine.
“Huh?”
“Fill that cannon o’ yours an’ git ready!”
“What’s the plan?” grunted Stretch.
Valentine looked quickly across at the store.
“O’Hare and his boys’ll stop ’em, if they try gittin’ out the front way,” he reflected.
“Uh huh,” agreed Stretch. “But I’m bettin’ they’ll try gittin’ out the same way they got in.”
“We split up,” decided Valentine. “You an’ Jethrow take the right side o’ the courthouse. I’ll take the left. Let’s go!” He checked the loading of his Colt and limped forward.
“Take my second gun,” growled Stretch, from behind him. “I only got one good hand, right now.”
Valentine accepted the proffered weapon and, hefting both guns, limped toward the corner to his left. Stretch nodded to Jethrow and headed for the right side of the building. The undertaker tagged along behind him, holding the shotgun across his chest.
Inside, Curt Sharkey issued a last command.
“Laredo,” he called to the man at the window. “Keep your shootin’ iron on the judge. If any galoot even blinks an eye, drill the old fool right through his whiskers!”
“Sharkey,” said his Honor, his voice steady. “It’d be a real pleasure to pass sentence on you.”
Drift! (A Larry & Stretch Book 1) Page 12