“You’re under arrest,” Reilly told him. “There’s been enough killin’ on this range to last a long time. I expect you’d better come along without any fuss.”
“I suppose I’d better,” Peters said mildly. He fished a match from his vest pocket, and then he reached again, with a completely natural movement, inside his coat toward the pocket which contained his ever-present cigars.
Reilly Meyers caught the blued surface of Harry Peters’ .38 as it came free of the coat. He made a dive for the man’s legs as the gun went off. The report almost deafened him and powder stung his neck. Winehaven cried out as the bullet struck his hip, and then Reilly hit Peters, tumbling him to the porch.
Reilly outweighed Peters by fifteen pounds, but the little man’s wiry strength amazed him. Knocking the gun hand aside, Reilly tried to hit Peters along the shelf of the jaw, but Peters jerked his head aside and took the blow on the neck.
Reilly kept flailing out with his left hand, trying to get a grip on Peters’ wrist. The gun went off again and the bullet ripped into the porch ceiling. Then Reilly kneed the marshal and felt him relax for an instant.
His hand closed over the cylinder and frame and he hung on. Peters tried to pull the trigger double action, but Reilly had the cylinder locked and Peters couldn’t cock the gun. He beat at Reilly’s face with his free hand and Reilly kicked out with his elbow, catching Peters in the mouth.
By twisting on the gun, Reilly bent it against Peters’ finger, still curled in the trigger guard. The little man’s face turned white and he cried out. Reilly got off him then and came erect, holding Harry Peters’ gun in his hand.
He backed away a step and watched Peters nurse his tortured fingers. Winehaven squirmed on the ground, clutching his hip, and blood welled up from between his fingers. The crowd had come around the corner and all but blocked the street.
Reilly reached down and pulled Peters to his feet. He shoved Peters toward Jim Buttelow, who grabbed his arms and held him. “Better get a doctor for Winehaven,” Reilly said, and Buttelow nodded. He released Peters, spoke roughly and pushed his way through the crowd, disappearing on the other side.
Peters stood without indication of further resistance and Paul Childress scrubbed a hand across his whiskered face. “Things has been happenin’ pretty fast,” he said vaguely.
“Yeah,” Reilly admitted. “We got your steers back. Thought you’d like to know.”
“It don’t make a hell of a lot of difference,” Childress said. “I was sick worried when Jim said you was trailin’ Horgan.”
Reilly looked sharply at the older man. “I never thought you gave a damn one way or another.” He sighed and sat down on the porch steps, Peters’ gun still reversed in his hand. “Seems like I’ve cleaned myself right in the hole. By spring my money’ll be gone and I’ll be wearin’ through the seat of my pants, not able to buy a new pair.” He tipped up his head and found Childress watching him.
“I’ve never asked you for a damn thing in my life, Paul, but I’m askin’ you now. Could you see your way clear to loan me five hundred? There’s lumber to buy and—”
“Boy,” Childress said, and his voice had a frog in it. He sniffed and wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “Damn it, boy, you don’t know how long I’ve been waitin’ to be wanted. You always was so blamed independent. Never needin’ a man’s help.” He dropped his head and stared at his feet a minute. “We’ll get you set up again, son. Damn it, we’ll set you up in fine style.”
Buttelow came back through the crowd with the doctor and stayed behind to break the crowd up. His words were loud and braying and he got them moving. A few minutes later he came up to the hotel porch.
The doctor worked fast on Winehaven, securing a pack bandage to stop the bleeding. Buttelow stood behind Harry Peters like an angry dog just waiting for the opportunity to bite. He looked at Reilly and said, “There’s a girl waitin’ at the hotel, boy. You keep her in the dark much longer and she’s liable to go crazy.”
“All right,” Reilly said. He started away. He turned back and said, “Take care of those—”
“Go on,” Buttelow interrupted. “We know what to do.”
Reilly nodded and walked on. When he turned the corner and saw Tess Isham on the porch down the street, his easy stride lengthened considerably.
She came off the porch to meet him, running into his arms. Two dozen people stood along both sides of the street, watching, but neither Reilly nor Tess noticed them.
“I’m flat,” Reilly said. “Burned out. Busted. Can you take that, Tess?”
“I’d rather build my own future with you anyway,” she said, and kissed him.
This came as a shock to Reilly, because it seemed like she’d been holding out on him when he kissed her before. Her mouth was fire and she hurt him with the intensity of her ardor. When they parted at last, Reilly said softly, “Well I’ll be go to hell.”
Tess Isham smiled. She understood what he meant. She liked the idea of being a woman of fire.
The Sixth Western Novel Page 73