by John Benteen
He whirled, went back to the kitchen, where Stewart was mopping up after Gault had been massively sick. “Listen,” he said. “Jordan’s sending men after your dad, and there’s no sign of my people. If they push the matter, there’s likely to be shooting. I want you and your father out of the line of fire.”
Stewart stared; then her eyes blazed. “Help me roll him behind the stove. It’ll make a good shield.”
“Right.” Boyd took Gault’s inert weight, lifted it from the chair, deposited it behind the fireless iron range, which was set well out from the wall. Its armor was excellent protection against stray bullets. “Now,” he said, as Gault lay limply, snoring loudly. “You get down there with him.”
Stewart laughed shortly. “The hell I will. Didn’t I tell you I could shoot?” Before Boyd could protest, she disappeared. A moment later, she came back, carrying a Winchester and a box of cartridges. “You’re not going to face them alone ...”
“Damn it, girl — ”
Her green eyes blazed. “I told you not to argue with me.” She came to him, kissed him briefly on the lips. “Maybe you don’t know it, but you’re my man, now. I’d be a pretty sorry woman not to fight alongside my man at a time like this.”
Boyd looked at her a moment. “All right,” he said, grinning. “All right, you damn’ wildcat — you’re my woman. You take the back door in case they try to circle. And if they start shooting, you shoot back — to kill.” He gave her a quick pat on the rump, then turned, strode to the front again. Even in the face of danger, something sang within him.
And there was going to be danger — plenty of it. The men were closer, now, striding along swiftly, most carrying rifles, all wearing handguns. Jordan was not among them, but he must have given clear orders; they meant business. Boyd raised the Winchester, lined it. Right now, they were an easy target; he could drop half of them before they could fire the first shot back. But that would leave him open to a charge of murder; and Jordan would make the most of it. No, he had to wait until they opened the ball . . .
On they came. A hundred yards, now; ninety; eighty; and they were fanning out. They seemed to have a leader: a tall, slat-thin man with a face like a weasel. Wearing a black sombrero and a red shirt and dirty Levis, he barked orders that Boyd could not hear. He himself carried no rifle, but there were two Colts strapped around his skinny waist. He looked as if he knew how to use them. Jordan would not have sent an amateur.
Sixty yards, now; fifty. Boyd wondered how it would begin. Would they come to the house, demand Ike Gault? Or would they simply open up on the place. Did Jordan only want to take Gault out of circulation, or, aroused now to the fact that Gault might someday become competition again, had he decided to kill the man and have it over with? Boyd was aware that his hands sweated on the Winchester stock. The way they were spreading out, in a moment more they’d be in combat formation. It was, he decided, the latter — Jordan had decided to rub Gault out completely. And, for that matter, Boyd Kilpatrick along with him.
Forty yards, now, and suddenly the men, ranged along both sides of the street, halted. The man with the two Colts took shelter behind the corner of a store, in an alley. Kilpatrick saw him give a hand signal; the others began taking cover. In a minute more —
Boyd was about to step away from the glass panel. Then he stiffened, staring into the dying sun. And all at once he laughed.
“It’s all right, Stewart!” he yelled. “It’s all right! Here come the Two Rail men! And they’ve got their warpaint on!”
~*~
They came hard, those eight mounted Texans, riding like centaurs, tall in the saddle, rifles at the ready. He heard the distant drum of all those hooves as their mounts crossed the railroad tracks and thundered up the street. He heard the shrill whooping, the rebel yells and cowboy hollers that burst from the throats of all those fighting men, saw the sun glint on gunbarrels and the brass cartridges of their belts. Cord Lightner was in the lead, Colt drawn, and, as they pounded toward the Gault house, he fired straight up, once, twice, three times and his yell rang loud and clear. “Hi-yiii! Make room for Two Rail!”
Boyd held his breath, as Stewart rushed up to stand beside him. “Oh, thank God,” she breathed.
On the sidewalks, Jordan’s men turned, stared. Boyd saw weasel-face draw his guns, start to raise them, then suddenly, decisively, put them back. With eight hard Texas men slamming down the street behind him, Boyd in front of him, he lost some of his stomach for battle. He signaled frantically; the others lowered their rifles.
Cord Lightner reined in so suddenly that his horse skittered. Behind him, so did Lem Caldwell, Wilkie Murray, Tep Chance, Mule Sloane, Jess Ford, Silent Ross. Steve Fleming, who could straighten out an iron horseshoe with his bare hands bulked among them like a grizzly bear; Gary Buckner, the fresh-faced kid, seemed dwarfed beside him.
Their eyes swept the street their guns covered the men on the sidewalks, challenging. Even at this distance, Boyd could see the combat lust on their weathered faces; they were aching for a fight. Lightner yelled something at the two-gun, weasel-faced man, bringing down his Colt into line. The man’s hands went up instinctively. Then the Texas riders spread out; as if herding cattle, they choused Jordan’s men out of cover under the threat of gun muzzles, sent them hustling down the street, back toward the District.
“That’s the thing about hired gunmen,” Boyd said thinly. “They won’t fight unless the odds are on their side. But a Texas trail hand’ll charge hell with a bucket of ice water for the brand he’s hired out to.” He put his arm around Stewart. “You can relax now, kid. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”
It was minutes more before Lightner and the Two Rail men were satisfied that the threat was broken. Then, at a jingling trot, they came toward the house. Lightner swung down, a faint grin on his usually expressionless face. He mounted the porch, raised a gauntleted hand to hammer on the door; but Boyd opened it first.
Lightner’s smile widened. “We’re here, boss.”
“It took you damned well long enough to make it. What you been doin’ — pickin’ daisies on the way?”
“No, but the boy that brought your note must have. We come as soon as we got it, hell bent for election. What’s up?”
“Tell Steve Fleming to come in. Then I’ll explain.”
~*~
“Sho’,” the giant Fleming said. “He don’t weigh nothin’. I can carry him easy, all by myself.” He pulled Ike Gault’s lax body out from behind the stove. Then, as easily as a woman taking her baby, he lifted the old man and draped him with surprising gentleness across one broad shoulder. “Where to, Boss?”
“The hospital’s down the street,” Boyd said. He had explained tersely to Lightner and Fleming; Lightner had gone to fill the others in. “You coming, Stewart?”
“If I’m going to stay at Watley’s, I ought to take some clothes.”
“Let that go for now. The main thing’s to get you and your daddy to a safe place.” Boyd took her arm.
They left the house, and Stewart locked it behind her. She still, obstinately, carried the Winchester she’d picked up in defense of Boyd. The men stared at her appreciatively as she joined them.
She swung easily into the saddle of Boyd’s roan, disregarding the length of lovely legs thus revealed, and Boyd swung up behind her. Fleming draped Ike Gault across his own kak and mounted to the animal’s rump. Arms around Stewart, Boyd took the reins. “Let’s move out, Cord,” he ordered. “And you men keep your eyes peeled. Jordan’s not through with us yet.”
“Right, boss,” Lightner said thinly. “I hope they jump us, the bastards. There’s nothing we’d like better than to take this stinking town apart. Come on, men.” And he touched his horse with spurs.
Guns ready, the Two Rail crew moved down the street at a slow walk. One block, two; then Watley’s sign was just ahead. Suddenly Lightner drew rein.
“They ain’t through with us yet, Kilpatrick,” he rasped. “They jest went back for more men. Loo
k there.”
Boyd had already seen them. Before Watley’s hospital, the red-shirted two-gun man stood in the forefront of a crowd of nearly two dozen gunslingers. And beside him, a rifle cradled in his arm, was Tully Jordan.
Chapter Eight
Cord Lightner’s voice was happy. “It looks like we’ll have to fight our way through.”
“No!” Boyd Kilpatrick rapped the order harshly. “Hold your fire! Don’t anybody shoot unless they shoot first!” Suddenly he was out of the saddle. “Stewart, if there’s gunplay, get out of here as fast as you can.”
“Boyd — ”
“Goddammit, you heard me!” Then he strode forward, across the street, hand dangling at his side.
“Hello, Jordan,” he said.
Tully Jordan smiled faintly. He displayed neither fear nor excitement, but there was something of the same battle light in his eyes that gleamed in those of the Texans, and Boyd knew that he had made no mistake at that first meeting — Jordan was one of the most dangerous men he had ever met. “Kilpatrick,” he said. “You’re creating a disturbance in town. You and your men had better get out. And leave Ike Gault behind.”
“I’m leaving him behind,” Boyd said. “Here at Watley’s.”
“No. That’s kidnapping an unconscious man. I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t?” Boyd grinned coldly. “Gault’s daughter says he goes to the hospital. That’s good enough for me.”
“But not for me. I’ll take Gault under protection myself until he’s awake and can speak his own mind. Hand him over. Then clear out.”
“Sorry, Jordan. Stand aside and let us through.”
Instead of replying, Jordan said: “Knowles.”
The red-shirted man stepped forward. His weasel’s eyes gleamed; he had given in once, but now, backed by plenty of guns, he was full of courage again. His hands hung close to the butts of the two low-slung Colts. “You heard the man, Texas,” he said in a surprisingly high, almost effeminate voice. “You got about ten seconds to obey. Otherwise, you’re the first to go.”
All right. There it was. The battle was inevitable. Maybe it was as well that it come now. Boyd looked back into the glittering, feral eyes of Knowles. Suddenly the street was very quiet.
Then another voice slashed through the silence. “Don’t nobody move!” it commanded. “I mean no-body!”
The tension broke. Knowles’ gaze slid away in surprise and Boyd, too, turned briefly to look.
Rio Fanning stood a few feet away, in the center of the street. He held a sawed-off ten-gauge shotgun leveled, swinging its barrels back and forth to menace the men before the hospital and the mounted Texans as well.
Jordan stared, too. “Fanning!” he snapped. “What the hell is this? Put that thing away!”
The kid’s voice was even, calm. “Not until this sociable’s broken up. There’s a city ordinance in the book against the gathering of armed mobs.”
Jordan sucked in a deep breath. “Rio, you idiot. The hell with that book. You want to use that gun on these Texans, okay. But — ”
“I’ll use it on anybody that moves.” Fanning came forward a step or two. “This thing throws nine buckshot from each barrel and it’ll take out the whole bunch of you. Jordan, you send your men along. Kilpatrick, you do the same. There’ll be no gunplay here.”
“All right, Rio,” Jordan said heavily. “That damned badge has gone to your head. I didn’t appoint you marshal to threaten me with a gun. Unpin that tin and give it here.”
“Uh-uh. You can’t dismiss me without a hearin’ before the Board of Aldermen. It’s in the book. Until they meet, I’m the law.”
Jordan’s face was red. But there was such quiet authority, such determination, in Rio’s voice that he hesitated. Then he laughed. “All right, Rio. You win. You understand the law real well. I should have asked you if you could read before I appointed you. We’ll break it up. But ... I know those laws, too. There’s nothing in them against two men that have got a quarrel settling it in a fair fight.”
Rio’s brows lifted. “You got a quarrel with Kilpatrick? You want to go up against him?”
“I have no quarrel with him,” Jordan said. “But Knowles here does, don’t you, Tom?”
Knowles looked baffled for a moment; then he comprehended and grinned slowly. He stared at Kilpatrick. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I got a quarrel with him.”
Boyd shook his head. “Knowles — ”
“You’re afraid to take me on in a fair fight, huh? You’ve heard of me, heard of Tom Knowles. You know how I made Bat Masterson eat crow one time in Dodge? You heard how many men I killed? Shrivels your gut to think about that, don’t it, Texas? You ain’t as good with a gun as you are in bed with that whore yonder on the blue roan, are you?”
Boyd let out a long breath. “What is this, Jordan? Your best gunman next to Trask and Fanning?”
“Tom’s as good as Trask ever was. He just never wanted to wear the badge. He gets the badge after I take it off of Fanning.”
“No,” Boyd said. “He ain’t ever going to wear any badge. Because he just said the wrong thing a minute ago, and I’m getting pretty tired, Jordan. You think Knowles is gonna rub me out, solve all your problems? Well, we’ll see. Rio!” His voice crackled. “I’m gonna fight this man.”
“Boyd, no!” Stewart cried.
“Hush,” Boyd said. “Rio?”
“It’s your privilege, Kilpatrick. Only according to the law, it’s got to be straight-up, an even break.”
“You see that we both get one.” Boyd looked at Knowles. “You want another notch, eh? All right. Out in the street.”
Knowles grinned. “Sure. This is what I do best.” He edged past Boyd, moved crabwise until he was exactly halfway between the sidewalks.
Watching him, hand away from his gun, Boyd moved in the same fashion to confront him. As he did so, he said: “Cord. If he kills me, that ends it. Take the herd to Dodge.”
“Right, boss. But I ain’t worried.”
“Whichever way it falls, nobody fires another shot,” Boyd said. Then he, too, was in the center of the street, with Knowles facing him thirty feet away.
“I’m watching both crowds with this sawed-off,” Rio said. “It’s up to you two, now. Jordan, any of your bunch tries to interfere, you get blasted. Lightner, that goes for you.”
That was the end of the talking. Now all eyes were on the men in the street.
Boyd stood loosely, in no particular stance or crouch. His gaze never wavered from his opponent as, with the practice born of long experience, he sized up the man. Knowles’ lust for battle; his easy stance, these all bespoke the expert, confident gunman. This was going to be no pushover. Boyd’s lips curled. In his present mood, that suited him fine. Time Jordan saw what he was up against.
A second passed, two. Now Boyd had quit thinking. Time seemed to become elastic, stretch, tauten ... Still, smiling faintly, Knowles did not move. Boyd watched those weasel eyes.
Then they flickered, changed. That was it. The motion of Boyd’s hand was involuntary. Only a fraction of a second passed between the time Knowles’ eyes gave the signal and Boyd was aware of the hard butt of the gun in his own hand, the weapon’s roar, even as Knowles brought up his own gun and fired, a heartbeat too late. Boyd’s bullet caught him in the chest just in time to throw his aim wide; the slug from Knowles’ Colt whined off into space. Boyd fired again, coldly, through the drifting veil of powdersmoke, and Knowles’ body was lifted like a puppet jerked on a string, thrown backwards. As he hit the ground, his convulsing hand triggered off another shot that plowed into the dust. Then his feet kicked wildly, only once, and he was dead.
All that in a second, less; and it had seemed an eternity. As the pungent smoke blew clear, the street was soundless, silent. Then Boyd heard Stewart’s prayerful whisper: “Oh, thank God ...”
Fanning’s voice came hard on it. “Don’t anybody move. Put up that gun, Kilpatrick.”
Boyd holstered the Colt, turne
d. He saw awe on the face of Jordan now, all confidence and smiling erased from it. And then Boyd wanted to laugh. What was in Jordan’s eyes was fear.
“Now,” Boyd said. “Now, Jordan. Miss Stewart wants her daddy in the hospital. That’s where I’m taking him. Stand aside.”
Under Boyd’s cold eyes, Jordan hesitated. For a moment, Boyd thought he was going for his own gun. Then he moved. “All right, Kilpatrick. Take him in there. But I won’t guarantee that he’ll stay.”
“He’ll stay,” Boyd said. “You see, I’m enrolling six of these men in there with him as patients. He’ll either stay or I’ll come back here and take the town apart and you with it. There may be a law against an armed mob, but there’s no law against six of my men getting sick and having treatment, is there, Rio?”
“No,” Fanning said.
“You hear that, Jordan? I’ve got the law on my side.”
“The law.” Jordan’s laugh was mirthless, a little shaky. “We’ll see about the law. All right, Kilpatrick. You win this round. But it’s not over yet. It’s far from over. Fanning, I’ll deal with you later. Come on, men.”
They backed away from the door. Boyd stood tautly, while Fanning kept the riot gun tracking. Jordan led his men down the sidewalk. Once, he paused, turned; again Boyd thought he’d make a play. But, under the threat of Rio’s shotgun and all those armed Texans, he evidently thought better of it. Then he turned again and strode on down toward the railroad tracks, walking swiftly, his men hurrying along behind him.
~*~
Only when they were gone did the tension snap. Then, slowly, Boyd turned to Fanning. “Rio, thanks.”
“No thanks necessary.” Fanning’s eyes were hostile. “I was carrying out the law.”
“That’s what I’m thanking you for. You haven’t worn that badge long, but it’s changing you. You wanted to be somebody. You are, now — the law in Gunsight. That makes it all different, don’t it?”
“It makes nothing different.” There was still a strange gleam, a glitter, in Rio’s eyes. “Only, I had no idea you were so fast. That’s going to make it even better, a real contest, when we come up against each other.”