The Running Gun

by Jory Sherman

  When Daryl didn’t move, except to stand up straight, Dan knew for sure that the Mexican wasn’t a regular customer.

  A moment later, he saw Tyler go into a fighting crouch as his hand streaked for the Colt hanging from his gunbelt.

  From the back, where Dan figured the kitchen was, he heard a woman scream a warning in Spanish.

  Then, all hell broke loose.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Mexican upended the table, scattering cards like leaves in a gusting wind. In a single swooping motion, he reached inside his coat and pulled on a rope. A sawed-off shotgun leaped into his hands.

  Dan heard the triggers cocking on both barrels.

  “Socorro,” the woman screamed in Spanish. “Help!”

  Then Dan heard a thud in the back room, followed by a flurry of footsteps pounding on the hardwood flooring.

  “Esmerelda!” Daryl yelled, then started for the kitchen. He was cut down before he reached the end of the bar.

  A flash of orange blossomed in the darkness beyond the open door to the kitchen. Daryl clutched his chest and gave out a grunt as he tumbled forward behind the bar.

  Dan drew his Colt with lightning speed. He cocked the pistol as he lifted it clear of the holster and brought it to bear on the Mexican with the sawed-off shotgun. He squeezed the trigger a split-second after the shotgun exploded lead from its muzzles, spraying lead at the wall near the bar.

  By then, Tyler, Raskin, and Jones had drawn their pistols. Bullets whizzed in all directions. Out of the corner of his eye, Dan saw Jones pitch forward and fall down, then push himself up. He heard a grunt and Tyler spun around, firing at the men streaming in from the kitchen. He fired at the lamp over the bar, extinguishing it with a bullet that shattered the glass and snuffed out the flame. The back of the bar was plunged into darkness.

  Tyler ducked down as orange flames sprouted from behind the bar and hot lead sizzled into the side wall. There was the sound of a window being smashed into shards of flying glass. Dan crouched low and backed toward the end of the bar nearest the front door.

  “The lamps,” Tyler yelled. “Shoot out the lamps.”

  Dan heard the bark of Pete’s pistol and saw the lamp in the corner where the Mexican had been sitting, shatter and go dark. Jones turned and shot the lamp over the back bar to pieces. Glass tinkled as it rang against the bottles below. Little tongues of flame flickered on top of the bar then went out.

  Men streamed into the room, shadows with six-guns belching flame and lead. Tyler crawled away from the bar and slid under a table. Raskin and Jones crab-walked away from the bar, firing their pistols at the shadowy men, who seemed to be darting and ducking as they searched for positions and targets.

  Dan heard a man cry out in pain and then a thud as someone fell hard on the floor. But he couldn’t see who was who as everyone in the room scrambled for safety or vantage points. It was like being in a madhouse and a charnel house at the same time. The shots were deafening in such close quarters and Dan’s ears rang, feeling as if they were stuffed with cotton balls.

  “Kill them, you bastards,” someone shouted and Dan recognized the timbrous voice of Jake Krebs. He fired off a shot in the direction of that voice and heard his bullet smash into wood. Just after he fired, he rolled to one side, then crawled toward the corner of the bar nearest the street, a place that offered him more protection than his previous spot. No sooner had he moved than two pistols blazed and hurled lead at the place where he had been.

  Dan was sweating now. But his eyes were adjusting to the low light, and he saw a hulking figure walk toward him, bent over like a hunchback. The pale moonlight streaming through the window gave him just enough light to see.

  The bar shielded most of Dan’s body, but the man stalking him apparently knew where Dan was, for he was heading straight toward him. Once he cleared the corner of the bar, Dan would be a dead man. Of that, he was certain.

  He exposed just enough of himself to get a clear shot at the humped-over man. He fired. The Colt bucked in Dan’s hand as the cartridge exploded and spat lead and red-orange sparks. He heard the smack of the bullet, heard a low grunt of pain, and then saw the man stand up straight. Something fell from his hand and hit the floor with a metallic clunk. The man twisted in agony, uttering guttural expressions of pain in both Spanish and English.

  “Going outside,” Dan yelled, as the wounded man continued to twist and hold his footing.

  Dan got to his feet and ran toward the batwing doors. He heard the roar of gunfire and bullets sizzled all around him. One struck a door and it shuddered under the splintering impact. Dan crashed through the other door and stumbled as he hit the dirt street. Bullets fried the air all around him and he scrambled out of the line of fire.

  The shooting died down for a few moments, then men began streaming outside through the batwing doors, pistols snapping off shots that sped back into the saloon. Those who came out were unrecognizable to Dan, at first. But then he thought he saw Raskin zigzagging as he emerged, staying low as lead whistled over his head.

  “Dan, where are you?” Raskin called out and Dan saw that it was Pete who had escaped in a fusillade of bullets.

  “Stay down, Pete,” Dan called out. He saw Pete stop and look in his direction, then dart to his left toward a space between the saloon and the building next to it.

  Gunmen fanned out as they dashed from the saloon and Dan saw Jones grapple with one of them. Dan looked for a way to shoot Jerico’s attacker, but they were dancing too fast and too wildly for him to get a sure aim. He didn’t want to kill Jones by mistake.

  Jones had his hands full, but was holding his own. The man grappling with him was stocky and strong, but Jerico was fighting for his life. Dan saw him throw some punches into the man that would have staggered an ox. He saw Jerico raise his pistol and come down with it hard on top of his attacker’s head. He heard a crunch and the assailant staggered, started to raise his own pistol. Jerico shot him in the breastbone. The man let out a short cry and collapsed in a heap. Jerico began to run, and then Dan saw a man track him with a drawn pistol. The man fired and Jerico went down.

  Dan’s heart sank.

  Jones cried out in pain and Dan ran zig-zaggedly over to him.

  “Where are you hit, Jerico?” Dan asked.

  “My leg.”

  Dan hunkered down, but it was difficult to see in the darkness. Jerico was holding his leg and his hand was turning black with blood.

  “Just squeeze your leg above the wound, Jerico,” Dan told him. “Try and stop the bleeding.”

  “Am I gonna die?”

  “No,” Dan replied.

  Just then, a man strode out of the shadows, walking toward them. “Well, now,” the man said, “I get me two for one, looks like.”

  Dan stiffened. He recognized the voice. It was Frank Gaston, the deputy marshal from Abilene.

  Dan brought his six-gun up. “Gaston, you drop that gun,” Dan said, his voice quavering.

  “Sonny, you’re worth money to me, and so is Jerico Jones there.”

  Dan saw Gaston raise his six-gun to shoot him. For what seemed an eternity, Dan debated whether to shoot Gaston or run. His stomach was an empty pit, as hollow as a deep cave. Ripples of flesh sprouted stiff hairs on the back of his neck. Gaston was so close now, Dan knew he couldn’t miss. He didn’t even have to aim. His mind knew where the bullet would go and he knew his shot would be fatal.

  Gaston’s face was in darkness, but Dan could imagine the twisted smile on his face. The man had them cold and would murder them both in cold blood if Dan didn’t do something.

  Dan drew in a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger.

  The Colt exploded in his hand with the loudest roar he ever heard. He felt the grip slam against his hand as the pistol spewed orange sparks, white smoke and hot lead from the muzzle.

  Gaston shuddered and staggered forward, his hand holding the pistol going limp, until the weapon dropped from his fingers.

  “Bastard,”
Gaston wheezed and grabbed for his belly. Still, he stood on two feet and did not go down. He stepped jerkily forward like some nightmare that wouldn’t go away.

  Dan fired again. This time it was a reflex, a reaction to the horror of the wounded man still stalking toward him. Dan had tipped his pistol so that the barrel pointed toward Gaston’s chest. The roar of the pistol was not so loud this time, but more like a throaty bark. Yet echoes of that shot mingled with those of the first firing and Dan felt as if his head was going to explode while he went quickly deaf.

  “Ahh,” Gaston groaned, and then pitched forward, hitting the ground with a resounding thud.

  “You got him, Dan,” Jerico gasped.

  Before Dan could say anything, he saw another man run toward him, firing his pistol. The shots were high, but both he and Jerico ducked.

  Dan swung his pistol onto the new threat and squeezed the trigger. The man stiffened as the bullet caught him in mid-stride. He turned sideways from the impact, thrown off-course by the slug. Dan shot him again, taking aim this time, and the man cried out curses in Spanish and fired back at Dan before he twisted around and crumpled into a dying heap, ten yards from where Dan and Jerico were.

  “Got him, too,” Jerico said.

  More shots rang out—from every direction. Men ran and then stopped still to fire their pistols. For Dan it was like watching a shadow dance. He couldn’t make out who was the enemy and who was not.

  Bullets kicked up dirt all around Dan and Jerico.

  “We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” Dan growled.

  “I can’t walk,” Jerico said.

  “Lie still, then. I’ll drag you.”

  Dan holstered his pistol and crabbed around to Jerico’s head. He slid his arms under Jerico’s torso, beneath the armpits, and began to pull on him, stepping backward from a crouched position.

  Jerico stifled a cry of pain as Dan tugged him toward a passageway between two buildings. More bullets spattered the dust and, when they were near the building, lead pounded into the wood, showering the two men with splinters.

  “Stay here,” Dan said, as he got Jerico in between the buildings out of the line of fire.

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “I’ll be back, Jerico. Just stay put.”

  Dan drew his pistol, reloaded it before he stepped out. He stayed hunkered down as he ejected the empty shells from the cylinder and stuffed in fresh cartridges. His hands were shaking so badly, it took precious seconds before he was finished.

  As he was about to creep out of hiding, Dan heard hoofbeats. Men shouted, but he couldn’t make out the origin of the voices or whose they were. He stuck his head out to see what was going on, and when he did, he saw riders coming toward him.

  “He’s in there, Jake,” someone said.

  One of the riders was pointing straight at him.

  Dan drew a bead on the man and fired, leading him just right. The man spilled from the saddle and hit the ground in a grisly skid, dead before he stopped.

  The other rider came on fast, too fast for Dan to react. He heard something swish through the air and then his wrist stung as something wrapped around it like a snake. His pistol flew from his hand and he was pulled out into the open.

  Just before he fell, Dan looked up and saw Duke come to a stop. Looking down at him was Jake Krebs, staring at him like death itself.

  Dan knew then that his life was just about over. Krebs had a bullwhip in one hand, a pistol in the other.

  Dan heard the pistol cock and the sound was louder than the gunshots, for it echoed down the long tunnel of eternity. Dan knew it would be the next to the last sound he ever heard.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Dan lay sprawled in the dirt, face down, as Krebs raised his cocked pistol. He steeled himself for the bullet’s impact.

  Krebs fired at pointblank range.

  But Dan heard the bullet whiz just over his head. Behind him, he heard a soft grunt.

  Then, Krebs thumbed back the hammer and fired once again into the space between the two buildings where Dan had taken Jones.

  Jones cried out in pain as the second bullet struck him and then was silent.

  “This was what I came for,” Krebs said to Dan. “That boy will do no talking before a grand jury in San Antonio.”

  “You bastard!” Dan wrenched the whip from his wrist and stood up, his fists clenched in rage.

  Krebs laughed, a short choppy guttural chuckle as dark as the night.

  “You still got the fire in you, don’t you, Cord? Maybe you eat too much pepper.”

  “If I had a gun...” Dan said.

  “Maybe you’re lucky you don’t.”

  “You never fight fair, do you, Krebs?”

  “Not if I can help it. The fair fighters are all in the ground. Wolf meat.”

  “Go ahead and kill me, then. Get it over with.”

  Krebs laughed again, the laughter deeper and throatier this time. “Kill you, Cord? Why? You have done me no harm. In fact, I kind of like you.”

  “Like me? You made me into an outlaw.”

  “It seems to suit you. Maybe you ought to join me. Riding with the Rangers hasn’t seemed to do you much good.”

  “I’d rather ride with them than with a skunk.”

  “You’ll live for now, Dan Cord,” Krebs said. “You’re my lucky piece, I think. My rabbit’s foot.”

  With that, Krebs kicked Duke in the flanks and galloped away into the night.

  Dan stood there, dumbfounded, listening to the fading hoofbeats. He felt cheated. Krebs had been so close and was now out of reach. Dan cursed his luck under his breath.

  “Damn, Krebs. Damned bastard.”

  He turned and picked up his pistol. His wrist still stung from the lash of the bullwhip. He rubbed it to restore circulation and then walked over to where Jones lay sprawled between the two buildings.

  “Jerico?”

  There was no answer.

  Dan felt himself filling with dread as he walked closer to Jones. He stood over his still body and looked down. He could barely see the black streaks and blotches that he knew were actually red blood, fresh blood. He knelt down beside Jones and touched a finger to his cheek. It was still warm.

  “Jerico,” Dan whispered. “Jerico, can you hear me?”

  Still no answer.

  Jerico was lying in total darkness, a darkness that was enhanced by the walls of the two buildings. Dan leaned down and put his ear close to Jerico’s mouth. He listened for his breathing, but there wasn’t the faintest sign that air was either going in or out of his mouth. He touched Jerico behind the ear with his index finger, knowing he should find a pulse there if the young man was still alive.

  Dan waited. He took his finger away and put it back again, not trusting his tactile examination. He felt no pulse.

  “Damn, Jerico,” Dan breathed. “We all wanted you to live through this.”

  “He ain’t answerin’. Is he alive?”

  Dan, startled, turned to look at Tyler, who stood there, looking down at him, his face in shadow.

  “I—I don’t think so, Vern. Krebs shot him.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  Tyler came into the passageway. Dan saw that he was limping and holding his left arm. His shirtsleeve was slightly shredded and the cloth appeared to be soaked in blood.

  “You hurt, Vern?”

  “Just a couple of scratches.”

  Tyler bent down, then stood up immediately, off balance. He tilted into one wall and Dan put a hand on his chest to steady him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “When I bent over I got a little dizzy. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  Dan waited, listening to the sound of Tyler’s breathing. He seemed to regain his composure and once again bent down to check Jones. After a minute, Tyler stood up straight. He put an arm out and touched the wall to steady himself.

  “He’s turning cold, Dan. He’s stone dead, that’s for sure. That bastard Krebs.”
r />   “Krebs got what he came for. I’m all for tracking him down and putting out his lights.”

  “Tomorrow, you mean.”

  Dan shook his head. “No. Tonight.”

  “You won’t track Krebs so easily, Dan. That man’s got more tricks up his sleeve than a cardsharp.”

  “He can’t hide all of his tracks.”

  “Time you got sensible, Cord. You couldn’t track an elephant through these hills. Where’s your friend, Raskin?”

  “I don’t know. He got hit, too, I think.”

  “Well, let’s go look for him and then go back in the saloon. We need some light to see if we’re going to be dressing wounds. Mine included.”

  “You’re right, I guess, Vern. But, damn it, I just hate to see Krebs get away so easy.”

  “The Mexes have a saying, ‘tomorrow’s another day’.”

  “That gives me little comfort.”

  “If we don’t get Krebs for those murders up in Belton, we’ll get him for something else. The man’s a criminal. He who lives by the gun, dies by the gun.”

  “Boy, you’re just full of platitudes, ain’t you, Vern?”

  “I don’t know what a platitude is, but if it means what I think it does, I guess so.”

  They both heard a groan from somewhere in the darkness. When Dan looked around, he saw Raskin limping toward him.

  “Over here, Pete.” Dan beckoned to his friend. “You hurt bad?”

  “I got a sore leg.”

  “We’re going inside the saloon where we can take a look. Tyler is hit, too.”

  “I feel like I been in a twister,” Raskin said, as he walked up, favoring his wounded leg.

  The saloon was quiet, empty. Dark.

  “Daryl?” Tyler called out.

  He was answered by a groan from behind the bar.

  “He’s still alive,” Tyler said. “Somebody light some of these lamps.”

  Dan and Pete lit two of the unbroken lamps, feeling their way to them, striking matches to find the chimneys and wicks. Dan lit one behind the bar and helped Briggs to his feet. There was blood all over him, soaked through his shirt and trousers.