The Phantom Gunman (A Neal Fargo Adventure. Book 11)

by John Benteen

  But four, now, three hundred—and he saw that the men down there had heard the thunder of all those hooves. The street seemed to swirl as Trent’s army turned to face them. And in a second Trent’s men would open fire. Fargo pointed the Fox. Two hundred, the range too long for it, but its blast would be a signal. He waited seconds more, then pulled a trigger, and the shotgun’s roar shattered the night.

  It was a signal for both sides. Behind Fargo, men began to shoot. Simultaneously, the street winked with the flicker of flame from many gun muzzles. Suddenly Fargo was riding through a sleet of lead, cramming a fresh shell in the Fox even as the horse drove on. He lifted his eyes toward the Bonito and the hills beyond. The report of the scattergun should have been the signal to Bonney to come in, too. But nothing happened over there; no guns flamed, and no hooves thundered, and suddenly Fargo felt apprehension. Billy the Kid was late, his army not even yet in sight across the hills behind the town—and that meant Fargo and his crew were riding into odds of more than two to one, not springing a trap, but falling into one!

  He cursed, but there was no help for it now. Committed, they must go on, and fight as best they could until the Kid came in. And if he did not come... well, then, they were finished ...

  But now they were thundering through that blast of lead across the level, and ahead of them was the single row of houses that stretched along the street. Trent’s men had taken cover behind them, and from around the corners they directed a deadly fire. Fargo and his army had to ride into its teeth.

  Lead ripped by Fargo’s ears with its whining, testy, ugly sound. He had reins in his teeth, now, the shotgun in one hand, the Colt in the other, firing at any gun flash that offered target. Behind him, his riders laid down a barrage, but, shooting from horseback, they were only half as accurate as the men on foot ahead. Fargo heard horses scream, saw them go down. Saw men pitch from the saddle. Beside him, Chavez was emptying an old .44, and Morton was firing, reloading, firing his big Sharps .50. Then Morton made a strangled sound, slid over his horse’s rump. At almost the same instant, the animal Chavez rode reared and fell.

  And now they were among the houses, and, dammit, where was Billy? Fargo’s voice rang out. “Dismount! Dismount, dammit, fight on foot!” He kicked out of the stirrups, hit the ground, and his horse ran on. He turned his head just long enough to see his men follow suit—those of them that were left. Then he raised the Fox, ran on into battle.

  He dodged between two houses. In that instant, a pair of Trent’s warriors stepped out to confront him, one from behind each house. Fargo pitched up the shotgun, pulled both triggers. A deadly spray of buckshot roiled down the broad alley. Its pattern was just wide enough; the man on the right fired into the air as its outer edge caught him; the one on the left crumpled without a sound. Fargo leaped over their bodies, cramming in fresh shells, and then he was in the street.

  He heard Jess Cannon’s voice. “Give ’em hell! You hear? Give ’em hell! We’ve got ’em outnumbered!” He could not tell where the voice came from, had no time to, as a man dodged out from behind a water trough—a short man, blocky. Ed Hughes, Fargo thought, as the gunman whirled to face him. The Colt in Hughes’ hand thundered; a bullet plucked at Fargo’s sleeve. He pulled the right trigger of the Fox. Hughes was in the full blast; it picked him up and hurled him. Then a man came at Fargo from the flank, Winchester outthrust. He wore no white armband, and Fargo turned the shotgun and fired the other round and drove him back against the adobe wall of a house with buckshot. There was no time to reload the Fox now; he slung it, raised the Colt.

  But there were so many of them, so damned many, and Bonney still had not come! They swarmed around Fargo, and he fired and fired again, and all along the street his men, what were left, were shooting or locked in hand-to-hand combat. But they were being overwhelmed. Even as he pulled the trigger again at a Trent gunman charging toward him and heard the hammer snap on a spent round, Fargo knew despair. He clubbed the Colt, ducked under a blast from the attacker’s automatic, its very muzzle-flame searing his shoulder. Then he swung the gun, felt bone crunch beneath its butt. With no time to reload, he threw the gun to his other hand, and the Batangas knife came out. Its handles had just locked into place when one of Trent’s men ran into its blade. Fargo jabbed forward, ripped up.

  But he was being overwhelmed by men. Somebody got an arm around his neck; he jerked his head just in time. A Colt barrel came down, smashed his shoulder. It would have crushed his skull. Fargo twisted, jerked forward, in a flying mare, and the man went sailing over his shoulder. But another was coming after him, and he dodged back, unslinging the shotgun. He saw a pistol barrel leveled at his head, ducked, then brought the shotgun butt up, as lead whined across his scalp. He felt the gun butt crunch into the bone structure of a chin, and in the time that bought, back-pedaled more. Bonney had not come, and they would not make it. His men were being slaughtered; he had to give the order to retreat! He jumped behind a building, thumbing rounds from his bandolier, opened his mouth to yell. At that instant, from across the street, gunfire suddenly swelled in terrific volume.

  Out there on the street of Lincoln, men shouted, screamed. Fargo clicked the shotgun breech shut, slid out from behind his shelter. Then his heart leaped. From across the way, down by the Bonito, gun flashes made almost a solid wall of flame, and he heard the pounding thunder of many hooves. New lust for battle surged in him. The Kid was coming in!

  The Kid came in, all right. Even as Fargo fired the Fox at two men charging toward him, he saw the dark surging line of many riders in the moonlight, galloping toward Lincoln and shooting as they came! The man in their lead was bent low, a pistol in either hand, muzzles winking alternate flames.

  A cry went up: of exultation from those of Fargo’s men left alive, of dismay and surprise from their adversaries. The knot of fighting men in the street surged and broke and separated. By what had once been the McSween store, the Kid reined up, horse rearing, quit the saddle, landed like a panther, ran forward with a phalanx of men behind him. As he came, in a running crouch, both Colts hammered.

  Trent’s men, under this new assault, broke. All at once, they were running up and down the street, seeking shelter. Fargo laughed savagely and fired at two with the final round in the shotgun and brought them down, and, reloading, ran forward to meet the Kid.

  Guns empty, Bonney had dodged behind the corner of the old store. He was cramming fresh shells through the loading gate of his right-hand Colt when Fargo came up. “Sorry …” he panted. “Trent... or Cannon. Smart. Had a guard out to the north. We had to deal with that, a lot of men.” He snicked shut the piece of metal that sealed the cylinder, grinned at Fargo. His blue eyes were alight with a savage, almost insane joy. “Make it up to you,” he rasped, and then he was in the street, utterly without fear, seeking targets, guns roaring each time he saw one.

  Fargo watched him for a second. Then lead splatted against the store wall near his head. He turned, sought its origin, saw a wink of muzzle flame from a loophole of the torreon, the ancient rock tower of the old Spanish fort. It came again, a slug whining close. He threw himself to the ground.

  If men were in that thing, they could dominate the street of Lincoln, pick the targets of their choice, maybe even turn the tide of battle.

  The tower sat in an open field. Fargo made himself oblivious to the sound of fighting in the street. He crawled on his belly through high grass, circling the twenty-five-foot-high fortress. He saw the gun flames wink simultaneously from three loopholes, raking the main street, knew there were that many men forted up inside. Trent’s men.

  He made the rear of the structure of rocks and mud. There were loopholes in the back, too, but no one fired from those. He let his lips peel back in a wolf’s snarl, checked the shotgun to make sure it was fully loaded. Then he lurched to his feet, was running. In seconds, he had gained the back of the tower. Beside a wooden door, there was a big firing slit. Fargo put the muzzles of the shotgun to it, pulled both triggers, sent ei
ghteen buckshot hurtling into the narrow confines of the tower.

  He heard them whine and scream, ricocheting off rock, bouncing back and forth in a deadly web of lead. There was a single, short-choked cry of agony from within. Then the firing ended. Fargo reloaded the gun, ran back to the street. When he reached it, it had been transformed amazingly.

  The men who swarmed in it now wore white armbands. The man in their forefront fired accurately and methodically with two Colts. At the head of his army, he advanced up the street, and a tatter, a remnant, of what had been Trent’s force retreated ahead of him, firing back.

  Then, from far to the west, on the outskirts of town, a shout went up. “Hi—yee! Tres Rios!”

  Hoofbeats pounded; the silhouettes of riders filled the street, coming hard.

  The last of Trent’s men, caught between the Kid’s army and Sue McSween’s cowboys, panicked. Suddenly their firing dwindled. “We surrender!” somebody howled. “Goddammit, we surrender!” Hands were upthrust, and all at once the street was silent, save for a spatter of shooting from Bonney’s men.

  Then the Kid’s voice rang out. “Cease firing, men, you hear? They give up, stop firing, don’t kill any more!” He ran forward as Trent’s men halted, arms high, and the Tres Rios men circled around them on horses, Whitlock and Brewer in the forefront. Fargo legged it like a loping panther, catching up with the Kid as he halted before the captives.

  His eyes swept the crowd. Neither Trent nor Cannon was among it. He rammed the shotgun forward, buried its muzzles in the belly of a bearded professional gunslinger, whose eyes widened in fear. “Fargo,” Bonney grated and reached out to push the gun barrels away.

  Fargo struck his hand down. “Leave me alone. You! Trent, Cannon! Where are they?”

  Above the beard, the face was paper-colored, the eyes huge. “For Gawd’s sake, man, don’t blast me with that riot gun! I surrender!”

  “Makes no difference! I want Trent and Cannon! Five seconds; then I pull the trigger.”

  “Fargo, in the name of God—” Bonney began.

  “Shut up,” Fargo snapped. “Well? Two more seconds.”

  The man’s face worked; he licked his lips.

  “Courthouse,” he wheezed. “They run in the courthouse.”

  Fargo lowered the shotgun. His eyes lanced up the street to the biggest building in Lincoln. Once it had been the Murphy-Dolan store. “Hell, yes,” he whispered. “I should have known. There must be a hundred places in there where they can hide.” He looked at Bonney. “I’m going after them,”

  “Not alone.” Bonney’s face was terrible in that moment. His eyes were flaming, his mouth twisted in a snarl of sheer bloodlust. He turned to Whitfield, “Watch ’em. We’ll be back. Come on, Fargo!”

  Guns ready, they ran up the street together, Suddenly Bonney halted. “Listen. That window up yonder, the one I shot Ollinger from. You can cover the whole damn street from that. They’ll pick us off.”

  “No, they won’t,” Fargo said, and he ran to the side of the street and dodged behind an oak. The window on the second floor of the big building, the one closest to the street, did indeed dominate the approach to the courthouse. Fargo smiled and aimed the shotgun at it. “I’ll clear that,’ he said, “You go in through the front.” Then he fired a round.

  The buckshot smashed the window glass. Bonney, bent low, ran desperately, gained the front of the building as Fargo fired again. Then Fargo reloaded, left the cover of the tree. He put another round through the window as he ran after the Kid.

  “You know the inside of this place,” he gasped, gaining shelter under the overhanging balcony of the second floor. “Lead the way.”

  “Yeah,” Bonney said. The entrance door had a glass panel. He brought down a bolt barrel and there was a crash, followed by the tinkling of individual shards. Bonney reached inside, turned a latch. The door swung open. He edged in, gun raised. “Careful,” he whispered. “There’s God knows how many rooms and halls in this place, and they can be in any one of ’em, waitin’ for us.”

  They entered a big room, the lobby. Behind it, narrow stairs ran up to the second floor. On either side, other rooms adjoined it. In here it was very dark, and utterly still. Then Fargo tensed; the second floor, over their heads, had creaked. “They’re upstairs,” he whispered.

  “That’s bad,” Bonney answered. “Those stairs are like a funnel, one man wide. They can hold us off indefinitely. All they got to do is shoot down when a man starts up.”

  Fargo laughed softly. “I’ll clear the stairs. You come behind.”

  “Wait a minute,” the Kid said. “My guns are almost empty. Let me reload.”

  “Go ahead,” Fargo whispered. He edged toward the stairs, shotgun up. The Kid holstered his right-hand gun, unsheathed the left one. He crammed in shells. Pouched that gun, then took out the empty right one. He was pulling a cartridge from his belt when, quite without warning, a door opened behind him.

  Fargo saw it, saw the slope-shouldered, big form that could only be Cannon in the frame. Saw the gun come up. “Kid!” he yelled. “Behind you!” He could not shoot; the Kid’s body blocked him off.

  Then he witnessed a miracle. Jess Cannon was already aiming the Colt and Cannon was a professional. The Kid held an empty gun in his right hand, a cartridge in his left. But suddenly his body seemed to disappear, his torso became a twisting blur. He dropped the cartridge in his left hand, but even before it hit the floor, that hand had pulled the Colt on his left hip from holster. Before the bullet landed, he had fired, and Cannon’s shot went through the ceiling as a slug from the Kid’s gun caught him in the chest and hurled him backwards.

  “My God,” Fargo breathed, awed. Then, from up the stairs, a gun roared, and a bullet chunked into the wall beside his head.

  Trent! He aimed the shotgun up the stairs and pulled both triggers and did not even wait to see the effects, but charged up the steps, Colt in hand.

  No one fired at him; he gained the upper landing. It was very dark up there, except for a faint sliver of moonlight through the windows. He saw a high bulk to his right, rows of something darker to his left, realized suddenly that he was in a courtroom: a judge’s bench and chairs.

  Then, from darkness beyond, a snub-nosed gun spat spitefully. The bullet clipped skin from Fargo’s flank. He aimed the Colt, fired and fired again, lacing the darkness around the flash with hollow-nosed slugs. Even as he did so, he reeled aside, lest his own gun flash betray his position.

  Then the hammer came down on an empty. The click it made was loud in the room. At the same instant, he heard a soft laugh from the darkness.

  “You didn’t know about the turn in the hall, Fargo.” That was Trent. “Now your guns are empty—like mine.”

  Fargo said, “I’m reloading.”

  “You won’t have time.” He heard a rustle in the blackness of the room. “I’m in the shadow, Fargo, and you can’t see me. But I’ve got a knife. Not that switchblade, either. A Bowie. I always keep it in my boot. I’m no gunman, Fargo, but a knife I can use. A man learns to use a knife on the waterfront in Frisco.” Still in blackness, somewhere among the seats of the courtroom or beyond them, he heard a whisper of sound. “This time, I’ll get your eyes. Not kill you, just blind you, like I … started out... to do!”

  That sentence ended in a snarl, almost in his ear, and Fargo whirled, dropping his empty Colt. A blade slipped past his face and a body crashed into him and bore him down, even as his hand went to his hip. He was pinned in the aisle between the seats, and Trent’s weight was heavy on him, his breath hot in his face. He could see the shape of the other’s head now and see the knife raised for another stroke, aimed straight at his eyes.

  He bucked with all his might, and the force of every hard muscle summoned into play threw Trent backward and the down thrusting knife only slashed his cheek. Then Trent was off him, Fargo twisted, and the Bowie came by his belly. Then his own Batangas knife was in his hand, as he flicked his wrist and the handles clicked back into hi
s palm to unsheathe the blade. He and Trent were both on their knees now, in the aisle, only dim silhouettes to each other; but Trent’s laugh was full of confidence. The darkness that was his body lunged forward and Fargo got the blade up just in time. The Bowie sheered off from its stroke toward his eyes.

  “Son of a bitch,” Trent rasped. He rolled backwards and was on his feet as Fargo came up. Then they faced each other in the darkness of the courtroom. There was no room for maneuver. Dimly Fargo was aware of Billy Bonney’s feet pounding on the stairs. He disregarded that, all his being focused in full intensity on the black shape before him.

  “Now, Fargo,” Trent said almost conversationally and moved in.

  No room for art here now, or footwork. Fargo grappled Trent. Their bodies slammed together, and each sent his blades at the other. At such close quarters, it was impossible for either to miss.

  Fargo felt his blade sink into flesh, deep, grate against bone. He turned it and ripped and Trent screamed.

  At the same instant, Trent’s thrust, just as lethal, hit the thickness of Fargo’s bandoliers. The Bowie blade slammed against the hard metal of Winchester cartridges, which Fargo had used few of in the battle, and slid off, as if off armor.

  “Oh,” Trent husked, in an agonized voice. “Oh, Christ.” His body went limp on Fargo’s arm and something wet rushed over Fargo’s flesh.

  Fargo withdrew the arm, and a great, dead weight thudded to the floor.

  “Somewhere here …” Bonney’s voice said behind him. A match flared; then a lamp.

  Fargo stood between the rows of seats, staring down at the sprawled corpse on the floor. Bonney came up behind him. “You took him,” he whispered.

  “Yeah,” Fargo said. He bent, wiped off the blade on Trent’s pants, and then folded the handles over it.

  He turned to find his guns. Bonney stood there over Trent’s corpse.

  “Well,” he said, in a strange, dull voice, “This ends it. Finally. Trent, Cannon. Fargo, it’s finally finished, the Lincoln County War.”