By the Neck

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Great,” said Rollie, squinting into the trees and seeing nothing resembling Cleve Danziger. “Good luck, kid.” He looked down once more at the dead man, pushed off of the rock, keeping low, and glanced again for weapons he might have missed. The young man’s holster was empty.

  “Rollie.” The blacksmith pronounced Rollie’s name awkwardly, and held up a revolver.

  “Keep it. You’ll need it. I have to get down there.” Rollie nodded toward Main Street, unseen downslope beyond the trees. “You’re welcome to come along, but I—” He needn’t have wasted the breath.

  The taciturn blacksmith nodded once and cut wide into the forest, the arm below his shot-up shoulder swinging slightly less than the other.

  Good man, thought Rollie. And a town full of folks who are the same.

  He ducked low, hobbled his way through the trees, paralleling the blacksmith. Both men moved in near silence as they wove a route that would take them downslope toward the south end of town. Toward what, they knew not.

  But both knew it was not going to be pretty.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Pops rode that beast as hard as he could, knowing the horse was flagging. It pained his wounded leg with each jostling step the horse took, but it pained him more to know he was pushing the creature far beyond the kindness he’d always felt toward beasts of burden.

  “I am sorry, horse. But the lives of all those folks in town, innocent as yourself, need whatever we can give them. We make it through this mess and I will do what I can for you. You have my word.”

  If the horse understood him, it gave Pops no indication. If anything, it seemed the man’s brief speech slowed the horse. He reined up and slid from the saddle, wincing as the foot on his bum leg hit the ground. “Okay, okay then.” He patted the trembling horse’s neck. “Let’s look at that wound you got yourself.”

  Pops hopped to the horse’s flank, steadying himself with one hand on the horse. With the other he kept the Greener balanced atop the saddle. It was an awkward pose, but they both needed to stop. The bullet had punched into the horse’s left rear thigh, leaving a puckered, bleeding wound.

  He saw pink flesh beneath the hide in a hole big enough to stick his thumb in. The horse had drawn its leg up and stood breathing hard, lathered, and quivering. Its eyes were wide, showing raw fear that Pops could only imagine, though he felt as though he’d experienced something of the same in his past. It was the gnaw of cold uncertainty, of confusion, of not knowing what might happen to you in the next second, the next minute.

  “Well now, what we got here? An uppity slave boy making off with one of our horses?” The man speaking emerged from behind a jumble of gray boulders about twenty feet downslope of Pops. To the man’s right, another leaned into view. He was a bald, squat man with a mustache. His quirley smoke reached Pops’ nostrils, and he cursed himself for not paying more attention. He should have picked up on that pungent smell.

  “Now, now,” said the first man, a tall, stubble-faced fellow with dark, long hair that looked as if it needed a washing. His revolver was drawn and leveled in Pops’ direction. And Pops wasn’t behind the horse, but standing with his back half-turned toward the newcomers.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Clem,” said the first one to his smoking chum. “But I do believe that man has shot himself a white man’s horse. And none other than Petey’s horse, too, from the looks of it.”

  “Yep,” said the bald, smoking man.

  “Shot it and stole it and likely did for Petey, too. Now that can’t stand.”

  “Nope.”

  “See,” the man advanced to within ten feet of Pops, who had his hand on the Greener, balanced atop the saddle. It was in plain view, so they knew he was armed. “Where we come from, a black man who kills and steals is worth nothing but to decorate the end of a rope with.”

  Pops continued to eye them in a sideways fashion over his left shoulder. His shotgun gripped in his left hand, his right stroked the horse slowly. He knew he needed a plan, one that made more sense than to try to spin and shoot all at once. He’d been fast in his life, but with a ripped, bleeding leg that pained him something fierce, he knew he was, at best, on the wishful side of this fight.

  So he did the only thing he could think of. He screamed quick and fast and loud, smacked the poor horse hard on the rump, and spun, dropping low. He kept on screaming because he’d collapsed and was facing his two foes down on his wounded leg. It was all by design, but that didn’t make the pain any less severe. The horse did as Pops hoped it would—it bolted, despite its own wound.

  As if by instinct, Pops’ big thumb rammed down hard on Lil’ Miss Mess Maker’s twin steel hammers, all the way back. The momentum he’d conjured swept the heavy, blunt gun from right to left, and as it passed the tall, dark-haired talker, Pops triggered a barrel. The clot of shot caught the man between the crotch and knees, shoving him backward as if he’d been tripped up by a yanked rope. He slammed facedown on the rocky slope, his chin gouging into the thin soil.

  Pops’ spin kept on whipping left to meet up with the advancing bald, smoking man. As Pops touched off the Greener’s second trigger, the man did the same with his drawn Colt. Pops’ bowler, jammed down hard and clamped above his ears, whipped off his head and he felt a distinct feeling as if his close-cropped hair had a new part.

  No time to worry about that. He kept low and continued his roll. Down onto his shoulder, then up again, his momentum slammed him into an upthrust of granite. It knocked the wind from him. Dizzy, he clawed for a new set of shells. He had none in his usual trouser pocket. Must have lost the extras some time in the big dust-up on the hill behind town.

  He patted for his revolver. That, too, was gone, as was his hideout gun, which he recalled he hadn’t snatched up that morning. All this took a second or two, as he regained his buzzing senses. Pops liked his gun fine, but she had a throaty roar of a voice that he figured he’d never quite get used to.

  The shotgun blast had caught the bald man right in the midsection, and he, unlike his chatty cohort, lay faceup. But he was unmoving. The first man, however, was mewling and scratching at the ground with long, clawing fingers. From the blood on and near each man, Pops doubted life was long for either. He didn’t much care.

  Even with the boom of the shotgun’s twin roars filling his head so that it felt like he was on the battlefield once more back in the war, he shoved up on a knee and hopped over to the nearest of the two. The bald man was a bloodied mess, but Pops kept away from striking range should the man be playacting he was dead and lash out with a hand.

  Pops reached with the shotgun and prodded the man. Nothing. He shoved the barrels’ snouts hard into the freckled skin on the side of the man’s head and shoved. That would make a faker take notice. Nothing. Pops saw the man’s revolver ahead of him. Must have lost it when he pitched backward.

  Without a working gun, Pops was in no condition to turn down such an offer. He retrieved it, checked the wheel, and decided he’d need the man’s ammunition belt as well. Stripping it off the dead man took some doing, until Pops realized he had to set down the Greener. He laid her beneath the sloped edge of a boulder and covered her with pine duff. “Be back for you, Miss Messy. You sleep it off.” He winced his way back to the bald man, peeled off the gun belt, and buckled it on. It fit as if custom made for him.

  The entire time he kept glancing at the first man, who by then had stopped scratching and whining. Pops assumed the man was dead, but knew enough to not trust such a judgment. He proceeded with the same caution he’d given the first. Remembering his sheath knife, his fingertips confirmed it was with him. He skinned it out and prodded the long-haired man in the shoulder with the blade’s deadly tip. Again, the action would make a faking man howl. This one, not even a flinch.

  Pops toed away the dead man’s revolver within reach of the clawed right hand, and picked it up. He looked at the prone man and decided he needed that gun belt, too. “Why not?” he said and with much grunting, managed to
strip off the man’s belt. It was a bit bloody, but Pops figured he was beyond caring.

  As to blood, he thought, looking down at his left leg. He was pleased to see the bleeding had slowed. It throbbed, but it was with him. He’d hold off wrapping a tourniquet above the gash until he needed to. With that in mind, he bent back to the nearest dead man and untied the man’s bandana, then draped it around his own neck and retied it.

  Pops stood upright and breathed deeper. As his hearing was dulled, he kept up a steady flickering of sight all around him, up-, down-, and sideslope, but saw no one else.

  He spied the wounded horse a good thirty yards away, partially upslope, standing as it had before, belly heaving with the effort Pops had regretfully forced upon it.

  “Beats another bullet, horse,” he said. “I’ll be back for you. Right now, I have to get on down the hill to the Gulch. See if I can’t dish out some more of Pops’ special recipe before this day gets any more out of hand.”

  With that, he limped crisscross fashion on down the hill, pausing at trees, taking in the terrain about him. One revolver nestled in his right hand, one in a holster, ready for the left.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Nosey glanced to his side, caught Wolfbait’s gaze.

  The voice behind them wasn’t one they recognized.

  Something in the old man’s eyes told him not to turn and not to open his mouth. But that had never stopped Nosey before. He slowly turned his head. “Boy, are we ever glad you showed up.”

  “I doubt it,” said the man who’d come up behind them. He was a large fellow, broad of shoulder, and with a tidy, yellow bristly mustache. He wore a short-brim straw hat pushed back on his broad forehead.

  “No,” said Nosey, turning more toward the man. “We’ve been trying to get a bead on those two over there in the bar, but no luck as yet.”

  The man looked toward the bar, then back at his captives. “I don’t think so. You aren’t with us. I should know. I help the boss with the payroll.” He smiled, showing a wide mouth filled with large, white teeth. “Give you credit for trying, though. Now,” he wagged his revolver. “Toss those away.”

  “Toss what where?” Wolfbait’s tone may have been soft and confused sounding, but his eyes bristled with hate.

  “I think we should,” whispered Nosey out the corner of his mouth as he tossed aside the gun he’d appropriated from the Mexican.

  “Listen to your wise partner there, old-timer.”

  Wolfbait growled and pushed up off his knees to stand. “Now you listen. I’ve had about enough of you interlopers coming in here and calling me old!”

  “Would you rather I call you dead?” said the man, taking a step forward.

  Nosey grabbed Wolfbait’s forearm.

  “What is it you heathens want from us, anyway?” said the old man.

  The big stranger shrugged. “Nothing from you, I reckon, except that man name of Stone-something or other.” He shrugged again as if it were an affliction.

  “Well you can’t have him. He ain’t here. He’s gone. Never was here. Never will be. You’re off your trail, bloodhound. Tell that fool boss of yours you’re all loco!”

  “Wolfbait, stop antagonizing him,” hissed Nosey.

  What he didn’t see was Wolfbait’s right hand inching down toward his holster. He’d angled himself enough, he hoped, when he stood that he could disguise his intentions until it was too late for the big man.

  That’s not how it worked. Wolfbait hadn’t considered the big man’s height, which gave him the advantage of sight over the scene. And the big man didn’t like what Wolfbait was up to. And he didn’t waste time.

  As a volley of steady, if random, shots echoed from all quarters of town, and some from off in the hills ringing the Gulch, the straw-hatted man stepped in fast and close toward Wolfbait. At the same time, with his left hand he shoved Nosey in the chest, sending the demure journalist stumbling and landing on his backside. With his long-barrel Colt in the right hand the big man reached out and slammed the length of the barrel in a clean, quick blow above Wolfbait’s left ear. It dropped the old buck in a sudden heap at the big man’s feet.

  “I do hate the mouthy sort. Only thing worse is one who thinks he’s smarter than me.”

  “Should be I,” said Nosey. “I think. Though perhaps not.”

  “What?” The big man turned toward Nosey and was rewarded with a view of the trim man crouched low and hopping first to one side, then the other, back and forth, his hands held out before him like hatchets, as if he were about to tuck into a pile of firewood.

  Nosey Parker hopped to his right, but kept glancing at Wolfbait, who lay immobile and in a position he was sure to regret, if he were alive. The sight of his troublesome friend, helpless and suddenly so old, heaped on the ground at the feet of this town-wrecking buffoon was too much for him. What if the old fool was dead?

  From down deep in his throat, Nosey conjured up a rumbling, gargling sound that rose in pitch and in volume until it issued forth from between his lips in a mixture of sounds resembling a Lakota war cry and a cat fighting with another cat.

  “Stop that,” said the big man. He made to step in close to Nosey.

  Nosey jumped backward, flailing his arms before him and howling louder.

  “I mean it. I will lay you low and not care about it afterward!”

  But Nosey had angled closer to Wolfbait and turned his body so that his left hand slid into his coat pocket, where he’d stuffed his two-shot derringer. He palmed it and pulled it out, hidden.

  If it worked for Wolfbait with the Mexican, he thought, then why not me? He refused to give thought to the fact that the same feeble maneuver had failed his old friend.

  The big man stepped within two feet of the still-moving Nosey, and raised his big pistol to bring it down on Nosey’s head. The smaller man cocked the derringer and shouted louder, ducking to his right as the long-barrel Colt arced down fast toward him. He’d had no intention of actually shooting the man, but with Wolfbait laid low and his own lurching dance—he reasoned he was nervous—and the big intruder lunging at him, Nosey’s finger must have twitched.

  The little gun barked, and the big man screamed and dropped his Colt. He spun around in a circle, clutching his left wrist with his right hand. “What did you do?” He righted himself and turned on Nosey, his eyes like chunks of granite, his mustache bristling like a porcupine’s tail, and Nosey stepped backward and tripped over Wolfbait.

  The derringer snapped once more. The big man screamed once more and fell to his side in the dirt, howling louder than ever and holding his right boot, which sported a neat hole right in the middle above the toes, a hole that welled and bubbled blood.

  Any words the big man could form were mashed together in his mouth with the shrieks of pain he pushed out. Tears drizzled from his eyes and he swung his head as if in strong disagreement with an unseen presence. He rolled on the ground and Nosey scrambled backward over the unmoving Wolfbait.

  The big man regained some sense of himself and began crawling toward them. Between the flopped Wolfbait and the big man lay the long-barrel Colt. Nosey was closer and not afflicted by fresh bullet wounds. He dove for it and managed to close his hand around the surprisingly heavy gun moments before the big man’s working right hand snatched at it.

  The big man growled and said something that sounded to Nosey like, “Give it here!”

  Nosey shook his head and backed up, regaining his feet. The big man crabbed forward, groaning, dripping snot on himself, and slammed his palm against Wolfbait’s face. It looked to Nosey as if he were about to crush his old friend’s head in a frenzy of rage, so Nosey did to the big man what he’d done to Wolfbait and had tried to do to Nosey.

  Without much thought about it, he drove the butt of the gun straight down on the big man’s bare head. It connected with a dull thud, as if he’d hit a fence post square on top with a maul. The big man wheezed, his eyes rolled upward, he turned white as goose eggs, and with a last, “Ga
aah!” he collapsed, half on Wolfbait’s torso.

  The bulk of the brute seemed to have a reviving effect on the old man, and he sputtered and coughed like a long-dormant steam engine being coaxed to life.

  “Wolfbait!” With much effort, Nosey shoved the big man aside, then knelt beside his friend. “You’re alive!”

  “’Course I’m alive.” He tried to sit up but his head kept dipping down to the ground, as if weighted. “Help me up.”

  Nosey complied and Wolfbait sat up for a moment, steadying himself with his hands on the ground. He tenderly touched the side of his head. His fingertips came away sticky. “Benjamin Franklin was never treated like this.”

  “You know Franklin?”

  “How old do you think I am, you whelp?”

  “I meant his writing. Look, Wolfbait, can you walk? We have to get out of here. They’re bound to come this way looking for him. Or else he’ll revive, and I don’t think he’ll be happy to see me staring down at him. I can’t imagine hitting him again.”

  “What did you do to him, boy?”

  “Too much, I’m afraid. Come on. We have to get out of here.” He helped Wolfbait to his feet, but the man wobbled and slumped against Nosey.

  “No good, boy. Can’t see straight. It’s like I’m on a ship in a storm.”

  “Okay, I’ll carry you.”

  “What? Well, wait. Get the guns first. All of them. And that beast’s gun belt, too. We’ll need them and he won’t.”

  Nosey protested but saw the logic. He loaded his pockets and his waistband, and prayed nothing went off. He had no desire to go through life with unnatural holes in his body. By the time he was ready, Wolfbait had leaned against a rock and closed his eyes.

  Nosey bent low before the old man and said, “Okay, move forward. That’s it. Okay, now you’re on my back. Drape your arms about my neck. Too tight!”