By the Neck

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  In that manner, they made their way toward the one spot Nosey knew he could get something for Wolfbait to help his head and where they might be able to hole up until he could figure out what to do next.

  Wolfbait raised his head and saw the mercantile bump into view. “But boy, that’s the lion’s den . . .”

  “Yes, well, that’s appropriate, as I’m feeling particularly ferocious. Now hush,” said Nosey as he readjusted Wolfbait’s surprisingly solid form atop his shoulders.

  They crossed the street at the far end, half-shaded by trees, and entered the back door, the same one the Mexican had exited sometime before.

  Nosey hoped that the men he’d heard talking and retreating earlier had been leaving the mercantile behind. If he found any of the vermin inside, he resolved to do the only thing that could be done to them in such a situation. He would shoot them. Unless he could think of an alternative.

  He’d set a foot on the bottom step when he heard a shout for help.

  “Who’s that?” said Wolfbait in his ear.

  “I don’t know. Could be a ploy.”

  “Bah, you think those crazy killer men would shout for help? At this point, I’d say they’ll shoot us and be done with it.”

  “Oh.”

  Then they heard it again.

  “Sounds like it’s coming from the outhouse,” said Nosey.

  “Set me down, I’m all right, boy.” Wolfbait struggled, and Nosey lost his feeble grasp of the old man. Wolfbait slid to the ground and managed to stay upright. “Go peek in there and see what’s what. I’ll wait here and keep an eye out. Take a gun. But don’t shoot yourself!”

  “Thanks for your support, Wolfbait.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Nosey approached the outhouse with a revolver held high. He figured it would be safer for all involved if he used it as a club. He stood to one side of the door and knocked. “Hello? Anybody in there?”

  “Help! Get me out of here!”

  Nosey opened the outhouse door and couldn’t quite figure out what he was seeing. The two-holer bench had been ripped apart and scraps of wood now hung. Some of the lumber leaned against the wall. But the most curious sight was the top of a man’s head peering up at him from down in the muck hole.

  “Mayor? Is that you?”

  “Yes! Nosey Parker? For heaven’s sake, get me out of here!”

  “What are you doing down there?”

  “I’m enjoying bonbons and a bath, you idiot! This is no time for your questions!”

  “Why don’t you climb out?”

  “My hands and feet are tied! Now get me out of here!”

  By then Wolfbait had ambled over, wobbly but carrying a gun and keeping a lookout lest all the shouting draw unwanted attention. “Mayor, somehow I’m not surprised to see you down there.”

  “Gaaah!” shouted the mayor. “Get me out of here!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “Pieder!” Rollie waited for the blacksmith to look at him. He held a hand out to halt the swarthy man and cut upslope to him.

  Visible below them were the roofs of the businesses and a scattering of homes lining the south end of Main Street.

  “I’m going to angle higher and come down the east side slope, see if I can cut the head off this snake.” Rollie gathered from the blacksmith’s squint and cocked head that the phrase was lost on him. “The leader is Cleve Danziger. I have to find him. I’d also like to find out how Pops is doing. He should be up there somewhere. I heard that shotgun of his, but the townsfolk . . .” He looked downslope.

  Pieder nodded and rapped a fist on his chest. “Pops, then I go”—he nodded downslope—“to town. You”—he smiled—“kill the snake.”

  “Thank you, Pieder.” Rollie touched the man’s forearm, then they split up.

  Pieder continued in the same direction they’d been headed, but climbed upslope. Rollie glanced back at him for a brief moment, then nodded and set off at a hobbling run in a near-opposite route. The speed he gained was impressive, considering his game leg and the boot heel he’d lost to a bullet that had come too close.

  Anger and desperation churned in his gullet, rising up his gorge and tasting like bile with each lunge he took downslope. He had to get to Danziger before any innocents were killed on his behalf. The foolishness has gone on long enough. If he couldn’t kill Danziger, and hopefully end the mess that way, he’d give himself up and hope whoever hired Cleve wanted Rollie brought back alive.

  The thought spurred him into an even faster gait, and soon his bum lung whistled in counterpoint to his punching steps. He forced thoughts of Pops and Nosey and Wolfbait and Pieder out of his mind. No room or time for sentiment. He had to be on the scout for Danziger’s men. If the attack on the hill was an indication, they could be anywhere.

  As if to prove the point, a man upslope of Rollie shouted, “Hey! Hey, it’s him!”

  Rollie cleared leather, giving the shouter a quick glance before shooting upslope. It wouldn’t do much but show them he wasn’t an easy pick.

  The man returned fire and bark sprayed off a big pine ten feet to Rollie’s left. He might not be so lucky with the next shot. But he was close to a rocky ravine that carried storm runoff. If he could make it to that, he could travel within the deep gully for quite a distance, getting him almost directly above the spot where he thought Cleve Danziger might be located.

  Rollie was going on guesswork, but he suspected the earlier shouting match he’d engaged in with the bossy man on the slope across from the saloon had been Cleve.

  Whoever had spotted him wasn’t alone. Rollie heard two men huffing far behind. He sent another bullet up at them, and their pounding steps ceased. He reached the edge of the ravine, slid on his backside a few feet, and dropped the rest of the way, a good five feet. It wasn’t a spot the men could see easily.

  He pivoted and aimed up. The first man made it to the top of the ravine before he windmilled his arms and shouted curses. Too late. He was in sight, and Rollie let him have it.

  The angle was awkward, and his bullet drilled into the invader’s shoulder, but it was enough to knock the man backward as he screamed a quick, gurgled cry of agony. The second man must have seen what happened to his compadre. Though Rollie heard him, he saw nothing of him. The man might crawl close and peer in from another angle, but Rollie would be long gone.

  He heard the shot man wailing and cursing as he scrambled as best he could through the spiny wreck of boulders lining the bottom of the ravine. At its base it narrowed to shoulder width, while at the top it was twenty feet across in places.

  He risked that someone might see him from above and take a shot down at him, but it concealed him well enough. He moved as fast as his leg and busted boot heel allowed, but kept noise to a minimum. Good thing, too, as he heard voices up ahead to his left and right. Another few feet, another dogleg to the right, and he saw men on either side of the ravine, yammering low back and forth to each other.

  “Great,” muttered Rollie, trying to figure out how to get rid of them without shooting. Not that he had a problem with dispensing of the invading trash, but he was close to his destination and didn’t want to risk killing anybody of importance before he had a chance to deal with them.

  He retreated, made it back around the dogleg. At the top of the near edge, the boulders stuck out of the earth enough that he might be able to climb up. From the topmost rock, it was three, four feet to the top of the ravine. He holstered the Schofield, hating to do so, but he needed both hands for climbing.

  Rollie poked his head up prairie dog style and peered left toward where he’d come from. The slope was dippy and full of trees and boulders, any one of which might harbor an invader. He had to risk it. Random shots cracked the air from down in town. He heaved himself up onto his belly, scraping skin where his shirt had dragged out of his trousers.

  Even before he rose up off his knees, he tugged the revolver free. This would be tricky but it had to be done, no other way would get hi
m where he needed to be quickly and without bullet holes in his hide. He low-walked forward, angling downslope, and heard a grunting sound behind him.

  He looked and saw, behind one of the boulders, a man squatting, his back to the rock face. He was a jowl-faced beast with a black beard. His black hat was pushed back high on his forehead, his eyes were closed, and he appeared to be gritting his teeth as he struggled with his task.

  Glad I’m not downwind of him, thought Rollie. The discovery made his plan easier. He hoped. He strode toward the man quickly. “Hey!” he growled low, aiming the gun at the squatting man’s bulk.

  The man spun his head. “What are you doing?”

  “A question I don’t have to ask you.” Rollie wagged the revolver. “Stay right like that and toss your gun over here.”

  “This ain’t right! At least let me stand up.”

  “Nope. Don’t want to see any more than I have already.”

  The man made a growling sound and, with much effort and more grunting, unfastened the gun belt and tossed it toward Rollie. He picked it up, buckled it, and since it belonged to a fat man, he draped it over his head and across his chest, bandolier style.

  “Now stand, pull up those trousers slowly, and keep your hands up by that big head of yours.”

  The man stared at him as if he didn’t understand the directive.

  “Now! Do it!”

  “No need to be insulting,” said the man as he rose and grunted to do as Rollie ordered.

  “Now, walk.” He jerked his pistol downslope. “And if you speak, I’ll shoot you.”

  “You’d shoot a man in the back?”

  “Yep.”

  “You must be him.”

  “Must be.”

  It didn’t take long to walk to where he’d seen the two men on opposite sides of the ravine, conversing. Of them, he saw but one on his side of the ditch.

  The man heard movement behind him and turned. At first he only saw the fat man. “Cuthbert, what are you doing?” And then he saw Rollie.

  “Same thing you’ll be doing in about ten seconds. Raise those hands.”

  “Like hell I will.”

  Rollie sighed and shot the man in the thigh. He screamed and spun and flopped to the ground, writhing and bleeding.

  “That was cold, man!” said Cuthbert.

  “Yep. Go get his gun off him, and do it slow, or I’ll shoot you, too.”

  The fat man gulped and waddled down to his wounded fellow.

  Rollie walked closer. “Easy now, Cuthbert. Easy.”

  Successful in pulling the gun belt off his friend, Cuthbert was holding it out in one hand like a rancid fish when the shot invader pulled out a second, short-barrel revolver from a shoulder holster. Rollie ducked low and fired before the man could cock his gun. Rollie’s bullet dug a tunnel straight into the man’s forehead, giving his sneering face a third eye, one that pumped a thick stream of hot, red-black blood down his face.

  Cuthbert screamed, dropped the gun belt, and ran off to his left. He covered ten feet or so, tripped, went down on one knee, and tried to rise.

  By then Rollie had snatched up the second gun belt and almost made it to the struggling Cuthbert. “Get up or I’ll give you something to grunt about.”

  “Don’t kill me!”

  “Don’t give me any more of a reason to. Now get up.”

  The fat man complied and Rollie said, “Now walk. No, that way.”

  “Where we going?”

  “To see your boss.”

  Cuthbert stopped. “Oh no, I can’t do that. If he sees me like this he’ll shoot me.”

  “And if you don’t do as I say, I’ll shoot you where you stand. Your choice. You have two seconds to decide. Time’s up.”

  “Okay, okay. But he isn’t going to like this.”

  “I’m not here to please Cleve Danziger.”

  They walked a few yards and Cuthbert said, “How’d you know it was him who’s here?”

  “I’m special like that. Now shut up and walk.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “Psst! Pieder!”

  The blacksmith had been crouched behind the rear wall of Horkins the Younger’s assay office. Knowing who it was, he turned to face the man who’d addressed him. He nodded at Pops, a little shocked to see the state of the man.

  Bent at the waist, Pops sported lacerations from saloon splinters. He dragged his left leg and carried a couple of revolvers, one in each hand. Despite all that, Pieder Tomsen had to smile when he saw the man making his way down the slope toward him. Pops wore a grin on his mouth and mischief in his narrowed eyes.

  He assumed that because Pieder was exposed, this end of the woods around town was clear of invaders, at least for the time being. He crouched beside the blacksmith. “You okay?” he whispered. Pieder nodded. “Rollie?” Again the man nodded, pointing along the east slope.

  Pops considered. That meant Rollie was going to make a play for whoever that shouting boss man had been from earlier. Nothing he could do but wish Rollie luck and try to increase the odds in his favor. He nodded toward the building. “Anybody here?”

  Pieder understood. “Yes. Others . . . there.” He jerked his chin toward Geoff the Scot’s eatery.

  Pops strained to hear and thought he could make out low voices, men talking. “How many?”

  Pieder shrugged and held up five fingers “Bad, maybe more. Others”—he shrugged again—“more.”

  “Okay, they’re likely prisoners. We have to free them. Need a distraction.” Pops looked around. “Out back, over that-a-way.”

  He’d barely finished speaking before Pieder nodded and thumbed his chest. “I”—he rubbed his chin, then looked at Pops once more—“make noises.”

  “Good, yes, and I’ll go on in. See what I can do from the inside once you make your noises.”

  “Okay.” Pieder made for the slope, giving himself enough distance from the buildings that he could get a shot at whoever was coming out.

  That left Pops with the task of getting in there and dropping what invaders he could without jeopardizing the innocent folks. “Easy enough,” he whispered, waiting for Pieder to kick off the ball.

  The blacksmith didn’t waste any time. He glanced down at Pops, saw he was ready, and shouted, “Hellooo! Hey . . . hey! Bad men! Hey hey! Hello!”

  He kept this up for half a minute, and began throwing rocks down at the building. A couple of them connected, banging and clunking off the log and plank wall. Pops heard a woman shriek within the building, then grumbling and shouts.

  As the first of the men peered around the back edge of the shack, Pops backed around the other side, keeping an eye behind him. He saw three armed men emerge from around the far side of the shack, shouting and looking. Then they saw Pieder, who wasted no time in shooting at them.

  Pops hobbled around the front of the building, saw no one there or down the length of the street, and hoped there weren’t too many more of the invaders left inside with whoever was holed up in there.

  He grasped the steel-loop door handle, thumbed the latch, and shoved the door inward.

  He took in the room quickly, seeing a number of folks he knew and one he didn’t. A short, homely man held a revolver out before him. With his other hand he was running a grimy finger up and down Mrs. Pulaski’s cheek. She winced and looked at her husband, who had a bloody head and was seated on a bench along the back wall seething at what he was seeing.

  Pops said, “You could at least wash your hands, mister.”

  The stranger said, “Huh?” and faced Pops, who didn’t want to risk a shot so close to the others.

  Geoff the Scot helped decide the matter for him. Pops’ entrance had proved distraction enough, and the big cook used the moment to knock the man on the head with a piece of assay equipment that looked to be heavy and made of metal. It dropped the gunman in a heap.

  Pops felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun, gun cocked, but it was Pieder. “How’d you make it down here?”

  The
blacksmith shrugged. “They are . . . done.”

  “You got all three of them?”

  “Yah. Now . . .” He looked past Pops at the room, assessing the situation.

  “All set in here. We got him, too.” Pops nodded toward the dropped gunman lying on the floor, his head bleeding. Already Geoff the Scot, Horkins the older, and Horkins the younger were lashing his wrists and ankles with rope.

  “Good,” said Pieder.

  “Now we’ll see if we can’t help Rollie and the others.” He turned to the rest of the townsfolk. “Anybody wants to lay low, I understand. This ain’t your fight.”

  “Nonsense,” said Geoff the Scot. “They ate me out of a week’s supplies and clubbed me in the head. It’s my fight as much as anyone else’s.” He stood and grabbed a shovel leaning in the corner.

  “Same goes for me,” said Mr. Pulaski of the Lucky Strike saloon.

  His wife beside him said, “And me.”

  “And us,” said the Horkins brothers.

  Soon, the entire group of ten was on its feet, looking to Pops and Pieder for orders.

  “Okay, then, here’s what we’re going to do.” Pops rubbed his chin and laid out a basic plan.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Rollie had draped the second confiscated gun belt about his chest, crisscrossing the first. He shoved Cuthbert between the shoulder blades when the man’s pace flagged.

  They topped a short rise and his fat captive seemed to drop from sight right in front of him. He’d flopped to the ground and tucked himself into a large ball and tried to roll downslope, shouting and cursing as he rolled, slower than if he had decided to run.

  Even then Rollie had no intention of shooting the idiot, but the shouting had done what the fat man intended. Three men whose backs had been to them spun around. Luckily all were within Rollie’s view, two to his right, one to his left. If he shot at the barking Cuthbert, one of the others would shoot hm. He waited, three men pointing their guns at him.

  He could get the two to his right, but the man to his left would lace him with a bullet before he could swing on him.