Nobody said anything for a minute. Until, with his mouth curving into an impish grin, Bucky added, “I’ll tell you the hardest thing for me to get used to, Mr. Marshal Morrison. And that’s seeing Pa and Consuela making cow eyes at each other and sneaking smooches once in a while when they think I’m not looking.”
Buford emitted a hearty chuckle.
Bob felt his ears burn a little and knew they’d be turning as bright a red as his thick head of hair, its shade matched perfectly by Bucky’s. Still, he couldn’t quite hold back a grin of his own. “I’ll tell you something that might be even harder for you to get used to, buster—and that’s going without the piece of pie Consuela won’t be saving for you if I tell her you were being a smarty-pants in front of our guest.”
“Aw, I was only funnin’ a little, Pa. You even grinned some yourself. And you and Consuela do smooch and cuddle an awful lot since the wedding.”
Bob tried to glare at him, but he couldn’t muster much heat. The boy was right. What was more, Bob decided, there wasn’t a darned thing to be embarrassed about for cuddling and smooching his new wife.
CHAPTER 2
A short time later, Bob and Buford quit the Hatfield house and started down the slope toward town and the marshal’s office. It was a clear night, early spring, still with a bite of leftover winter in the air.
As they walked, the two men made quite an imposing pair. Bob was a couple inches short of Buford’s six-four and not as thick through the torso, but nevertheless plenty solid and every bit as wide across the shoulders. Both men wore Colts on their right hips, displayed prominently in holsters attached to fully loaded cartridge belts. In addition, Buford carried a Winchester ’73 rifle chambered for .45-caliber rounds, same as his sidearm. He strode along carefully balancing a plate of neatly wrapped pie slices in his left hand and the Winchester gripped casually in his right.
“You’re never very far from that Winchester, not even in town, are you?” Bob observed.
“Nope,” Buford answered. “It gives me added range and added punch, and I decided those are benefits I kinda like, no matter where I’m at. Plus, having it openly displayed tends to discourage certain proddies who might otherwise be inclined to try and start some trouble with me.” He paused a moment before adding, “And then, probably above all, there’s the fact that I ain’t exactly greased lightnin’ when it comes to yankin’ out my hogleg and puttin’ it to use. The rifle solves that problem, too.”
“From all reports, it seems to’ve solved it pretty good. You’ve cut a wide swath all through the territory with that rifle and that badge, and you’re still going strong.”
Buford grunted. “Trust me, I keep at this only because no better opportunity has come along. If I could ever quit law-doggin’ altogether, or maybe at least settle down to a sweet setup like you’ve got here, I’d jump on it in a heartbeat.”
“How come you never?”
“I just told you. Lack of the right opportunity. Leastways, none that seemed right at the time.” Buford cut Bob a sidelong glance. “Did you ever know I considered takin’ on the marshal’s job here at one point?”
Bob shook his head. “No, I never heard that.”
“Well, I did. But it was before the gold boom.” Buford smiled wistfully. “Things were so quiet around here back then that I feared I might die of boredom and dry up like an old buffalo skull. So I passed, and then the gold strike came along only a few months later.”
Bob eyed him. “I hope you ain’t looking to edge me out of a job and take over in my place now, are you?”
“Are you kidding? As rowdy and troublesome as this place is turning into? I’d want to ease back a notch and take it easy, not plunge into steadier action than I already got.”
“I think I might be detecting a pattern. The right opportunity hasn’t come along because of you being a mite too particular.”
“A possibility, I reckon. But don’t get too cocksure. If I could figure out a way to get rid of you and be left with the responsibility of consoling Consuela, now there would be an opportunity I’d be willing to put a powerful lot of effort into.”
“Good thing we’re having this conversation,” Bob said dryly. “I’m gonna have to start paying closer attention to which way you swing that Winchester when we head up into the high country on the trail of those Silases tomorrow.”
They’d reached the flat area at the bottom of the slope, a spot the locals had taken to calling the Point. Angling to the southwest from there, Front Street ran through the heart of the original community, nowadays called Old Town. This was where the town’s longer-established businesses were clustered, along with residences lining a handful of side streets. Branching to the northwest from the Point was what had been dubbed Gold Avenue, the main artery of New Town. The newer businesses that had sprung up to serve the flood of gold seekers pouring in were strung out there—predominantly tents of all shapes and sizes, mixed with a few of hastily slapped-together wooden structures.
At this time of evening, the stores along Front Street were closed, with the exception of Bullock’s Saloon and the Shirley House Hotel. Lanterns hanging on poles issued pools of light at regular intervals, and the windows of the houses on the side streets glowed with illumination. In the other direction, up Gold Avenue, it was a different story. For the tent saloons, gambling joints, eateries, and whore cribs, this was a peak time for doing a noisy level of business.
The jail building where Bob and Buford were headed was at the far end of quiet Front Street. For Bob, lingering for a while in this part of town was only a temporary reprieve. After he’d escorted Buford to the jail and got him settled there, the marshal would be relieving Deputy Fred of his duties for the night and would then be taking the standard evening turn around the rest of the town—boisterous Gold Avenue very much included. Bob’s two other deputies, Peter and Vern Macy, were on leave for a few days, visiting and taking supplies to their younger brother Lee and Uncle Curtis up in the Prophecies, where Curtis had a long-standing, low-yielding dig (but with the promise of a big payout any time now, he kept insisting) that Lee was working with him.
As Bob and Buford passed in front of Bullock’s Saloon, the strains of an accordion playing what sounded like a lilting Irish ballad drifted out to them. The Irish part certainly fit, given the proud heritage of saloon owner Mike Bullock, but accordion music was something new for the establishment. Bob took note of this, more a point of interest rather than concern, and reckoned he might poke his head in at the start of his rounds to get a closer look and listen.
Two blocks down from Bullock’s, having also passed the Shirley House Hotel, the street took on deeper cuts of shadow between the pole lamps. The sturdy log jail building up ahead showed only a few thin slivers of light through its shuttered windows.
The accordion tune was still playing faintly inside Bob’s head when it was suddenly interrupted by a harsh voice speaking from out of the shadows off to one side.
“That’s far enough, law dogs. Hold up right there.”
Bob and Buford stopped walking. Bob’s right hand automatically drifted down to hover claw-like over the .44 on his hip. Buford’s Winchester remained pointing down alongside his right leg, muzzle lifted slightly, the grip of his big paw tightening.
Half a block ahead, two men reverse-melted out of the shadows on either side and edged to the middle of the street in slow, cautious steps. Both wore long, rust-colored dusters, unbuttoned and flared wide open to reveal the guns buckled about their waists. The one on the left packed a converted Navy Colt in a cross-draw holster. His companion exhibited no holsters at all but had two pearl-handled revolvers thrust behind a fully loaded cartridge belt.
“Buford Morrison, you one-eyed human hound dog,” spoke the same harsh voice, coming from the one flashing the Navy Colt. “Do you have any idea who it is you’re standin’ face-to-face with?”
“Well,” Buford drawled in a flat, emotionless tone, “given the poor lighting and my afflicted eyesight
, which you so disrespectfully just made reference to, the best I might could do was hazard a guess. But by the way you’re paired up and the rotten stink floatin’ off you, that helps me do some closer calculatin’—I make you for Ulmer and Abner Silas.”
“Enjoy your successful calculatin’,” said a new voice, just as guttural and unpleasant, coming from the one packing two pistols. “Because the clock on your time for enjoyin’ anything has about run out.”
“Here I was hopin’ you fellas had clumb down outta the Prophecies to save me a trip up to fetch you,” said Buford, faking genuine disappointment. “You sayin’ that ain’t why you’re here?”
Now it went back to Ulmer, the one with the Navy Colt, for an answer. “Not hardly, you smart-mouthed old bastard. What we’re here for is to end your days of fetchin’ back hapless souls to face a hangman’s noose for things that should’ve been long ago forgot. We heard you was in the area and was gonna be comin’ after us next, so we decided to come after you instead. What’s more, we freed those other three prisoners you been haulin’ across the country like freaks in a cage—and they’re of the same mind as us when it comes to puttin’ a stop to your ways!”
“What of the men who were guarding those prisoners?” Bob demanded. “What did you do with them?”
“Ha! Wouldn’t you like to know?” taunted Abner, cocking back his head and thrusting out the swell of his belly with its two pistols on proud display.
“If you harmed those men,” Bob said through clenched teeth, “you won’t make it to a hangman’s noose!”
“See,” said Ulmer, “if we was the kind of low skunks ol’ One-Eye and others have falsely painted us to be, bringin’ bad harm to those deputies is exactly what we would’ve done. But we didn’t. We saw ’em as a couple of poor slobs hired out for work that didn’t have nothing personal against us. So all we did was chunk ’em in the head and lock ’em out of the way in your own jail cells.”
“You might have got the same treatment, since our main purpose here was to square things with ol’ One-Eye and get him off our backsides,” said Abner. “But now your snotty attitude and threats has earned you the same treatment as him!”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” rasped Bob. “All I want to know is if you figure to talk us to death, or are you gonna pull those hoglegs and try to do something with ’em?”
The nearly empty street suddenly became crowded with tension.
“What about the other three?” Buford prodded. “They shy about joinin’ the party—or are they just too chicken-shit to show themselves?”
“They’ll join in when it’s time,” Ulmer assured him. “And when they do, you’ll wish they had stayed too shy.”
Out of the corner of his mouth, too low for the Silases to hear, Buford said to Bob, “You think they’re bluffin’ about the other three?”
“No. They’re just stacking the deck in their favor,” replied Bob. “I think I saw a flicker of movement on your side, to the right, in the mouth of that alley. I expect there’s another one on my side. The third one I’d figure to be somewhere up high, a roof or second-floor window.”
“Yeah. Reckon that’s how I’d do it—if I was a pack of ambushin’ polecats like them, that is.”
“You take the alley on your side. Then swing that Winchester and find the one up high. I’ll clear the middle and then go after the one on my side.”
“Wait a minute. You sure you can—”
“I can do what I say. Trust me.”
“Hey! Knock off the mumblin’, you two,” barked Ulmer. “You got any talkin’ to do, you talk to us.”
“The only thing we got left to say to you we’ll be obliged to say with lead,” Buford told him. “You ready to set it in motion, you gutless bag of wind?”
Everything froze for a long, tension-heavy moment. Bob could hear the accordion music from inside Bullock’s playing ever so faintly . . . And then the evening seemed to explode all at once.
Ulmer and Abner grabbed for their guns. Quick as an eye blink, Bob had his .44 drawn and was fanning four shots so rapidly it sounded like one elongated roar. The brothers each took two rounds, dust and blood spurting from their shirtfronts as they were slammed backward, chins dropping, mouths falling agape. They tipped inward, against one another, then dropped to their knees for a second before toppling back and down. Ulmer had managed to clear leather with his Navy Colt, but got no further; it slipped unfired from his dead fingers as he hit the ground. Abner’s guns stayed jammed behind their cartridge belt. He died with his hands closed on their grips, never having the chance to pull them free.
While the Silases were dropping to the dirt, Buford was levering and firing his Winchester with practiced precision, raking the alley mouth on the right side of the street. He inadvertently chewed some wood off the corner of a building, but the rounds immediately following that found what he was seeking. First came a yelp of pain and then Slick Stansberry, one of the three prisoners Buford had hauled into town behind the bars of the tumbleweed wagon, staggered into sight clutching his stomach and chest. A revolver he’d been grasping in one hand dropped to the ground as Slick tried to put that hand to better use squeezing shut the bullet holes in him. But it wasn’t enough, not anywhere close. He pitched forward and was dead before he landed facedown in the dust.
Buford shifted his position slightly, dropping into a bit of a crouch as both his one good eye and his Winchester muzzle tilted upward, sweeping across surrounding rooftops and second-story windows.
To the left of Buford, Bob shifted, too. With the Silases down, he turned his attention to his side of the street, the shadowy doorways and the darkened alley. He only had two rounds left; he couldn’t afford to pour random shots like Buford had done. He’d have to wait for a surer target.
And then he got one—almost too late.
The tip of a rifle barrel poked out of the alley, visible for barely a second before it was spitting red flame and lead. The wind-rip of a bullet passed close enough to scorch the fine hairs in Bob’s right ear. But then he was returning fire, emptying the last two cartridges in his cylinder, aiming tight into the blackness around the rifle tip as flame licked out once again.
The alley shooter’s second round went way wide this time, whining off to slam harmlessly into a building across the street. But at least one of Bob’s shots scored truer. First the rifle fell clattering to the ground. Then came the sound of a body dropping heavily. A second later, one foot and part of a man’s leg became visible, thrusting out of the alley’s darkness at ground level. Three or four violent tremors passed through the foot. These turned into a pair of weak kicks, barely enough to stir a tendril of dust. Then the leg and foot became very still.
Four down, one to go.
As he broke open his .44 and started to reload, Bob turned back to Buford. The federal man was still sweeping his eye and his Winchester muzzle high, looking for the fifth ambusher. Bob’s gaze lifted as well.
It was only the warning cock of the fifth shooter’s gun that saved one or both of the lawmen from taking a serious hit. The fifth man was not at a higher level at all. In fact, he was hunkered down about as low as he could get—down in behind a watering trough just short of the alley where Stansberry had bit the dust.
Thinking the errant gazes of both Bob and Buford gave him the opening he needed, this fifth gunman—one Marvin Porch, by name—popped up behind the far end of the watering trough and extended a Colt. 45 at arm’s length. He aimed at Buford first and even succeeded in planting a pill in the old bull with his shot. Trouble was, the hammer cock required to make that shot resulted in it being the only one he got off. A fraction of a second later, slugs from both Bob’s .44 and Buford’s Winchester were hammering mercilessly into Porch. He jerked upright, spun in a full circle under the pounding of the bullets, and then fell forward into the trough.
Everything went quiet almost as quick as it had erupted.
For several clock ticks, the only sound was the water slopp
ing back and forth in the trough where Marvin Porch’s body now floated facedown.
Slowly, the trample of feet and the excited murmur of voices began pouring out of Bullock’s and the Shirley House.
CHAPTER 3
“They waylaid me as I was coming back with our meals—supper for the prisoners, and for me and Crispin,” Deputy Fred was explaining. “When they shoved me through the jail door under gunpoint, I saw the three prisoners were already released from behind bars and had the drop on Crispin.”
“Those blasted Silases tricked me by calling out like it was Fred returning,” joined in Crispin. “When I opened the door to ’em, they swarmed in and knocked me to the floor. I was too hobbled up, too slow to stop ’em. Next thing I knew, they was turnin’ loose those other prisoners, once they’d agreed to pitch in and help . . . Damn me and this gout that makes me so close to useless! You should’ve left me behind like everybody told you, Buford.”
Crispin was a lean, balding man in his middle forties. Straightened up, he probably topped six feet by a half-inch or so. But trying to stand or move around with the gout currently coursing so painfully through his feet and legs caused him to hunch over and drag along in a way that made him seem considerably shorter and smaller.
“Knock that shit off,” Buford admonished him. “You got fooled by a couple scalawags who’ve turned the tables on many a good man before you, gout havin’ nothing to do with it. I brung you along with me on this outing because you were the man I wanted, the man I wanted sidin’ me over any of the others who were available. I knew I could count on you, even getting around poorly, more than them. You bein’ hobbled, I can tolerate. Whinin’ and carryin’ on about it, I won’t.”
“Any way you cut it, we both got snookered real good,” added Fred, also hanging his head. “After they had us both under their guns, they roughed us up a little, then shoved us in a cell, cuffed and gagged so we couldn’t call out no warning.”
Right between the Eyes Page 2