by John Glasby
He turned towards her, surprised by the vehemence in her voice. In that moment, she loosened her hands and lifted them around his neck, pressing him close to her. He felt the warm, soft pressure of her lips on his. Then she had drawn away, pushing herself gently from his enfolding arms.
‘Please be careful, Garth.’
Placing his hand under her chin, he tilted it slightly upward, looked down into her eyes. ‘I’ll be careful, Rosarie,’ he said quietly; ‘and you be waiting.’
He moved away then, not looking back once, knowing without doing that, that she had remained standing there, looking after him. He found Jessup near the bank. There was no sign of the rest of the men, but Garth knew that they were there, out of sight, but ready once the outlaws put in an appearance.
‘Let’s get ourselves out of sight,’ Garth said, taking he other’s arm. ‘Now that it’s dark, my guess is that they won’t waste time ridin’ in.’ He glanced across the street to where yellow lights glowed behind the windows of the bank. Except for this, the entire part of town here might have been utterly deserted. That, he thought to himself, was the impression they wanted to give to Turrell and his men; the impression they had to give if they were to be successful in springing this trap.
The dark body of clustered horsemen slowed down as they reached the edge of town, walked their horses quietly forward once they entered Triple Peaks. Except for the gravelly sound of their horses’ hooves in the dust as they passed along, there was not a single sound in the night. From his vantage point, Garth counted them as they rode close enough for him to see them clearly. Only five of them. He felt a tight sense of exultation. It was not usual for him to count his cattle before they were branded, but it seemed that this time, there ought to be no mistake.
The riders halted in front of the bank. Garth could see that they seemed to be a trifle uneasy. Maybe, it was the quiet that did this. The expectant quality hanging over the town was enough to give any man pause. Then, as if in answer to a unspoken prayer, a drunk staggered out of the saloon a hundred yards along the street, a bottle clutched in his right hand, holding it high in the air over his head. Staggering, he wove unsteadily from one side of the street to the other, moving away from the silent men on horseback.
It was almost as if the tension that had gripped the five men had slipped from them visibly like a cloak. They swung down from the saddle and advanced slowly on the bank. Their guns were drawn and while one of them, huge and black-bearded, stood outside, leaning against an upright, the other four men thrust open the doors and went inside.
Garth smiled grimly to himself. The trap was ready to snap shut. Those men inside the bank would find nobody there although the lights were burning, would find nothing but sand in the boxes inside the vaults.
A minute later, the four men appeared at the door of the bank. Turrell yelled something harshly at the top of his voice, made to move out on to the boardwalk, then stepped back as Garth levelled his gun on him and squeezed the trigger. He felt the Colt jump in his hand, jerking against his wrist. The slug whined through the doorway where Turrell had stood a split second earlier.
At the signal, the rest of the men opened fire, pouring a withering hail of lead in through the door and windows of the bank. The big man flopped to his knees, clutched at his chest, then drew deep down within himself on some strange reserve of strength, pushed himself up on to his knees, and lifted the gun in his right hand. He fired two shots across the street before he fell forward on to his face, rolling off the boardwalk into the dusty street, arms stretched out in front of him.
The other four men had gone down out of sight behind the door and windows. During a brief lull in the firing, Garth yelled: ‘You don’t have a chance, Turrell. Every trail out of town is sealed. Throw out your guns and come out with your hands lifted. You’ll all get a fair trial.’
‘Why don’t you come in and take us?’ called a voice from the bank. There was the brief stabbing of orange flame, tulipping out of the darkness. Slugs smashed into the wood near Garth’s head and he pulled himself down behind the barrel in front of him, pausing to reload. One of the men a few feet from him suddenly coughed harshly and toppled forward, his gun falling from his fingers.
For several minutes the fusillade of shots crashed into the bank. Garth waited until he saw a sudden movement near the open doorway as one of the men moved his body slightly to get a better sight across the street. He waited for just a second longer, then squeezed off a couple of shots. A loud cry went up in the midst of the racket and the figure of a man, weaving drunkenly, staggered into view from the doorway of the bank, walked a couple of paces, then sank down on to the edge of the boardwalk as though tired. He remained there for a moment before toppling sideways.
For a long moment a deadly silence pulsed over the street. Then Garth called: ‘You goin’ to give in now, Turrell?’
There was no answer from the three men still holed up inside the bank. When there was still no answer as he repeated the question, he got slowly to his feet, waved the men on the side of the square forward. They closed in silently on the bank.
With every step he took, Garth expected to hear the silence of the night blown apart by a sudden gunshot, but none came. The silence lengthened and grew more ominous as it went on. Reaching the door, he stepped over the body of the man who lay on the boardwalk, kicked the door opened and stepped inside, his gun swivelling to cover anybody who might be there. Glass lay everywhere, littering the floor.
Behind him, Jessup moved in, looked about him, jerked up his gun as he spotted the two men lying behind the windows, then lowered it again as Garth went forward and turned the men over with the toe of his boot, staring down into the dead faces, the wide eyes that looked up at him, unseeing in the yellow lamplight.
‘Turrell there?’ asked Jessup harshly.
‘No, he isn’t,’ muttered Garth, his voice sharp. ‘But he must be somewhere around. Get your men in here to search every room in the building. He can’t have got away. He must be hidin’ somewhere. If he doesn’t give himself up, warn your men to shoot to kill.’
Jessup turned, motioned some of the men inside. He pointed to the door at the far end of the room, opened his mouth to issue the necessary orders, then stopped abruptly as a window suddenly crashed and a man’s high-pitched voice from somewhere outside yelled: ‘There he is! He’s gettin’ away!’
Swiftly, Garth ran for the door, aware that Jessup was pounding along at his heels. One of the men in the street pointed along the dark alley that ran alongside the bank building. He shouted: ‘He ran that way, Sheriff. I’m sure it was Turrell.’
‘He won’t get far,’ Jessup said thickly. ‘There are men watching down there.’
‘Maybe so, but they’ll be lookin’ for a man on horseback. He could move past them in the darkness.’
Turning, Garth ran for one of the horses, swung up into the saddle. As he rode towards the mouth of the alley, Jessup yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Hold your fire down there, men. Martinue is coming through.’
Garth put the horse into the alley, kicking savagely at it with his heels. The thought that, after all their planning, Turrell might still get away, almost broke him in half. At the end of the alley, he spotted the man standing there with a Winchester across his arms. Reining up, he called to the other:
‘Did you see anybody come through here in the last few minutes?’
‘Somebody came runnin’. He said he was from Jessup. Warned me to watch out for anybody on horseback. I was drawing a bead on you when the sheriff shouted.’
Garth smiled grimly. Turrell had certainly not missed a trick. He had got away into the darkness on the edge of town and he had tried to make it certain that anyone following him on horseback would be shot by one of their own men. Urging the horse onward, he rode among the low-roofed buildings, casting about him for any sign of movement, riding more slowly now, knowing that if Turrell had not decided to run for the open country where he might hide in the darkness, he
would have hidden himself in one of these empty buildings. This part of town was a veritable warren of alleys and a nest of abandoned buildings, in any one of which the other could have gone to earth, knowing that there would be pursuit very soon.
But although he strained his eyes and ears, he could locate no one there. Five minutes later, he came to the edge of town, reined up his mount and peered out into the clinging darkness that lay over the countryside. If Turrell had gone running out there, it would be impossible to find him in the darkness unless he mobilised most of the townsfolk with torches. That way they might be able to smoke him out, run him to earth.
He was on the point of turning back to enlist the help of the townsfolk when his keen hearing picked up the faint scrape in the near distance. He leaned forward in the saddle, straining his ears. Then the sound was repeated and this time, he knew exactly what it was, the scrape of a man’s boots on rock. Turrell was out there and not more than fifty or a hundred yards away.
Slowly, he walked the horse forward. In the palely shimmering starshine, now that his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness, he was able to pick out shapes. A clump of mesquite here and a stunted thorn there, with a long, low ridge that ran from right to left across his path. A moment later, he caught the furtive movement at the very edge of his vision. Turning his head, he saw the figure that eased its way cautiously over the uneven ground.
‘All right, Turrell,’ he said sharply, his voice sounding oddly loud in the stillness. ‘Hold it right there.’
‘You’ll never take me.’ The other turned, twisted and tried to run.
Dropping from the saddle, Garth moved after him. For a moment, he lost him in the shadows, then picked him out again as he ran over the ridge. Moving around to cut the other off, he saw Turrell dart across an open space devoid of vegetation, then suddenly drop his gun, throw up his arms and fall to his knees.
Garth closed in, keeping his gaze fixed on the other. ‘Stand quite still, Turrell,’ he snapped. ‘This is as far as you go — ’
The other paused, turned slowly. ‘Do I get an even break?’ he said tightly. ‘You’re not goin’ to take me back alive. Either you give me a chance to go for my gun, or you’ll have to shoot me in the back. I’m sure that will give you a good reputation.’
Garth hesitated. Then he thrust the Colt back into its holster, stood with his legs braced slightly apart, his right shoulder a little lower than the left.
‘Get your gun then,’ he said thinly. ‘And when you do, use it.’
He saw Turrell move forward slowly to where the gun lay among the rocks. Almost too late, he saw that the other did not intend to go for it, that he had another gun in a shoulder holster. He saw Turrell’s right hand cut down for it, diving diagonally across his body. The move took him by surprise. Only instinct saved him then. As his hand clawed for the gun in his holster, he threw his body sideways, hitting the ground hard, with a blow that almost stunned him, knocking all of the wind from his lungs. The gun in his hand, lifting towards the other, exploded in the same instant as the small Derringer in Turrell’s hand. Garth felt the wind of the slug as it whistled past his head and ricocheted with a shrill screech off the rocks. He saw Turrell draw himself up on to his tiptoes as if straining to reach up for something high over his head. Then the Derringer fell from his fingers as if he lacked the strength to retain his grip on it. Arching his body, he fell forward on to his face among the rocks and lay still.
Going forward, Garth turned him over, then whistled up the horse and lifted the dead body of the outlaw across the saddle. Holding the reins, he walked the horse and its burden back into Triple Peaks. In the main street, there was scarcely a sound from the assembled townsmen until he appeared in the gloom, fully recognizable.
Then Jessup came forward.
‘You’d better take him along to the mortuary,’ Garth told him. ‘He’s all yours.’
After the other had taken the reins from him, he made his way slowly along the quiet street. Behind him, somebody had struck a note on a piano in one of the saloons. It would not take Triple Peaks long to realise that the era of Patch Eye Turrell was ended. Maybe someday conditions here on the frontier might be different; yet until then men would have to continue to fight for what they believed to be right — and women would have to sit and wait and wonder.
He turned off the street, walked through the small wooden gate up to the house that stood a little way off the road. Rosarie had evidently heard the click of the gate, for she opened the door before he got there and stepped out on to the porch to meet him. She smiled mistily at him as he stepped forward, then held out her hands to him.
‘I heard the shooting,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s all over now?’
He nodded slowly. ‘It’s all over,’ he said equally softly.
If you enjoyed Triple Peaks why not check out another John Glasby western:
Flashpoint
Justice at Red River
Sole Survivor
Crimson Dust
Brand of the Hunted
For weekly updates on our free and discounted eBooks sign up to our newsletter.
Follow Pioneering Press on Twitter and Goodreads