by Scott Connor
On fifty, the gunfire started.
Frank smiled. Lincoln always used the same tactics. Even with nobody to shoot at, Lincoln would fire for the allotted number of shots.
Frank fast-crawled by the saloon. As he crossed the road, bright blasts reported from the shuttered window. He reached the rotting warehouse on the other side of the road and crawled around the side.
He rolled on to his back, rubbed his sore elbows, then stood. With his chest flattened against the warehouse wall, he peered around the back corner.
The stable was well lit. The light that streamed outside highlighted the swirling dust in the wind. Silhouetted against the open door at the back of the stable were the gang’s outlines.
As the gunfire ceased Frank nodded to himself. Lincoln had stopped firing after twenty rounds. He always did. Lincoln may get the job done, but only by acting in straight lines.
Two years ago, on Frank’s first mission with Lincoln, they were caught in the same situation when taking in a bank-robber. The robber’s gang ambushed them in a stable on the outskirts of Purgatory. With no chance of fighting their way out, Lincoln decided to fetch help.
He had said the plan had worked before.
Like this time, Lincoln sent out a deputy just after sunset and covered his escape with twenty rounds of fire. The gang had caught the deputy and killed him.
Lincoln didn’t balk. He tried again, this time covering the escape by starting a fire.
Typical for Lincoln, the plan had worked the second time. He kept going – no matter what the setbacks – and he always succeeded.
Frank shuffled round the back of the warehouse. Keeping his movements steady, he stepped over the rotted lumber piles by the wall.
A man emerged from the stable and strode a pace into the night. Frank stepped from the wall and aimed his gun at the man’s stomach.
‘Howdy,’ Frank said. ‘Glad to meet you.’
‘Been five minutes without gunfire,’ Lincoln said.
Jed stroked his sandy beard. ‘Frank must have escaped. Knew he’d make it. You reckon that we wait this out now?’
Lincoln nodded. Then the distant report of a gunshot echoed. He strained to hear more, but no further unexpected noises came.
‘That’s nothing to worry about,’ he said.
While tapping a long finger on his rifle, Lincoln heard a groan. He swirled round.
The wounded man stirred, so Sam covered his body with his shadow.
‘Nice of you to join us,’ Sam said.
‘What happened?’ the man said, blinking repeatedly.
With the toe of his boot, Sam patted his black jacket.
‘You is under arrest. That’s what happened.’
Lincoln smiled. He threw closed the shuttered window and paced two steps from the door.
‘So, dandy, you telling us what your plan is?’
The man shuffled back against the wall, rubbing his chest.
‘Go to hell, Marshal.’
Lincoln shrugged. ‘Sam, tie him up. If he makes a noise, shoot him.’
Lincoln turned to the door. Outside, darkness crept over the buildings opposite, their dingy exteriors merging with the gloom of night. A solitary oil-lamp lit the stable opposite.
A scream echoed through the sparse buildings opposite. With his hands tight on his rifle, Lincoln searched the road.
Another scream echoed, this time clearly coming from the stable. Having recognized Dave’s cry, Lincoln gripped his rifle even tighter.
Cody emerged from the stable and stood three yards from the door. He clutched something that dripped in his hand.
‘Your man didn’t like it when I talked with him,’ Cody shouted. ‘But I reckoned it was time to return him to you.’
Cody hurled something across the road. It thudded against the wall.
Lincoln spun round behind the door, unsure what Cody had thrown. Then, with a furtive glance around the saloon door, he saw the bloodied package on the ground. Lincoln gritted his teeth.
‘That’s the first installment,’ Cody said. ‘You can have the next piece soon. I’d come out before we run out of pieces to cut off your man.’
Cody trotted into the stable.
‘Why you . . .’ Jed shouted by the window.
Lincoln grabbed Jed, as Jed hurried to the door.
‘You’ll do no good.’
Jed wriggled in Lincoln’s grip. ‘Good? Don’t care. I can take enough of them with me.’
In the corner, the wounded man chuckled.
As Lincoln’s vision clouded, the walls seemed to rush in. He pushed Jed back and stormed towards their prisoner, his rifle held like a club.
‘I told you to stay quiet,’ he roared.
The man shrugged within his bonds and jutted his chin.
‘Don’t sound like justice to me,’ he said.
Lincoln held the rifle over his head, but then swung it away. He stared at the floor and forced his breathing to slow and stop his anger clouding his judgement.
‘Just be quiet,’ he whispered and dabbed at his damp brow.
By the door Sam whistled.
‘Lincoln,’ he said, ‘come see this. That was just a diversion.’
Lincoln hurried from the prisoner and looked through the batwings. When he saw a man slip behind the coach, Lincoln dropped to the floor to keep his profile as low as possible.
He ordered the grumbling Jed to cover the back exit, then blinked to water his eyes and sharpen his vision. In the growing darkness, more men congregated by the coach, their forms indistinct in the raging dust storm.
Lincoln shuffled under the batwings. He firmed his elbows in a dirt pile and strained to hear anyone approach around the saloon.
‘What do you reckon?’ Sam said as he joined Lincoln on the ground.
Two men were now at the back of the coach. Another man approached from the front and a fourth man shuffled underneath the coach.
‘I reckon we attack before they get into position. I’ll take the ones on the right.’
Taking his time, Lincoln nudged his hat low into the wind and lined his sights. He whispered a count of three, then fired at the nearest man on the right of the coach.
The shot was wild, but Sam fired with deadly accuracy, so Lincoln steadied his sights on the second man at the back of the coach, who had dropped to a crouch.
Splinters showered on Lincoln’s head as returning shots smashed into the doors above him. Lincoln centered his aim as high on the target as possible, then fired.
The second man toppled to the ground.
As Lincoln swung his rifle to the central man, splinters sprang from the boardwalk and peppered his shoulder. Lincoln searched down the road for the shooter, finding a man’s outline standing before the horses.
‘Take him,’ Lincoln said.
‘Can’t,’ Sam said. ‘He’s near the horses. Don’t want to hit ‘em.’
More men filed around the edge of the stable door, set their heads low, and battled into the wind.
‘Stop them. I’ll take the coach men.’
Sam fired four rounds. From such a distance to the stable, all were wild, but the men scurried inside.
‘Lucky devils,’ Sam muttered.
In a steady arc, Lincoln aimed towards the outline of the man by the horses. Gunshots smashed into the door frame above Lincoln’s head. He shuffled his elbows, finding purchase in the dirt, ensuring he stayed as close to the ground as possible. He fired.
The outline straightened as Lincoln’s gunshot cannoned into the warehouse wall behind him.
As Lincoln tightened his trigger finger, the man bolted for the stable door. Lincoln aimed his rifle towards the coach.
The other man scrambled backwards, then dashed to the stable too. Sam and Lincoln each fired a round at the fleeing men.
For long minutes Lincoln waited to see if they tried anything more. He gazed along the rutted road, his hand held to his brow, then roved his rifle barrel along the road and searched for more tell-tale bu
mps, but only saw the buildings and coach.
For two more minutes he waited, then shuffled back into the saloon. He rubbed his elbows and stretched his long arms, freeing the aches from his bones.
‘How many you get?’ Jed asked.
‘Two more,’ Sam said.
‘Hot damn. If they send them a few at a time, we can last for ever.’ Jed widened his eyes. ‘But Dave can’t.’
As Sam leaned on the door frame and aimed outside, Lincoln turned and settled on a bar stool. He tapped his feet against the footrest on the bar.
In the gloom, the walls seemed closer than in the full light. Despite the rapid approach of night, the saloon was hotter than before.
He wiped perspiration from his brow.
‘Can I ask a question without someone shooting me?’ the prisoner asked.
‘Nope,’ Lincoln snapped.
‘Is that nope to asking a question, or nope to someone shooting me?’
Lincoln glanced at Sam. ‘I told you to kill him if he made a sound.’
The man shuffled against his bonds, his hat falling to the floor to reveal slick, black hair.
‘Come on. We know a lawman wouldn’t do that. So forget the tough act and negotiate.’
Lincoln paced from the bar to stand over him.
‘So, what do you want, dandy?’
The man rubbed a shoulder against cheek, but failed to reach an errant strand of lacquered hair.
‘The name’s Mason, Mason Black.’
‘Noted, dandy. What do you want?’
Mason smirked and nodded to the bar. ‘The carpetbag you left on the bar. That’s all. Let us have it and we’ll leave.’
‘You’d never get far enough away to avoid me, dandy.’
‘Perhaps, but I’ll settle for distance and you can settle for being alive at dawn.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
Mason whistled through his teeth. ‘We aren’t killers. We just want what’s ours and we’ll leave. We can waste time flushing you from this saloon, but we can end this now.’
Lincoln rubbed his chin. ‘Frequent use of “we” there. So, those men out there are yours?’
Mason smiled. ‘All hand-picked.’
Lincoln nodded to his own hand-picked men.
‘You’ve told me everything I need to know about you. You’re sloppy.’
‘Good answer, but you’re surrounded. We’re in charge here.’
‘Prefer to think I have your men where I want them. They’re as trapped as you think we are.’
‘Everything is going as I planned.’
Lincoln pointed at the two outlaw bodies heaped in saloon corner.
‘You impress me less every time you speak.’
Mason followed Lincoln’s gaze.
‘You have a point,’ he said, smiling. ‘We didn’t plan this siege, but we know what to do and you won’t walk away, unless you co-operate with me.’
‘Don’t notice anyone asking us to release you. I reckon your men have a new leader. They’ve forgotten you.’
‘Reckon they know you, Marshal Lincoln Hawk. No one is left alive after you’re involved in a skirmish.’
Lincoln glanced into the darkness outside.
‘We have an hour before help comes, probably less. That won’t be enough time to avoid a posse from Hopetown. You’d need fifty hours to get half-way to the Kansas border.’
Mason shook his sleek, black hair from his eyes.
‘Don’t agree with your math, but why do you think help is a-coming?’
Lincoln grabbed a chair and sat. ‘Frank always gets the job done.’
‘Dependable Frank,’ Mason said, shuffling around in the dust. ‘A pity that gunshot woke me. I don’t think Frank is so dependable now.’
Lincoln gritted his teeth. ‘The shot could’ve meant anything.’
‘Sure didn’t. I know what it meant.’
Lincoln turned away from Mason, but with a lunge, Jed grabbed Mason’s black shirt and dragged him up from the floor.
‘I’m no marshal,’ Jed muttered. ‘I’m not so trustworthy. Any more jibes at Frank and I’ll kill you.’
‘Don’t crease my shirt,’ Mason said, wincing. ‘But you won’t kill me and Frank is – how shall I put it – otherwise engaged right now.’
Jed released Mason to slap his cheek. The sound echoed like a clap of thunder around the saloon.
‘That’s enough, Jed.’ Lincoln coughed. ‘For now.’
Mason spat on the floor. Moist redness gleamed in the flickering light.
‘Dependable Frank, what a man to put your faith in.’
‘First sense you’ve uttered.’ Jed turned from Mason to face the stove. ‘I reckon I’ll get that coffee brewing while we wait for Frank to organize our rescue. But you’re attached to the stove. You’ll burn.’
Mason gulped and glanced between Jed and Lincoln.
‘Tie him to something else,’ Lincoln said, smiling. ‘I don’t want him polluting the coffee.’
‘Hey, Lincoln,’ Sam said. ‘Forget coffee. What about the whiskey?’
‘Whiskey,’ the drunkard mumbled, stirring from his slumbers.
‘We’ll have a drink two minutes after we’ve arrested everyone,’ Lincoln said. He glanced at Jed. ‘And we have Dave back.’
‘Or what’s left of him,’ Mason said.
With a firm finger, Lincoln pointed at Jed.
‘Ignore him,’ he said.
For fifteen minutes Jed made the coffee and Lincoln looked through the batwings, trying to avoid the swirling patterns the dust made as it arced down the road lulling him to sleep.
When the coffee pot rattled on the stove top, Lincoln strode to the stove and poured a generous measure of Jed’s thick brown coffee. He looked into the muddy depths and took a long gulp. The tarry liquid hit the back of his throat with a hot splash of corrosive fire.
Lincoln gulped back the urge to gag.
Jed poured himself a mug, then poured a second mug for Sam. He poured a third mug and sauntered to Mason. He looked him up and down, then sneered and moved by him to slam it on the bar beside the drunkard.
The man cringed from the coffee as if it were lit dynamite.
‘Jed,’ Lincoln said, ‘get that coffee down him. I want answers.’
‘So do I,’ Mason said.
‘We told you to be quiet,’ Jed said and raised his hand, as if to hit Mason.
Mason glanced at the hand, then smiled and Jed lowered it.
Lincoln slurped his coffee. ‘What do you mean, dandy?’
‘He is someone,’ Mason said. ‘He isn’t just a drunkard stinking up the saloon.’
With the rim of the mug, Lincoln rubbed his chin. The pungent fumes spiced his senses. His brow cooled and the room seemed to lighten.
‘Everyone’s someone.’
‘Yeah, but he isn’t just the patron saint of smells. I can’t place the face, but I’ll get there in the end.’
‘So, when did you meet him? Guess it wasn’t in a tailor’s shop. He has more style than you have.’
‘I expected more from you than cheap insults,’ Mason said, wincing. ‘I’ve no idea where I met this smelly creature, but I’ll work it out.’
‘Do that.’ Lincoln pointed a firm finger at Mason. ‘But do it quietly.’
‘I can’t be quiet. My guts are churning at the creature’s smell. He couldn’t have smelled that bad when I met him before. I’d have remembered that.’
With a brief flare of interest, Lincoln glanced at the drunkard, who glared at Jed’s coffee, but wasn’t drinking it.
‘You reckon he crossed you?’
‘Probably.’
‘I like him more already.’
Lincoln downed his mug and slammed it on the bar. He picked up the drunkard’s mug and pushed it under the man’s nose, making him twitch as if shot.
‘Whiskey,’ he mumbled.
‘No whiskey. Just coffee.’
Lincoln nodded at Jed, who grabbed the drunkard’s head.
Lincoln winced at forcing Jed to do this. He didn’t want the wretch’s lice to infest him.
Gritting his teeth, Lincoln placed the mug against the man’s lips and poured.
The drunkard gulped down half a mug of coffee, then tore his head from Jed’s grasp. A sticky handful of hair remained in Jed’s grip.
Lincoln handed Jed the mug. ‘Give him ten minutes, then get more down him. Keep on, until you get sense.’
As Jed nodded, the man doubled over and retched. A stream of brown, steaming liquid splashed on the floor at his feet and spread in a lumpy puddle to within inches of Mason’s polished boots.
‘Hey, watch my boots,’ Mason said.
‘Make that five minutes,’ Lincoln said. ‘And next time, make sure he chucks over the dandy.’
The drunkard spat brown slush on the floor.
‘They call me Whiskey Bob,’ he said, his voice gravely.
‘Well met, Whiskey Bob,’ Jed said. ‘I know how you got that name.’
Whiskey Bob scratched his chest, then batted his hand away.
‘Give me a whiskey bottle and I’ll show you a proper demonstration.’
Lincoln shook his head. ‘No, we might be giving you a new name – Coffee Bob.’
Jed patted Whiskey Bob’s back.
‘And worse than that,’ he said, ‘Jed’s Coffee Bob.’
Chapter Seven
For ten minutes Jed questioned Whiskey Bob, but he only knew that men arrived in the evening, but he didn’t know how many men or which evening.
‘Don’t worry,’ Lincoln said when Jed relented from his questioning. ‘Frank will be here any minute.’
‘Dependable Frank,’ Mason said with a snort.
Lincoln strode from the door. ‘What have you got against Frank? You don’t even know him.’
Beneath shrouded brows, Mason squinted. ‘If you haven’t worked it out yet, you never will and I haven’t got time to educate you.’
Lincoln set firm hands on his hips. ‘Worked what out, dandy?’
‘I told you, the name’s Mason. And I’m not insulting Frank. I’m suggesting the truth.’
Lincoln chewed his bottom lip. ‘What truth?’
‘The truth is a riddle,’ Mason said. ‘Frank’s gone for help, but help is not a-coming. What possible answers are there to that riddle?’
Lincoln sneered. ‘Go on. Tell me the answer to your riddle, dandy.’