by Scott Connor
‘Why do you hate Whiskey Bob so much?’ Lincoln said.
‘You think I’ll tell a lawman the truth when I’m not a deputy?’
‘You were on Curt Polanski’s side, then?’
‘Yeah, got one.’ Mason pulled the rifle back into the coach. ‘No, I just passed through. Even I have standards and what Curt Polanski did . . . well, they weren’t the sort of things I can stomach.’
‘You have strange standards. You’re shooting your own men to save your worthless hide.’
Mason shrugged. ‘Isn’t what Curt did worse?’
Lincoln filled and readied his gun. He glanced through the window. No riders were close.
‘I saw what Curt did and nope, what you’re doing is worse.’
Mason took careful aim and fired. Lincoln leaned an arm through the window and fired two speculative shots into the emptiness of the night.
Twice more Mason fired, his face set grim.
‘They turned their backs on me and went over to Cody and Frank. No one double-crosses me.’
Having found one thing in common with Mason, Lincoln nodded.
From above, Lincoln heard a thump and clatter. He leaned as far from the window as he dared. A horse without a rider pulled back into the night.
‘Hold me. I need to sort this out.’
Mason nodded, and arms wrapped around Lincoln’s chest as he sat on the window frame. Lincoln grabbed the top rail and edged out.
A grizzled face peered down from the roof. Without time to aim, Lincoln slammed his bunched gun hand into the man’s cheek.
The man screeched and fell back. His scrambling hands gripped the rail a moment before he slipped from the roof to plummet to the ground and bounce away.
More riders loomed from the night, closing fast.
Lincoln gritted his teeth as he dangled from the coach as an open target. He sprawled, arms outstretched, searching for purchase against the side of the coach.
Then Mason pulled Lincoln into the coach. He dropped into his seat as bullets ripped into the window frame.
‘Does saving your life make me a deputy?’ Mason asked, grinning.
‘The hell it does.’
Lincoln pushed Mason to the other side of the coach.
‘So what’s so special about being a deputy? Frank’s hardly a credit to the badge.’
Lincoln gritted his teeth. ‘If you have to ask, I can’t answer.’
‘How can I become a deputy?’
As a spray of bullets ripped along the back wall, Lincoln ducked.
‘Dying might be a start.’
Mason opened his mouth then closed it as another crash resounded through the coach. Lincoln glanced at the roof and judged where the new man had landed.
‘My side,’ Mason said.
To repel this latest attack Lincoln shuffled along the seat. With his mouth open wide, Whiskey Bob lay on the seat, a rasping snore escaping from his snag-toothed mouth.
Lincoln pushed Whiskey Bob away and leaned through the window. At least ten riders flanked them on this side.
‘Help me get outside,’ Lincoln said. ‘Got to help Sam.’
Mason shook his head. ‘Nope. It’s my turn.’
The riders closed on the coach, guns outstretched.
Lincoln gestured to the window. ‘Be my guest, Dandy Mason.’
Mason sat on the window frame. He cringed as a spray of bullets ripped into the window frame beside his head.
Lincoln grabbed Mason’s legs. Mason swung his rifle from the window, then screamed.
‘You hit?’
‘No, you grabbed my bust rib.’
‘Quit whining and get out there.’
Mason jutted his head out the window, then leapt back in, tumbling Lincoln back on to his seat.
‘Sam just saw him off and we’re entering Hopetown. We’re going to make it.’
Lincoln glanced through the window. Buildings flashed by as the light on Hopetown’s main road replaced the dark.
The increase in light also brought into sharp focus the phalanx of riders flanking them, the dust that plagued Dust Creek not filling Hopetown.
Lincoln bobbed up and fired at the nearest rider. The rider fell from his horse.
Although Lincoln judged that the improved light would help the riders’ aim too, he didn’t duck. He swung round and took a second and third rider.
Then a thud sounded beneath the coach and he bounced from his seat. His head crashed into the ceiling.
Then he collapsed on to his seat. He steadied himself, but the swaying coach threw him into Mason. The two men floundered over each as they fell to the floor.
‘Sam,’ Lincoln shouted, ‘slow down. This is too fast.’
All around him, Lincoln heard a crunch, then a long splintering. His body lifted from his seat. His shoulders slammed into the ceiling.
Then he plummeted to the floor.
He tried to climb into his seat, but the rocking of the coach bounced him away again. Crashing, splintering sounds echoed all around as the coach spun on to its side, their reckless speed having the worst possible result.
With no control of his movements, Lincoln hurtled to the window. He grabbed the coach window, but his grip failed as he was torn away.
The rolling coach threw him into the night.
Chapter Fourteen
As Lincoln flew from the coach, he drew his head in to his chest and forced his left shoulder down, turning the fall into a roll.
With a bone-crunching jar, Lincoln hit the ground. He rolled twice and flopped to a halt.
With his body numb, he shook his head. Seconds or minutes passed as he connected mind and body, then with a lurch he jumped to his feet.
Lincoln blinked away the specks of light that clouded his vision and saw a building before him. He staggered a pace, then broke into a ragged run. He rolled beneath the hitching rail on to the edge of the boardwalk.
With fingers that shook for one of the few times in his life, he reloaded his gun and noted the broken coach, lying on its side.
Three wheels circled. The broken wheel did not. The horses had bolted to fifty yards away.
‘Too fast, Sam,’ he said.
The only people on the road were Frank and the gang, who circled the coach at a steady canter.
‘You’re going nowhere, Frank,’ Lincoln said. ‘Help’s a-coming.’
Frank aimed his horse into the main group and pointed at Lincoln.
‘Get him. Get Lincoln.’
Lincoln prepared to take Frank and as many others as possible with him. He knelt with his gun raised, as the horses circling the coach slowed to a steady trot.
Two men dismounted from their steeds and strode towards the coach.
‘I said, get him,’ Frank screamed, but the men only had eyes for the coach.
Lincoln rubbed his shoulders and glanced down the road wondering when Hopetown’s lawman, Sheriff Tom Mallory, would arrive. Cody joined the group beside the coach and circled.
‘Get him,’ Frank shouted again.
‘You heard the funny man,’ Cody said. ‘He’s right for once. Get the big man.’
Four riders spun round to face Lincoln, so Lincoln vaulted the hitching rail as bullets ripped into the wall behind him.
With his head low, he bolted along the boardwalk. As splinters peppered his back, he leapt behind a log pile. He searched for a way out, but the logs angled into the wall at his back.
Lincoln swung his gun on to the top log. He edged his face over the logs and fired two shots at the approaching riders.
The riders swung round and backed out of easy range.
Lincoln rubbed his forehead. Unlike his normal shooting, the shots had zinged wide. He gulped twice. He’d taken too many knocks in the last few minutes.
From behind the logs he watched about a dozen riders canter around the coach. Two men had dismounted and edged over the side of the coach, their necks craned, to see if anyone inside lived.
Lincoln aimed at the man nearest
the coach and fired a single shot. The shot clattered feet wide, but both men dropped to the ground and scrambled to their horses.
‘Fools,’ Frank said. ‘That was Lincoln. They’re dead inside.’
‘If you’re so sure,’ Cody said, ‘you go in and get the carpetbag.’
As the group milled around the coach, Lincoln banged his fist against his thigh. He’d left the carpetbag at the front of the coach with Sam.
‘Frank,’ Lincoln shouted, ‘if you want the carpetbag, you’ll have to take it from my dead body.’
Frank swung round, teetering on the edge of Lincoln’s firing range. He backed his horse a pace.
‘Shaun,’ Cody said. ‘Flush the big man out of there and get the carpetbag.’
‘You fool,’ Frank said. ‘He hasn’t got the carpetbag. I saw him run.’
Cody scratched his head. ‘What do you think, Shaun?’
As Shaun shrugged, Lincoln lifted his hat and ran fingers through his hair. He cleared his throat.
‘Frank’s right. I don’t have the carpetbag. You can have it if you want. I’ll keep the contents.’
Cody waved at the four nearest riders, beckoning them onward.
Lincoln steadied his aim at the nearest rider. Then he fired, swinging his wrist round on the same level and peppering across all four riders.
Lincoln ducked to reload, as bullets ripped into the log pile and the wall behind him.
He hadn’t shot all four men, but he was sure that he’d hit the first two. He glanced up as he finished reloading.
On the ground three bodies were slumped in bloodied heaps. The fourth rider cantered back to Cody.
Lincoln glanced down the road to the sheriff’s office. The coach crashing and the gunfire afterwards had made enough noise to raise the dead, but no one had shown on the road yet.
‘Found it,’ Shaun cried from the coach.
‘What’s in it?’ Cody said.
‘It’s full. Shall I open it?’
Lincoln glanced above his log pile. Shaun waved the carpetbag in the air.
‘No,’ someone said. ‘You won’t do anything with it. That’s mine.’
With his rifle aimed at Cody, Mason stood from the coach, his form silhouetted in the night. To Lincoln’s surprise, Shaun hurled the carpetbag at Mason.
With his free hand, Mason caught the bag. He swung his legs over the side of the coach and stalked towards Cody.
‘Glad you’re alive,’ Cody said, directing his horse forward two paces. ‘We were mighty worried about you for a while.’
Mason dropped the carpetbag at his feet. He straightened his necktie and batted his clothes free of dust.
Then he shuffled the bag on to his shoulder. He waved his rifle in a long arc across the gathered gang.
‘Yeah, I can see how worried you were. You sided with Frank.’
‘Thought you were dead. Should’ve known it takes more than a gunfight to kill you.’
Mason strode a pace towards Cody’s horse.
‘Is that what your new friend Frank said, or is he a lousy shot as well as a lousy double-crosser?’
Cody leaned down, his head beside his horse’s head.
‘The funny man’s history. You can have him, if you want.’
With a nonchalant stride, Mason walked by Cody’s horse and strode down the road.
‘Nope. Been double-crossed once by you and that’s enough for me.’
‘Where are you going, Mason?’ Cody shouted at Mason’s receding back.
Mason glanced over his shoulder. ‘That’s Deputy Mason Black to you.’
Mason swung his rifle round and fired at the nearest rider. The rider plummeted from his horse as Mason bolted down the road.
Lincoln fired three rounds. Only one shot found its target. Then he leapt over the log pile and joined Mason’s dash down the road.
A third figure sprinted with them.
Lincoln had no time to enjoy seeing that Sam was alive. He fired once more over his shoulder, then noticed the direction Mason sprinted.
Lincoln followed, bolting for the sheriff’s office, only thirty yards ahead. With his head held low, he reached the door first and threw his shoulder at it.
The door hurtled back against the wall with a crash. Lincoln stumbled in and pressed against the wall, ready to swing out and cover Sam and Mason, as they followed him into safety.
But inside the sheriff’s office, Lincoln faced the sheriff. And it wasn’t Sheriff Mallory.
Sheriff Harold Steadman glared at him
‘For God’s sake, man,’ Lincoln said. ‘Help us here.’
With his arms folded, Steadman snorted.
‘You took your time, Lincoln,’ he said.
As Mason and Sam charged into the office, gunfire from Cody’s men ripped into the doorframe.
‘What’re you doing here?’ Lincoln said.
‘I’m arresting you,’ Steadman said. ‘That’s what I’m doing.’
Steadman unfolded his arms and raised his gun.
Chapter Fifteen
Inside the sheriff’s office two more men stepped from the shadows to face Lincoln.
Without considering what this meant, Lincoln leapt backwards. He hit the office window in the middle. Glass peppered his back as he landed on the boardwalk outside.
Gunfire ripped through the air above him. Lincoln rolled to his feet and ran, body crouched double, along the boardwalk. He leapt off the boardwalk, hit the ground flat, and rolled behind a large log pile.
As Lincoln prepared to defend his territory, Mason rolled behind the logs after him. Sam arrived as gunfire ripped into the logs.
‘What the hell is happening?’ Sam said.
Lincoln shrugged. He was plumb out of ideas. He’d suffered too many double-crossings for one night.
With his back against the log pile, Mason fiddled with his necktie.
‘You appear to have chosen sides,’ Lincoln said.
‘Looks like I have at that.’ Mason rubbed his chin, then chuckled. ‘Let’s hope it’s the winning side, but if not, at least I’ll die a deputy.’
Lincoln winked at Sam. ‘The hell you can.’
‘Marshal Lincoln Hawk,’ Steadman shouted as he emerged from his office, ‘come out with your hands up and there’ll be no repercussions.’
‘Sheriff Harold Steadman,’ Lincoln shouted, ‘what’s happening?’
‘Come out and we’ll discuss the matter. This is over now.’
Lincoln peered over the log pile. With his arms folded, Steadman stood on the boardwalk.
Cody and his gang dismounted and walked across the road towards him. Frank hung back, glancing between Steadman and Cody.
‘What is Harold Steadman doing here?’ Mason whispered to Lincoln.
Although Lincoln shook his head, he had a good idea. He’d never liked Harold Steadman.
‘Sheriff Steadman, listen. I have details that I reckon will prove what Curt Polanski did in Dust Creek fifteen years ago, but I also reckon they incriminate other people too.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ Steadman said. ‘If you give yourself up, we’ll sort this out, lawman to lawman. You have my word on that. If you can’t trust me, I can’t help you.’
Lincoln flopped behind the log pile. ‘Put Frank behind bars and get Cody and his gang to back off, then I’ll come out.’
‘No negotiations here,’ Steadman snapped. ‘I set the terms. You throw out your guns first and I’ll take you in.’
Lincoln frowned and tapped Sam’s shoulder.
‘Got smokes?’
‘Sure, but now isn’t the time.’
Lincoln glared at Sam until he handed over his matches. He opened the carpetbag and held a bundle aloft.
‘Steadman, I’m ready to burn the documents rather than let anyone else get their hands on them.’
‘Do what you want,’ Steadman said.
‘No,’ Cody said from further down the road.
Lincoln smiled. The imminent loss of the subject of a fight alw
ays produced the truth.
‘What you planning to do?’ Mason asked, holding his rifle held aloft.
‘I reckon Harold Steadman is the only one who knows the whole truth about this carpetbag, and it’s a truth that’ll put him behind bars. So he lied to Frank. Frank passed on the lie to you and you believed it. And Cody believes the lie too.’ Lincoln rubbed his chin. ‘And I reckon Frank doesn’t care what the truth is.’
‘That’s one hell of a theory.’
‘Yeah, but as soon as Cody figures out the truth he’ll turn on Frank and Frank will kill him.’
‘He isn’t,’ Mason said, tapping a firm hand against his rifle. ‘Cody is mine.’
‘Sure,’ Lincoln said, patting his gun. ‘And Frank is mine.’
‘Lincoln, I’m out of patience,’ Steadman said. ‘I know you didn’t prosecute Curt Polanski. I don’t know what he paid you and I don’t care. That sort of thing makes me sick, but you’ve done good work since. It’ll count for something. Come out. Then Frank’s deputies and me will take you in. If you shoot at a lawman, I can’t help you.’
Lincoln gritted his teeth. ‘Frank has no deputies, only outlaws. These documents only prove who helped Curt Polanski, and both you and I know that’ll include the name of another lawman – and it isn’t my name. They’re worthless for anything else.’
‘This right, funny man?’ Cody said.
Lincoln removed his hat and raised his head a few inches. Cody stood three paces from Frank, his gun aimed at Frank’s chest.
‘Harold said the bag contains valuable legal documents,’ Frank said, glancing at Steadman.
Steadman shook his head. ‘The documents aren’t valuable.’
‘What?’ Cody screamed and stormed across the boardwalk towards Steadman.
‘And who is this odorous creature?’ Steadman asked.
‘Don’t call me a creature. I’m Cody, the boss of this operation, and you got half my men killed to capture trash.’
Cody ripped his gun to the side and shot Steadman in the guts. Without making a sound Steadman plummeted, his body dead before it hit the boardwalk.
‘Get them,’ Lincoln shouted as Cody fired at the sheriff’s deputies.
Lincoln vaulted over the log pile, Sam and Mason at his heels. His long legs halved the distance to Frank in three strides.