Ambush Range

by Burt Kroll

  Without thinking, Merrill turned away from chasing after Brannigan and ran along the sidewalk in front of the saloon. He pushed through the batwings and skidded to a halt on the threshold, peering around as he did so. The place was in an uproar. Three men were stretched out in the sawdust with blood on them, and two were dressed as trail-hands. Most of the other men in the place were still gripped by the paralysis of shock, but Merrill’s entrance broke that, although he noted that some of the cowboys had instinctively drawn their guns.

  “What the hell!” Edsel snarled, coming forward with his sixgun in his hand. He glared at Merrill, his eyes smoky with hatred. “We did like you told us. You promised us protection, but some murdering sonofabitch sneaked up and emptied a Colt through that window.”

  “I know,” Merrill retorted. “Simmer down and listen. It wasn’t any of Freeman’s bunch. I saw the gunnie who did it and I’m going after him right now. Just don’t lose your heads and do anything stupid. Take care of your men. Looks like they’ve been hurt. There’s a local faction around town who wants to see a shooting war break out between you and Freeman’s bunch, so play it cool. Stay put and I’ll handle it.”

  “We get another shot flung at us, and it don’t matter where it comes from,” Edsel warned. “We’ll take this town apart brick by brick and board by board. Now you better get after that sneaking coyote and either kill him or lock him up good, because if we every lay our hands on him there won’t be enough of him left for you to bury.”

  Merrill swung on his heel and ran out through the bat-wings. He reached the alley, and had paused to decide whether to go along the street or across the back lots when the raucous sound of gunfire exploded somewhere in the darkness. Six shots hammered quickly, throwing harsh echoes across the town, and a groan escaped him, for he realized what Brannigan had done. He had repeated the shooting incident at Maitland’s other saloon, tossing lead at Freeman’s men in the hope that they would figure it to be the work of the Big J.

  He started running along the sidewalk, and a challenge was called to him. He took a chance and did not stop running, although he yelled his name to the special deputy.

  “Stay on the street,” he called, “and get all the other deputies together. Form a line across the street and prevent anyone from getting from one end of the town to the other.”

  There was no time for anything else and he kept running, blundering along the sidewalk. A few quick words now would prevent a blood-bath, he knew, but a groan escaped him when he saw the batwings of Maitland’s big saloon burst open and a throng of yelling men appeared, guns in their hands, to come towards him.

  “Hold it,” he yelled, advancing upon them. He tried to repeat the message that he had given Edsel and the Big J outfit, but Freeman’s men had come off worst in the fight the previous year in Abilene and they were in no mood-for talking. Merrill was soon surrounded by a mass of enraged cowpunchers and someone hit him from behind with the barrel of a sixgun.

  He went down into the dust and the shouting and yelling cut off as if he had suddenly turned deaf. Blackness floated before his eyes and he felt boots trampling him as the crowd pushed on. Then he lay winded and groggy, and the crowd moved on. The blast of a shotgun brought him back from hazy remoteness and he pushed himself shakily to his feet. More shooting broke out, and suddenly the concerted crash of sixguns exploded, destroying the peacefulness of the night. Merrill gritted his teeth as he saw orange blossoms of fire erupting from all over the street, and he knew the two cow outfits were moving towards each other for a grim showdown.

  “Ward, is that you?” A shadow moved on the sidewalk, coming from the law office, and Merrill recognized the sheriff’s voice.

  “Yeah,” he replied bitterly, his voice buffeted by the hammering guns.

  “What in hell happened?” Oakley demanded.

  “Hold an inquest later,” Merrill rapped. “Let’s see if we can stop it. Come on.”

  He turned, his mind back to normal again, and started running along the street towards the crowd, unmindful of the bullets that were buzzing around him in the darkness. More and more guns were joining in the shooting, and the two factions were settling down in defensive positions, seeking cover where ever they could find it. Orange flashes were erupting everywhere, and bullets were thudding into the buildings all around them. Merrill knew that some of the buildings contained women and children, and he moved forward intently, yelling at the top of his voice for a ceasefire. The sheriff accompanied him, and both lawmen were holding their guns in their hands.

  By degrees, they managed to stop the shooting, but only by standing in the open side by side and yelling hoarsely for attention. A few sporadic shots hammered out before full silence returned, and then Merrill called angrily.

  “This was a trick by some third party to get you two outfits at each other’s throats,” he yelled. “You’re figuring on shooting it out anyway, so move on out of town and settle it any way you want. Just leave the folks around here in peace. Edsel, you’re still bossing your outfit. Listen to me. Get your men together and take them out of town.”

  “What the hell!” the trail boss snapped. “We didn’t start the shooting.”

  “Neither did we,” Burt Freeman called, “but we sure as hell will finish it.”

  “I told you someone started the shooting, and you’re playing right; into their hands.” Merrill looked around as he spoke, for the sheriff was calling for his special deputies, and now the townsmen who had volunteered for the dangerous chore were assembling, moving into the street between the two cow outfits, some facing Edsel’s men and some covering Freeman’s. “Now you cattlemen get out of town. That’s an order from the county law, and if you don’t obey it then we’ll start making arrests, starting with the trail bosses. You got no choice in this. If you want to fight then do it out of town, and get to it now.”

  He fell silent then, aware that he had said enough. He had spelled it out to them and they would either take his advice or start the shooting, but with local deputies between them they would be attacking the law, and that was a different matter entirely from fighting a rival cow outfit.

  Edsel was the first to move. His grating voice rang through the shadows. “Okay, Big J. Let’s get out of here. If Freeman’s bunch wanta slug it out then we’ll see them on the flats beyond the cattle-pens. Move out, Big J, and no more shooting unless you’re fired at. We don’t want any trouble with the local folks.”

  “What about you, Freeman?” Merrill called, aware that Oakley was content to let him handle the situation.

  “I told you I ain’t responsible for my bunch any more,” Freeman replied. “But I was with them last year when they took an unfair beating from Big J at Abilene, and they’ve sworn to get their own back. But we don’t wanta fight in town. We’ll move out. Edsel has got twenty minutes to get his men clear of the street. Then we’re moving out.”

  Merrill remained motionless with the sheriff at his side and they waited in the tense silence that followed. Then Merrill caught a glimpse of a faint movement on one of the sidewalks, followed by several more. He began to breathe easier. The Big J outfit was beginning to pull out. He watched figures climbing into saddles, and then the drumming of hoofbeats sounded as the men moved away along the street, heading for out of town.

  The line of deputies remained motionless, and Merrill was satisfied that trouble had been averted at the last minute. He turned to peer around for Freeman, and saw the trail boss coming out from the cover he had selected.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Freeman said, “but some coyote opened up on us through a window in the saloon. A couple of my boys went down, and we figured it was big J sneaking up on us.”

  “The same thing happened at the other saloon,” Merrill said harshly, “and I know who did it. I’ve got some cleaning up to do around here, Walt,” he added, turning to face the sheriff, who was breathing heavily, as if he had been running. “I know who’s been causing my trouble, and he hired himself one more gunma
n to try and get me.”

  “Who is it?” Oakley demanded. “I’ll come with you to arrest him.”

  “You better stay put on the street with your deputies,” Merrill said. “There could still be bad trouble, and you’ve got enough men here to keep it under control. I took this badge so I could get this man. You’ll be able to see who it is when I’ve put him behind bars, if he’s willing to be arrested.”

  “Okay. I trust you, Ward, and I figure you can handle anything that might come up. But don’t bite off more than you can chew, huh?”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll come out right. I’m not going to take any chances. I got too much to lose.”

  “The way you’ve handled our business,” Freeman said quietly, “I’d bet on you any day.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll let you know if it turns out right.” Merrill peered along the street, but there was now no sign of the Big J outfit. “I’d feel a whole lot happier if you didn’t take your men out of town for that showdown, Freeman, because there’s no way either side can win.”

  “We know that. Ain’t it hell that some men are ready to die for their pride?”

  “Well, I got more than pride pushing me,” Merrill said, and he turned and left them standing in the street.

  He became aware that there were other people on the street now, awaiting developments, and when he drew level with the store he was surprised to see Luke Parry, Kay and Lonnie in the doorway.

  “Don’t you know better than to stand watching when there’s likely to be lead flying around?” he demanded.

  “We thought it was all over,” Luke Parry said gruffly. “We saw a bunch of riders move out, and you’ve walked away from the scene, and I never knew you to leave while there was still some chance of trouble.”

  “I’ve got some personal business to take care of,” Merrill replied.

  “Is it the trouble that’s been bothering you over the past week?” Kay asked.

  “That’s it.” Merrill nodded and glanced towards the saloon. He wanted to get on with it, to settle it one way or another. “I’ve got to be going. This won’t wait. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  He turned away then, unable to say more, and there was a grim tension in his chest as he moved resolutely along the sidewalk. It was time he tamed this town completely. Now, he had the rights of it he could take action.

  He eased his sixgun in its holster and walked to the big saloon. When he looked through a front window, he saw that the place was completely deserted except for the bartender behind the bar and Frank Maitland himself, who was leaning with his eblows on the bar, smoking the inevitable cigar. Merrill looked for Brannigan, and wondered where the gunman was. He had sparked off the shooting between the two cow outfits, and now he was trying to take care of the second part of his chore. He wanted to kill Ward Merrill.

  Merrill noted that there was a shotgun lying on the top of the bar, its twin black muzzles pointing towards the batwings, and he knew that the bartender was prepared to take a hand in the showdown if the necessity arose. He moved into the alley beside the saloon and walked to the side door. The silence was intense right across town after the shooting, and he was thankful that they had managed to avert a disaster. It had been close, and the worst of it had been instigated by Frank Maitland. If Grit Brannigan had not fired those shots into both saloons, the animosity between the two cow outfits might have passed without serious incident. Now it looked as if there was going to be a stand-up battle outside of town limits.

  Peering in through the glass of the side door, Merrill saw Maitland and the bartender watching the front bat-wings, and he smiled tensely as he prepared to enter and brace them. He peered around to check for signs of Brannigan, but the gunman seemed to have disappeared completely. Merrill wanted to arrest the gunman for causing a disturbance and shooting at least six men, and he let his right hand hang loosely at his side as he eased open the side door and stepped Noiselessly into the saloon. He was unobserved, and moved forward several paces. The bartender was talking to Maitland in a hoarse voice.

  “Do you figure Brannigan is gonna be man enough to nail Merrill?”

  “Brannigan is the best, so I was told, and he proved that by the way he got into the jail and killed Wood,” Maitland replied.

  The tender chuckled hoarsely. “I made it easy for him by leaving the back door of the jail unlocked,” he said.

  “That little bit of conversation will be sufficient to put the pair of you behind bars for a long time,” Merrill snapped, and his voice echoed across the long room.

  Maitland half turned to face him, his mouth gaping in surprise, and the tender, who was partly covered from Merrill’s view by Maitland’s heavy figure, reached out for the shotgun, which was lying wrong for quick action.

  “You touch that shotgun and you won’t live to see the inside of the jail,” Merrill warned in a low voice. “Just keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The tender halted his movement and remained motionless, and Merrill looked at the watchful Maitland.

  “Why, Frank?” he demanded. “Why all the trouble I’ve been getting? Ain’t you happy with two saloons and God knows what else fingers you have in the pie around here? Why did you want my spread so bad that you were prepared to kill for it?” His tone hardened. “Did kill for it. Pop Lorimer was killed in that ambush directed at me!”

  “No reason why I shouldn’t tell you now,” Maitland said easily. “I guess you know most of it. But I wanted your spread because it suited me. I always get what I want. Nobody stands in my way. You did better than I thought you could. I underestimated you, but I soon put that right by bringing in Brannigan. He’s gonna put you down in the dust before you can report any of this to the sheriff. That dumb hick hardly knows which end of a gun the bullet comes out.”

  “But you’re so smart, huh?” Merrill smiled. “Well, you’ve come to the end of your trail, Frank. I got enough on you to lock you up, and when I see Brannigan I’ll arrest him too. I saw him pumping shots into your other saloon at the Big J outfit. He overplayed his hand.”

  “You’re arresting me without a gun in your hand?” Maitland demanded. “You figure you’re that good, Merrill?”

  “Try me. I know you carry a gun in a shoulder holster, Frank. If you feel lucky then make a play for it. I got Pop Lorimer on my mind and I wanta settle this for him. If you don’t want to come quiet then you got an option. I pinned on this law badge for my own convenience, and I’m prepared to trade lead with you if you are now ready to do your own fighting.”

  At that moment, the bartender decided that there was enough of Maitland’s figure covering him to give him a chance of grabbing up the shotgun, and he grasped the weapon as he slid along the bar, attempting to turn it so the twin muzzles pointed towards Merrill.

  Maitland caught the movement at his back and yelled in alarm, half turning away from Merrill to look at the tender, but his right hand lifted and snaked inside his immaculate jacket.

  Merrill reached for his gun, his right hand ready for action, and he palmed the weapon with an incredibly fast, smooth action, his thumb easing back the hammer before the weapon was clear of leather. He fired so quickly that the tender hardly had time to touch the shotgun, and the heavy .45 bullet crackled past Maitland’s head to smack into the left eye of the fast-moving tender. The man went over backwards under the slamming impact of the slug and sprawled heavily across the back-bar, taking bottles and stacks of glasses with him as he rolled sideways before falling heavily to the floor behind the bar.

  But Maitland was moving, his right hand bringing a short-barreled .38 into view. He was inconvenienced by the fact that his right side was towards Merrill, and he had to swing his gunhand right round through an arc of half a complete circle before he could bring his weapon to bear. In the meantime, Merrill recocked his gun and thumbed off a second shot, his lips pulled tight against his teeth, his nostrils flaring in the acrid gunsmoke that encompassed him. He aimed for Frank Maitland’s right shoulder, and his g
un kicked hard against the heel of his hand. He wanted Maitland alive to stand trial for his scheming, callous crimes, and he saw blood fly from the saloon man as the bullet took him in the shoulder, boring through the dark material of his jacket.

  Maitland dropped his gun and spun around, crying out sharply as the saloon rocked to the thunder of Merrill’s heavy weapon. He fell to the sawdust and writhed in agony, and Merrill turned slightly and stepped forward three swift paces to kick the saloon man’s discarded .38 clear across the saloon. His ears were ringing from the shock of the shooting, and he swallowed in an attempt to clear them.

  But the batwings were creaking open, and the sound, insignificant in the aftermath of the raucous shots, was almost too soft for Merrill to catch. But he saw the movement that was made by a big, black-clad figure moving across the threshold, and he straightened and lifted his gun as Brannigan came forward, a wolfish smile of anticipation upon his hard features.

  Brannigan was holding his right-hand .45, and the weapon was covering Merrill, who had levelled his own weapon.

  “I got my gun wages to earn,” Brannigan said. “I suggest we put away our guns and start from scratch.”

  “I’m a lawman and I’ve got to arrest you on a charge of murder. Maitland told me you entered the jail and killed the prisoner Chet Wood. Drop that gun and come quietly, Brannigan.”

  “No deal. You want to start triggering now or put away your gun and start from an even break?”

  Merrill was watching the gunman closely, ready for his slightest movement, and he had no intention of holstering his gun. But he caught a movement at the batwings behind the gunman, and Brannigan heard the creaking of the batwings. He stiffened, indecision showing in his face, and Merrill chuckled.