Desperately, he cocked his gun and tried to turn it. Another hand, as powerful as the first, clamped down on his wrist and twisted it into living agony. He thought he heard the bone crack. The gun went off. Plaster showered from the wall near the girl. She shrank back, her face contorted. The gun clattered to the floor.
Spur knew that he had never been nearer to death.
He tried throwing himself forward. The hand held him, wrenched him backward. Its grasp was relinquished for a brief moment, he tried to fling himself free, but an arm was flung around his neck and the strangle-hold was resumed.
Blaxall was running forward.
‘Hold him,’ he screamed.
His face was all twisted up. His eyes were crazy.
Spur heard an animal grunt behind him. He didn’t have to be told that he was in the grip of the man Smith.
Blaxall hit him in the belly, hard. The terrific effort behind the blow was reflected on the man’s face.
As the man backed up for another blow, Spur kicked him in the crotch. Blaxall screamed and, bent up, backed across the corridor, falling back against the wall.
The grip on Spur’s neck tightened. He heard the man behind heaving air into his lungs for the effort. Spur thought his neck was breaking.
The girl was screaming.
Smith started to laugh. It made a terrible and blood-chilling sound. Spur allowed himself to go slack as if he were falling unconscious. For a second, the grip on his throat relaxed. Spur reached back over his shoulders, found long hair, grasped it and heaved forward with all the strength in his body, at the same time bending forward and dropping to one knee. Taken unawares, the man behind him had no choice but to go with the pull. He came clumsily over Spur’s shoulders and hit the floor hard on his back. The whole house shook.
Blaxall was on the move. Still doubled with pain he made a slow dive at Spur. The marshal tried to sidestep the charge, but what he had suffered had slowed him. The man’s shoulder caught him in the belly and he was borne helplessly backward.
The house shuddered again as he hit the wall. He felt as if every bone in his body was broken. He and Blaxall landed in a heap, lashing blindly and ineffectually at each other. Blaxall was on top and Spur managed to bend his leg between them and drive the bigger man away with a heave of the foot. Blaxall backpedalled across the corridor.
Smith was on his feet for the first time, Spur had a good look at him. It was like looking at a ferocious and demented animal coming in for the kill.
His second gun!
He snapped his hand down on the butt of the small weapon, turning sideways on the floor so that he could get it free. But the man was on him before he could clear it. The great hand tore it from his grasp. It skidded down the floor and Smith smashed a great fist into his face with a shout of pure delight.
Spur’s head struck the wall and he felt consciousness go almost from him. The thumbs were feeling for his windpipe. Desperately, he twisted and turned and failed to unseat the man astride him. The thumbs had found the spot. He felt his eyes starting from his head. He slipped a hand inside the man’s thigh, found flesh between finger and thumb and squeezed with all his remaining strength.
The man howled like a stricken animal, tried to increase his pressure on Spur’s throat, found the pain in his leg was unbearable and flung himself off him.
Spur found himself retching.
There was no time for damn foolishness like that. His life was at stake. He rolled over and got his knees and hands under him, heaving himself slowly up. From where he lay, Smith kicked him in the ribs and laid him on the floor again. Once again he tried to rise.
He felt his hair seized from behind.
Blaxall.
The girl was still screaming.
A fist hit him under the ear and he staggered helplessly against the wall. He saw his smaller gun on the floor the other side of Smith.
He went over the man in a long dive, hit the floor and slid. His hand grasped the butt of the gun. Hope rose in him. He cocked the gun and started to turn, rolling. Something landed on him with enormous force. Again the air was smashed from him. How much longer could he last?
His gun-hand was smashed down against the floor. He maintained his hold on the weapon. Again his hair was seized and his face pounded into the floor. It felt as if his whole face had been smashed. He was nearly finished.
A booted foot landed on the gun-wrist. He’d lost the gun. He rolled and took Smith with him. The man hit the wall. Spur heaved air into his lungs and reared to his feet.
Blaxall was stooping for the gun.
Spur kicked out blindly.
Blaxall was hurled away from the weapon. Spur whirled. Smith was up, charging blindly with his head down, terrible hands grasping.
Spur sidestepped. He chopped Smith in the neck and saw him land face-first on the floor. Spur’s legs were caving under him. He turned to meet Blaxall and knew he couldn’t stay on his feet much longer. If he didn’t get his hand on a gun, he was through.
A fist struck him in the face.
He scarcely felt it. He was battered beyond pain now.
Vaguely, he heard Silena shrieking: ‘Stop it, stop it.’
His feet were kicked from under him. He didn’t feel himself go down, but he knew he was lying on the floor. He forced his eyes open after a space of immeasurable time and saw Smith standing over him. He looked into the man’s insane eyes, saw the gleaming knife in his hand.
The man was babbling and laughing.
From a long way off, Spur heard: ‘Finish him, Smithy.’
He fought to get to his feet. It seemed imperative that he didn’t die lying there on the floor. He was beyond sane thought himself.
Then he passed out.
Chapter Thirteen
He heard a faint sound.
It seemed that he lay there for a long time trying to identify it. After a while he came to a conclusion that it was the sound of somebody breathing.
He opened his eyes and they hurt intolerably.
It was lamplight.
He raised his head. Pain and bright lights shot through it. He sighed and laid it back on the pillow. It was then that he realized that he was lying in bed. His own bed.
Turning his head sideways, he saw Silena. She was sitting on a chair at the side of the bed and she held his pocket Colt in her hands. She looked strained and pale. He’d bet all the way to hell she didn’t feel as strained and pale as he did. He felt like a crushed stalk of straw. -
‘I ought to be dead,’ he said and found that his mouth was all mashed and sore.
‘You would have been,’ she said.
‘Why ain’t I?’
‘I stopped them.’
‘How?’
‘With this gun.’
Poor little fool—did she think she could? He tried to sit up and failed.
‘They lit out?’ he asked. She nodded, ‘How long ago?’
‘Manuela came and helped me get you in here,’ she said. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘They have to kill me,’ he said. ‘Where’s the other gun?’
She reached out and took it from the table, handing it to him,
He checked the loads. Four.
‘The door’s locked,’ she said, ‘and Manuela’s gone to the sheriff’s office.’
That should bring Ben. He had never needed Ben more than now. He tried to sit up and nausea swept over him.
‘You just lie back and rest,’ she said.
He wanted to laugh at that, but he couldn’t, not with a mashed mouth. He fought the nausea and got himself on the edge of the bed. The room turned over a few times and then steadied itself. The girl was making little sounds of alarm at the sight of him.
‘Water an’ a towel,’ he said. ‘I have to get cleaned up. I must look disgustin’.’
She put the gun down and poured him water, brought the bowl and started to wash the blood from his face with the dampened towel. It hurt like hell, but it was nice having her near. He wished he was in
a better condition to appreciate the fact. He flexed his gun-hand a few tunes. It hurt, but he reckoned nothing was broken. That was luck, any road.
‘They were both like animals,’ she said. ‘I never knew.’
There was nothing he could say to that. This girl’s dreams of her handsome wealthy lover had been smashed to pieces.
He patted her on the shoulder.
‘You saved my life,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty grateful.’
She straightened to view her handiwork and told him that some of the cuts were still bleeding. What about the rest of him?
‘My ribs feel as if a mule trod on ’em,’ he said.
‘Off with your shirt,’ she told him.
He was a mite bashful about that, her being an unmarried woman and all, but she insisted and gently pulled the shirt over his head. She made him lie down on the bed while she examined him. Her fingers probed him gently, but even they hurt when she touched the lower ribs on the left hand side. They both agreed they could be broken. The doctor would have to take a look at him.
Boots sounded on the stairs.
Spur motioned her to the far side of the room and picked up his gun. He got off the bed and waited. A moment later, the feet stopped at the door.
‘Sam?’
He walked to the door turned the key and there was Ben’s shining black face. Spur could have kissed him. Ben walked into the room and Spur locked the door. Ben took a good look at him and said: ‘Boy, they sure did a good job on you.’
‘He must have a doctor,’ Silena said.
‘A good idea,’ Spur said. ‘Can Manuela do that?’
‘She already did,’ Ben said. ‘He’ll be right along.’
Spur sat down on the bed. His legs still felt like wet paper. He had one problem—would Blaxall stay or run? If he had any sense, he’d run. No man would risk his life to hang onto what Blaxall had here. Not even the smartest lawyer in the territory could save the man now. So Blaxall was running. Now.
Question: Was there anything to keep him here before he ran? What would he have to take with him?
Answer: Not a woman, that was for sure. A man like Blaxall would find one wherever he went.
Money.
That meant the bank.
Spur stared first at Ben, then the girl. They floated away from him. He could see their anxious faces recede and come nearer. He had to get a grip on himself and fast. And there wasn’t time to wait for the doctor.
‘My shirt,’ he told Ben.
The Negro picked the shirt up from the bed.
‘You ain’t goin’ no place,’ he said.
‘I’m goin’ now.’
‘No, sir, you ain’t.’
Spur took the shirt from Ben’s hands and started to pull it over his head. His rib cage seemed to cave in. He groaned. He muttered a curse. Sinking back on the bed, he sat there for a moment, wondering if he could make it.
‘Ben,’ he said, ‘check the livery. See if he’s taken horses. Then the bank. Don’t do a thing. Whatever you do, don’t try an’ stop him. I want him an’ Smith alive. Most important, I want you alive. Hear?’
‘I hear,’ Ben said and went to the door. He unlocked it and turned, saying: ‘Don’t you do nothin’ foolish while I’m gone.’
He went out and closed the door behind him. The girl locked it.
‘You two really look out for each other,’ she said.
Spur just looked at her.
‘I can’t sit here,’ he said ‘That damn fool’s goin’ to do somethin’ crazy. I know him—he always does somethin’ crazy.’ The room reeled over again and he shut his eyes.
By God, when he met up with that Smith ... He started tucking the shirt in the top of the pants. It hurt like hell and he panicked as he nearly passed out again.
Ben was mostly a slow mover. He could never see the profit in speed—not unless you really needed it. Now he needed it all right. If he didn’t get to Blaxall before Spur did, that Spur would commit some foolishness that might result in him being dead. That Spur didn’t seem to value his life worth a damn. Well, Ben valued that life and he didn’t see any sense in it being endangered more than usual. Which maybe wasn’t saying much.
He went down those stairs three at a time and exited through the lobby like a cyclone. Going across the sidewalk he nearly ran a small man with a black bag and a Mexican girl into the ground. The man exclaimed in annoyance, but Ben didn’t pay him any heed. He lit out across the street like he was running down a mustang stretching out flat.
When he neared the livery, however, he slowed and drew his gun. He didn’t believe in taking chances mid that Blaxall might still be around here.
It was dark now and the lamp burned outside the barn. He could see the old man standing there chewing on a straw. Ben slipped through the gate into the deep shadows and listened. The ordinary sounds of a corral reached him. No voices. He angled around so he could see the door of the barn. It was dark inside. Maybe that meant it was all right. Maybe it meant there was a man in there with a gun. He didn’t have any idea how Blaxall was playing this.
He slid along the side of the barn making no more noise than a snake on a rock. When he was near the old man, he said softly: ‘Old man, there’s a gun lookin’ at you. Walk this way or I blow your old fool haid off.’
The old man jumped and started shaking. He stood shaking for quite a while, till Ben prompted him to move.
He came trembling toward Ben and said: ‘I’m just an old man. I ain’t no harm to nobody.’
‘Anybody in the barn?’
‘Nary a one.’
‘That the truth?’
‘Yessir. That’s what Mr. Blaxall asked me.’
‘He bin here?’
‘Just a few minutes back.’
‘Which way’d he go?’
‘North around the corral.’
‘Who with him?’
‘One man. Looked kinda wild.’
‘How many horses?’
‘Four.’
‘Saddled?’
‘All of ’em.’
So it looked like Blaxall was prepared to take two more men with him. Who? Did it even matter? Was his going north a bluff and to avoid going through the town to the bank? Or was he running north? Spur thought he was aimed for the bank. So the bank it was.
Best to be fully prepared though.
‘Old man,’ he said, ‘you throw Mr. Spur’s saddle on that ole strawberry mare. Put my kak on the mule.’
‘Go near that mule? It ain’t worth my life.’
‘It ain’t worth your life not to. Now git.’
The old man got. He lifted down the lamp and he entered the barn. Ben turned and headed for the gate. The street looked normal—a few men walking, lights coming from the saloons, the tinkling of an off-tune piano. A Mexican was driving a pair of laden burros down the center of the street. A lone rider headed for the Lucky Strike and stepped down from the saddle. Ben watched him. The man tied his horse and entered the saloon.
Ben went on to the sheriff’s office, glancing back at the bank. There was no movement from there. No lights showed. Maybe Spur was wrong. But Spur wasn’t often wrong. When he had a hunch it was usually a cinch.
He pounded on the door of the sheriff’s office and Mike Student challenged him. He answered and the door swung open. Ben stepped inside and, as Student went to bar the door, Ben stopped him.
‘No call for that,’ he said. ‘You’n’me has a small chore.’
‘What?’
‘Blaxall. Him an’ his man Smith has beaten Sam near to death. We has to do somethin’ about it. Rifles, fast, an’ a pocket full of shells. Give me the keys to the cells. All of ’em.’
Student protested.
‘But I can’t leave here,’ he said. ‘Sam said—’
‘Now he says different. Move. There ain’t no time.’
Student, frowning, moved. He took the ring of keys off the peg near the door leading to the cells and tossed them to Ben. The Negro stuffed them into
his coat pocket. Student unlocked the rifle rack and they each took a repeating rifle. Ben thought a moment, then took down a second. Student brought out a box of shells and they filled their pockets from it.
‘Wait here,’ Ben told him. ‘Won’t be gone more’n a minute.’ He went out and Student waited nervously. He wondered what the hell lay ahead of him. He didn’t feel so good now that Spur was out of action. Sure, this Cusie Ben was real poison, but just the same …
He found his bottle and took a snort. Then another. He felt a little better then.
The door opened and he jumped.
It was Ben.
With him was Clance Damyon.
Ben laughed at the sight of Student’s face and said: ‘This man he claims he can shoot a rifle better with one hand than I kin with two. Whatya know about that? You believe it?’
‘I seen him shoot,’ Student admitted, ‘an’ he’s good all right.’
‘Should be quite a party,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Where to?’ Student asked.
‘The bank,’ Ben told him. ‘Spur reckons Blaxall aims to empty the bank before he lights out. Could be.’
They trooped out, Ben in the lead. Student asked himself why he was following the lead of this crazy Negro, him who believed in white superiority. But he followed just the same. There didn’t seem anything else to do.
On the street, Ben stopped.
‘Deputy,’ he said, ‘you cover the front of the bank. Keep down and keep a solid wall at your back. We don’t know where Blaxall’s placed his men.’
‘We don’t know he’s goin’ to try for the bank at all. He ain’t tryin’ it right now an’ he must be in an all-fired hurry to git outa here.’
Ben said: ‘It take time to open a bank without keys, man. Blaxall, he fetchin’ the man who run the bank. Savvy?’
Student nodded. He savvied. He hefted his rifle and set off across the street.
‘That man,’ said Ben to Damyon, ‘I ain’t too sure of him.’
‘Mike’ll do,’ said Damyon. ‘But he only covers the front. Blaxall ain’t goin’ to open up that bank in sight of the street.’
‘That’s what I reckoned,’ Ben said. ‘Mister, let’s you an’ me take up strategic positions as the man said.’
The Brave Ride Tall (A Sam Spur Western Book 9) Page 13