by B. S. Dunn
He carried it to his desk, broke it in half, opened a desk drawer and took out a couple of shells. Two only. He knew that he wouldn’t need any more. Once things kicked off there wouldn’t be time to reload.
Bennett slid the shells into the twin barrels, then snapped the gun closed.
He checked the loads in his Colt and slid the six-gun back into its holster; then he scooped the shotgun up from his desk and headed out through the door.
He paused on the uneven boardwalk, turned and looked back at the jail, then down at the shotgun he held. Stay or run?
He stepped down into the dusty street, knowing what he would do.
~*~
Stall and Kansas sat at a round, scarred-top table of the Lumberjack saloon and faced the front door while they worked on a bottle of red-eye. Any trouble was expected to come from that direction.
But it didn’t.
The main bar-room was small but packed with tables, which left little room left for anything else. It was a double-storey affair but it was narrow and longer from front to back than side to side. A small landing at the top of the stairs led on to a long hallway that ran straight back, five rooms on each side.
The interior was dim, kerosene lamps attached to the paneled walls providing minimal orange light.
The bar ran almost the room’s full width, and was topped with a polished counter. A foot rail ran along the bottom.
Beneath the stairs was a hallway leading to the back entrance. From this darkened passage came Bennett, toting his cut-down coach gun.
Stall and Kansas weren’t aware of his presence until they heard the twin hammers being thumbed back.
‘Don’t move,’ said a low voice. ‘If you so much as twitch, Stall, I’m goin’ to paint the walls with your brains.’
‘Well then,’ Stall said cautiously, ‘remind me not to get an itch.’
‘You fellers get your hands up,’ Bennett ordered.
Slowly the two outlaws raised their hands to shoulder level. The Miller’s Crossing sheriff circled around until he stood and faced them. The aim of the coach gun’s twin barrels never wavered from Stall’s head.
‘OK, now unbuckle your guns and stand up, one at a time,’ Bennett said in a raised voice. He shoved the shotgun at Stall. ‘You first.’
‘You’re a dead man, Sheriff,’ Stall sneered.
‘Do it, Stall. Don’t give me an excuse,’ Bennett cautioned. ‘‘Cause right now I’m wonderin’ why I don’t shoot you instead and be done with it.’
Stall did as the Miller’s Crossing sheriff ordered and stood there, a cold, menacing look on his face.
‘Now step away from the chair,’ Bennett told him.
The outlaw stepped away a couple of paces. Bennett turned to Kansas.
‘Now you.’
Kansas did the same as Stall, which caused an obvious release of tension in the sheriff. Once Bennett became more aware of his surroundings he saw that every eye in the room was centered on him.
He called across to Henry Stillwell, the barkeep.
‘Henry, come on out here and get these guns while I take these fellers in.’
Stillwell never moved.
‘Come on, Henry, get out here,’ Bennett snapped impatiently.
But the barkeep remained transfixed behind the bar. That was when Bennett noticed the almost imperceptible look of fear on his face.
The sheriff frowned. Why?
The dry triple-click of a gun hammer being drawn back and the cold, hard gun barrel at the back of his neck made Bennett freeze.
‘I guess he figures you’re outnumbered, Sheriff,’ said a dry, raspy voice.
In that one instant Bennett knew he was a dead man. His shoulders slumped and the coach gun’s twin barrels tilted so that they pointed at the floor.
‘Well now, Sheriff,’ Stall’s cold smile split his face, ‘seems to me the boot is on the other foot. So how about you drop the scattergun. Now!’
The noise of the gun hitting the floor boards was thunderous in the heavy silence and Bennett flinched at the sound.
‘What are we goin’ to do with him, Mike?’ Kansas asked.
‘We’re goin’ to hang him.’
Eleven
A light breeze swept down from the snowline high above. It chilled the two riders as they sat on their horses the following morning, studying the town before them.
A large plume of dark smoke billowed up to stain the sky a dirty saddle-brown directly above Miller’s Crossing.
‘That can’t be a good sign,’ observed King.
Brolin took off his hat, ran his hand through his hair, then placed the hat back on his head. He watched in silence as the smoke continued to rise unabated.
They had moved off the trail to a rocky rise to gain a better vantage point observing what was happening in the town. As they watched from the shade of a large fir tree they saw a flicker of movement on the edge of town.
Brolin saw a horse-drawn buggy emerge from between the buildings on the main trail. It was followed by a two-horse team hauling a buckboard, which was loaded with passengers and their belongings. Then another equipage appeared, exactly the same as the first. There followed a small procession of horses and riders, along with townsfolk on foot.
The faint popping of gunfire could be heard in the distance and the fleeing refugees’ pace quickened.
Brolin kneed his horse forward.
‘Come on. Let’s see what’s happenin’.’
Brolin waved down the buggy. A short man, dressed in a suit and bow tie, sat in the driver’s seat. His eyes had a certain wild look in them, akin to that of an elk fleeing a pack of wolves. Beside him was a middle-aged woman in a light-pink dress; his wife, Brolin guessed.
‘Don’t go that way, stranger,’ the man warned, glancing back towards the town. ‘If you do, it’ll be certain death that awaits you.’
‘What’s goin’ on that’s got you all so scared?’ Brolin asked.
‘Mike Stall,’ the man replied, and risked another backward look.
‘Is he in your town?’
‘Yes. He … uh ... ‘ another glance, ‘he murdered our sheriff. Hung him from the big ponderosa in town.’
Brolin nodded and heard King mutter something under his breath.
‘But he wasn’t satisfied with that,’ the man continued. ‘He burned the jail, which in turn set fire to the stage office and the assayer’s office because they’re on either side.’
‘Who are you?’ Brolin asked.
‘My name is Marlow, Thaddeus Marlow. I’m the mayor of Miller’s Crossing.’
‘What did they do after they set fire to the jail?’ Brolin questioned.
‘They got hold of Nelson. He’s the bank manager,’ Marlow explained. ‘Stall made him open up the bank so they could get at the money. Then they shot him and set fire to the bank.’
Brolin’s expression was grim, his mouth set in a thin line. He watched as more people from the town travelled past.
‘Where are they now?’
Marlow shrugged. ‘Who knows? They could be anywhere in town.’
Marlow paused, then looked alarmed as an idea flitted into his head. ‘You’re not going down there, are you?’
Brolin nodded. ‘If Stall is down there, then that’s where I’m goin’.’
‘You’re crazy,’ the mayor blurted out. ‘If you go down there they’ll kill you.’
‘Maybe,’ Brolin allowed. ‘But I’m sure as hell goin’ to kill Stall before I die.’
The gunfighter flinched as the words passed his lips. There it was. The old Brolin, the killer, the hired gun. He’d lingered just below the surface all these years and now he was back.
Marlow stared at him, then shook his head.
‘I wish you luck, stranger,’ he said, doubt evident in his voice.
Marlow flicked the reins. The buggy moved back on to the trail and Marlow pushed his way into the line of other refugees.
King had noticed the shift in Brolin’s personality. He
cleared his throat, then asked:
‘What are we goin’ to do?’
Brolin stared at him, his expression hard.
‘You’re not comin’. I don’t need your help. What needs to be done I can do by myself.’
King looked indignant. ‘The hell you say! I came to get those responsible for Edgar’s death and that is what I aim to do.’
Brolin’s anger threatened to surface but he kept it in check. Instead of rebuking King, he reached into his jacket pocket and removed the picture. His demeanor softened and he put it back.
‘OK,’ he told King. ‘But give me your Winchester. I’ll need the extra firepower of the bullets it carries.’
Without question King took the gun from his saddle boot and rode in close to pass it to Brolin.
With a flurry of movement Brolin quickly reversed the rifle, brought the butt up in a short arc and smacked it solidly into the side of the store owner’s head.
King slumped sideways from the saddle and fell to the ground, out cold.
Brolin waved down the second buckboard as it passed. The driver, a thin man with a grey beard and tired eyes drew back on the reins and the team came to a slow stop.
‘Can you take this feller and his horse with you?’ Brolin asked him.
‘What did you hit him fer?’ the man asked. ‘He ain’t dangerous, is he? I ain’t goin’ to take him if he’s some kind of killer.’
‘No, he ain’t a killer,’ Brolin said reassuringly. ‘It’s just that where I’m goin’ he can’t come.’
The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Miller’s Crossing.’
‘Of all the damn fool things to do …’ the man started, unable to believe Brolin could be so stupid.
‘Mister?’ a woman in a grey dress spoke. ‘We’ll take your friend there with us. Seems to me you’ve done him a favor. No sense in both of you getting killed.’
Brolin nodded. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I’d be obliged if you could apologize to him for me when he comes to.’
The woman nodded and watched as Brolin turned the buckskin on to the trail and rode towards town, the Winchester cradled across his lap.
~*~
The memory of it all came flooding back. How it had felt, the way he used to play things out in his mind. But most of all the calmness. The acceptance that his death could be imminent. His former profession required a man to be totally devoid of emotion. Emotion could get you killed.
As he entered the town Brolin rode slowly. His eyes carefully scanned everywhere for any threat to his safety.
The smell of wood smoke overlaid with the sickening odor of burnt flesh assailed his nostrils. He’d smelt it once before and could never forget the sweet, acrid stench that threatened to turn his stomach.
Brolin thumbed back the hammer on the Winchester and rested the butt plate on his thigh so that the barrel pointed skywards; his finger rested on the trigger.
The offensive stink made the buckskin toss its head about. The gunfighter whispered a few soothing words to settle it and the pair moved further into town.
‘I wouldn’t go any further if I was you, mister,’ a man carrying a bundle over his shoulder advised. ‘Not if you want to stay alive.’
Brolin looked the speaker up and down and turned his attention to those with him: a slim-built woman in her early thirties and two children, both girls, around eight or nine years of age.
Brolin nodded; he could understand why the man was getting out.
‘Where are they?’ he asked.
The man shrugged.
‘Who knows? After they burned the jail they robbed the bank and set fire to it. Killed the manager. That’s him you can smell.’
‘I heard,’ Brolin acknowledged. ‘I was talkin’ to the mayor, feller called Marlow.’
The man winced in disgust. ‘I bet he was the first one out of town. If we could’ve got some guns together we might have stood a chance of gettin’ rid of them. But once he started spoutin’ about how we all needed to get the hell out of Miller’s Crossing there was no chance of it happenin’.’
The gunfighter looked at the man’s family once more.
‘You’re doin’ the right thing. Now, what about Stall and his friends? Any idea?’
‘If I had to guess I’d say try the saloons. Or the Silk Purse. They’ve locked all the whores up over there so they can’t get away.’ He shook his head. ‘Who knows what they have in store for them?’
‘Thanks,’ said Brolin grimly.
‘Say, you ain’t goin’ after them alone, are you? Do you want some help?’
The woman placed her hand on her husband’s arm, alarm visible on her face.
‘Frank, no.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine.’
The man shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
After the family had moved on Brolin proceeded along the street and found the source of the stench that still hung thickly over the town,
The bank building had collapsed into a pile of blackened rubble. Orange flames still licked greedily at parts of wooden beams but the plume of smoke was abating.
Further along he came across the smoldering ruins of the jail and the two adjacent buildings. The steady stream of townsfolk had petered out and he figured that he must be the only living soul left. Apart from the whores and the outlaws.
Brolin saw the Big Sky saloon. He climbed down from the buckskin and left it ground hitched in the street. He walked cautiously towards the saloon and climbed the steps on to the boardwalk.
Planks creaked as they took his weight; warily he crossed to the batwings and peered over them. The saloon was empty.
Brolin turned around and stepped back into the street. He crossed to the buckskin and scooped up the reins. He walked further along the street, with the animal trailing behind.
Brolin found the sheriff swinging gently at the end of a rope looped over a low, thick branch of the tall ponderosa. His face was swollen and a mottled blue color. His tongue protruded grotesquely between his slack lips.
The gunfighter spat in the dirt and turned away from the sight. He led the horse away from the tree, up the slight incline and on to the bridge.
Twelve
King moaned softly as he stirred from the depths of unconsciousness. He rocked back and forth with the buckboard’s movement as it traversed the rough trail, bumping from one deep rut to the next.
A sudden lurch shot a jolt of pain through his throbbing head. He clutched at it in an attempt to make it stop.
‘How are you feelin’, mister?’ a woman’s soft voice asked.
King fought to open his eyes. On the third attempt managed to get the lids apart, but only fractionally.
A woman’s face, framed with long black hair, swirled in front of him. King was forced to squeeze his eyes shut as he tried to make the swirling stop. He cracked them open again and was able to focus this time, without a feeling of nausea.
‘Where am I?’ King groaned.
‘We’re on the trail from Miller’s Crossing,’ the woman informed him.
Hurriedly King tried to sit up but his head swam once more. He slumped back.
‘Take it easy mister,’ the woman cautioned. ‘ You took a nasty whack on the head.’
‘Where’s Br ...’ he started but caught himself before the gunfighter’s name spilled out. ‘Where’s the man I was with?’
‘He went on into town,’ the driver answered. ‘He sure didn’t want you along with him. Good thing if you ask me. There ain’t nothin’ waitin’ in that town but death.’
This time when King sat up he shook his head to clear it, then demanded:
‘Where’s my horse?’
‘It’s tied to the back of the buckboard,’ the woman explained.
‘Stop the wagon,’ King snapped.
‘What?’ The driver whipped his head around.
‘I said stop the damned wagon!’
The driver eased to a stop. King climbed down and went to where his horse was ti
ed. He unhitched the reins and looked back up at the driver. King still had the Colt Lightning but. . . ?
‘Where’s my rifle?’
‘Your friend took it with him,’ answered the man.
King nodded curtly, then swung stiffly up into the saddle.
‘Where on earth are you goin’, mister?’ the woman asked.
‘Back to town,’ he informed her. He turned the horse about and heeled it into a gallop, back down the trail towards Miller’s Crossing.
The man shook his head in bewilderment.
‘Damned fool!’ he muttered.
Thirty minutes of hard riding returned King to their earlier observation point above the town. This time the scene was different.
The great plume of smoke was no more; instead there was a faint brown smudge against a blue backdrop.
Gone too was the procession of townsfolk who had sought to escape the cruelty of Mike Stall.
When King heard the sound it was faint, so faint in fact that he thought his ears were playing tricks. He strained hard and was able to make out the cracking of distant gunfire. King’s jaw set firm. He knew what it meant and just hoped that he wasn’t too late.
‘Damn it!’ he cursed loudly and drew the Lightning from its holster.
Without no further thought the store owner gave his mount a savage kick and sent it cannoning towards town.
~*~
After he’d crossed the river Brolin paused. Two bodies lay in the street. Both were male, their six-guns lay in the dirt beside them. It looked as though they’d tried to make a fight of it and failed. Their clothing indicated that they were lumbermen. No wonder they had never stood a chance against Stall.
That in itself made Brolin frown. Lumbermen were known to be a breed who spoiled for a fight. They were tough men, so why hadn’t they banded together to stand against Stall and his men? Where were they now? He hadn’t passed them on the way in.
He could only guess they were up in the mountains felling trees.
Brolin eased back the hammer on the Winchester. He grimaced as the dry triple click sounded loud in his ears. He let the buckskin’s reins go and slowly moved forward.
Three horses stood tied to the hitch rail outside the Lumberjack saloon. Without a doubt, that would be where he’d find Stall and his men.