by Lauran Paine
“No warning,” this man gasped. “One shot through the window. Glass went showering all over. That dark one there beside his cot stopped that slug. Then hell busted loose. We run in...smack dab into the middle of it. That’s when I stopped mine.”
Bannion put a hand upon the cowboy’s shoulder, gently squeezed, then turned as Ray King tapped him upon the back.
“I had no idea Rockland had gunfighters in his crew. They looked like ordinary ranch hands to me.”
“Those men aren’t part of Texas Star,” Bannion told him. “They’re professional killers. Hired gunfighters.”
“But they’re Rockland’s, aren’t they?”
Bannion nodded. “Yeah, they’re Rockland’s.” He pointed over to Al. “How bad?”
“Through the lung. He’s out and I hope he stays that way.”
“I’ll send for the doctor.”
“You’ll only get him killed, Bannion!” shouted Ray King over a fusillade. “The best thing for Al is to do exactly what he’s doing right now...lie perfectly still and keep down.”
Austin, along with Hank and Bannion’s remaining two deputies, listened quietly as the gunfire dwindled, then they moved cautiously around the door and poured bullets into the adjoining room.
Bannion watched, waiting a moment before he asked Ray: “Where are they?”
“Scattered and out of sight. I think one is in the next room but we can’t exactly poke our heads in there to find him. The others are in the room beyond the next one. They’re somewhere along the walls on each side of that doorway. But they’re no kids at this. After every shot they get quickly to some different spot. We’ve tried pattern-shooting until those walls look like sieves.”
“And they’re still shooting,” said Bannion.
Ray King nodded. “Did they bother Judith?”
Bannion looked around. “No. Why should they, they work for her paw.”
Ray inclined his head over this. He turned to look with narrowed eyes at the other defenders. He watched his brothers and those two cowboys fire and sidle away, return to fire again, and once more shift positions. He said: “Sheriff, this is getting to be a Mexican stand-off. They can’t overwhelm us and we can’t even find them. I sent one of your men downstairs to....”
“I know. I met him.”
“Do you think it’ll work?”
Bannion frowned. “The idea’s sound enough, only those gunmen aren’t tied to any trees. They can keep shifting, too. I’d have sent two men at the minimum.”
“Couldn’t spare ’em,” Ray explained, and pointed toward his downed brother and the two disengaged deputies. “Those gunmen out there are damn’ good. If the odds were even, I believe they’d try rushing us.”
There came a lull now. While this uneasy silence lasted the men around Bannion looked from one to the other. Ray twisted to go back by the door but Bannion reached out his arm to detain him.
“I don’t want those men to get away,” he told Ray King. “I’m going to find that man you sent to flank them and join him.”
Ray nodded at this.
Bannion managed to make it out of the room, down the hall to the stairs, and then down the steps without incident. He knew this building as well as its owners. He pushed on across the lobby, which was now empty, cut through the dining room, and entered the pantry. Here, he found the kitchen help huddled together. When they began asking questions, Bannion just shook his head at the lot of them and moved along to the rear stairway. Here, he paused to cock his head and listen.
Gunfire was rising to another crescendo overhead; the walls reverberated with each concussion. Bannion went cautiously up the stairs, and where the second floor showed, he halted to run a probing look in all directions. On his left and right were identical dark doors, both closed. Somewhere, up here, he would find his deputy. He did not move for a long time. Under circumstances like these, many men had been killed by friends. Bannion did not propose to have this happen to him, and yet he had no way of knowing where his deputy was.
It was impossible, except in a very general way, to determine where those exploding blasts were coming from. In this hotel nearly all the rooms had interconnecting doors, in case guests wished to engage more than one room.
Bannion went over the floor plan in his mind and decided that since the room where the Kings were was down the hall near its turning on the right-hand side, John Rockland’s gunmen would have to be on that same side of the building. He passed swiftly up the remaining steps, paused for a second to take one final look around, then he went to the nearest door, opened it an inch, drew no fire, opened it wider, and looked in.
He was staring into a cocked gun ten feet across the room near a massive old dresser. There was neither time to draw and shoot or duck back. The man holding that gun straightened up.
It was Bannion’s deputy, and the cowboy put a sardonic look upon Sheriff Bannion and dolefully wagged his head. It had, he was telling Bannion in this manner, been a very close call for the lawman.
Bannion gestured toward the splintered doorway between them. The cowboy inclined his head. Bannion took this to mean it was safe to enter, and did so, flattening at once along the wall and mincing his way forward to one side of the opened door. Across from him the deputy followed his example. When they were close, one on each side of the opening, they traded a long glance. A shot exploded inside, deafeningly close. Bannion gestured for the deputy to cover him. He dropped down flat on his stomach, flung off his hat, and pushed his head along the baseboard until, just short of being able to see around the door, he paused to look up. The deputy was raising his gun hand. Bannion took a shallow breath and stretched his neck.
He could see the entire east wall of the yonder room, and part of the north and south walls. There was no gunman in his sight. He drew back very carefully, pulled himself upright, yanked his hat back on, and gestured for the cowboy to step back away from his side of the door. This accomplished, Bannion balanced forward, set one foot as far forward as he dared, and whipped across that lethal opening in a swift blur of movement. Then he dropped down swiftly, waiting. Apparently he had not been seen, for no shots came.
He lay flat again, began to repeat his earlier maneuver, and a second before he pushed his head out, a slashing burst of searching gunfire erupted far ahead. Bullets struck the door making it quiver wildly. Bannion drew back and waited, thinking the King boys were proving an easy match for the men seeking to kill them.
When that unseen gunfighter opened up, returning the Kings’ fire, Bannion shoved his head along the baseboard, straining to see the east and south walls. He saw them both in a flash; he also saw that gunfighter. He was down on one knee with his gun cocked and ready to fire through the other door into and out of that yonder room, which was positioned in the northern wall.
Bannion whipped forward his six-gun, steadied it, and fired. Something, perhaps Bannion’s quick movement, alerted the gunfighter a fraction of a second ahead of Bannion’s shot. The man was uncoiling up off the floor when Bannion’s slug struck him. He got off a return shot with unbelievable speed, but then he went over sideways, rolling from the impact, came to rest hard against the east wall, and stayed there.
Bannion drew back. He put up a hand where his hat had been. Then slowly pulled his legs up and stood. The deputy was retrieving Bannion’s hat and studying it. He put two fingers through the holes, one in the front and one in the back. He looked incredulously at Bannion while handing over the hat.
“Lord A’mighty,” he mumbled. “That was the damnedest piece of shootin’ I ever saw in my life. He was goin’ down from your slug when he whirled around an’ got off that shot.”
Bannion examined his hat. Two inches lower and he would have been dead with a bullet lodged in his brain. For a moment it shook the sheriff, but then he put the hat back on, and shook off the feeling of relief. Gunfire erupted again and the cowboy had h
is mouth close to Bannion’s ear.
“Dast we go in there...we might get up to that other door and get them other two.”
Bannion considered this. He had no fears about passing undetected into the next room. All they would have to do in order to achieve this end would be to wait until the two gunmen were again engaged with the Kings, their attention fixed forward. What troubled him was that, once in the other room, they would be in more jeopardy than ever because, while they might catch the gunfighters between their fire and the shooting of the Kings, they themselves would also be under fire from both sides.
The cowboy, though, was impatient. He began edging around Bannion. He had reloaded his handgun. He seemed almost eager now. Bannion looked closely at him. This man was young, perhaps no more than twenty-one or -two years of age. Bannion sighed, remembering how youth was a reckless time. He put out a hand, stopping the deputy, and moved ahead of him. If he was going to be shot, Bannion wanted to walk into it fully aware that he had taken all precautions. He had no relish for following some hot-headed youth into a lead storm.
Bannion got as close to the door as he dared. Then he waited. The firing in the rooms ahead had its high moments and its low moments. Bannion wanted to make his move during a high moment. This might increase the chances of an accidental strike, but he preferred this to being the target of the unerring aim of two men who were probably every bit as accurate and merciless as the man he had shot. Behind him, the deputy stirred restlessly, brushing up against Bannion.
Someone let out a fierce curse. Instantly the two gunmen opened up. This was precisely what Bannion had been waiting for. He struck backward with one hand to alert the deputy, then he jumped into the next room, threw himself violently sideways, and went bounding ahead during that furious forward exchange of shots until he was across the room on the right-hand side of the door.
The deputy, following Bannion’s example, had raced across to the left-hand side of the same door. Both of them hung there, pressing to the wall, breathing deeply and involuntarily flinching from the ripping sound of lead slugs tearing into the woodwork around them.
The angry voice began again, calling his attackers vile names. Each time the voice rang out, it brought forth a rush of gunfire from the gunfighters. Bannion wondered whether the man yelling had a strategic reason for doing so, and if so what it could be.
The deputy moved to get Bannion’s attention. He looked excited and was gesturing to the wall on his far left. He made a thumping motion with his gun hand, indicating, Bannion thought, that he had placed one of the gunfighters by the sound of the man’s back or shoulders striking the wall. The deputy stepped back from the door, brought up his cocked six-gun, and frowned in powerful concentration. Bannion watched as the deputy took his time in determining exactly where to aim so that when he fired the man in the next room would be struck by that penetrating bullet. The sheriff thought of stopping the cowboy, knowing that their position would be revealed, but then it was too late.
The gun was fired. A shout rose beyond the wall. Bannion watched as a smile emerged on the face of his deputy. The sheriff, knowing the killers now knew they had enemies behind them, shifted and pushed into the deputy just as a barrage of shots blasted through the wall. Wood splinters and wall dust flew, and a commode bowl and pitcher upon a far table disintegrated from a direct hit.
Bannion was down flat. And right next to him was the cowboy, who was no longer grinning. In fact, he looked badly shaken, as he pressed his body into the floor to make it as flat as possible.
Although the deputy’s bullet might have winged a gunman, from the savage firing that had them pinned down now, Bannion knew that it had neither killed the man nor injured him very seriously. It had, however, accomplished something—it had directed the anger of those two killers toward Bannion and his companion and away from the King brothers and Bannion’s other deputies.
Chapter Sixteen
From the other side of the wall came a triumphant shout and the shooting became even more deafening. As he lay on the floor, Bannion wished idly that the two gunfighters would recognize the futility of their position and give up since they were both outnumbered and cut off. They did not.
They seemed to be taking turns shooting—one spraying lead while the other one reloaded. Unless this was what they were doing, Bannion could not account for the volume and ferocity of their fire. It wasn’t long before it began to seem to him that the pauses between the shots were growing longer. He lay on the floor, trying to be certain of this, thinking that, if this were so, the gunmen were probably running low on ammunition.
It did not occur to Bannion, until he heard the sound of a spur striking wood, that the gunfighters were making ready to escape out the window and back down the fire escape. Then he did a reckless thing. He got to his feet and sprang across the door opening to the room’s west side, and kept right on going. As Bannion passed out into the hallway, his puzzled deputy called out. But Bannion kept right on going—down the stairs, through the abandoned kitchen, and then the storeroom, until he emerged in the alley. At once a bullet came. It pierced Bannion’s shirt, low along his ribs, and the lawman hit the dirt, rolled, snapped off a shot without any actual target, and waited. No other shot came, but an angry curse did.
“Damn you, Bannion...you trying to get killed!”
Bannion knew the voice, but he did not at once place its owner. For that reason he scuttled behind a wood shed and waited a moment before peering out. It was then that he realized it was Ray King. As he looked out, he saw there was no one on the fire escape.
Bannion drew back a ragged breath, figuring Ray King’s shot had warned the upstairs gunmen that there was an ambush awaiting them down below. He felt like swearing. He had had it all worked out so nicely in his mind. As the two gunfighters appeared on the fire escape on the side of the building, exposed and helpless, Bannion would demand their surrender and they would either throw down their weapons or be killed.
He waited, listening to the intermittent shooting inside the hotel. It seemed to be moving farther along the floor, from room to room. Then there came a long lull, some muffled cries, then a resumption of gunfire downstairs. Bannion shifted his gun hand to cover the rear door through which he had hurtled himself only minutes before. He risked a shout to Ray King.
“Sounds like they’re making for the back door and this alleyway! Remember, King, I’m over here, too.”
Ray stepped out into clear view. He had a direct northerly view of the hotel’s rear wall as far, and farther, than that back door. Bannion’s position by the shed was slightly south and east of that door.
They waited. Sudden silence came and in some ways it seemed more deafening than the earlier gunfire had been. During this lull Bannion took the pulse of his town. It was breathlessly still, hushed. No sounds of people out and about. They were obviously uncertain about what was going on, but they had not the slightest doubt concerning their individual parts in it—they kept entirely away.
The door slammed open. Two men sprinted out into the alley and ran directly forward from the hotel’s rear wall some hundred feet apart. They twisted once or twice to fire behind them. A number of wild shots came from the rearward doorway but these were not at all accurate. Those racing men, protected in great measure by darkness, also ran unevenly, making of themselves difficult targets.
Bannion saw muzzle blast from Ray King’s gun. He flinched. That whip-sawed red flame looked as though it was aimed directly at him. Ray fired a second time. Bannion waited, letting the two men come even with the shed. Ahead of them was an old, patched wooden fence. Beyond this was the rear yard of a house. Bannion raised his gun, tracked the nearest of his enemies, and tightened his finger a fraction of a second after a bullet struck wood beside his head. Bannion’s bullet sang overhead and the gunman dropped to his knees, apparently stung by splintered wood. He swore heartily. Both gunmen then hit that fence in a plunging run and r
ose up to drop down somewhere beyond it.
In the excitement Bannion swore at Ray King. He remained on his knees long enough to reload, then he got up, and began yelling at his men as they came out of the hotel to circle around the square. Then he strode over to Ray King, who was also walking out into plain sight.
“I told you to be careful...that I was over there,” rasped the sheriff to Ray King. “You spoiled my one good shot.”
Ray considered the lawman’s angry countenance. “There was a lot of lead flying,” he said. “But if that was my fault...I’m sorry.”
Bannion turned toward the fence. “Come on,” he growled. “And after this you stay right beside me.”
The big Texan viewed Bannion calmly, then went along without making any comment. At the fence they paused to listen. Bannion had no doubt but that those fugitives were a long way from the fence by now, but he wanted to be sure. When he was, he holstered his gun, reached up, and heaved himself over the fence. It shook under this strain, and as Bannion landed in someone’s geranium bed, Ray King came vaulting over to land beside him.
In front of the hotel men were slapping saddle leather, and within seconds both Bannion and Ray could hear the horses racing around the square northward.
“They won’t get away,” Ray declared. “They may go into hiding, but they won’t get away.”
These were also Bannion’s thoughts, but he said nothing. They squatted there by the fence with darkness around them, considering the forward stretch of open yard. Bannion was not anxious to step out into this and be exposed.
Ray King said: “Cover me. I’ll go around the house on the south side.”
Bannion rose up when Ray did, saying: “I’ll go around on the north. We’ll meet around front. And this time don’t shoot me.”