“By God, you did it! I wish I had been in on the kill!”
Dave glanced at Monte. “I’m glad you weren’t.”
Dan looked queerly at Dave. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve got bad news for you, Dan, depending on how you look at it.”
“So?”
“Bart is dead.”
“Who got him!”
Dave glanced at Monte again. Monte shrugged. “Tell him,” he said.
Dave dismounted and offered Dan the makings. The big man rolled a smoke and lit it. “Shoot,” he said as he filled his lungs with smoke.
Dave told him the whole story. He took the smashed badge from his pocket and gave it to Edrick.
Dan looked at the badge and then stowed it away. “Maybe it’s just as well,” he said quietly. “Ganoe was no good. Rileton, or Muir, was a slicker, but Bart, well, I been carrying him on my back for years.” He looked at Dave. “You bury him?”
“Yeh. Decent. We said a few words. Cairned the grave.”
“Thanks.” Edrick hesitated. “One more thing, don’t ever mention his name to me again. Understand?”
Dave nodded.
Edrick looked back over his shoulder. “I’ve been waitin’ for you. Vidal and that Mex vaquero of his been hanging around town all night. They been talking war. They tried to get Leslie Waite, but Cass Simmons forted up in his store with a loaded shotgun. Let’s go get them.”
Dave nodded. “Monte, you stay here. Dan will help me.”
Monte spat. “Like hell! I’m going to be in on this showdown, busted wing and all!”
“I figured you would. Where are they, Dan?”
“They was in the Star Of The West.”
Dave looked at Monte. “Come on, amigo”
Monte slid awkwardly from the saddle and freed his Colt. “Check this cutter, will you, Dan?”
Edrick twirled the cylinder of the sixgun. “All set.” He handed it to Monte.
Dave drew his Starr and checked it. He slid it back into his sheath. He rolled two smokes and thrust one between Month’s lips. Dave hitched up his gunbelt. “Let’s go,” he said.
They strode down the street in the gray light of dawn. The rain began to slide silently down, greasing the street. A wisp of bitter smoke trailed in front of them from some early riser’s fire. A cock gave voice at the far end of town.
Dave glanced back. Big Dan Edrick was leading the two horses into shelter. He waved at them.
Their spurs jingled softly as they neared the big saloon. A door banged farther down the street and Tom Finney, Bart Edrick’s deputy, came toward them. He stopped in front of them. “Where you goin’?” he asked.
“To flush some skunks,” said Monte. “Names of Vidal and Vegas.”
Finney shook his head. “No you ain’t! I’m the law around here until Bart Edrick returns.”
“Hell of a long time to wait,” said Monte softly, “until Judgement Day.”
“What the hell you talkin’ about?”
“Bart is dead,” said Dave. His eyes studied the silent saloon ahead of them.
Finney squared his shoulders. “Then I’m sheriff,” he said importantly. “You get outa town!”
“Get out of the way,” said Dave.
Finney tapped Dave on the chest. “I’ll run you in for carrying firearms in town.”
Dave viciously backhanded the deputy, knocking him down. He stepped across the fallen man. Finney got up and scuttled for shelter.
The rain pattered steadily down. It was too damned quiet to suit Dave. The front door of the saloon swung slowly open. A lean man stepped out and stopped beneath the saloon awning. It was Jesse Vidal, rakish and handsome, wearing his twin Colts low and tied-down. He leaned against a post as they stopped walking. “The two missionaries,” he said with a sneer.
“Come to do some reformin’,” said Monte.
Vidal took a tailormade from his shirt pocket and lit it, eyeing them over the flare of the match. He placed the cigarette in the corner of his thin mouth. “How do you want it?” he asked. “One at a time or together?”
Dave glanced up the street. Vegas was not to be seen. “We’ll give you a chance to pull out,” he said. “Head out of here and keep going. Vamoose!”
Vidal laughed. “Hard case,” he said with a grin.
Monte cursed. He shoved Dave to one side with a shoulder thrust and raised his Colt. Vegas had rounded a corner of the saloon. Monte’s sixgun spat flame and smoke. Vegas dropped his gun, looked queerly at them, walked a few uncertain steps out into the street where he pitched forward and lay still. The powder smoke drifted off before the wind.
Dave had never taken his eyes from Vidal. Jesse flipped his cigarette toward the dead man. “Never could take his time,” he said. He eyed Dave.
Dave went for his Starr but Vidal was a gunswift. The twin Colts cleared leather, cocked and leveled before Dave’s Starr was free of his holster. Cold sweat mingled with the rain on Dave’s face.
Monte yelled. Vidal cursed and turned. Dave raced forward, driving home a jolting right to the lean jaw. Vidal twisted, dropping his right hand Colt. He made the border shift quickly, tossing his left hand Colt into his right hand, but Dave came up with a well-timed kick, sending the flashy sixgun clattering across the muddy street.
Dave stepped back.
Vidal raised his handsome head. “Go ahead,” he said. “Shoot me down!”
Dave smiled. He threw his Starr down on the porch. He ripped a left into Vidal’s gut. His right came up to meet the descending chin. Vidal’s head snapped back. He bounced from a post and reeled out into the street. He raised his fists but Dave was too fast, tired as he was. He speared Vidal with a left and jabbed in a vicious right which sent Vidal down flat on his back.
Vidal shook his head. “Let’s settle this right, with guns,” he said.
Dave shook his head. “There’s been enough killing,” he said. “Get up! I’ll make a real man out of you, Vidal!”
Vidal came up on his feet. He sent Dave reeling with a right to the mouth. Blood flowed from the mashed lips. A left staggered him. The kid could hit like a maul. A right sprawled him in the mud.
Dave rolled away from a poised boot but the cruel spur raked his jaw. Dave gripped the ankle and upset the taller man. He rolled atop the raging kid. He battered at him with both fists. Vidal brought a knee up into Dave’s groin and broke away. Dave forced himself up, covered his face with blocking elbows and weathered a flurry of hard blows.
Dave retreated, blocked a right and caught Vidal with a one-two that staggered him. He followed through with a left that smashed Vidal up against the side of a building. Vidal pulled away but Dave gripped his shoulder, spun him about and drove in a punch that sent Vidal down on his knees. Dave gripped him by the shirt front, dragged him to his feet and slapped the handsome, bloody face three times, shoving Vidal back to receive another one-two.
Vidal threw his shaking arms up in front of his face. He reeled back toward the rushing creek. Dave broke through the arms and let fly a blue norther that broke some of his knuckles. Vidal’s pretty nose was askew through a spate of blood as he teetered at the edge of the rushing creek. Dave threw a haymaker which practically lifted the kid from the ground. He crashed back into the water and came up spluttering. “I’ve had enough!” he yelled.
Dave jumped into the stream and gripped him by the collar, forcing him to the bank. The kid covered his face with his hands.
Monte came toward them with cocked Colt. Half a dozen curious townsmen were standing in Front Street watching them. “Christ!” said Monte, “what a beatin’ you gave him, Dave.”
“I don’t feel too good myself, Monte,” said Dave dryly.
Monte eyed the battered kid. “Come on, Jesse,” he said. “Outa the rain and into the calabozo. You’ve got some explainin’ to do about the death of a marshal and the stealin’ of an army payroll.”
Vidal stumbled as he walked toward the jail. Blood dripped from his battered face.
Leslie met him at the door of the store. She held him close. “I’m all bloody,” he said.
She kissed him anyway. “I don’t care,” she said. “You’ve come back. You’ve come back at last!”
The rain sluiced down. It would be a hard winter, thought Dave as he held Leslie close. But the valley of the Double W was well sheltered and he and Leslie would be, too. He was an outlier no longer.
THE END
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Copyright © 1956 by Gordon D. Shirreffs. Copyright © renewed 1984 by Gordon D. Shirreffs. Published by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency. All rights reserved.
Cover Images ©Time Tunnel/The Wild West
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 10: 1-4405-4892-7
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4892-5
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4890-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4890-1
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