by John Glasby
Motioning the other men forward, he waited until they had taken up their positions. In his left hand, he held the homemade bomb, the short length of fuse dangling from between the two sticks of dynamite. It needed only the touch of a match to the end of that innocent-looking fuse to blow an entire shanty to pieces, destroying most of the men who lay behind it.
‘It’s not goin’ to be easy to get within range, Marshal,’ said one of the men tightly. ‘It’s open ground from here on in and they could pick you off before you’d gone a couple of paces.’
Frank drew his eyes down tight, brow furrowed. The other was right in one respect at least. The ground between them and the nearest shack was completely open without the smallest scrap of cover. Even if he did succeed in getting close enough to heave the dynamite on target, he would himself be in danger from the blast and flying debris. But it was a risk he had to take. There was no other choice left open to him. The breeze thinned the dust and blue-hazed gunsmoke for a moment. Through the gap, he saw two of the gunslingers rise to their feet, run back from the rear of the wooden hut.
‘They’re retreatin’,’ called one of the men, pointing. He jerked up his Colt, loosed off five shots in rapid succession, the bullets kicking up spurts of dust around the running men. Both dropped out of sight into a low hollow, and it was impossible to tell if either had been hit by the sporadic fire.
‘Hold your fire,’ Frank commanded. ‘They’re not pullin’ out, just movin’ to better positions where they can sight on any man movin’ towards the shacks. Could be they’ve divined our intentions.’
‘What do we do then, Marshal?’ muttered another man, peering into the haze. ‘There must be five or six still holed up near that shack and with those two back there, it would be suicide to try anythin’.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Frank sucked in his lips. If he could only reach that depression and take care of the two men in it, it would provide him with the cover he needed.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll handle this.’
‘Don’t be a goddamn fool, Marshal,’ said the first man. ‘You don’t have a chance in hell.’ But he was already talking to the empty air, for Frank had gone, running lightly over the uneven ground on the balls of his feet, gripping the explosive in one hand, the Colt in the other. He had covered half the distance to the hollow before there was any gunfire directed at him. His sudden move had taken the men completely by surprise. Using a bobbing, weaving gait to make himself a more difficult target to hit, he heard bullets hum their song of death all around him. Something invisible plucked at the sleeve of his jacket, but he forced himself to ignore it. Accelerating rapidly, forcing his legs to obey him, he came upon the lip of the depression.
Both men saw him in the same instant. He had time to notice the look of stunned surprise on their faces before the Colt in his right hand belched flame and lead. The nearer man fell back with a hole between his eyes, his gun jetting aimlessly into the air, the bullet driving past Frank’s shoulder as he flung himself down beside the other. The man uttered a grunt of agony, as Frank’s booted foot caught him full in the midriff, knocking the air from his body. But even as he fell, he twisted catlike on the ground, kicking upward in a savage attempt to kill or maim. The toecap of his boot caught Frank on the left kneecap and he felt his legs go from under him. Seizing his momentary advantage, the gunman swung his arm, aiming to smash in Frank’s skull with the butt of his Colt. Only the swift sideways movement of his head saved Frank at that moment. Nevertheless, the gunbutt struck him a glancing blow on the scalp, half stunning him, knocking him back against the sandy wall of the depression. Desperately he fought to retain a hold on his swiftly buckling senses, his vision blurring, pain and thunder roaring through his brain.
Grinning fiercely, the gunhawk thumped another blow at him, thrusting himself up on to his feet as he did so, standing on straddled legs as he strove to sight the gun in his hand on Frank’s chest. Drawing himself together for one last tremendous effort, Frank kicked out with both feet, hitting the man in the chest, toppling him backward. The other’s Colt roared once as the gunhawk’s finger pressed the trigger but the bullet went wild as his back-falling motion carried his gun arm sharply upward.
Frank hurled himself forward and up. He caught at the pistol, wresting it from the owner’s grasp as it roared a second time. Then he smashed his fist into the man’s stomach, felt him cave in under the force of the blow, doubling up so that his knees almost touched his chin. Gripping the other’s shirt, he hauled him up off the floor of the depression, raised the butt of the sixgun he had snatched from his opponent and struck hard and quick at the man’s exposed neck. The gunslinger fell back without a single bleat of sound. The chances were that the shocking impact of the blow had snapped his neck like a rotten twig. Anyway, he would be out cold for long enough, if he wasn’t already dead.
Drawing breath into his heaving lungs in harsh gasps that threatened to tear his bruised, battered body in half, he raised his head cautiously, peered through the low lying haze of blue gunsmoke. The gunfight was still in progress and it was soon evident that the townsmen were getting the worst of it. So far, it seemed, no reinforcements had appeared to give them a hand and the bunch of men led by Sheriff Talbot were pinned down behind a line of wooden barrels, unable to move in any direction without exposing themselves to intense and highly accurate fire.
At the moment, however, none of the Double Circle attackers appeared to be taking overmuch notice of what had happened to their rear. All seemed to be occupied in pouring fire into the barricade and the mouths of the alleys where they opened out on to the open ground around the perimeter of the town.
Reaching into the loose sand at his back, he found the sticks of dynamite with the fuse fortunately still in position. Bending, he struck a match, applied the flame to the exposed end of the fuse, waited for a moment while it began to splutter, then drew back his arm and threw it in a high lob towards the low wooden building less than twenty feet away. He watched as the small bundle arced through the hazy air, saw it land within a few inches of one of the crouching men, saw the man turn his head sharply at the faint sound. It was impossible to make out the look on the man’s face as he recognized the bundle for what it was, but he was just able to catch a fragmentary glimpse of the other rearing wildly to his knees, a yell bursting from his lips. Then Frank had pulled his head down, his arms over it. The blast, when it came, sounded oddly muffled, but as he lifted his head to peer over the lip of the hollow, he saw the tremendous sheet of flame which had suddenly engulfed the ramshackle building with smoke mushrooming above the spot where it had been. Long, flickering tongues of red-edged flame licked among the tumbled debris and twisted pieces of wood and planking were still raining down all about him.
Yells of terror went up from the remaining Double Circle men. Frank was still on his knees when they burst forth from their place of concealment and ran for their horses. He triggered off a couple of shots after them, saw one man reel and clutch at his shoulder just as he reached his mount. Before Frank could send another shot at him, one of his companions, already mounted, raced past, caught the wounded man by the arm and swung him up into the saddle behind him. Two minutes later, the fight was all over.
Clawing himself out of the hollow, Frank moved slowly forward, gun in hand, but there was no more shooting. The town seemed suddenly deathly quiet. Talbot strode from behind the barrels. He stood for a moment looking around at the scene of destruction, then shrugged his shoulders philosophically.
‘Reckon it could’ve been a sight worse,’ he grunted, rubbing a dirty white handkerchief over his glistening forehead. It came away streaked with dust and a thin smear of blood from a deep gash over his left eye. ‘Goddamn! If I ain’t been hit and I never knew a thing.’
‘Nothin’ more ’n a scratch,’ Frank told him. He thrust the Colt back into its holster. ‘Guess we can take down that barricade now. Foran won’t try anythin’ with Benton again for a while, 1 reckon.’
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Talbot gave a brief nod, motioned to a few of the watching men. While they were engaged in removing the wagons, he and Frank made their way back along the street to the jail. Now that the excitement was over for the time being, Frank could scarcely suppress the deep-seated weariness that surged through his body in an enervating wave of fatigue.
‘You look all tuckered in, Marshal,’ said Talbot. He brought out the bottle of whiskey. ‘Better get a little of this inside you. Make you feel a mite better. Anyways, I figure you’ve deserved it after that little fracas.’
Frank nodded, tossed the liquor back in a single gulp. ‘Could be that it’ll show the other ranchers that we are capable of standin’ up to Foran when we try,’ he muttered thickly. His lips seemed to be swollen to twice their normal size and there was a burning pain in his chest and another area of agony down the side of his scalp where the gunman’s heavy weapon had struck him that glancing blow.
‘Foran will have a job on his hands roundin’ up all those cattle of his.’ Talbot sat back, put his legs out on top of the desk, pushed his hat further back on his head. He seemed to have gained a lot in confidence over the past twenty-four hours, Frank thought, looking at him. Maybe this was what he needed to make him feel a man again. For much of his time as sheriff in the past couple of years he had been dominated by Foran and his men, jumping at their beck and call. Now he had turned, had regained his manhood.
‘How’s your prisoner been behavin’ himself while I’ve been away?’
Talbot grinned. ‘Reckon he’s resigned himself to the fact that he’s goin’ to stand trial and that Foran won’t be in a position to help him.’ The other drew a cigar from his pocket, thrust it between his fleshy lips. ‘I sure wish that Fentry would show up, though. It makes me kinda nervous having that hombre in that cell back there. He’s as much a rattler as the rest of that bunch and I sure do get the feelin’ now and again, that he’ll make an effort to break out on his lonesome if Foran doesn’t do somethin’ soon.’
‘Guess it might cool him off some if we were to tell him about this latest episode.’ He got to his feet, picked the bunch of keys off the wall behind the desk and went along to the cells at the rear of the building. Blackie Carron was seated on the low bunk against one wall. He glanced up as Frank stood at the door, looking in at him.
‘Heard some shootin’ out there a while ago, Marshal,’ he said, grinning. ‘That’s just a taste of what’ll happen when Foran really starts.’
‘Guess he’s already tried,’ Frank said evenly. ‘So far, he ain’t made much of a job of it.’
The other’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, then the sneering grin returned to his face. ‘You can’t bluff me like that, Condor. Foran can smash this town whenever he feels like it.’ A cunning look spread over his face. ‘You ever seen a town that’s been braced by a trail crew? They’ll put it to the torch and once a fire is started in a place like this, it’ll all go up like tinder.’
‘Guess they’ve got to get here first before they can make any trouble.’ Frank leaned nonchalantly against the cell door, rolled a smoke. ‘Better make up your mind right now, Carron. Foran won’t help you now. He’s got too many other problems of his own to keep him occupied; real big problems. He tried to stampede his herd through the town a while back, sent several of his boys with it, just to make sure. More ’n half of ’em are dead right now and as for the Double Circle herd, the best part of it is scattered over fifty square miles of prairie.’
‘That won’t hold him for long,’ asserted Carron. ‘Just wait and see. You’re just foolin’ yourselves if you think this is the finish. For you it’s only the beginning.’
‘You talk too damn much,’ Frank said. ‘Once you’ve been tried and found guilty, reckon there won’t be much talk left in you.’
The other heaved himself to his feet, stepped forward, big hands grasping the bars. He thrust his bearded face close to Frank’s. ‘I’ve been doin’ a whole heap of thinkin’ about that, Marshal,’ he gritted. ‘How come Judge Fentry ain’t shown up yet to start the trial? You’ve been spoutin’ off about it ever since I got locked away in this cell. Reckon if he was all that anxious to do it, he’d have been here by now. Come to gloat.’
‘He’ll be here when he’s good and ready.’ Frank did not remove his gaze from the other as he spoke, yet it was difficult not to suppress entirely the wave of apprehension that swept through him at the other’s casual remark. Just how much did the foreman suspect? Pretty soon, the rest of the townsfolk would be asking themselves the very same question. With an effort, he put the thought out of his mind, turned on his heel, calling over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see you get somethin’ to eat, Carron. We don’t want you starvin’ on us before we hitch a riata around that neck of yours.’
*
Witney Foran was in an ugly mood. It showed in his face and his manner as he stood in front of the window, staring out at the horses which milled around restlessly in the big corral. Behind him, Frisco felt a sudden stab of anger. When the other did not break the silence which had existed between them for more than five minutes, he said tartly, ‘I don’t see why the hell you should blame me for that fiasco in town. I had nothin’ to do with the whole affair, was against it from the start. But you had to listen to the Maceys. They were both so all-fired sure they could stampede that herd through Benton and smash down everythin’ in their way.’
Foran swung quickly on his heel, glared across the room at the gunfighter. ‘The idea was sound enough,’ he blazed. ‘It just happened that Condor spotted the herd on the move and managed to get through and warn the town. Otherwise, Benton would have been flattened by now.’
‘So once again, we’ve failed to eliminate Condor. Seems to me that this bastard of a Marshal has got in our hair once too often. You ought to have called his bluff when we rode in to free Carson.’
‘You think that damnfool sheriff wouldn’t have pressed the triggers of that scattergun he was holdin’? It would have given him just the excuse he’d been waitin’ for. He’s a coward, there’s no denyin’ that, and he got some odd notion that it ain’t right to kill a man unless you can do it all perfectly legal. But on that occasion, he’d have done it with a clear conscience. I didn’t see you ready to call him out, especially with Condor behind us with a gun.’
‘Sooner or later, Condor and me are goin’ to meet face to face and then we’ll see who’s got the fastest gun,’ snarled Frisco.
Foran’s face remained grim. ‘I wouldn’t be too damn sure you can take him,’ he said deliberately. ‘He ain’t like the ordinary run of marshals. He’s wizard fast with a gun.’ He smashed his clenched fist hard on the table. ‘But nevertheless, I want him dead — and I want it done fast. With no more mistakes. So long as he’s alive and kickin’, he’s a menace.’
Frisco hitched his gunbelt a little higher around his middle. For a moment there was a little devil leaping at the back of the dark eyes, a feral glow that sent a shiver through Foran’s body. It was the crazed look of a killer, something he had seen, not once, but several times before and it meant death for somebody.
‘You givin’ me the chance to take Condor in my own way, without any interference from the Macey’s?’ Frisco asked pertinently.
An air of strict guarded attention to fact came over Foran. The earlier fury of the day which had come when word had arrived of the failure of the plan to smash Benton and the loss of six of his men had settled somewhat inside him to a black and implacable hatred of Frank Condor. The man had been a thorn in his side for too long, he decided. Everything was boiling around within his mind, giving him no peace, no chance to remake his plans and think ahead. Condor was deliberately pushing him to the brink of savage and rash action and he knew only too well that this way could conceivably lead to absolute disaster. He picked up the whiskey bottle from the table, poured a drink without offering one to the other and drank it in short, avid gulps.
‘All right,’ he muttered finally. ‘If
you reckon you can take him, ride into Benton and finish the job tonight.’
‘And Blackie? You want him out of jail once I’ve finished that particular chore?’
‘Sure. Bring him back here. He’s a good man and I need him. Once Condor is dead, we’ll ride against Carson. With him out of the way, I can take over the rest of the land at my leisure without any trouble.’
‘Condor has been tryin’ to work up the other ranchers into throwin’ in their lot with him. I suppose you know that already?’
Foran nodded. ‘I’ve got my ways of findin’ out what goes on in Benton. There’s very little I don’t know. Now you’d better dust along if you’re to get to town by sundown. Want any of the boys to go along with you?’
‘Nope. I figure this is somethin’ I’ll do best on my own.’ He took out the Colts one at a time, spun the chambers smoothly checking that they were both fully loaded, then pouched them again. ‘No need to worry none. Condor will be buzzard bait by mornin’.’
Leaving the ranch house, he went over to the corral, roped out his mount and threw a saddle on to the horse, tightening the cinch under the animal’s belly, checking the Winchester, before swinging up in a smooth motion. He raised his hand in mock salute to Foran as he rode out in a cloud of slowly-settling dust.
After he had gone, two shadows detached themselves from the barn and walked over to Foran, their spurs dragging dust. Pausing in front of the rancher, Flint Macey said brusquely: ‘Just saw Frisco ride out in a powerful hurry, Foran. He got some urgent business to settle?’
‘That’s right.’ The other gave a curt nod. After what had happened over the past day, he was now beginning to wonder whether he had done the right thing in bringing these two killers up from Texas to work for him. They were both ruthless killers, it was true, the breed of men he had been looking for to back his plans. But he also had the feeling that they were not the sort of men who willingly took to accepting orders and he felt a little uneasy whenever they were around.