by John Glasby
Two men came down out of the trees in a hurry, their feet crashing through the tangled underbrush. Frank glanced round swiftly, jerking up his gun, then lowered it as he recognized two of Credin’s men.
‘A bunch of men headin’ this way,’ said one of them breathlessly. ‘Could be the Maceys with the rest of the Double Circle outfit, those who attacked us earlier tonight.’
‘If it is, then they’ll have heard the gunfire by now and know there’s trouble.’ Frank spoke incisively. ‘We’ve got to stop them before they manage to break through and join up with Foran down there.’
‘How do you figure on doin’ that?’ queried Credin.
‘We’ll make our stand among the trees yonder. From there we can cover the trail over the hill. They may not be expectin’ that.’
‘I’ll come with you. Forbes and Withers, get two more men. Hurry!’
They made for a small, flinty knoll set among the trees and settled down to wait, the faint drumming of hooves clearly audible now, even above the continued roar of gunfire at their backs. After a few moments, Frank was able to make out the bunch of riders in the moonlight, spurring their mounts forward at a cruel pace. There was no doubt whatever in his mind now that it was Flint and Clay Macey, returning after their nocturnal mission to burn out Credin and his family.
As a sudden thought passed through his mind he turned sharply to the rancher lying prone beside him. ‘Don’t open fire until I give the word,’ he hissed urgently. ‘I want them as close as possible before they know we’re here. With a little luck we can empty half of those saddles before they’re aware of us.’
Credin tightened his lips, then nodded tersely. It was clear that the order settled hard with him, but he was forced to admit the wisdom of such strategy.
The heavy party ran full tilt up the narrow trail and as they came on, two abreast, Frank recognized the Macey brothers in the lead. They were perhaps a hundred feet away when someone in the party yelled: ‘Hole up, Flint. We’re liable to run into trouble if we barge in there with our eyes shut. They could have somebody watchin’ their rear.’
The column slackened speed at the shout. Frank thrust his body down in the undergrowth, thus to become absorbed in the black shadow of it. He heard Flint Macey call: ‘Dismount and spread out.’
Frank sighted along his gun. This was to be the last chance they would get before the men went down under cover and scattered. ‘Open fire,’ he yelled harshly.
Gunfire ripped the night into a thousand screaming fragments of sound. Four men tumbled from their saddles before they had a chance to obey Macey’s orders. The others fought to check their rearing mounts, then galloped into the thick brush as more bullets followed them. Frank estimated that both of the Maceys had survived that initial fusillade and there could only be five or six men still alive.
At least they had reduced the odds nearer to evens. Lifting his head cautiously, he watched for any movement that would give away the position of any of the gunmen. For a long moment, there was nothing. Then a black shadow broke away from the massed shadows beneath the trees, raced for the cover of a thick bush ten yards away. Frank snapped a shot at the man, missed and cursed harshly under his breath. ‘You don’t have a chance, any of you,’ he called loudly, raising his voice to make himself heard above the booming racket of gunfire nearer the Double Circle ranch. ‘Foran is finished. Throw out your guns and come out with your hands lifted.’
‘Go to hell, Condor.’ Clay Macey’s voice came from among the trees. ‘I’m goin’ to have the pleasure of seein’ you die, real slow.’
‘The last time you see me, you’ll be danglin’ from a branch,’ Frank called back. He sent a couple of shots probing into the brush, but the other must have shifted his position the moment he had finished speaking. Sporadic firing continued as they forced the Double Circle men to keep their heads down; and behind them, Frank was aware that the gunfire around the ranch house was dying slowly.
Ten minutes later, it had died out altogether. From a few feet away, Credin murmured: ‘Reckon it’s all over back there, one way or the other.’
Frank nodded. The silence from the valley was suddenly ominous. Then Phil Carson’s voice drifted up from down the slope. ‘Witney Foran’s dead. It’s all over.’ ‘You hear that?’ Frank shouted. ‘Your boss is dead. If you want to go on shootin’ that’s all right by us. If you want to give up, step out now with your hands high.’
He waited, the hammer of his Colt thumbed back. For a moment there was silence. Then he heard a faint movement in the brush and a second later, three men stepped out, their hands high.
‘They’re surrenderin’,’ said Credin tautly. He made to get to his feet, but Frank pulled him down.
‘Where’s Flint and Clay Macey?’ he called sharply. He let his glance slide sideways towards the midnight shadows that lay thick and huge among the trees, eyes alert and watchful for trickery. ‘Where the hell are they?’
‘They — ’ began one of the men. Before he could go on, the sound of horses moving swiftly down-grade reached Frank’s ears. With a muttered oath, he leapt to his feet, ran forward, thrust the three men aside in his run.
Reaching the edge of the trees he stared out into the moonlight, was just in time to see the two riders spurring their mounts down towards the distant valley. Thrusting the Colt back into leather, he turned away. The others had too much of a lead for him to hope to catch them.
‘Where’d you figure they’ll head for?’ Carson asked, when Frank told him, a little while later, after the last of the surviving Double Circle riders had been rounded up.
‘If they’ve any sense, they’ll ride on over the hill and keep on riding,’ he said soberly. ‘But I’ve got that feelin’ in my bones, they won’t.’
‘Ain’t nothin’ left for them to do around here. Foran’s no longer around to pay ’em.’
Frank clenched his teeth until the muscles of his jaw lumped painfully. ‘They didn’t come here just because Foran sent for ’em and paid ’em to ride for him. They had another reason for wantin’ to be around Benton.’
‘What kind of reason?’
‘They came to kill me. An old score from way back, down in Texas.’
Carson’s brows drew together into a straight line as he pondered that. Then he nodded. ‘I suppose I guessed that some time ago,’ he said simply. He looked about him at the ruin of a once-proud ranch. ‘We’re finished here. Reckon we’d better be ridin’ on back.’ He jerked a thumb towards the gunmen. ‘Reckon that Sheriff Talbot will be glad to give accommodation to these hellions until we can fix up a trial for ’em.’
*
It was high noon in Benton, the blistering heat laying a pall of shimmering haze and dust over the town, picking out the peeling paint on the front of the livery stables, showing in all its glaring harshness the ugly lines of the stores and the two-storied hotel. In the shade of the boardwalk, several of the older citizens were trying to find some respite from the heat. For a while, Benton seemed its usual self; then, quite suddenly, things changed.
It was Len Hudson, the clerk at the general store, who saw them first, riding in from the desert, saw them and recognized them and ran along the echo-ringing boardwalk to warn Sheriff Talbot.
The other was dozing in his chair, his feet on top of the desk, his hat brim pulled well down over his perspiring face. He pushed it back with a show of irritation as the other burst into the office, breathing shallowly with the heat and the exertion.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you, boy?’ he asked harshly. ‘Lord, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
The other swallowed convulsively, his adam’s apple working in his throat for several seconds before he managed to speak, one hand pointing a trembling finger towards the street outside.
‘Flint and Clay Macey. I saw ’em both riding into town.’ Talbot leapt from his chair as if he had received a shock, moved quickly around the edge of his desk and gripped the youth’s shoulder hard. ‘You sure, boy?’ he aske
d tightly. ‘You could’ve been mistaken.’
‘I couldn’t mistake those two characters,’ said the other positively. ‘It was the Macey brothers, I tell you.’
‘All right. Simmer down. Let’s go take a look.’ He made his way slowly to the street door, opened it a crack and peered out into the dusty sunlight. The inferno heat of the noon sun struck him with the force of a physical blow. For a moment he stood there, then opened the door wider, stepped out carefully on to the boardwalk as though expecting it to collapse under his weight at any moment. Then he turned his head slowly and squinted up and down the street, before stepping back inside. ‘Ain’t nobody out there now,’ he said, ticked by suspicion. ‘Now if this is your idea of a joke, I’ll — ’
‘They were there, Sheriff. I swear it.’
‘Then they ain’t there no longer.’ Talbot thought for a while, a frown creasing his fleshy features. Then he reached a sudden decision. ‘You got any idea where Marshal Condor is right now?’
‘Sure. He’s over at the hotel talking with Miss Carson.’
‘Right. Then hurry over there and tell him what you’ve just told me. I figure he’ll know what to do about it. Try not to be seen.’
The clerk hesitated for a moment, then shrugged, stepped out into the street and ran in the direction of the hotel as fast as his legs would carry him. From the door of the sheriff s office, Talbot watched him go, saw him reach the hotel and rush inside. Rubbing his chin, Talbot went over to the rack and took down one of the Winchesters, went over to his desk, took out a box of shells, broke the seal, then thrust a handful into his pocket, loading the rifle carefully. If the boy had been right, he told himself, then it was possible that Frank would need a little help. He could guess at the way those gunmen’s minds worked. They would split up, come into two alleys and work their way towards the centre of town, to take Frank from two directions.
Frank and the girl sat at the table near the window on the lower floor of the hotel. There was little breeze and even here, inside the room, the heat was intolerable. When the door opened and the store clerk rushed in, Frank felt a sudden twinge of apprehension. There was something in the other’s manner which spoke of trouble.
‘Glad I found you here, Marshal.’ The other shot a quick glance out of the window. ‘I came to warn you that the Macey brothers just rode into town. I saw them from the store. They rode in from the desert. By the time I got to the sheriff’s office, they’d split up. Sheriff Talbot says you’ll know what to do about it.’ He cocked his head on one side and stared at Frank hopefully.
Frank heard Atalanta’s sudden intake of breath, could guess at the thoughts which had prompted it. He turned to face her, held her by the arms and looked into her troubled face.
‘I have to go,’ he said simply. ‘You know why they’re here.’
‘To settle some old score they have with you.’ Her voice shook a little. ‘Why do you have to go on killing? Is there to be no end to it?’
‘This is somethin’ between them and me, Atalanta. Something that has to be settled, one way or the other, right here and now. They’re out there somewhere, waitin’ for me.’
‘Don’t you mean they’re hiding somewhere, ready to bushwhack you the minute you step out of here?’
‘Maybe so.’ His voice was quite steady. ‘Now I want you to stay here until I came back. This won’t take long.’
‘If you ever come back,’ she said, struggling to keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘Those men are cold-blooded killers. They don’t go by any of the rules in the book. They’ll shoot you in the back and ride out of here laughing.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ he promised.
‘Will you, Frank?’ The girl’s face was fearful.
‘I’ll make a good try.’ He forced a quick smile. ‘I’ll try real hard.’
Altogether there were perhaps a hundred buildings in Benton, stretching for close on a quarter of a mile on either side of the wide, dusty road. For the most part, they clustered closely together as if for support and this had the effect of narrowing any of the alleys between them, leaving plenty of shadows in which a gunman might hide, ready to pick off his victim without warning. All of this struck Frank forcibly as he walked slowly down the dead centre of the street, his eyes moving swiftly from side to side. It was a damned good town for an ambush and the Maceys were past masters of this sort of thing. They rarely, if ever, faced a man down in fair fight, but relied on taking him by surprise, one of them calling him out in the street while the other sneaked up on him from behind, shooting him in the back without warning.
He was acutely conscious of this possibility as he walked slowly forward, his hands swinging loosely at his sides. There was a tight spot just between his shoulder blades and he found himself hunching forward unconsciously. With an effort he forced himself to relax, telling himself that a shoulder was no good at stopping a bullet, that he made a good enough target for a dry-gulcher.
The town around him seemed utterly deserted. It was so like a ghost town that it was hard to believe there was any other living soul in it apart from himself. Word had obviously travelled fast that the Maceys had ridden in and were looking for vengeance. As he walked, he noticed the two sweat-lathered horses tied up outside one of the stores very near the edge of town, guessed they were those belonging to the Maceys.
There was a narrow alley leading off to his right, its entrance in deep shadow. One of the buildings flanking it was an abandoned grain store, three stories high, with an open door in the topmost floor through which the bags of grain used to be lowered. Frank took all of this in, with a single sweeping glance, putting himself in the Maceys’ shoes, wondering what they would do.
He stood absolutely still almost opposite the alley, fingertips less than three inches from the gunbutts in his belt. He stood there for three minutes, was on the point of turning to go back when Flint Macey’s voice said loudly: ‘Figured you might turn up, Marshal.’ He stepped out of the alley into the sunlight. There was an ugly sneer on his face. ‘Reckon this is where you collect payment in full for what happened down in Texas.’
‘You tried that once before and it didn’t come off. What makes you think you can do any better now?’ Even as he spoke, Frank let his gaze move swiftly towards the buildings on either side of him, looking for the slightest tell-tale movement which would give away Clay Macey’s presence, waiting to pull the same trick these two had worked on so many occasions in the past. As yet, he could see no sign of him, but he knew that the other was somewhere close by, possibly with a Winchester already drawing a bead on his back, ready to open up the moment he went for his gun.
‘Guess we were just a mite unlucky the last time,’ sneered the other. ‘But it’s goin’ to be different now. Any man can shoot down his brother in cold blood, but when it comes to stackin’ up against seasoned gunmen, you won’t find it so easy.’
Frank felt a savage surge of anger rush through him, tightening all of the muscles in his body. It was only by a tremendous effort of will that he kept his composure, recognizing that the other was trying to rile him. He shook his head. ‘Won’t work, Flint,’ he said harshly. ‘I’m goin’ to kill you and that skulkin’ brother of yours.’
‘You’re dead wrong, Condor. This is the end of the line for you.’ Still the other had made no move towards his gun and it came to Frank at that moment that the other was still stalling for time, waiting for Clay to get into position. Just where was Clay? Frank knew instinctively that his life could depend on him finding that out before Flint went for his gun. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sunlight glint off metal. In that instant, he knew where Clay had posted himself, just inside the opening on the top floor of the grain store where he could get an unimpeded view of the street.
Another five seconds went by with all of eternity packed into them. Then Flint Macey must have considered that his brother was in position, for he went suddenly for his gun, his right shoulder dipping downward, his arm sweeping across his
body, taloned fingers a blur of speed. Even before the other’s hand had started on its downward movement, Frank had thrown himself sideways, his gun out and firing while his body was still in midair, almost in a horizontal position. His first slug tore through Flint Macey’s chest. For a moment, the other stood there with his knees buckling under him, a look of stupified amazement on his slowly slackening features. Even before his body had crashed into the dust, Frank’s gun had belched smoke and flame again. The rifle bullet hummed viciously through the air where his chest had been a few seconds earlier, flattened itself on the ground behind his prone body and ricocheted along the street. The next moment, Clay Macey had lurched to his knees on the edge of the square opening, fingers clutching at his stomach, the blood trickling between his fingers and staining his shirt. He hung there for a moment, swaying, then pitched forward, his body turning in the air before he hit the ground, to lie still.
Frank stood up, automatically thrust fresh shells into his gun, then holstered it. Swinging round, he saw men appearing in the street, moving forward to stare down at the still bodies in the dirt, men who walked stiffly, their faces white with awe at this display of speed.
Frank walked past them, almost as if he did not see them.A few spoke to him, but he paid them no heed. Then he had reached the hotel. She was there, waiting patiently for him at the top of the steps.
‘Are you all right?’
He went to her, led her inside. ‘I’m all right,’ he said then.’The Macey brothers are dead. They made their play, and failed.’
‘I’ll get you some coffee, if you’d like that.’
‘I think I’d like that almost better than anythin’,’ he said, smiling. For the first time, she noticed how warm his smile could be when it was not mixed with bitterness and sadness. Perhaps, in time, she thought to herself, she might be able to make him forget the trouble which had been haunting him for so long, and the thought of it was a growing warmth within her as she swept her glance suddenly up to him, then took his arm and led him into the dining-room.