Ballard and McCall 1

by Neil Hunter

  ‘I thought they’d quit for a while,’ McCall remarked.

  Ballard went across to one of the windows and peered through the rain-streaked glass.

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Look here.’

  Peckard and McCall joined him at the window and stared out of the water—rippled glass.

  Even in the dim light and the slashing rain, the lean figure of Dicken Hodges was easily identified. The ex-buffalo hunter was running across the street at a low crouch. Beyond him, coming from the King High were the moving shapes of armed men.

  ‘What the hell is that old coot trying to do,’ Peckard exploded. ‘If he wants to commit suicide he’s going the right way.’

  Ballard grabbed up a couple of rifles and tossed one to McCall. He knocked the door latch up and swung the door open. Rain swept into the office as Ballard stepped out onto the boardwalk, bringing up his rifle. McCall was close behind him. Glass shattered as Peckard shoved his rifle butt through the window. Empty brass shell cases began to litter the boardwalk as the three set up a rapid withering fire.

  ‘Head it up, old timer,’ McCall yelled as he substituted his Colt for his empty rifle.

  ‘Hells fire, I ain’t a hoss,’ Hodges grumbled as he swung up onto the boardwalk and into the jail.

  With Hodges inside, Ballard and McCall backed swiftly through the door. Peckard kicked it shut. Then he turned on Hodges who was leaning against the desk. Hodges took off his hat and shook water out of his hair.

  ‘Whooee,’ he chuckled. ‘Damn rain. See I ain’t too keen on water.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Peckard said. ‘What kind of fool stunt was that you just pulled? Don’t we have enough trouble without you causin’ more.’

  Hodges glanced at a grinning McCall and made a face. He said, ‘I sure didn’t do it for fun. I thought you might be interested to know that Temple has skipped town.’

  ‘What?’ Peckard snapped.

  ‘Yep. Temple, Dutch Canfield, Burt Nels, and Hal Weston. I seen ’em ride off. From back of the King High. Just when all the shootin’ began.’

  ‘We sure did underestimate that feller,’ McCall remarked.

  Ballard moved over to the desk and began to reload his rifle. His face was a grim set mask.

  As if in sudden sympathy with the feelings of the jail’s occupants the rain increased its intensity, lashing against the walls with renewed fury.

  Chapter Twelve

  An occasional slug smacked against the outer wall of the jail as the four men inside stood in a momentary deadlock of decision.

  ‘The hell with it,’ Ballard snapped. ‘I ain’t going to let Temple get away a second time.’

  Peckard put down his rifle and pushed his hat to the back of his head. There was a frown on his face as he said, ‘I know how you feel, son, but it ain’t going to do anybody any good if you go off half-cocked.’

  ‘Sheriff’s right, Chet,’ McCall said. ‘We’ll get Temple. First we got to settle up with the trigger-happy gents outside before we take off after the big fish.’

  For a while it seemed as though Ballard had taken no heed at McCall’s suggestion. Then he gave a deep sigh and shock his head.

  ‘Man gets so taken by a thing he has to do he hates to let go of it,’ he said.

  A window shattered as a well-placed slug tore through it. The lead hammered into the back wall of the jail.

  ‘They’re gettin’ close,’ McCall observed.

  ‘And we damn well can’t get out of this place,’ Peckard snapped. ‘The feller who built this jail ought to be in it. First jail I ever saw that has no back door.’

  McCall was making a close inspection of the building’s structure. He paused beside the small side-window set in the jail’s west wall. Pushing it open he shoved his head out into the narrow alley between the jail and the next building. He pulled his head back in dripping rain-water like a huge shaggy dog fresh out of a creek.

  ‘Reckon you could get through here?’ he asked Ballard.

  ‘What you aiming to do?’ Peckard inquired.

  ‘If Chett and me can get round the back of the King High and kind of make things unpleasant for them gents, I think we might just about come out on top.’

  ‘Sounds okay.’ Peckard grinned. ‘Beats anything I can think of so you better go ahead. Me and Dicken will keep ’em busy this end.’

  ‘Sure enough,’ Hodges said. He raised an object he held in his hand. In the confusion before no-one had noticed it. Now they saw it was a .50 caliber Sharps buffalo rifle.

  ‘God,’ Ballard said, ‘if you get a direct hit on the saloon with that, we won’t have to bother about pickin’ up the pieces.’

  McCall shoved his big frame through the window opening. He took the two rifles that Ballard handed him. By the time Ballard joined him, McCall was soaked to the skin by the torrential rain. Just before they moved off Peckard leaned out of the window.

  ‘Watch yourselves,’ he said.

  ‘Will do,’ Ballard replied.

  With McCall in the lead the Texans moved out. They made their way around to the rear of the jail and then along the Gunner Creek back lots. Through the steady hiss of the rain they heard the crack of Peckard’ a rifle and the heavier boom of Hodges’ Sharps.

  ‘We should be far enough down, now,’ McCall said after what seemed an eternity of trampling and slithering about in ankle-deep mud. ‘Reckon we can get across the street and around back of the saloon without being seen’?’

  Ballard gave a soaked shrug. ‘One way of finding out,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, Big Bend, let’s make like Indians.’

  For a time there was only pain and darkness. Then slowly the pain lessened and the darkness became a hazy gray film before his eyes. His senses returned gradually until he was fully conscious and the memory of what had happened came to him.

  Rio remembered standing at Temple’s desk and seeing Temple aiming a gun at him. He had tried to draw his own but had been too slow. Temple’s gun had fired and he had felt the impact of the slug. Then Temple had fired again, the force of this slugs knocking him backwards over the desk. He hit the floor hard. Then he had blacked out.

  Rio sat up carefully. He leaned against the firm support of the desk and shook his head to clear away the dizziness that seemed to be clinging to him Somewhere he thought he could hear gunfire. Ignoring the pain Rio twisted himself into a position that enabled him to inspect his wounds. One of Temple’s slugs had hit him just beneath his ribs, on the right side, lodging somewhere deep in his body. The second slug had torn a piece of flesh from the inside of his upper right arm. Both wounds had bled heavily.

  Taking his time Rio clawed his way to his feet, using the desk as a support. He felt weak and the room spun before his eyes. By the time he was upright his face was ashen and dripping with sweat. Keeping his left hand over his side wound, Rio drew his Colt and began to move slowly in the direction of the door. It took him a long time. He had to prop himself up against the wall for a while to stop from collapsing. When he felt able to move he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

  Now, the sound of gunfire was loud and hard to his ears. It came from down in the saloon and beyond, out in the street.

  As Rio headed unsteadily for the stairs he heard a sound that caused him to stop. At the far end of the corridor was the door that opened onto the saloon’s rear staircase. And someone was using that staircase. Someone in a big hurry. Rio’s thumb pulled back the hammer of his Colt.

  Wood splintered, the lock buckling as the door was struck again and again. It swung open, slamming back against the wall, hanging at an angle from one torn hinge.

  Rifle in hands Chett Ballard stood framed in the doorway. Coming up behind Ballard was Jess McCall.

  All of Rio’s hate boiled up inside him in the instant he saw Ballard - a battered and rain-soaked figure. He leveled his gun and triggered off a shot that pounded a chunk of wood out of the wall close to Ballard’s head.

  Ballard dropped to his knees, swing
ing up his rifle, firing from the hip. His slug missed. From behind Ballard, McCall, who had that fraction of a second longer to aim, loosed off two slugs that smashed into Rio’s body with stunning force.

  Rio’s gun fell from his numb fingers as he was spun backwards. He came up against the railing that edged the balcony. For a scant second he seemed to freeze in a grotesque pose, his arms flung wide, his face a mask of pain and terror. Then he was gone over the railing. His body swept down in a slow arc. He struck a card table before his broken body hit the saloon floor.

  By the time Ballard and McCall reached the railing, Rio was lying motionless amongst the splintered wreckage of the table.

  ‘He was mean enough not to die,’ McCall said.

  From somewhere below a rifle roared and the sing tore a chunk of wood from the railing. The Texans stepped swiftly away from the edge.

  Above the unbroken rattle of gunfire a man’s voice could be heard shouting: ‘Hey, they’re comin’ in the back way! Somebody got Rio!’

  ‘I hate a loose mouth!’ McCall chided.

  He flopped onto his belly and crawled forward so he could see through the railing. Ballard followed suit and they were in time to see three men crowding round Rio’s body. McCall recognized two of them as the bouncers he had fought with in the street, before Quince had turned it into something far more serious than a free-for-all. For a moment he reflected on the series of fast and violent events that had taken place since then.

  Then he poked his rifle through the railings and let go with a shot that dropped one of the men with a slug through his left leg. The downed man’s companions replied with a vicious outburst of firing that sent slugs howling up at Ballard and McCall.

  The saloon’s interior shook with the blast of heavy guns as the two groups of men triggered off shots with rapidity and in some cases accuracy.

  When the firing ceased the two gunslingers had joined their wounded companion on the floor. They were both dead.

  McCall was nursing a burnt thumb obtained by placing it on his hot rifle barrel.

  Downstairs, out of sight of the Texans, a window smashed. The gunfire still continued. It sounded as if it were coming from the street in front of the saloon. Above the roar of rifles came the heavy boom of, a Sharps .50 caliber.

  ‘Hey, that sounds like Hodges.’ McCall sprang to his feet and made a headlong plunge down the stairs with Ballard close behind. On the saloon floor McCall went through tables and chairs like a rampaging longhorn. Going through the batwing doors he almost repeated his earlier stunt. This time, though, he was on his feet when he hit the street.

  It was all over.

  In the churned mud of Gunner Creek’s main street lay three sprawled bodies. Two wore gaping holes in their chests, the result of Dicken Hodges and his Sharps. The third had a smaller but equally bloody wound caused by a slug from Ernie Peckard’s Winchester. On the boardwalk lay two more dead men.

  And another man was leaning against the hitching-rail clutching a hand to his shattered left shoulder. McCall took all this in with a sweeping glance. He saw Peckard move forward, saw the wet patch of blood soaking through the cloth of the Sheriff’s pants over the left knee. Dropping his rifle, McCall took three steps towards the lawman and caught him in his arms as Peckard began to fall.

  ‘He alright?’ Hodges asked.

  ‘He will be,’ McCall said. ‘Go get the doctor, Dicken, and fetch him over to the hotel.’

  Hodges turned and headed through the rain.

  Ballard came out of the saloon, pushing before him the man McCall had shot in the leg. He saw McCall with Peckard.

  ‘What happened, Jess?’ he asked in a voice edged with concern.

  ‘He caught a slug in the leg. Looks like it might be a bad one.’

  ‘You see to him,’ Ballard said. ‘I’ll get this mess cleared up.’

  McCall turned and made for the hotel. He moved easily through the mid, as though he didn’t have Peckard’s weight in his arms at all.

  While all this happened the rain continued to fall without pause, and beside the still bodies, the soft mud was stained a dirty pink as blood and water mingled, finally being washed away as more rain fell on a silent town of violence and death.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rain continued falling for the rest of the day and throughout the night. By the time the sun began to rise, wiping the last stars from the cold gray sky, the downpour had slackened. And when Gunner Creek began to stir into life the rain had stopped completely.

  One of the first to rise was Jess McCall. He came out of the jail and stood on the edge of the boardwalk. He gave a weary yawn as he stretched his huge frame. An expression of disgust crossed his unshaven face as he realized he still wore the same clothes as yesterday. The rain-soaked and mud-splattered pants and shirt clung to his body like a burr on a mule’s back.

  McCall suddenly found that he itched every which-place.

  Things had been so upside down yesterday, McCall reflected, that he’d had no time to think about his personal problems. What with Ernie Peckard stopping a slug with his knee, then the rounding up of the remaining Temple crew and getting them behind bars, it had been dark before they’d been able to quit, even though Dicken Hodges had thrown in with Ballard and McCall.

  After seeing to Peckard’s leg the town’s doctor, a tall, tired man called Burkett, had tended the wounds of the men in the cells. He was packing his bag when Chet Ballard had said, ‘Doc?’

  Burkett had turned and glanced at him. Then he’d gone on with his packing. Finally he’d said, ‘I know what you’re going to ask. I’ll save you the trouble. The bullet that hit Ernie’s leg shattered the kneecap beyond repair. He’ll get well. But he won’t ever bend that leg again. He’ll be able to walk, but I don’t think he’ll do much riding.’

  Burkett had put on his hat and coat and left the office. As the door closed behind Burkett it had been pushed open again and McCall had come in, followed by two men Ballard didn’t know. Hodges had brought up the rear.

  ‘Put ’em with their kin,’ McCall had told Hodges. ‘One’s the house dealer from the King High, the other’s the bartender. Found ’em, hiding out in the saloon. Don’t know how deep they’re involved so they can stop here until everything gets set right way up again,’ he’d explained.

  Ballard had nodded. Then he had told McCall what Burkett had said about Peckard.

  ‘Man, that’s rough,’ McCall had said. ‘Hell, Peckard ain’t goin’ to like it much. He ain’t the kind to go hoppin’ around on a stick.’

  Ballard had agreed with McCall’ a statement. Both of them shared the inbred independence of men who lived active lives. An independence that rebelled at anything that threatened to halt or hinder it’s freedom.

  Now as he stood on the boardwalk, McCall recalled his words of not so long ago. Recalled them with a sudden jolt.

  Coming towards the jail, from the hotel, was Ernie Peckard. Moving slowly, painfully, with the aid of a stick, the old man came up to McCall. Peckard’s face was pale and drawn. He had dark rings beneath his eyes, but they held a stubborn glint of pride that said the fight is still on.

  ‘Morning, Sheriff,’ McCall said.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Peckard snapped.

  ‘Like what?’ McCall inquired pleasantly.

  Peckard gave an exasperated snort. ‘As if you expect me to drop down dead when the first wind blows. Boy, I got enough in me to outrun you yet.’

  McCall grinned. He followed Peckard into the jail. On the far from comfortable cot Dicken Hodges lay snoring loudly in his sleep. Over by the cells Ballard dozed in a chair, his rifle well out of the reach of any of the prisoners. Peckard took all this in then eased himself into his chair behind his desk, his wounded leg stretched out.

  ‘For Hannah’s sake, wake up that bellyaching old son!’ he said.

  McCall stepped across to the cot and put his foot on the edge. He put his weight down and the cot spilled over, tipping Hodges to the floor. Ba
llard woke up at the noise, in time to see a grinning McCall pick up a swearing Hodges and set him on his feet.

  ‘Goddamn you, boy,’ Hodges was saying, ‘that’s no way to wake a man from a deep sleep. Why, a shock like that could do a lot of damage to a man’s brain.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Peckard said. ‘You think you can do some riding today, Dicken?’

  ‘After Temple?’ Hodges asked. Peckard nodded and Hodges said, ‘Hell, I’m on my way.’

  Peckard leaned back in his chair and moved his leg. A sheen of sweat glistened on his face.

  ‘You alright?’ Ballard asked.’

  ‘No,’ Peckard replied. ‘This damn leg hurts like hell. But at the moment there’re more important things to worry about.’ He turned to Hodges. ‘Dicken, go get three mounts and supplies and fetch them to the front of the jail.’

  Hodges went out of the office and headed for the livery stable.

  ‘If we three are going after Temple, who is going to keep an eye on the prisoners?’ McCall asked.

  ‘Hell, there you go again! I ain’t exactly crippled. Anyhow, I reckon I can find someone to give me a hand.’ Peckard took off his hat and dropped it on the desk. ‘About Temple. I can’t give you much help, I’m afraid. But I reckon he’s headed South. You watch yourselves, now. Temple’s a queer feller. Keep your eyes open all the time. And if you do catch him you better be awake. Once Hodges picks up some sign you’ll be all right.’

  ‘I wish I had as much confidence on that score,’ McCall said soulfully.

  Fifteen minutes later Peckard stood outside the jail and watched the three horsemen moving slowly across the flats beyond town. The land lay fairly flat here, not changing much until it began to rise where it formed the south wall of the valley.

  Before he went back into the jail Peckard gazed along the street.

  The town had a scrubbed, cleaned out look about it today. The air smelled fresh, too. Folk beginning to move along the boardwalks had an air of ease about them that he hadn’t seen in a long time. Some of them, though, still hadn’t realized the meaning of the recent events. They still walked in the shadow of a now destroyed fear that had hung over them for a long time. The town’s rebirth had been violent and bloody, but it had been achieved. And the scar would heal in time.