One-Man Massacre

by Jonas Ward

  Along the bar stood three uncorked bottles, half-a-dozen half-full glasses, a cigar still burning—a kind of peace that awaited Hamlin and his friends when the warring was done . . .

  Someone groaned, from the direction of the private loom, and Buchanan moved around the bar and toward it. He crossed the threshold. Angus Mulchay lay on the couch where he had died—but Buchanan was completely unprepared to find Jack Gibbons sprawled on the floor within arm's length of the man he had murdered. Buried to the hilt in Gibbons' back was a stiletto, and Buchanan admired the nice little irony of that.

  "Up Scotstown!" cried a voice from the saloon, startling him out of his thoughts.

  "Ay, it's all over but the shoutin'!"

  "Drink hearty, lads, Terhune is buyin'!"

  Buchanan eased over to the door, looked in at the bar. They were all there, the Scotstown Regulars celebrating the victory over Gibbons' Militia, and in their midst a fitting replacement for Mulchay.

  "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he heard Hamlin say.

  "I'm called Fargo. Fargo Johns."

  "You happened by at a fortunate time."

  "Happened, my eye! I came down off the mountain a'purpose."

  "From the mountain? Then you're partners with Buchanan."

  "Was. Anybody seen him?"

  "Most likely gone to the hotel to comfort the lass."

  "He'll have to get in line then," Fargo said. "When I left her Billy Neale was doin' a fine job."

  "Tell me somethin' out of curiosity," Terhune said. "Was it you got her loose from the gunman or Billy?"

  "It was him all the way. All I did was get him loose from the fella holdin' him."

  "They'd make a good family," Hamlin said. "MacKay's niece and the Neale boy."

  "Once she gets over her notions about Buchanan. Say— didn't somebody mention a drink? Or was I hearin' things?"

  Buchanan grinned, turned from his place at the door and moved across the room. He opened a window and let himself out into the dark night, began walking in search of a stray horse he could borrow. If he rode steady he'd be in Lajitas by tomorrow sundown. Get himself doctored there and push on.

  And this time he was going all the way to San Francisco.

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