“It’s certain-sure you’ll have to fight ’em,” shrugged Spooky, “but maybe you’ll get the drop on ’em. Anyways, you gotta try somethin', don’t you?”
“Go on, Tom,” nodded Larry. “Tell ’em.”
“Elrigg ...!” Tom yelled again. “We’ll do like you say ...”
“Only,” grunted Larry, “it’ll take us every minute of the quarter-hour.”
“Only,” yelled Tom, “it’ll take us every minute of the quarter-hour ...”
“To fetch all the grub we found,” said Larry.
“To fetch all the grub we found,” repeated Tom. “Fifteen minutes!” called Elrigg. “Not one second longer! Look alive now! Start with your weapons!”
“Tom,” said Larry, “throw out the Winchester and Spooky’s rifle. Take your time about it. Then throw out Spooky’s handgun. All we’ll have left is three Colts, but I’ll settle for just that much iron—when we shoot it out with those sidewinders.”
“Please!’ groaned Elmira. “You have to do something ...!”
“Be quiet, Elmira!” snapped Theodore.
“Father!” she gasped.
And Lavinia had revived, just in time to hear her husband’s curt reprimand, and to take exception.
“Theodore Newbold!” she boomed. “How dare you speak to our eldest daughter this way? You forget yourself!”
“On the contrary, Lavinia,” growled Theodore, “I am remembering myself, remembering that I’m supposed to be the head of this family!”
“I refuse to listen ...!” she blustered.
“You’ll listen!” he vowed. “You’ll listen if I have to crawl over there and bellow in your ear! These men are trying to devise ways and means of saving Sarah Ann’s life. There isn’t time for stupid argument, Lavinia!”
“Stupid—argument ...?” she gasped.
“And so,” he finished, “just this once—I’m giving an order. I’m ordering you, my dear wife, to cease that useless babbling and—and ...” He gestured wildly, “and keep your big mouth shut!”
“That,” opined Bart, “ought to do it.”
“In spades,” grinned Stretch.
Elrigg’s voice assailed them again.
“Last chance, Shackley!”
“Comin’,” answered Tom.
He showed himself in the entrance, hefting Spooky McGraw’s weapons, the old Henry and the Army Colt. When he swung and hurled the Henry, it soared butt-first into the air and dropped to the center of the street, raising dust. The Colt he threw farther, landing it a few feet from the opposite boardwalk.
“That’s the old Joplin haberdashery,” Spooky was telling Larry. “Empty now, mind. Ain’t nothin’ left over there, ’cept the counter and the shelves.”
“And you claim you can guide us over there,” challenged Larry, “without them spottin’ us?”
“Easy,” grinned Spooky. “Yup. Dead easy. Only thing, though. You better pray all of them hombres is this side of the counter.”
“Why?” demanded Larry.
“On account of,” shrugged Spooky, “that’s where the shaft ends up—right in back of the counter.”
“You can take us underground to that store?!’ frowned Larry.
“In less’n ten minutes,” Spooky assured him.
Chapter Ten
Lone Star Gunsmoke
The Texans were on their feet, checking the loading of their Colts. Tom Shackley was hurling the Winchester into the street and calling to the kidnappers:
“That’s all the guns we got!”
“Now the provisions!” yelled Elrigg.
“You two ...” Larry nodded to the sisters, “fetch all the canned stuff from the kitchen.”
Elmira and Harriet bustled out to the kitchen. Theodore eyed Larry shrewdly.
“You can’t accept the word of such a man,” he guessed. “You’ll risk your life to rescue Sarah Ann, because you don’t believe they’d release her unharmed.”
“Let’s just say I never take chances,” countered Larry, “with any kind of owlhooter.”
“We’re wasting time,” growled Bart. “I’m coming along, Larry, and you can’t talk me out of it.”
“You got a creased wing,” Larry soberly reminded him.
“Forget it,” said Bart. “I owe them something for what they did to us, out there in the desert. Now—they’ve got Sarah Ann—so I owe them more”
“All right, Spooky,” grunted Larry. “Lead on.”
“Thisaway, amigos,” grinned Spooky, and Larry wasn’t really surprised that he was leading them back to the kitchen.
The sisters came hurrying out, toting canned fruit and . a sack of flour. Larry, the last to move into the kitchen, glanced back and saw Tom hurling the sack into the street.
In the kitchen, Spooky had nudged the trapdoor aside. They descended into the cellar, followed him to the opening in the side wall. Noting Bart’s puzzled frown, Larry quietly explained:
“The old shafts and tunnels run in all directions under this town.”
Stretch eyed the dark aperture somewhat dubiously, and asked, “You gonna tote a lamp?”
“Don’t need to,” said Spooky. “Know these shafts like the back of my hand. You gents stick close to me, and you won’t get lost.”
“All right,” said Larry. “Get started, old-timer. We’ll be right behind you.”
They tagged Spooky into the gloom of the tunnel. Then, as their underground journey began, Larry dogged the old man at less than arm’s length, taking no chances of losing him. Next came Stretch, the fingers of his left hand hooked onto the back of Larry’s gunbelt. In the rear, Bart kept a grip on Stretch’s belt.
In that order, they tramped through the inky blackness of a tunnel barely wide enough to permit passage, so narrow that, at intervals, they had to move side-on. When Spooky paused to scratch a match, they found that they had reached a junction of three tunnels. The old man told them:
“We go left now—then right.”
“Be damn sure, old-timer,” muttered Bart. “We’re running out of time.”
“Don’t you fret none,” grunted Spooky, as he flicked his spent match away. “I don’t hold with thievin’ skunks that kidnaps females. Got my own score to settle with them galoots.”
This passage was wider and, though the darkness was intense, they were able to move quickly and boldly, with their guide setting a brisk pace. They turned right and hurried onward for twenty yards, after which Spooky called an abrupt halt.
“Now what?” Bart impatiently demanded.
“Don’t holler, young feller,” chided Spooky. “From here on, we gotta talk soft.” He prodded at Larry’s chest with a hard forefinger. “We’re almost there, and I figure you better know just how it’ll look up there.”
“Yeah, sure,” grunted Larry.
“Trapdoor in back of the counter,” Spooky carefully stressed. “If they’ve spotted it, you could climb the ladder and get your head blowed off rightaway. Only way they wouldn’t spot it—they’d have to all be yonder of the counter on the front side ...”
“Peekin’ out into the street,” nodded Stretch, “which is likely what they are doin’.”
“No hinges on the trapdoor,” muttered Spooky, “so you can push it up quiet-like. Counter’s maybe fifteen- sixteen feet from the street-door. That’s close range, boys, if they make a fight of it.”
“I’m thinking of Sarah Ann,” fretted Bart. “The way it looks, she could stop a wild bullet.”
“If there’s a chance,” offered Larry, “and time enough, we’ll do our damnedest to cover her.” He clutched Spooky’s arm. “This tunnel ends under the trapdoor—right? How about the ladder? You got it rigged like that one in the cellar?”
“Heck, no,” growled Spooky. “And you only gotta climb ’bout ten feet, on acounta the tunnel creeps up some, from here on.”
“Let’s go,” said Larry.
They moved on along the tunnel, conscious that its floor was beginning to slant upward. A few minutes a
nd thirty yards later, the old man again halted, so that they bumped against him. They had reached the blind end of this passage and, immediately above them, they saw light, thin slivers of it in parallel lines.
“Reckon they’re feelin’ purty sure of ’emselves,” whispered Spooky. “Lit a lamp they have. Them’s the floorboards up there. Can you feel the ladder?”
“I feel it,” grunted Larry. He quested for Bart’s shirt- front, drew him close and whispered a query. “How about that wing of yours, boy? You’re totin’ Stretch’s extra six- gun. Unless you’re sure you can use it, give it back to Stretch.”
“I wouldn’t fool you at a time like this,” declared Bart. “The arm aches, but not much. It isn't stiff, Larry. It works fine.”
“All right,” shrugged Stretch. “Let him keep my extra gun.”
“One last thing,” warned Larry. “If the rear of the counter is clear, we can climb up and stay behind it. But we can’t talk before we act. Too much risk they’d hear us. Anything I have to tell you, I’ll tell you with a high-sign. That clear?”
“Clear,” said Bart.
“Uh-huh,” grinned Stretch.
“What about me?” whispered Spooky.
“You stay right here,” ordered Larry, “and be the quietest ghost that ever went a’hauntin’.”
Stretch eased his Colt in its holster, reached for his partner’s shoulder and gripped it a moment. “Showdown-time, runt.”
“Yeah.” Larry grinned in the gloom. “Here we go again.”
Larry raised a boot to the first rung of the ladder. Above them, in the abandoned store, Elrigg and Trenton were crouched in the street doorway, staring across to the hotel. At the window to their right, Vincent, Morrow and Fields hovered, their weapons ready for action, their eyes on the dimly visible figure moving in and out of the hotel entrance. The pile of canned food in the center of the street was increasing, but Tom Shackley seemed to be working slowly.
“He’s stallin’!” complained Morrow.
“He wouldn’t dare,” drawled Elrigg. “Never forget, Wes, we have the edge.” He glanced over his shoulder, grinned mirthlessly. “An ace in the hole.”
And that grin struck fear into the heart of the hostage, imprisoned by Jud Bush’s strong left arm. The ’breed stood at the rear, his back pressed to the counter, the shotgun cradled in his right arm. The knot of her gag was bruising the back of her neck, and the thongs that held her arms behind her seemed to be cutting into her flesh. Vincent bellowed a warning.
“Hey you! Get a move on! Your time’s almost up!”
“Movin’ just as fast as I can,” retorted Tom. “I only got two legs.”
“Never mind the back-talk!” called Trenton. “Throw out the rest of that stuff—and do it fast!”
That brief exchange, during which the attention of the outlaws was concentrated on the hotel, gave Larry his opportunity. He had reached the top of the ladder and was pressing against the trapdoor, raising it a few inches. More light shafted down. He blinked against it and waited tensely, but heard nothing to indicate that the movement of the wooden square had been detected.
Gingerly, he balanced on the top rung and pressed his face to the crack. He could see, from this angle, a goodly portion of the area behind the counter. No sign of booted feet; no hint of a challenge. He raised the trapdoor higher, nudged it aside and straightened up, so that the top part of his head emerged from the opening. A quick glance to his left assured him all was clear. He craned his neck and felt his scalp crawl. Two heads—the backs of them—were visible above the level of the counter.
His crooking finger brought Stretch climbing silently from the shaft, to crouch beside him. Bart followed, eyed Larry expectantly, and Larry nodded towards the top of the counter. Grim-faced, Bart drew the Colt from his waistband, while the Texans emptied their holsters.
Morrow and Vincent were again yelling abuse at Tom Shackley. Larry pantomimed for Bart’s benefit, making a sweeping motion with his Colt. The other outlaws added their voices to the shouted abuse of Morrow and Vincent, so that Larry deemed it safe to press his mouth to Bart’s ear and whisper his instructions.
“I’m bettin’ their backs are turned. When I give you the signal, we all rise up together. You bat the jasper on the other side of the counter, grab the girl and haul her over.”
“And then?” frowned Bart.
“Drop her down the shaft,” breathed Larry. “That’s how it has to be. They won’t give us time to cut her loose—bet your life on that ”
Bart nodded eagerly. Stretch tensed, as Larry nudged him with an elbow. They rose up fast, with Bart directly behind the hostage and her captor. His Colt rose and fell, and he put every ounce of his muscle-power behind that savage swing. The weapon broke Bush’s skull and started him sagging. Quickly, Bart reached over, wrapped his arms about Sarah Ann and began hauling her over the counter. As he did so, Elrigg chanced to throw another backward glance. His eyes widened and an oath escaped him. He had a clear view of all there was to see—the faces of the Texans behind their leveled Colts, the girl disappearing behind the counter.
“Freeze!” snarled Larry. “Drop the hardware—and freeze!”
The other four darted apprehensive glances over their shoulders. Bush lay face downward, his head a bloody mess. Feet-first, Bart dropped Sarah Ann into the shaft. Then, with his eyes gleaming, he crouched beside the Texans and lined his gun on the enemy. At the bottom of the shaft, the girl’s fall was broken by Spooky.
The tension continued, but only for a few seconds. Larry’s Colt was leveled at Elrigg. Stretch’s was weaving in a half-arc to cover the three men by the window, and Bart had drawn a bead on Fields.
“Last warnin’,” growled Larry. “Try to swing those guns thisaway—and you’re buzzard-bait!”
“Only three of ’em, Elrigg ...!” yelled Morrow, as he cut loose with a carbine.
Stretch flinched, as the slug seared his left shoulder. His Colt roared in harsh retaliation, and the other killers had chosen to follow Morrow’s lead. Elrigg and Trenton got off one shot apiece and, in that confined space, the din of gunfire was a threat to the eardrums, the stench of cordite a threat to the lungs. Elrigg rose up with his chest bloody and strove to trigger another bullet at the troubleshooters, then reeled through the open doorway and collapsed in the street with Larry’s second bullet in his head. Trenton died noisily, yelling curses as he fell victim to Stretch’s deadly aim.
Morrow was sprawled on face and hands. Fields and Vincent were shooting swiftly and desperately, scoring on both Texans, but losing. The Lone Star Hellions cocked and fired, cocked and fired again and again, until their hammers were clicking on spent shells.
Bart triggered his last bullet, dropped his gun on the counter and sighed heavily. The Texans straightened up, grim-faced, alert, ejecting their spent shells, tugging fresh cartridges from their belts. Through the wreathing mist of gunsmoke, they studied the scene of carnage. Fields, the wife-killer, was huddled in the doorway, clasping his chest and watching his life-blood trickle through his fingers. Vincent lay on his left side, eyes wide open, but unseeing.
As suddenly as that, it was over. Bart licked his lips, shook his head dazedly and said:
“Hell!”
“Don’t let it fret you,” Larry advised. “We gave ’em a chance to quit peaceable, but you should’ve guessed they’d go to shootin’.”
“Besides,” grunted Stretch, “they’d likely have gunned Miss Sarah Ann.”
“You hit?” asked Larry.
“Twice,” said Stretch. “But not worth a damn. You?”
“Twice.” Larry grinned wryly. “But not worth a damn.”
“They didn’t score on me,” mumbled Bart, and he sounded incredulous.
Larry went to the shaft, peered down into the darkness and called to the old man.
“It’s all over, Spooky. Cut her loose and bring her up.”
“Bart ...?” It was Sarah Ann’s voice, tense with anxiety.
“
He’s fine,” Larry assured her. “Come on up—and he’ll prove it.”
Within the minute, she was clambering from the manhole and rushing into Bart’s waiting arms, much to the approval of her rescuers. Spooky climbed up, replaced the trapdoor, squinted at the dead men, then at the Texans. “You hurt bad?” he demanded.
Side by side, Larry and Stretch squatted on the floor
and propped their backs against the counter. Larry’s right
hand gave him no trouble. His left was numb, and small wonder. The arm was bullet-grazed in two places. He built two cigarettes one-handed, passed one to his partner and scratched a match. Stretch puffed contentedly, and tried to pretend that his wounds were causing him no pain.
At Larry’s command, the old man shuffled from body to body, retrieving his precious sacks, gathering weapons and verifying the fact of death. Hurried footsteps heralded the approach of Tom Shackley and Theodore, who reached the doorway and stared aghast at the results of the Texans’ labors. Theodore went to his daughter and took her hands in his. Anxiously, he queried her.
“All right, Father,” she assured him. “Really all right. I was scared stiff and—my head aches—but ...”
“Some mess,” muttered Tom. “Some helluva mess.”
“Ain’t it the truth?” sighed Stretch.
~*~
In the clutter of junk salvaged over the years by Spooky McGraw, Bart and Tom found a few medical supplies. The Texans were not to be deprived of antiseptic and balm for their wounds. It was Larry, the first to be doctored, who heated the blade of a jack-knife and dug the slug from Stretch’s arm, during which Stretch remained more or less conscious and experienced little discomfort. It seemed Spooky was no teetotaler. In time of emergency, the old prospector could and did come to light with a jug of “corn-likker”, a goodly percentage of which was transferred to the interior of the taller Texan.
Sparing no pains to make himself useful, Spooky located the six team-horses and brought them to the hotel hitch rack. The crushing blow suffered by Jud Bush proved fatal. There were to be no prisoners, alive or wounded. All six escapees had paid the supreme penalty for matching bullets with the invincible Texans, and Larry was determined that they be buried before sunrise. His wounds had weakened him, but he insisted on assisting Tom, Bart and Spooky at that grisly chore.
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