Six-Gun Nemesis

by Colin Bainbridge

  Deputy Marshal Bert Hardy was looking anxiously up and down the street and wishing the marshal was back. Chaparral Bend was not known as a rowdy place; Purdom had seen to that. But earlier that morning a bunch of riders had stormed into town and already things threatened to get out of hand. They had made themselves at home in the saloon and even at that hour and from a distance the noise they were making was shattering the peace. He could rely on a few of the townsfolk to back him up if matters got really bad, but he wasn’t confident.

  For the second time that day he made his way down the main drag towards the saloon. Just as he got near, the batwings flew open and a couple of men fell into his path, grappling with each other and rolling in the dust. As they struggled to their feet one of them landed a vicious kick in the other’s groin. He doubled up but before his assailant could land another blow the deputy marshal had seized him by the arm. At the same moment a whistling, jeering crowd of spectators spilled out of the saloon, shouting and cursing. One of them drew his six-gun and began firing into the air.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Hardy shouted. He was trying to hold the two fighters apart and deal with the crowd at the same time. A few people who had been out on the street moved rapidly away from the scene. The man with the gun spat into the dust.

  ‘Now what’s the problem, Deputy?’ he hissed. He peered mockingly at Hardy. ‘Ain’t we seen you someplace before?’ Some of his friends began to laugh. The deputy pushed the man he was holding to one side.

  ‘I told you boys to take things easy,’ he said. ‘There’s no need for more trouble. Just go back on in and leave me to handle things between these two.’

  The man began to laugh. ‘Leave me to handle things here,’ he mimicked. In an instant his expression changed and he swung the gun he had been firing into the air towards the deputy. Hardy was quicker. In an instant his own gun was spitting lead and the man reeled back, clutching his shoulder and dropping his gun into the dust. Hardy swung round to face the crowd of hardcases who had gathered on the boardwalk.

  ‘OK, you heard what I said. Go back inside.’

  For a moment the issue hung in the balance. The deputy licked his lips but otherwise gave no indication of the tension that had built up inside him. The men looked at one another and then at the injured man. Suddenly they broke and made for the batwings. Hardy waited till they had gone, then turned to the two who had been fighting. ‘You either call it off and join your friends or you come with me to the jailhouse,’ he said.

  The man who had been kicked in the groin, now back on his feet, looked at his assailant with a murderous stare, but after a moment they both made their way back through the batwings. The man who had been shot in the shoulder made to do so but the deputy marshal stepped between him and the batwings.

  ‘Not you,’ he said. He bent down and picked up the man’s gun. ‘You ain’t got a choice. You’re comin’ with me to the jailhouse.’

  Pushing the man in front of him, the deputy made his way back to the marshal’s office. When he had locked the door of the cell on his prisoner he returned to his desk, reached into a drawer and poured himself a drink. He took a deep draught, then blew out his cheeks in a sigh of relief. By force of will he had got away with it this time. But he knew the hardcases in the saloon had only just started. Sooner or later they would probably come looking for their comrade. Things were going to get tough. How many of the townsfolk could he really rely on when the chips were down? Now he came to think about it, the town was strangely quiet. Maybe people had detected a taste of something in the air, a hint of menace.

  Time passed. He took another few drinks, taking it slowly, and was considering whether to check things out again at the saloon when suddenly his ears picked up a sound: the unmistakable rhythm of hoof beats. He got to his feet, moved to the door and flung it open. For a few moments he felt a surge of relief. Could it be the marshal and the stranger – what was his name; Kitchenbrand?

  His sense of elation was quickly dashed. The sound of hoofs was too loud. There were too many riders. He looked along the main street and saw them coming. They came along at a steady pace and even before they had got close to him he recognized them as the same types he had been dealing with earlier. So it came as something of a surprise for him to see Landon Clovis, the owner of the Latigo, with a few men he recognized as Latigo cowhands, riding with them. They were a tough looking gang and as they rode by in a cloud of dust he had a feeling that whatever Clovis was doing with them, it was the Yuma boys he had to deal with.

  Kitchenbrand couldn’t help thinking that his little group made an oddly assembled party that rode the last few miles into Chaparral Bend. He had been thinking about Garland’s suggestion that they should continue to the Latigo and pose as Addison’s men, but he didn’t like it. Apart from what the marshal had said, he couldn’t see that there was a lot to be gained by it.

  Whatever Clovis was after, it seemed to him that the answer lay in the document which the previous owner of the Chicken Track had deposited with the attorney in Chaparral Bend. The marshal was anxious to get back there, so there was another reason to head for town.

  The only worry was what sort of reception they might get when they arrived. Some folk still held Garland responsible for the bank job. Quite apart from whatever Addison or Clovis might be up to, it was possible that they would get a hot reception from the townsfolk themselves. He had seen how easily they had been stirred up into forming a lynch mob. Would things have calmed down much since then?

  As the first outlying adobe shacks hove into view, Kitchenbrand drew his horse to a halt and turned to Virginy.

  ‘There’s likely to be a heap of trouble once we get to town,’ he said. ‘I think you and Delta ought to head back to the cabin.’

  Delta had drawn her horse up close behind and before Virginy could reply, she broke in herself.

  ‘There’s no way Virginy and I are leavin’ now,’ she said. ‘Ain’t that so, Virginy?’

  The old lady gave a snaggle-toothed smile. ‘That’s the way I figure it,’ she said.

  Kitchenbrand pointed to the sign they were following, evidence that the Yuma gang had already passed that way. ‘Looks like Addison could be ready and waitin’.’

  Delta looked suddenly grim. ‘Addison owes me,’ she said. ‘I ain’t likely to forget what he done to me. He’s got to pay.’

  Kitchenbrand looked towards the marshal for support but Purdom just shrugged. Garland tried to expostulate. ‘Kitchenbrand’s right,’ he said. ‘This ain’t no show for a lady.’

  ‘Are you includin’ me in that description?’ Virginy cackled.

  Garland blushed. ‘I was thinkin’ more . . .’ he began, but puttered to a halt.

  ‘There’s no use in arguin’,’ Delta said. ‘I’ve got as big a stake in all this as any of you, maybe more of one. I was never afraid, leastways not till Addison brought me low. That’s all changed now. I ain’t never goin’ to be that way again.’

  Kitchenbrand gave her a searching look, then reached for a rifle.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘that six-shooter you got is fine, but you might need this too.’

  Delta took it. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we’re wastin’ time here. We got business to attend to.’

  Deputy Marshal Hardy got to his feet and moved to the window. He had heard some sounds coming from outside but it was more of a feeling he had that something was happening. Sure enough, a group of men were walking towards the marshal’s office, among whom he recognized a few of the Yuma boys who had been drinking in the saloon. He reached out and grabbed his rifle, which was leaning against the wall behind his chair, opened the door and stepped on the boardwalk. He had been wondering how long his bluff would last. Now he had the answer. A couple of the men were staggering and he realized that they were all the worse for drinking. As they came closer he raised his rifle.

  ‘That’s far enough,’ he rasped.

  The man who appeared to be their leader was a mean-looking hombre with a drooping m
oustache and a badly scarred face.

  ‘We’ve come to get Fosdyke,’ he replied.

  ‘If you mean the man I placed under arrest for brawling in the street, he’ll get a fair hearing when the judge is next in town.’

  ‘We ain’t waitin’ for no judge.’

  The man raised his hand to his mouth to form a sort of trumpet and suddenly began to bellow: ‘Fosdyke, we come to set you free.’

  From inside the building a voice hallooed in reply: ‘Is that you, Turnbull? I knowed you’d come.’

  ‘I figure you’d better turn him loose,’ Turnbull said.

  Something caught the marshal’s eye and he glanced up the street. Another group of men was walking towards him. As they moved, some of them began to spread out and take up positions as if they were expecting some new arrival. Turnbull and the rest of the desperadoes turned to observe what was happening too. A broad grin spread across the gunman’s face.

  ‘Here comes Addison,’ he said to the man standing next to him. He turned back to Hardy.

  ‘You know who that is?’ he said. ‘That’s Angel Addison. Maybe you’ve heard of him.’ The deputy marshal tried not to let his features betray any of the emotion he was feeling. ‘Angel ain’t gonna like this one little bit. He don’t take kindly to one of his men bein’ put in jail.’

  Hardy switched his attention to the approaching outlaw. He looked like a boy but he had heard of his reputation. At least his arrival had given him a few more minutes.

  ‘What’s goin’ on, Turnbull?’ Addison said. He gave Hardy a disdainful glance.

  ‘The deputy here got Fosdyke in jail.’

  ‘What are you doin’?’ Fosdyke’s voice called. ‘Come on, boys, get me outa here. What are you waitin’ for?’

  Addison’s upper lip curled. ‘Seems to me like you better set him loose, Deputy,’ he snarled.

  ‘He’s under arrest. If you’ve got any authority over these men, I suggest you tell them go back to the saloon.’

  Addison’s face broke into the twisted semblance of a laugh.

  ‘You hear that?’ he said to the assembled gang. ‘He suggests I tell you to go back to the saloon.’ There was an outburst of laughter. Hardy’s hand tightened on the stock of his rifle. He was aware of sweat pouring down the neck of his shirt. The laughter of the gunhawks was followed by a strange and pregnant silence, which was suddenly broken by another voice which cut through the atmosphere like a cold knife:

  ‘Addison, I got you right in my sights. Now do what the deputy says.’

  Hardy and Addison exchanged glances. Addison raised his eyes. Standing on the roof of the building opposite with his rifle trained on him was a figure outlined against the sky. It was Kitchenbrand. At the moment Addison saw him, Turnbull’s hand suddenly dropped to his side. Before his gun was in his hand, Kitchenbrand’s rifle boomed and Turnbull crumpled, clutching at his arm as his gun clattered to the ground.

  ‘Better tell your men not to try anything stupid!’ Kitchenbrand shouted. ‘If anyone does, the next bullet’s for you.’

  Hardy turned his attention from the figure of Kitchenbrand to that of Addison; the man’s face was a mask of hate. Taking advantage of the situation, the deputy swung his rifle up. ‘The rest of you had better move!’ he snapped. The other desperadoes stood indecisively. One of the men who had been lurching across the street began to mutter something incomprehensible. Turnbull was crouched on one knee, trying to stem the flow of blood from his injured arm. For what seemed a long time but was in fact only an instant the scene impressed itself on the deputy’s brain with an unwonted sharpness and clarity; then the picture was broken into by the voice of Kitchenbrand calling out once more.

  ‘Addison, it’s Hollis Kitchenbrand. Take a good look. You remember me? I’m the man who put you inside the Yuma penitentiary!’

  Hardy took a look at Addison’s face. It was twisted in a fury of rage.

  ‘Addison, I’m comin’ down. This is between you and me. Have you got the guts to face me man to man?’

  Addison spun round to face his tormentor. He was beside himself with anger.

  ‘So it was you tore my place down!’ he yelled. ‘I shoulda guessed. You’re an old man, Kitchenbrand. You shoulda known better than to get mixed up in any of this.’

  ‘I got plenty of back-up,’ Kitchenbrand lied. ‘Just in case any of your boys decide to get edgy.’

  Addison licked his lips. He was pretty sure that Kitchenbrand was bluffing, but he couldn’t be sure. He had seemed to have a few supporters back there in the fighting at the cave. He was caught in a quandary. He glanced round and saw the eyes of his men on him. The rage which was boiling inside him surged up like a fountain.

  ‘I’m waitin’ for you, Kitchenbrand,’ he screamed.

  Hardy’s rifle was covering the gunnies. They began to fan out as Addison stepped into the middle of the street. Some of them began to walk away. Hardy looked down the line of buildings. After a few moments of waiting Kitchenbrand stepped through the doorway. Slowly, he moved away from the boardwalk into the dusty street. He was aware of the risk he was taking.

  Behind him more of the gunslicks were spilling out of the saloon. There was nothing to stop any of them taking a shot at him except what he had shouted to Addison about having back-up and the fact that Hardy had Addison covered. There was nothing else he could do about that aspect of the situation and he needed to concentrate all his attention on Addison.

  Blocking everything else from his mind, he began to walk steadily forward. Addison remained standing. The sun was behind him and Kitchenbrand realized that that put him at a disadvantage. His eyes tightened. A strange stillness seemed to have descended on the town. Any townsfolk who had been on the streets had taken shelter. The little group of outlaws outside the marshal’s office had stepped well away, leaving Addison exposed. He remained stationary, slightly crouched, his arms held out and his hands close to his holsters. He was large and dominant in Kitchenbrand’s vision.

  As Kitchenbrand drew steadily closer every peripheral object was blotted from his sight. He felt the old familiar calm take possession of him as his gaze focused on Addison, watching for the slightest indication of movement on the part of his opponent. The outlaw was carrying two guns. Kitchenbrand carried only one, worn on his left hip, butt foremost. He had got into the habit of wearing it that way from the days when he spent most of his time in the saddle, but practice had compensated for the slightly slower time a crossdraw usually required. He was close enough now to see the colour of Addison’s eyes but he wasn’t looking at them. Some men would watch for any sudden flicker of movement in an opponent’s expression but Kitchenbrand didn’t operate that way. He continued to concentrate on Addison’s hands. The right hand hung slightly lower. Kitchenbrand knew from experience that Addison was right-handed. The right-hand gun was likely to be the favoured one. He drew to a halt.

  ‘So we meet again Addison,’ he said.

  A nerve twitched in Addison’s cheek. Suddenly two shots rang out in quick succession. Kitchenbrand felt a sharp pain in his thigh. At the same moment Addison’s hand fell to his side. In an instant his gun was in his hand and spitting lead, but, quick as he was, Kitchenbrand was quicker. Their two guns went off almost simultaneously but it was Addison who staggered back as Kitchenbrand’s bullet took him in the shoulder. If it hadn’t been for the impact of the slug in his thigh, Kitchenbrand wouldn’t have needed to take a second shot.

  Addison’s gun exploded again and Kitchenbrand felt the bullet whistle by his head. Taking a fraction of a second to steady himself, he squeezed the trigger of his Colt once more. This time Addison didn’t move. Kitchenbrand thought for a moment that he must have missed but when the smoke cleared and he saw the blank look in Addison’s eyes, he knew otherwise. Addison stood upright but he was not seeing Kitchenbrand any more. He was not seeing anything. For a few more seconds he remained upright, then he fell forward, hitting the ground with a dull thud, where he lay lifeless, his blood oozing int
o the dirt.

  Silence filled the street, but only for a fraction of time and then everything disintegrated in a cacophony of noise and a bustle of movement precipitated by gunfire which rang out from further down the drag. Instinctively Kitchenbrand turned and hobbled to the shelter of a doorway. The deputy dived for cover behind the partly opened door of the marshal’s office as bullets smacked into the wall above his head. They both began pumping bullets in the direction of the saloon and its adjoining buildings, from which a fusillade of fire was pounding.

  Kitchenbrand glanced across the street and up at the roof of one of the buildings; he was rewarded by a brief glimpse of Marshal Purdom firing down from his vantage point on the roof of the livery stables. Gunfire was also coming from lower down the street where Garland was in position with his grandmother and Delta. Kitchenbrand had reckoned they would be less exposed there. He wasn’t worried about Virginy but the girl had too much to lose.

  He looked back in the direction of the saloon. A few of the gunslicks had taken cover behind various objects but most of them seemed to have retreated back inside. Shots were being fired from the neighbouring buildings, and some of them were getting uncomfortably close. Taking a quick decision, he shouted to the deputy marshal.

  ‘Hardy, cover me!’

  Without waiting for a response, Kitchenbrand got to his feet and, ignoring the pain in his leg, ran as quickly as he was able to the door behind which Hardy was positioned. He crashed through and, as Hardy followed, firing rapidly in the direction of the saloon, he slammed the door behind them. Hardy glanced at Kitchenbrand’s leg.

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ Kitchenbrand said. ‘It looks worse than it is. It’s only a flesh wound.’

  ‘You’re losin’ blood,’ Hardy replied. ‘Here, let me tie somethin’ round it to stem the flow.’

  Kitchenbrand shook his head but Hardy had already started removing his necktie. In a few seconds he had fastened it round Kitchenbrand’s leg in a rough tourniquet.