Fallon wasn’t surprised when the other white inmate, the one about Fallon’s size, stood up from his hiding place in the dirt and grass and bolted for the woods. The rifles opened up again and the man twisted and turned, blood spraying from his chest, thighs, arms, neck, back, and head in some obscene waltz before he collapsed in a heap and rested against a headstone made of metal.
“We got to get out of here!” a voice called from the woods.
“I don’t think that was him!” another man said.
That’s when Harry Fallon felt a sense of dread. Whoever was hiding in the woods, maybe, came to Peckerwood Hill to kill Harry Fallon.
He looked at the .32, useless for defense at this range. He hadn’t even checked to see if the damned thing was loaded. Now he did, half expecting Aaron Holderman to have given him an empty derringer. No, all four barrels held cartridges, and Fallon pulled one out, circled it in his fingers. It felt right, looked right, and so he thumbed it back into the chamber and snapped the Remington-Elliot shut.
A bullet tore bark from the pine. Fallon leaned lower and barely turned his head toward the fresh grave and the Chinese man and lunger.
“Hey,” he said in more of a whisper.
The lunger lay on his stomach, the Celestial on his back. Both men quaked in fear but they lifted their heads slightly toward Fallon’s voice.
With his left hand, Fallon pointed.
The Chinese prisoner’s eyes found the dead horses, the dead guards, and the overturned wagon.
“When I start shooting,” Fallon said. “Make for the wagon.”
The lunger coughed into the sod. “Huh? Shootin’? Shootin’ what?”
Fallon did not answer. “On three,” he said, and he slid to a standing position, pressing his back as hard as he could against the pine’s trunk, making himself as small as he could.
“One.”
He estimated the distance to the woods.
“Two.”
To his surprise, he saw both the consumptive and the Oriental seemingly prepare to leap and start running like hell.
“Three!”
The cadaverous man and the old Chinese man were running. Fallon swung around the tree, caught a flash of red and white plaid beyond the briars and brambles, saw the glint of sunlight on a rifle barrel. The derringer popped in his hand, and the plaid shirt disappeared.
“What the hell! That’s a gun!”
“How in blazes . . . ?”
Fallon fired his second shot at that voice.
Then he took off after the two convicts in front of him, feeling his ill-fitting shoes kicking up dead pine needles, grass, and knocking over at least one ancient cross. The lunger and the Oriental moved with surprising quickness, but Fallon had learned years ago that when a man was being shot at, he had a tendency to summon up extraordinary speed and agility.
A rifle barked. Fallon felt the bullet whistle to his right. He started to run in a series of z’s, then stopped, spun, dropped to his knee, and fired the pepperbox’s third round.
Not one bullet has misfired. Aaron Holderman had not betrayed Fallon.
Of course, Fallon knew that those woods were well out of range for this little .32 peashooter. But the gunmen, these hired killers, low-down assassins, did not know what Fallon was firing, especially since the small caliber’s pop was amplified among the trees and brush, and the echoes of gunfire made it hard for anyone to hear anything clearly.
One shot left. Fallon rose and took off running. Ahead of him, he saw the Chinese man dive behind the wagon, with those top wheels still spinning, and the lunger was next, though a spray of crimson spurted from his thigh, and he screamed and fell backward. Fallon turned, shot the last round from the pepperbox, and hurried for the wagon. A bullet tore through his pants leg, but caught no flesh. Another clipped a few strands of hair, and his hair had been cut incredibly short when he had first entered The Walls. Then he grabbed the lunger’s outstretched arm and dragged him behind the wagon.
The Chinese inmate was starting to stand.
“Get down. Flat!”
Fallon fell without more instructions, and the Winchesters opened up from the woods.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The floor of the wagon splintered from at least a dozen rifle bullets. The lunger shrieked, and the Chinese convict buried his face in his hands. When the gunfire ceased, but the echoes still reverberated, Fallon came up onto his hands and knees. He looked toward the dead horses and murdered guards.
Shotguns, he thought. I’ve got to get to those Winchesters.
He drew in a breath. Then . . . a shadow fell upon him.
“Don’t shoot!” came a distant cry from the thick woods. “It’s Myrt.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Fallon saw the figure of the driver of the wagon, the man he had presumed died in a hail of gunfire. No, the man had been playing possum, and now he had found one of the pickaxes—indeed the same one Fallon had used while digging the shallow grave for Juanito Gomez—raising it over his head and starting to bring it down.
“Wait!” the lunger yelled. “He’s one of us.”
Fallon knew the guard would pay no mind to the consumptive convict, for Fallon had heard that shout from the woods. Myrt was in on this ambush. He was part of the gang of murdering cutthroats, and now Fallon realized that most likely Fallon was the target. The guards . . . the other prisoners . . . they were just, well, in the way.
All of this went through Fallon’s mind faster than a runaway buggy pulled by a frightened Thoroughbred on the Fourth of July.
He still gripped the .32, and now he brought it up quickly as he dived ahead and to his left, aiming it for just an instant at Myrt’s grass-and-mud-stained shirt. That’s all the chance Fallon had, and it was all the break he needed.
Myrt had not been counting shots. He had been too busy playing possum. Likely, he had never expected Fallon to have a gun, even a .32 that weighed less than a pound.
The guard gasped, flinched, and slammed the blade of the pickax deep into the graveyard sod. He lost his grip and stumbled, spinning like a boy’s conical spinning top before it lost its speed and wobbled and wrecked. Which was pretty much what happened to Myrt. He fell to the dirt, rolled over, and sat up quickly, having recovered from his instant fright.
Fallon was sitting, too, bringing back his right hand. The guard looked around, trying to find a weapon, then seeing again the derringer in Fallon’s hand. That hand was coming forward, over Fallon’s head, and sending the empty Remington-Elliot at Myrt’s head.
A grunt escaped Fallon’s mouth as he heaved the hideaway pistol with all his might.
Myrt ducked, just enough and to his left. The somersaulting little gun caught the side of Myrt’s left ear, tearing out a hunk, which brought the man’s hand into a clasp over the bleeding ear. Myrt cursed.
Now Fallon heard the clanging of bells from a church. His first thought was stupid. Someone’s getting married? Then he understood that those bells, clanging all across the bustling village of Huntsville, were not coming from one church, but several.
An alarm. By now Fallon could also hear the alarm from the prison.
The citizens and the men who ran The Walls had realized what was happening, or had at least guessed that something was amiss at Peckerwood Hill.
In the woods, the other assassins understood what was happening, too.
“Hear that? They’ll be on us, soon!”
“We got to kill that skunk.”
“You do it. I ain’t going to prison in this hard-arse state.”
Fallon started for the nearest dead horse and the nearest dead guard. He couldn’t see a shotgun, but knew one had to be there. Maybe it was hidden in the grass. Maybe—
He didn’t get far. Arms wrapped around his ankles, not catching a clear hold, but upending Fallon as he raced for the Winchester. Cursing Myrt as he fell, Fallon brought up his hands to break his fall. He landed with a thud, rolled over, and saw Myrt coming at him. Quickly, Fallon rolled onto his b
ack, brought his legs up, knees bent, and then kicked out with both legs, the soles of his miserable shoes catching the turncoat in the center of his chest.
Myrt fell with a curse, groan, and crash. Fallon came up, ducked, trying to keep his head below the top of the overturned wagon. He dared not give one of those killers a clean shot. Myrt rose, too, swung blindly before he managed to learn exactly where Fallon was. The guard swung once, twice, grunting with every punch that missed. Fallon made a jab with his right, bounced back. Myrt kicked out, almost catching Fallon dead center in the groin. A bullet whined off the front wheel of the overturned wagon, sending it spinning again. Fallon quickly shot a glance toward the gate to the cemetery. Nothing. The lawmen of Huntsville and the guards at The Walls were taking their good sweet time.
Again, Myrt punched. This time his left glanced off Fallon’s jaw. The man came in for the kill, but Fallon blocked his uppercut with his right forearm, then threw a punch that glanced off the man’s ribs. They turned, Myrt charged, and Fallon leaped away, grabbing hold of Myrt’s arm. Both of Fallon’s hands gripped the arm just above the guard’s wrist, and Fallon dug his feet into the slippery grass, feeling his heels dig into the mud, and he twisted his entire body and swung out with arms, hips, and practically his whole body.
Fallon grunted and fell to his knees after he released his hold on Myrt. Landing on his knees, again digging into the soft, sickening-smelling cemetery sod, Fallon pitched forward. Again he had to reach down to stop from slamming hard into the ground. He heard a scream and then a sickening sound.
“Oh my God!” The lunger coughed.
Fallon came up, sucked in a deep breath, blinked away the sweat, and then he saw Myrt still standing.
Only he wasn’t standing. It was more like the guard was leaning, somehow suspending his entire body at an unnatural angle.
Fallon’s brain comprehended what had happened, and he shook his head, trying to clear his vision, trying to find some more energy. The lunger had rolled onto his hands and knees and was retching into the grass. The Chinese inmate merely watched with a face that showed no interest.
Myrt tilted toward the ground, his head bent low, blood seeping from his mouth. His arms hung down, the right one touching the grass. His legs were spread apart, and a yellow liquid was dribbling through his britches. The other end of the pickax, the blade that wasn’t buried into the sod, protruded from Myrt’s back, the rusty tool now the color of crimson. The crimson ran down the guard’s uniform.
Then the weight of the corpse pulled the embedded tool out of the ground, and Myrt collapsed, dead, dead, dead.
Yet Fallon knew he had no time to spare. He heard footsteps running from the woods, so Fallon came up and moved for the horse, the guard, that damned lever-action shotgun—if only he could find the Winchester.
A rifle barked. Fallon caught a glimpse of the ground ahead of him and to his left being torn up from the bullet of a Winchester rifle. The next bullet went between Fallon’s legs. He dived, hit the saddle of the dead horse, rolled over, and bounced up to his knees. Footsteps crashed behind him. Fallon looked to his right, to his left, ahead of him. The grass here was so high the shotgun could have been anywhere. Hell, it could have been under the dead horse. Or the guard could have thrown it ten or fifteen yards away once he had been riddled with bullets. Fallon looked behind him. Then he dived as the gunman rounded the edge of the wagon and snapped a shot from his hip.
Idiot, Fallon thought. All he had to do was take his time. Aim. Make sure of your shot.
The bullet went wide. Fallon went down. He rolled over the bloodstained body of the murdered guard. And there, right at the dead man’s side, hidden by the tall grass, Fallon saw the Winchester.
All the while the murdering assassin brought up his Winchester, worked the lever, took two steps toward Fallon, and fired. Fallon felt the bullet burn his side. The man was already levering another round into the chamber when Fallon lifted the Winchester.
The man’s finger touched the trigger. The hammer fell. The click caused the killer to curse.
Fallon butted the shotgun against his thigh, and his finger found the trigger.
Nothing.
As the guard fished out a shell from the bandolier that crossed his chest, Fallon cursed and worked the lever of the shotgun.
His mind flashed. An 1887 Winchester shotgun chambers five rounds, plus one in the chamber. But this weapon didn’t have a shell in the chamber. Five rounds. Five chances. If the damned thing had any shells.
By then, the killer before him had slid a round into the rifle, an old Yellow Boy. He levered the rifle. Fallon brought the shotgun to his shoulder. This time when he fingered the trigger the weapon roared, the stock slammed hard against Fallon’s shoulder. It would likely leave a bruise, for this was not a twelve-gauge, but a ten-gauge, and the shells had been loaded with buckshot.
The man never got to fire the Winchester. The blast reduced his chest to blood ribbons and sent him sailing into the other top wheel of the wagon. That wheel started spinning again as the killer landed dead in the grass. The Winchester dropped out of sight.
Fallon had time enough to blink. Then he was diving back toward the bloody carcass of the stinking horse, already drawing flies.
The other killer—if there were any more, Fallon knew he was a dead man—had come around. Fallon could see him despite the sweat now trying its best to blind him. The man held a rifle in his left hand, but his right gripped what looked like a Remington revolver. Smart. Use the rifle for long shots, the pistol for killing up close.
Fallon also saw the man’s eyes. He saw those as clear as he had seen anything this day. The stark blue eyes widened in fear. A lever-action ten-gauge would put the fear of God into even the most callous killer. Probably even John Wesley Hardin would have paled at the sight.
The shotgun roared, and the man was diving, running, leaping behind the other dead horse. Fallon jacked the lever and sent another blast of buckshot that ruined what remained of the saddle of the dead horse.
The killer rolled a bit, came up, then dived toward the dead guard. Fallon’s right arm jerked the lever down, then up. The assassin had dropped both his long gun and the Remington when he had seen Fallon’s shotgun.
Instincts told Fallon to kill him. The man would have murdered you without a second thought. These louts had already killed two prison guards and a handful of prisoners. For what? Nothing. But something deep down in Fallon’s gut, in his soul, made his finger come off the trigger. Once, a lifetime ago, he had sworn to uphold the law. He had pinned on a badge. All those years in Joliet and he thought he had moved on far past that. But now?
Fallon swore. The unarmed killer came up, and for a second Fallon thought the man was lifting his hands high above his head. Only now Fallon saw that the killer had found the other guard’s lever-action shotgun. And that gun was aimed directly at Fallon’s chest. And the finger tightened against the trigger before Fallon could press down on the Winchester’s trigger that he held.
The explosion roared across Peckerwood Hill.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When his ears stopped ringing, when Fallon realized he wasn’t knocking on hell’s door, that he still stood, still held the ten-gauge against his aching shoulder, Fallon heard the earsplitting screams.
His vision cleared. The killer had brought both hands to his face, or what was left of his face. All Fallon could see was a grisly mix of bone, blood, and the grayish matter of brains. The man screamed, but it was no ordinary scream. Instead it was a gurgling curse of agony. One of the man’s hands had been turned into a stump. A finger lay in the grass, twitching.
Dully, Fallon comprehended what had happened. The killer had jerked up the murdered guard’s shotgun, but he had not noticed that the barrel had landed in the sod, and the sod had clogged the barrel. When he pulled the trigger, the shotgun’s barrel had exploded, sending case-hardened metal and buckshot into the man’s face.
There, Fallon thought, but for the g
race of God . . .
Had Fallon gone to that horse, that guard, that fouled shotgun, that might have been Fallon dancing the sickening polka of a corpse.
Fallon looked at the Winchester in his own hand. Then he looked toward the woods. No one. If there had been more assassins, they had fled. No one was coming from town yet, either. So Fallon raised the shotgun again, braced it against his shoulder, and prepared to end the poor man’s misery. Not that he deserved it, but that was going to be a long, agonizing way to die, and Fallon was already sick enough.
A shot boomed, and the gurgling screams stopped. The killer collapsed in a silent heap onto the bloody mass of the horse he and the others had gunned down.
Fallon looked to his right. The Chinese man held the Remington revolver that the killer had dropped. The Celestial turned to Fallon, nodded, and dropped the weapon into the grass.
“If I you,” the man said in English, the first words he had spoken since Fallon had seen him. Indeed, Fallon had figured the man couldn’t speak a word of English. “Me drop gun. And raise hands high. Real high. Like this.”
The little man’s hands reached skyward, and now Fallon heard hooves and curses and shouts. Without looking at the lawmen and prison guards racing toward the gate of Peckerwood Hill, Fallon lowered the hammer of the unfired ten-gauge and dropped the Winchester into the grass.
His hands were high above his head as he slowly turned around to face the rushing horde of men.
* * *
They placed the iron manacles on his wrists, but Fallon expected that. They shackled his ankles, too, with a chain connecting the lunger and the Oriental. They cursed. Two men vomited. They ran around the graveyard like ants, shouting more curses, while a few offered prayers for the dead. And more than one asked, “What the hell happened?”
Two newspaper reporters showed up, one from the local paper and another from Fort Worth who just happened to be in Huntsville, but the lead guard—who was not Barney Drexel—and a Huntsville policeman ran those two men back beyond the gate to the cemetery, where other peace officers formed a security line to keep the children, the ladies, and the gawking men from getting too close to the carnage.
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