by J. T. Edson
‘Sounds risky,’ Harris grunted.
Dusty grinned back, recognising the man’s type. ‘You could be right.’ Then his eyes went to the Kid and Waco,
‘Nope,’ he said.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Waco innocently.
‘Sure. You are. You’re staying here to help Magoon. Lon, you and Chet get up in that bell tower with your rifles and start shooting. I’ll send you some more men as soon as I can. I’ll hear what you’ve got to tell me when I get back, Lon.’
The Ysabel Kid did not argue, but Waco looked annoyed. Dusty was going into danger, and Waco thought he should be alongside his friend.
‘Hell Dusty—!’ Waco began.
Mark’s big right hand gripped Waco’s shoulder, the powerful fingers in hard and causing Waco, no weakling himself, to wince in pain. Mark’s eyes went to Waco’s face, and he snapped, ‘You do as you’re told, boy. There’s not the time to argue about it.’
‘Time we went,’ Dusty said, then he gripped Waco’s hand, a smile playing on his lips. ‘Look, boy. Happen Mark and I don’t make it, the bank draft’s in my warbag. You and Lon take it to Colonel Raines, get the hosses and take them to Uncle Devil—and see you get good stock.’
Waco did not trust himself to reply. He turned and went to where his horse stood with the others, pulled the Winchester from his saddleboot and came back to leap on the ramp and line the rifle over the wall. His face was hard, cold, set and grim as he looked at the men along the wall from him.
‘Put down two volleys, boy,’ Dusty called. ‘Then we’ll make a run for it.’
‘Make every shot count,’ Mark went on.
Twice came the crashing roar of a volley, the lead slashing at the Apaches across the plaza. Then, guns in hand, Dusty and his party went through the open gate and sprinted for the other side of the open square, for Church Street and the Millet hardware store.
CHAPTER TEN
DEATH OF A DRUNKEN GOLDBRICK
Luck favoured Dusty’s party as they charged across the square. Lobo Colorado was still out of town, making his medicine, and the other braves knew it would take some time for them to get the white-eyes out of the church. There was no great rush, the white-eyes were not going any place for a spell, and the town lay empty, inviting all braves to go and help themselves to loot. The Wells Fargo corral and the livery barn were the prime objectives, the horses herded off out of town. Then the houses at the other side of the town were invaded by eager braves, taking what they wanted and smashing anything they did not. Lobo Colorado’s medicine was good. They’d taken the town, would soon kill all the white-eyes. Right now there was much loot to be gathered. The squaws would think highly of the braves when they saw it.
Consequently, Dusty and his men did not meet up with much opposition as they went across the square. Only a few young hot-heads remained to oppose them, and in the face of a determined charge, backed by the rifle fire from the bell tower, they backed off. Once Dusty’s party reached Church Street, they met with some stiffer opposition from Apaches who were looting in the saloon and Wells Fargo office.
Dusty saw an Apache appear at the upstairs window of a house, rifle slanting down. The Colt in Dusty’s left hand appeared to line of its own accord, roaring out once, and the Apache crashed through the window to land on the sidewalk. At the same moment Mark cut down on a brave who came through the batwing doors of the saloon, revolver in one hand, bottle of whisky in the other. A third brave was lining his rifle on the advancing white men when he spun around and went rolling in the dirt. Up in the bell tower the Ysabel Kid levered another bullet into his smoking rifle and looked for a fresh target.
Dusty’s party was at the hardware store now, and Mark hurled himself up, across the sidewalk, his shoulder ramming into the store’s door. Millet was proud of the strength of his household fittings, but that door burst open under Mark’s crashing weight, splintering open as if it were matchwood. Before the men could make the comparative safety of the store, one of their number went down, head-top torn away by a soft lead muzzle-loader ball. Harris gave a grunt of pain as lead caught him. He stumbled but Dusty shoved away one Colt, caught him and helped him through the door.
‘Get to it!’ Dusty snapped, lowered Harris into a chair and looked at the blood which oozed from between the man’s fingers as he held the hole in his stomach. ‘You three watch the windows, rest of you set to and load those rifles. Make sure the barrels aren’t clogged with grease before you try and use them. Same with the revolvers. Take what you can carry, load them and bust the rest.’ He turned to the wounded man, ‘I’ll see what I can do for you.’
Harris’s laugh was harsh and grating. ‘Don’t bother none, Captain. I’m done, gutshot. How the hell do you reckon I’ll make it back to the church?’
Dusty could see that the wound in these circumstances was fatal. The bullet caught Harris in the stomach, and there was no hope of medical aid for him. There was no way they could take him back to the church with them. Even without the danger of the Apaches and the men all carrying a load of arms and ammunition, there was nothing but danger in moving a man as badly hurt as this one. Like Harris said, there was nothing they could do for him.
One thing Dusty knew for sure. He could not leave Harris to fall into the Apache hands. Not alive at any rate. That was a problem Dusty would have to face when the time for departure came.
Right now there was too much to do to worry about when the time came for them to leave. He watched the three men at the windows, they were firing steadily at the lean, lithe, dark shapes which flitted into position around the building. The Apache braves knew what this store sold and knew why the white-eyes were inside. They would do all they could to prevent the arms being taken out.
‘Going to be a mite dangerous, Dusty,’ Mark said as he joined his friend by the counter. ‘Give me first choice at the remuda and I’d take being back home to the O.D. Connected right now.’
‘So would I,’ agreed Dusty and looked around the room. ‘Where the hell does he store his ammunition and powder?’
‘Behind the counter—’ Harris gasped. ‘Got him a trapdoor leads into a cellar. I saw him go down it one time when I called in, riding courier.’
Dusty and Mark went over the counter and looked down at the padlocked trapdoor leading into the cellar. Mark grunted and called to one of the soldiers to hand him a crowbar from the pile in the corner. It might have been quicker to try and break the lock with a bullet—but not with the possibility of the bullet missing and ending up in a keg of gunpowder.
Taking the bar Mark inserted the end into the ring of the lock, then began to strain upwards. The lock was strong and held for a moment. Mark’s giant muscles bunched and rolled until they almost looked as if they would rip his shirt. Then the lock snapped open, and Mark bent to jerk the trapdoor up. There was a small lamp under the counter. Dusty took and lit it, then led the way down the wooden steps. At the foot he looked around the small store room. Most conspicuous thing of all was a big barrel, the top of which was open. He went to the barrel and looked inside, it was as Dusty feared. In his attempts to prevent anyone stealing any of his gunpowder, Millet emptied the smaller kegs into one large barrel. This was three-quarter full and probably nailed to the floor as an added measure of safety. On the shelves were three boxes of bullets for either the .45 Colt or the .44-40 Winchester. An open wooden box next to the ammunition contained sticks of dynamite, but there was no sign of fuse or detonator. That figured, a man did not mix the two together if he could help it.
Mark went to the barrel and looked inside. He did not think the black grains were soot, or even fine ground charcoal.
‘More than three-quarters full,’ he growled. ‘That damned, stupid nogood—’
‘Cursing won’t help us any, Mark,’ answered Dusty. ‘We can’t tote this barrel out with us and it wouldn’t be healthy to try and take the powder out in sacks. We’ll just have to blow it up. Pass the ammunition boxes out to the men.’
M
ark picked up the three boxes and shoved them up over the edge of the trapdoor on to the shop floor. Then he looked around the cellar and shook his head. ‘I can’t see any fuses.’
‘There aren’t any,’ Dusty answered, and something in his voice made Mark look hard at him. ‘No chance of laying a powder trail down the steps either. Get the men out of here and head for the church, Mark. I’ll give you five minutes start.’
Mark was long used to Dusty’s cold courage, but the quietly spoken words shook him. ‘Like hell. You can handle the defence of the church better than I can. I’ll be the one who—’
Dusty shook his head. He could not, would not, leave his friend to die. ‘It’s my chore, Mark. I can’t leave another man to do it.’
Without their knowing, the words carried to the ears of Harris. The wounded man sat hunched up in the chair and listened, then gritting his teeth forced himself on to his feet and edged around the counter to look down into the hole.
‘Hey you pair,’ his growled out words showed the pain he was in, ‘It’s long gone time you was getting out of here.’
‘It’s not that easy,’ replied Dusty. ‘We can’t leave this stuff here for the Apaches, and there’s no fuse to set it off.’
‘That so?’ Harris grunted, then gritting his teeth he started to climb down the steps.
Mark guessed what was on the man’s mind and helped him down. Harris swayed forward to lean on the top of the keg and look in. Dusty frowned, the man should be sitting down, not moving about with a wound like that. He opened his mouth to say something but Harris gave him no chance.
‘Looks bad, real bad. Got a smoke, Cap’n?’
‘Smoke! Down here?’ Dusty snapped. ‘Have you gone loco or something?’
‘If you’re scared you can always get out,’ replied Harris, then he coughed and a trickle of blood ran down his chin. ‘Go on, roll me a smoke, leave me some matches—and get the hell out of here.’
For a moment Dusty did not speak but from the sound of the heavier firing above knew the Apaches were pressing home a stronger attack. Then he shook his head:
‘I can’t ask a man to stay down here. I can’t leave. you—.’
‘And you can’t take me with you,’ Harris interrupted. ‘I’m gutshot, and I’d not make it halfway to the church, not the way you’d have to carry me. Every man up in the store’s loaded down, so how the hell are you going to manage me. You wouldn’t have a chance with me along. Don’t even like your chances without me.’
‘You can’t ask me to stand by while you blow yourself up!’
‘Why not, you aimed to stay here and do it.’
‘It’s my duty to stay,’ replied Dusty. ‘And my place.’
‘Your place ‘n’ duty’s down there at that church,’ Harris growled, grinning mirthlessly. ‘That’s good, me telling a man like you what his duty is. Look, Cap’n, I’m hit bad. Even if I pull through, which ain’t likely, I’ve got a life in the Stockade ahead of me, and you’d see I got there. You might not like doing it, but that wouldn’t stop you. I know you Southern gentlemen. I reckon I’m getting off easy. Now get the hell out of here before I start in to crying on your shoulder.’
Mark was hand-rolling a cigarette, working fast, with fingers which almost appeared to see. He licked the paper, whirled the finished smoke between his fingers and gave it to Harris. Then he turned to Dusty and his voice was low:
‘He’s right. You’re needed at the church. Those folks need a leader and that town marshal isn’t the man for it. He’ll get them all killed. There’s only you can pull them through.’
Dusty did not reply. This was one of the hardest decisions he’d ever had to make. He watched Harris leaning on the keg and gritting his teeth, trying to hold on to consciousness. Dusty drew in a deep breath, then let it out again.
‘Pass a chair down here,’ he raised his voice. ‘Move it.’
There was time for Dusty and Mark to replenish the loads in their guns before the chair was passed down by a soldier. His face showed some worry and he said:
‘There’s a helluva lot of them out there, Cap’n. All got rifles and they ain’t waiting to pass the time of day.’
‘Never thought they were,’ Dusty replied. ‘We’ll need that dynamite, Mark.’
‘There’s no fuses for it,’ Mark replied. ‘I surely hope we can find some.’
Dusty hardly heard what his friend was saying. He turned to Harris. ‘Thanks, friend. Are there any messages for anybody?’
‘Sure,’ Harris answered, sinking into the chair and resting his elbow on the top of the keg. ‘Tell the colonel—’ The message to the colonel was unprintable and hide searing. ‘Now you get the hell out of it,’ Harris finished, taking the cigarette and matches from Mark’s hand. ‘Don’t worry none, I’ll see she blows.’
‘I’m not worried about that,’ Dusty said and raised his hand in a respectful salute, then nodded to Mark. ‘Get going.’
Mark went up the steps, carrying two bundles of dynamite. He paused at the top and looked back at Harris. ‘Adios, soldier.’
‘Good luck,’ Harris grunted back. ‘I’d have liked to serve under you, Cap’n.’
Dusty went to the store floor again. He found the men standing at the windows and pouring shots at the Apaches across the street. Dusty darted to the side of the open door and looked out. He could see things were not going to be easy. They’d be lucky if they got out of the store. There were some twenty or more Apaches on the other side of the street, in the building opposite or at the ends of it. All of the Apaches held rifles and were shooting back at the store. That door was a death trap. No man could get through it alive. Not with Apaches waiting for them. Apaches armed with repeating rifles.
‘Hurry, damn you, hurry!’ Harris’s voice, sounding weak, came to Dusty’s ears.
‘Mark you, soldier!’ Dusty snapped, indicating a grizzled old trooper who was nearest the door. ‘Take a bundle of dynamite each and stand on either side of the door. When I reach a count of three I want you to pitch the sticks at the Apaches. Lob them well up. The rest of you men pour on some lead against those Apaches. If you empty your gun drop it. All full loaded with ammunition?’
There was a mutter of agreement and the men started to shoot. They did not know what Dusty had in mind but all hoped he would get them out of the store. It was not the most safe place for a man to find himself and got even less safe by the second.
Mark knew what Dusty meant to try and do. It was a desperate chance, but it was all the chance they had left. They could not get out unless the rifles of the Apaches were stilled and the Indians confused. Everything depended on Dusty’s skill with his matched guns, the skill which won him the Cochise County Fair Pistol Shoot, the skill which made him a legend in his own lifetime.
‘One,’ said Dusty, showing no more excitement than if he was about to perform some easy trick. ‘Two!’ The two men drew back their arms and gauged the distance across to the Apaches. ‘Three!’
Mark and the soldier moved into the open space of the door, swinging their hands forward to send the bundles of dynamite flying into the air. Dusty held a gun in either hand, cocking them as he watched the flight of the bundles. He formed a picture of the flight, estimating where he need aim for bullet and bundle to meet. Then he brought up the right hand Colt and fired in a fast move which hardly appeared to wait for his taking aim.
The roar of the explosion drowned the bellow of the Colt. There was a brilliant flash. Almost instantly there sounded a second dull roar as the concussion of the first explosion detonated the second bundle.
Even without being packed into solid earth and building up the full explosive power through the packing, the dynamite gave a satisfactory result. The blast of the explosions came rushing down on to the Apaches at the other side of the street. It struck down on them, leaving those nearest in shattered, bloody pulp and throwing the others right off balance. The braves were in no condition to prevent Dusty and his party leaving the door.
Dusty and the other men had flattened down as soon as he shot. Now they were up on their feet and Dusty roared, ‘Run for it! Adios, Harris!’
‘Good luck, Cap’n,’ Harris called back, weak but still defiant.
The soldiers, each one loaded down with ammunition and weapons, left the store on the run. Dusty and Mark were the last to leave, their guns out as they prepared to fight their way back to the church. Only the Apaches who’d been facing the hardware store were affected by the explosion. There were many more on hand.
Standing on the wall of the church grounds, Waco could see all that was happening along the street. He saw Dusty and Mark fighting their way back towards the church and knew how slight their chance of doing so was. There were more Apaches moving in all the time, flitting towards the sound of shooting.
Waco turned to Magoon, his eyes blazing. ‘They don’t have a chance on foot. I’m taking horses to them.’
‘Boy’s right,’ growled a miner. ‘I’m with you, Texas.’
Waco leaned his rifle against the wall and bounded to the ground. He hit down running, eight soldiers and miners following him. The young Texan did not waste any time in the finer refinements of horse-mounting, like placing his foot in the stirrup irons. He went up into the saddle of that seventeen hand stallion in a single bound, scooped up the reins and put his Kelly petmakers to work. The huge horse went forward in a leaping bound, the eight other riders following. Waco went through the open gates and at the Apaches like a bat out of hell. The other men rode fast, but they could not keep up with the wild-eyed Texas boy.
Like a raging devil, his guns out and snarling, Waco tore across the plaza and on to Church Street. He rode like a centaur and shot like a fiend, tearing at the Apaches and along Church Street towards his friends. Waco’s plan was simple. He was going to save his two friends or die trying. If Dusty Fog was going to be killed, Waco aimed to die by his side.
