Old Blakey Cole was upstairs with instructions only to risk a shot with his shaky arm and uncertain vision if he was certain he couldn’t miss. Dixie was crouching down by the bar in her red spangled dress feeding Brazos’ dog some cold stew, while Marshal Fallon and the governor’s wife stood very close together by the big east window, their heads outlined in the rapidly strengthening light.
Duke Benedict’s taut, handsome features softened as he stood watching the lovers of Capital City. He’d been called many things in his time, such as ‘world weary’ and ‘cynical’, and supposed that in the main such accusations were true. But something about Tom Fallon and the governor’s wife had disarmed him, and watching them now, as he had watched them often during the punishing ride from Drum, he felt something close to envy.
Belatedly then, he realized that somebody else was staring long and hard at Rachel Arnell and Capital City’s Chief Marshal.
Lighting a fresh cigarillo, Benedict strolled across the room to the corner bay window near the piano. Caleb Flint took his eyes from the couple and looked at him in that certain way he had that was a strange mixture of defensiveness and defiance.
“It shouldn’t be long now, Flint,” Benedict said, placing a polished boot on a curve-backed chair. “I believe we’ve done all we can from a defensive viewpoint.”
“Yeah?” Flint jerked his chin towards Fallon. “If I were the general here, which I’m not, I’d be tellin’ the badge-packer to look sharp and keep his mind on his job.”
“They bother you, do they, Flint?”
“No. Why should they?”
“They seem to. I’ve seen you watching them a lot since we left Drum.”
“So?”
“So I’m curious to know why they worry you so much.”
“If you want to know the truth, what really worries me is nosy dudes in frilly shirts, Benedict.”
“Save the tough talk, Flint. You don’t faze me and you know it.”
Caleb Flint glared, and then a glimmer of admiration appeared in his clear, gunfighter’s eyes. For it was true, what Duke Benedict had said. He was amongst the top two or three gun packers in the Territory, yet this lofty rating didn’t put him above this handsome man in his fancy suit and flowered vest, merely on the same level. Caleb Flint and Duke Benedict had fought side by side in the brief, vicious battle in the gulch an hour earlier, and those violent moments had confirmed something that Flint had suspected from the beginning: behind Duke Benedict’s clipped Eastern accent and actor’s smile, was a will of iron and about the fastest and most natural gun hand he’d ever encountered. It took a hell of a lot to impress Iron Man Flint, but Duke Benedict had managed it.
He said quietly, “All right, so they bother me, Benedict. It always bothers me when I see a good man makin’ a fool of himself.”
“You believe that’s what Fallon is doing?”
“Any man who believes in women’s mush is a fool.”
“Women’s mush? Ah hah!”
Flint’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What was she like, gunfighter?”
“Who?”
“The girl who let you down so hard, of course.”
Caleb Flint turned his head to stare out the window, the pearly light limning the craggy, unrelenting lines of his profile.
“That bad, eh, Flint?” Benedict said, reading the deeply etched lines in the man’s face like clear print. “It couldn’t be that an unhappy love affair pushed you onto the gunfighter’s trail, I suppose? It’s happened many a time before.”
“You talk too damn much, Benedict,” Flint grated. “All I’m sayin’ is that love’s the biggest fool fake in the world, and those two will find it out sooner or later.”
“You think so? I believe it’s the real thing, and I don’t believe in much.”
Flint looked at him. “You reckon that’s the real thing? A man with another man’s wife?”
“You can’t know the whole story, Flint. You see, Fallon and Rachel met and fell in love just after the war, eventually planned to marry. But Rachel had another suitor, Wallace Arnell. And because Rachel’s father is head of the Southerners in the Territory, it soon became apparent that the only way Arnell could get a united territory was to wed Colonel Claiborne’s daughter. Now, Rachel is a woman who dearly loves her country, as is the marshal. And ultimately they agreed that Rachel should marry Arnell, a decision that was painful for them, but which succeeded in uniting the two strongest families in the Territory and brought peace to the region. That’s what I call the real thing, Flint.”
Flint had turned to look at him as he spoke. Now he swung his eyes back towards Fallon and Rachel Arnell, finally shook his head. “Fairy stories, Benedict. I don’t believe in them anymore.”
“You mean you’re afraid to, don’t you? If you believed in love, it would mean that all your hate was wrong, wouldn’t it?” Benedict smiled as he lowered his foot to the floor. “You know, it’s not too late for you, Flint. You could make something of yourself. But not while all you believe in is hate and your fast gun.”
“You’re sayin’ I don’t have the right to hate Holly?”
“I’m saying there’s more to life than just getting square—with one man after another until you face the one that’s faster. Think about that, gun packer.”
“Sure—preacher man.”
Benedict frowned. “And one last thing, Flint. I’ve got to ask you, can we still count on you if and when Holly goes down? I realize those men out there are friends of yours ... ”
“Were,” Flint said bluntly. “They’ve seen me as a Judas ever since I blew Holly’s face off in Dodge City. And the fact that they stood behind Shacklock when he kidnapped a woman proved that they’d never been real friends of mine anyway.”
The answer pleased Benedict in more ways than one. “Who knows, Flint?” he murmured, moving off. “You might be closer to turning a corner and making something of yourself than even you know.”
“Don’t bet money on it, gamblin’ man.”
Checking his guns, Benedict made his way around the room, pausing for a word in turn with Fallon, Dixie and the men on the stairs, before starting back towards the Texan’s window. He was halfway across the room when without warning, a sudden volley opened up, bursting window glass and sending howling lead screaming across the room.
Benedict hurled himself flat as Brazos, Flint, Fallon, Storey and Tobin lifted their guns and sent a crashing chorus of sound roaring back. Then coming up in a half crouch, he sped to the window flanking Brazos’, but already the killers’ volley had died away.
There was a minute’s eerie silence, with gun smoke wisping along the streets and alleyways like an evil fog. And then Kain Shacklock’s deep, harsh voice sounded from the direction of the store.
“Benedict!”
“I hear you, Shacklock.”
“I still only want what I wanted all along—Fallon and the woman! Turn ’em over and I’ll forget the good men you cut down!”
“You’re wasting your breath, killer!”
“You don’t stand a chance, Benedict!”
“Go to hell.”
“I’ll send you there first, dude—and you’ll pray for a quick bullet!”
Peering through the slatted shades, Benedict glimpsed the shapes of men circling around behind the buildings, moving in closer. That hot volley had just been a sample, he realized. Before sunup, they would be given a taste of the real thing.
He glanced sideways then and was surprised to see that Brazos, instead of watching the enemy, was peering up at the sky that was slowly turning gold and crimson in the east.
“Keep your mind on the job in hand, Johnny Reb,” he reproved, but the Texan continued to stare upwards. Benedict frowned. “What are you looking for?”
“Well, back home, they say the day you die, your name’s written in the sky at daybreak.”
Benedict looked disgusted. “A damned old wives’ tale!”
A rifle
roared and a bullet snored over Hank Brazos’ head, slamming bottles from the bar shelf behind him.
He lifted his rifle and jacked a shell into the chamber. “Some of them old wives were pretty smart, Benedict.”
Chapter Eleven – The Siege
CAPTAIN TOR HENRY paced restlessly to and fro along the railroad track beside the stationary train in the punishing afternoon heat. The captain rarely smoked, but was chewing a cold cigar into a frayed and tattered mess as he moved beneath the windows of the car where blue-capped heads peered out.
“How’s it goin’ now, Captain?” called a youthful trooper.
“They’re still trying to repair it, damn it,” came the barked reply. The captain rarely swore, either, but today seemed to be the day for breaking all his own rules.
The special train, southbound from Capital City to Taloga, was drawn up on a long stretch of straight track that ran between low brown hills roughly halfway between the capital and Taloga. The special, laden with troops, had developed brake failure at midnight and the crew were still working on it hours later.
The captain knew nothing about loco repairs, didn’t want to know anything. But he’d never heard of any breakdown taking this long to repair, and he was painfully aware that even were they to get the train moving now, they might be too late.
Henry had seen the telegram which the governor had received from Weed. The words SITUATION PERILOUS swam continuously before his eyes. The situation had been critical when Fallon had quit Weed heading for Taloga at dusk, so God alone knew what the position might be now.
Halting by the hissing loco, the militiaman stood with his hands locked behind his back staring at the men grouped around the Mogul’s driving wheels. He resisted the urge to venture closer, no longer certain that he could hold back his temper should he start in on them again. He’d already bad-named the engineer with rare inventiveness, had cast grave doubts on his parentage, threatened him with physical violence, had even voiced the possibility of standing him and the rest of his crew against a wall and shooting them. All to no avail.
Turning abruptly away, he started back along the train and was passing between the box car and the caboose when he heard an urgent voice.
“Hey! Captain Henry!”
He halted to see brakeman Joe Wallace standing on the far side of the train, beckoning him. With a frown, the officer ducked beneath the couplings and stood before the man who’d been working on the brakes with the engineer. Wallace was smeared with engine-oil and couldn’t conceal the fact that he was in the grip of some powerful emotion.
“What is it, Joe?” he asked.
Wallace looked fearfully in the direction of the loco cab before answering. Then he blurted, “It’s all right, Captain.”
“What’s all right, man?”
“The brakes. They’ve been fixed for hours.”
“What?”
“They’re scared, Captain. The engineer and conductor—they reckon that if we get to Taloga and them Drum hellions is there, we’ll all be murdered. I went along with ’em only on account I was scared, too, but I knew it wasn’t right and—and—I’m real sorry, Captain.”
For a moment, Henry’s eyes burned with dangerous fire. But then he was calm again as he reached out and clapped the man on the shoulder. “Thanks, Joe,” he said, and ducked back under the couplings again.
The captain remained calm during the next handful of eventful minutes, and was mildly proud of his self-control. He didn’t order his men to shoot the train crew, as he had the strong impulse to do, nor did he have them pound them into the railbed with their rifle butts. He simply had them march them off a hundred yards from the tracks and leave them to walk the eighty miles back to Capital City on foot.
The engineer was the only man qualified to drive a train, but Henry wasn’t taking any chances with him again. Instead, he recruited the assistance of Joe Wallace and a Trooper Macintosh who had once driven a loco in Canada. He then mounted the footplate.
They stoked up the fire, hurled more wood into the firebox and opened the throttle wide. With the fire roaring like a blast furnace and smoke pouring from the stack, they got the special rolling. With troops hanging out of the car windows and cheering, the scratch crew sent the special roaring down the track towards Taloga.
The slug that killed Judd Storey chopped through the side window of the saloon and caught the young Territorian in the chest, drilling his heart. About all that could be said about young Storey’s death, was that it was quick.
Which was more than they’d been able to say about old Blakey Cole.
Blakey had been hit twice during the second big rush on the Last Hope just before dusk. The old man had taken two slugs in the belly and had writhed and twisted in agony for two hours before breathing his last. Both Brazos and Tom Fallon had positively identified the gunman who’d slain the old saloon hand, as Holly.
Red gun flashes flared closer now beyond the shattered windows and the bullet-pocked doors. An eerie light filled the Last Hope, a sifting light from the street lamps that the killers had lit to make their murderous task easier. Tattered tendrils of gun smoke moved silently through saloon and street, trembling when the guns stormed, growing thicker with the new smoke.
A man lay motionless on the steps, one hand outflung, the other hand clutching a Colt tucked under his body. Shad Crane, who had so effectively dealt with Dave Piper in Quinn’s Saloon at Drum, had almost made it to the batwings in the big rush near dusk. Almost, but not quite. Caleb Flint had stopped the killer’s headlong progress, and Hank Brazos’ Colt had pumped three slugs into his chest as he fell.
Crane had company. One outlaw was crouched in a grotesque position of death by the saloon’s hitchrack and thirty feet away another gunman’s legs protruded from the crimson-tinted waters of the horse trough. There were other dead men and other wounded in the outlaws’ ranks, but the defenders had also paid their price. Two men dead, Fallon and Brazos both carrying wounds, Dixie Troop ignoring the smarting pain of a bullet-burned shoulder as she carried ammunition to the besieged men. The price had been high.
Dead men, wounded men, ammunition running perilously low as the killers crept closer in the night, and still no sign of the militiamen’s train from Capital City. Still no sign ...
“You-all need food!” snapped the indomitable Dixie, and stormed into the kitchen.
Ignoring the crash as a .45 slug wiped out yet another of her fast-dwindling bottle supply, Dixie broke a dozen eggs into an iron skillet and stirred them with a wooden spoon. Standing unnoticed in the shadow-shrouded doorway, Duke Benedict shook his dark head wonderingly before moving away. If every man he’d ridden with in the Union Army had had about half as much grit as Dixie, he mused, the war would have been finished in a year.
He paused, took out his cigar case and made a light. Suddenly a hot breath licked at the flame and put it out. Something tugged at Benedict’s long hair just below the ear. At the same instant, something small and heavy smashed into the upright inches from his head. Then at last—or so it seemed to Benedict at the time—the bellowing roar of a Colt revolver mushroomed on the deeper gloom of the staircase. Dropping instinctively, he realized with a chilling shock that the enemy had gained a foothold in the Last Hope itself.
The six-gun-wielding shadow on the landing was the lethal Link Callaway. Unknown to the dwindling ranks of the defenders, young Billy Tobin had fallen dead on the upper balcony under the last concentrated volley from the store. Callaway, who’d been slightly wounded in the last charge and had been forced to seek cover beneath the verandah on the southern side, had witnessed Tobin’s death. Seeing his chance, he had quit his cover unnoticed and used the outside stairs to gain the landing window. He’d been up there for over a minute, ignoring the easy targets of Fallon and Brazos, waiting for his chance at Benedict. His chance had come but he wouldn’t get another.
As Benedict dropped, Caleb Flint leapt from the cover of the beer kegs by the east windows and emptied his gun at the s
hadow in a continuous rolling roar. Jerked up by the terrible impact of the lead, Callaway burst through the railing, crashed to the glass-littered bar, then pitched to the floor.
Flint strode across to him, fingering fresh shells into his hot gun. The dying gunfighter stared up at his huge bulk, first with terrible hatred, then with total disbelief.
“Flint! Segura reckoned one of ’em looked like you ... but we—but—we never believed ... ”
His head rolled and he was dead.
“Are you all right, Benedict?” Flint called, and when Benedict got carefully to his feet and nodded, the gunfighter turned to Fallon. “Go see what’s happened to Tobin, Marshal. If he’s dead, you take over his post on the gallery.”
Tom Fallon shook his head slowly as he stepped from the alcove that he shared with Rachel Arnell. She had refused to leave his side throughout that day in hell, reloading his guns, at times wielding a six-gun herself when things grew perilous.
Flint’s mouth set hard. “Won’t take orders from me, badge-packer? All right. Benedict, tell him we need somebody up there before anybody else gets in.”
“Come and get it!” Dixie called from the kitchen, but nobody responded.
“It’s not that, Flint,” said Fallon quietly, his hard features grayer than ever in the gloom. “You’ve shown yourself a man entitled to give orders today. It’s just that I’ve got a better plan.”
“Then let’s hear it, Marshal,” urged Brazos, backing away from his window, favoring his heavily strapped right leg. “I ain’t had me a bright idea worth a lick since sunup.”
“We’re losing,” Fallon said bluntly. “I give us another half hour, an hour at the very outside, and we’ll be out of ammunition.” He lifted his hands then let them drop. “It’s time to give Shacklock what he wants, or part of it.”
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