The 7th Western Novel

by Francis W. Hilton

  “Drop it, dammit! Next time I’ll…”

  As Billy hesitated there was a sudden flurry of shots from behind him and three riders came bursting through the brush. Bone slumped across the wagon brake and lay there. The other man fell jerkily from behind the tree and rolled into the brush. The horsemen drew rein and looked around.

  “By God, Billy Condo—if you ain’t got the damndest knack for gettin’ into trouble!”

  Billy grinned with relief. “Yes—and if you and Will and Skeeter hadn’t come along just then, Joe, I might have been looking hard for a knack to get out of it.”

  Joe Metcalf and the others dismounted and the four of them stood over Thad Harper. “He’s hurt pretty bad,” Joe grimaced. “Who did it?”

  Billy gave them the details as quickly as he could, then added, “One of you get Thad back in the wagon and bring him into Abilene. We’ve got to get him to a doctor.” He turned to Joe. “Where’s the herd?”

  Joe pointed through the trees. “We’d just decided to hold them on that flat over there when we heard the shootin’ and came over.”

  Billy was measuring powder into the chambers of the navy. Tamping in wads and balls he said, “There’s going to be hell to pay, Joe. Thornhill’s got his back to the wall and he knows it. He’s got a choice of a running fight or a hanging, and I’ve got a hunch he don’t want to hang.”

  Joe nodded and started for his horse. “That’s all I need to know. Let’s get in there. Will, ride over and get as many boys from the herd as you can. Meet us in town.”

  Billy slipped the last cap in place, shoved the navy away. “Skeeter, you drive Thad in the wagon and I’ll take your horse—mine got killed.” Then he was in the saddle and riding shoulder to shoulder with Joe Metcalf as they pounded out of the clearing and out across the flat.

  At Mud Creek they met three riders who had caught their horses and were coming down the street at a run. Billy fired without slackening speed. The one in the middle pitched from the saddle and rolled over and over in the dust. The two others broke and headed back for the Drovers Cottage. Billy slowed just enough to verify the fact that the man he’d killed wasn’t Jase. Then he spurred alongside Joe again.

  They saw the two dismount in front of the hotel and Billy yelled to Joe to hold up. “Let ’em go. We’ve got to figure a way to get Mary Thornhill out of there alive!”

  “How many Lazy S men are in there?” Joe asked as he stopped beside Billy.

  Billy shook his head. “I don’t know. Eight or ten, anyhow—judging from the mounts they had outside.”

  “We’d better wait for the rest of our crew, then,” Joe said.

  Billy thought that over as he reloaded the empty chamber. “All right, you do that, Joe. I’ll try to get to Mary.”

  Joe spun on him. “You damn fool! You can’t fight that bunch alone!”

  “I don’t aim to,” Billy said quietly. “I’m going to try to sneak in the back some way while you and the others keep ’em busy out here.”

  Billy worked down the street. A team and wagon pulled into sight from between buildings, quickly pulled out of sight again when someone shouted a warning. On the north side of the tracks stood a lone building with a sign, W. H. Whitehurst’s Blacksmith Shop. A team and several saddle horses stood outside but there was no sign of a human being. On the south side, where the rest of the buildings stood, it was the same way. Rigs and saddle mounts were tied in front, but all humanity had withdrawn. The street lay silent in the September heat of a Kansas noon.

  There was a rumble of hoofs from beyond Mud Creek.

  “Here they come!” Joe Metcalf said.

  Billy turned to look. Eight Circle 8 riders were pounding across the flat. “All right, Joe,” he swallowed hard. “You tell the boys what the situation is. Main thing I want you to do is keep attention on the street here. I’ll try to get in the back way.”

  Joe nodded curtly. “Billy…” he began, then stopped.

  “Yeah?”

  “Nothin’—just…good luck, old-timer.”

  “Thanks, Joe!”

  Billy turned his horse between two buildings and rode off the street. At the back, he turned and began to ride toward the Drovers Cottage, sticking close to the buildings. It was hot here, even in the shade, yet he seemed to be covered with cold sweat.

  The last building in the row was maybe sixty-five yards away from the hotel. Billy reined to a stop in back of it. He looked across the open space, wondering if he could make it without getting shot. His eyes ran along the windows on the second floor, trying to remember which was Mary’s. It was hard to tell from the outside. Two carpenters walked across the unfinished third floor carrying a plank. They dropped the board in a hurry and disappeared. Billy smiled grimly. A deep silence seemed to have settled over Abilene.

  A sudden flurry of shots shattered the silence, followed by the rapid pounding of hoofs. Billy heard the yells of the riders and he knew Joe Metcalf was leading the Circle 8 crew in a feint past the front of the Drovers Cottage. He measured the distance across the open space and spurred his horse. Leaning far out of the saddle to the right he hooked his left toe behind the cantle and held to the animal’s mane with his left hand. He’d seen the Comanches do it, a trick that let them ride while putting their horse as a shield between them and the enemy. He had the navy in his hand, ready to fire under the mount’s neck. But no shots came. The yelling and shooting in the street was on again. He caught a glimpse of the milling Circle 8 riders. They were across the K-P tracks and Billy guessed Thornhill’s men had their eyes on them.

  At the back of the hotel he slid the horse to a stop and let the reins trail on the ground as he slid from the saddle. In one jump he was beside the door leading up the back stairs, flattening himself against the building and listening.

  The sound of hoofs behind made him spin around. A rider came from between two buildings behind the hotel, riding one horse and leading two others. The minute Billy saw the man drop the reins of the spare horses he caught a glimpse of the bruised and ugly face. Ackerman’s gun was out in a flash and swinging to bear.

  Billy shot from a crouch, saw the big man jerk grotesquely, then pitch from his saddle. He felt no emotion other than a slight tremor that quickly passed. Ackerman had it coming.

  The three horses scattered and Billy turned to find his own had spooked at the shot and was running across the space between the buildings. He swore at his own incaution in not having tied the animal instead of ground-hitching it. Then another thought came to him and drove that worry from his mind.

  Ackerman had been leading two mounts. Why? Billy could guess. The man had been sent by Jase to bring the horses to the back door. Two of them—one for Jase and one for Mary. That meant…

  Billy peered cautiously around the door and up the stairs. He heard a muffled voice from the upper hall. The words were indistinct, but the voice was Jase Thornhill’s. The next instant he heard the splintering of wood and he knew what had happened. He bounded up the stairs two steps at a time cocking the navy as he ran.

  After the bright sunlight outside it was hard to see in the hall at first. He hesitated on the landing—then saw the corner of the door sagging from its hinges in the room down the hall. Slowly he began to walk toward it and for the first time realized he was limping a little. He looked down at his left foot, then remembered the shot that had knocked him off his feet. The heel of his left boot—Ackerman’s boot—had been shot away. A scream came from down the hall. He broke into a limping run.

  Jase Thornhill backed suddenly into the hall dragging the struggling Mary. Billy raised his gun, then stopped. He couldn’t shoot without hitting the girl. Jase caught sight of him.

  “Drop that gun, Condo, or I’ll kill her!”

  Jase’s face was like a man who’d gone mad. His eyes sparkled, his nostrils dilated, His mouth hideously contorted. Billy knew he’d do it. He s
tarted to drop his gun, but he’d waited a second too long. Jase’s gun roared loud in the narrow hall and Billy felt the bullet jerk the hat from his head and thud in the board of the wall behind.

  Jase cursed vilely as Mary fainted away. She sagged on his arm, a dead weight, exposing the upper half of his body. Billy jerked the navy up and squeezed the trigger—but Jase had seen it coming. The bullet whipped harmlessly into the doorframe as Jase dropped his burden and jumped behind the turn of the hall. Billy heard the sound of Jase’s footsteps running toward the front landing that led to the gallery above the saloon.

  The hall was empty when he turned the corner. From there he could hear the shooting downstairs as the Lazy S riders fired on the men outside. Billy flattened along the wall, creeping forward. He peered around the corner of the landing at the scene below. The place was a shambles. Chairs were piled against the front door, the tables had been overturned, cards and chips were scattered about. From behind the windows somebody was dragging two bodies, holding each by a leg. Others moved in to take their places. Nobody looked up.

  Billy ran his eyes around the saloon again. Jase wasn’t there.

  * * * *

  Across the gallery a short hall led to five rooms that Billy could see. Jase could only be in one of those. He looked down again to make certain nobody was watching, then stepped out on the gallery.

  It was just a faint shadow on the dark board floor, but his eyes caught it. Jase had been standing there all along, waiting, flattened against the wall around the corner. Billy tried to check his headlong rush, felt his ankle give way as he spun on the broken bootheel. There was a loud roar and the smell of burning powder close beside him and he felt the plunge of the bullet like the searing of a red hot iron. The gallery began to spin, he fought for his balance, saw Jase’s maniacal face with the mouth twisted as the man screamed something at him and fired again.

  Billy’s navy spoke first by a split fraction of a second. He saw the sudden look of surprise on Jase Thornhill’s face, watched him stagger back, clawing at his stomach. The look of surprise changed to one of terror as the man tried to bring his gun hand up, wincing from the pain.

  “I can’t…move my…arm! God, my belly… Condo, don’t…don’t!”

  Billy put one hand on the gallery railing for support, shook his head groggily to clear his senses. Jase was a blur in front of him, but he could see the hand with the gun coming up slowly, even as Jase pleaded with him to spare his life. Billy felt the navy slipping from his fingers. He stumbled along the railing, fighting for his balance, conscious of one thing only—he’d have to lift that gun. He had waited too long to kill Jason Thornhill—maybe now it was too late.

  Jase was only a blur on the reeling gallery. Billy forced air from his lungs. “Beg, goddamn you, Jase!” he heard himself say. “Beg, and while you beg…you’re trying to kill me. It…it won’t work…Jase. Here’s the…the second one…for me…and…Thad…”

  “Condo! Don’t…!”

  Billy squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked out of his hand and clattered on the floor. Dimly, in a swimming haze, he saw Jase stumble forward against the railing like a drunken man. He watched him reel back and stumble forward again, this time crashing through the flimsy railing. For an instant he teetered there, then Billy saw him fall forward, heard the sound of his body as it thudded to the floor below.

  There was a burst of noise downstairs, the sound of shots and running feet. But Billy didn’t care—he was slipping quietly down into a welcome blackness where everything seemed quiet and restful.

  * * * *

  He awoke suddenly with a cry of pain.

  “Hold him, will you—he’s coming round!” he heard some body say.

  Then he felt strong hands on his arms and legs. Joe Metcalf was bending over him. “Easy, Billy—it’s almost out,” Joe said quietly.

  Billy gritted his teeth, saw a serious faced man with a beard and a stiff collar bending over him with a probe in his hand. The probe grated on something inside him—deep inside him. It hurt like hell.

  “If any more of you Texas wild men come to this town we’re going to need another half-dozen doctors—one man can’t handle all this by himself. I never saw such crazy people for shooting each other and…”

  Billy turned to Joe. “Mary!” he whispered weakly. “Where is she?”

  He felt a soft hand on his brow, caught the gentle scent of a familiar fragrance. He rolled his eyes back, saw her standing there, smiling down at him through her tears.

  He started to smile back, then winced as the probe dug deeper. The pain subsided. He opened his eyes. She was still there. “How—how did we get away?” he asked.

  She nodded toward Joe. “Ask him! I fainted again when I saw you fall there on the gallery.”

  “We came in just when you—” Joe stopped, looked self-consciously at Mary, then went on, “when you and Jase stopped shootin’. Everybody was standin’ there, watchin’ you two with their mouths open. We had ’em cold. There was no more fightin’.”

  Billy suddenly let out a gasp. “Doc—for God’s sake!”

  The doctor straightened up, holding the bullet between his fingers, examining it with a professional air. “A nice specimen,” he mused. “I’ll have to add that to my collection.”

  “Will he be all right now, doctor?” Mary asked.

  The doctor was pouring water into a basin, began washing his hands. “If he doesn’t stop any more bullets, he will.”

  “Will he—she began to blush, then stumbled on anyway, “will he be fit to marry—soon, that is?”

  The doctor looked at her from under raised eyebrows, “Marry? Well—yes… But don’t expect much honeymooning for a while.”

  Mary’s blush deepened and she buried her face beside Billy’s as Joe and the doctor guffawed. “Never mind,” she whispered in his ear, “we’ve waited this long…“

  THREE-CORNERED WAR, by Richard Wormser

  Originally published in 1962.

  CHAPTER I

  Water bubbled from the base of the big rock, and ran through a natural channel in the sandstone, down to the river. Twenty years before a passing homesteader had admired this, and seen in it a chance to provide his home with a luxury few Westerners had—running water.

  So he had built below the big rock, and Rock Spring had been born.

  Now it had three hundred people and a well-cherished rumor that the railroad was on its way.

  One big general store, one big saloon—and one little blind tiger for the Indians—one hotel, one law officer.

  One gambler, too; one of the tables in Wellman’s Great Chance, the saloon, was baize covered for his use.

  Dan Younge was the gambler just now, and a very good one, a very nice guy: good-looking, strong, even-tempered. You might have taken him for a young rancher or a horse-breaker, or a mining engineer, if it weren’t for his clothes and the fact that he had no friends.

  No friend, and, of course, no girl, in the usual sense of the word. Nobody ever saw a married gambler, and women were too scarce in the West for a respectable girl to waste her time falling in love with a man who wasn’t going to marry her.

  There was one law officer, and that was Jack Romayne, the sheriff. He’d gotten the job by being pleasant, both to the rich and the poor, and also by winning a turkey shoot one time.

  It had never occurred to anyone in Rock Spring to ask Jack how many gunfights he’d been in. If they had, he probably would have told the truth, which was that he’d never even seen a gun battle.

  That was Rock Spring. Dan Younge didn’t mind being its gambler, and Jack Romayne believed himself lucky to be its sheriff.

  Until the wagon came walking into Union Street behind two pretty good horses, with the reins tied up to the whipsocket.

  Six men lay dead in that wagon, and they had not died of old age. They had been carbine shot. And
they had been scalped.

  Smelling feed and water and the company of their kind, the two horses turned into the Square Deal Livery stable and stopped at the watering trough, fighting their check lines to get down to the water.

  So it was the hostler at the stable who saw the bodies first, and the whoop he let out sounded from one end of Union Street to the other. Jack Romayne, making out delinquent tax notices in the sheriff’s office, heard it, and at first he thought it was a kid-noise, boys playing one of their mock-murder games.

  But when it was repeated, it was over the sounds of running feet, and Jack jumped up and ran, too. He buckled on his gunbelt as he went, and later he could not say why; few daytime errands in Rock Springs called for an armed sheriff.

  He took one look in the wagon bed and said: “Get the Indian agent, somebody. You, Dan. Go get Major Miles.”

  Dan Younge nodded and turned away, a cool man, one who had seen a lot and didn’t bother to talk much.

  But the rest of the townsmen weren’t like that. As soon as Jack had spoken up, they all started a chorus: “Injuns. Yessir, redskins. Them Shoshones did this!”

  Jack Romayne nodded at the wagon-wide entrance to the livery yard. “Some of you go stand guard there,” he said. “Keep any women and kids out. This isn’t for them.”

  But the men just stood there, and he had to call them by name. “Hostetter, Wellman, Sydnor. Take charge of that gate there!”

  They were all older men than he, store owners and mortgage holders.

  Sydnor stared before he went to help Hostetter and Wellman keep the arch closed.

  Dan Younge came back then. “Here’s Major Miles, Jack,” he said. “And I thought maybe you could use the Doc, too.” He had Dr. Arnall in tow.

  “Thanks,” Jack Romayne said. “I guess I should have thought of that.”

  Dan shrugged. “Certainly not much a doctor can do for them now.” He leaned against the tie rail by the water trough and watched.

  Charley Sydnor came back from the entrance, unable to miss anything. “Going to get up a posse, Sheriff?”