by Adam Brady
Halliday’s slugs seemed to tear Bassett apart. First the man’s chest and then his neck, sending a fine spray of blood over the papers on the littered desk.
Bassett collapsed with his body arching into a spasm of pain and despair. The gun fell from his fingers and landed with a thump on the floor.
“Not yet, mister!” Halliday ordered. “I want some answers before I let you go.”
“Let me go?” Bassett whispered. “You mean that ...?”
“Sure I do,” Halliday told him, “but first, you gotta tell me what Henley’s up to.”
Halliday could see that Bassett was dying. There was so much blood on the floor now that he was afraid the man would not live long enough to answer his question.
“What’s he doin’?” Halliday asked again.
“He’s comin’ for you,” Bassett croaked. “Him and Ben Crowe. That’s ... all I know. Will you let me go now?”
Bassett’s head lolled and his body went limp. Halliday released his grip and let him fall.
“Sure,” Halliday said. “You can go ... straight to hell.”
Wiping the blood from his fingers, Halliday glanced out the window fronting the street. It was still empty. He reloaded his six-gun as he continued to survey everything visible from the window, and then he slipped quietly through the doorway and propped the shattered door into the opening.
That would do till morning, he decided. Bassett would just have to spend his first few hours of the afterlife in the office of the Shimmer Creek lawman.
“Far as I know, he always was a loser,” Halliday said to himself as he started up the street.
Buck Halliday stood on the judge’s front step, talking quietly until he was sure that Cowper could identify him. Finally, the front door opened just a crack and the judge said;
“Well, Sheriff?”
“Bassett won’t cause anyone anymore trouble,” Halliday answered calmly. “He lived just long enough to tell me that Henley is comin’ back, and he’s bringin’ Ben Crowe with him.”
“Who’s he?” Cowper asked.
“A fast gun and a killer to the core. He’ll take some stoppin’. I want to ask for your help now, before the action starts.”
Cowper frowned at him.
“Now you’re asking for my help? Then why didn’t you let me do something tonight?”
“Tonight was different,” Halliday said flatly. “Tomorrow, I want the streets clear all day. Crowe travels by stage everywhere he goes. I need to know when the stage gets here.”
“It gets in around noon,” Cowper said thoughtfully.
“Then make sure everybody is off the street from about eleven o’clock. No exceptions, Judge. I don’t want anybody in the line of fire except Ben Crowe and me.”
Cowper nodded, but then he added, “Is that all you want us to do? Surely some of us could help you, especially since it sounds like Henley and Crowe will be in this together.”
“Henley doesn’t worry me. I just want to make sure nobody gets in the way when I come up against him.”
Cowper nodded but he was far from convinced. “There must be something more we can do.”
“Well, I went to see Julie Henley before comin’ here,” Halliday said. “She’s hurt worse than I thought. I think somebody should stay the night with her.”
“I could do that,” Beth said over her uncle’s shoulder.
“It could be a long night,” Halliday told her.
“It will be just as long wherever I am,” she said calmly. “I—we—will be thinking about what’s coming in the morning. I think you should let us take care of the town tonight, so you can get some rest.”
Halliday nodded.
“I’d be obliged then, Beth.”
“I’ll get my things together,” Beth said and hurried off.
Cowper paced restlessly up and down the porch, occasionally glancing at Halliday. Finally, he said;
“I hope tomorrow is the end of it all, Sheriff.”
Beth came out of the house with a basket over her arm and gave her uncle a peck on the cheek.
“I’m ready,” she said to Halliday, and they went down the path side by side.
The doctor was still with Julie Henley when they arrived, and they went downstairs to wait in the darkened saloon. Finally, he came down the stairs, yawning widely.
“You look tired, doctor,” Julie said.
“It goes with the job,” he said. “Most emergencies happen at night. Now I’m off to the Randall place to birth a baby. At least that’s a happy event—much more satisfying than patching up damaged people. It’s good that you can sit up with Mrs. Henley, Miss Cowper. She’s going to have a restless night.”
As Halliday let the doctor out the door, the man said;
“If everything goes well for Mrs. Randall, I’ll stop by first thing in the morning.”
Halliday and Beth climbed the stairs again, and Beth settled down in a chair beside Julie’s bed. She did not look Halliday’s way, but she could feel his eyes on her.
“Get some sleep, Buck,” Beth said finally, and he went quietly down the hall to the spare room.
He pulled off his boots and lay back on the bed. Within minutes, he was sleeping soundly.
Nine – Name’s Ben Crowe
Dick Mason, the driver of the Layton to Shimmer Creek stage, nursed the team across the last of the desert stretch and hauled back on the reins. This was his regular run, and he had covered it so many times that he could almost do it with his eyes shut. The only thing different today was the buzzards. He had been watching them for awhile now, and he could see that they were circling and dropping into a shallow arroyo. Leaning over the side so that the passenger could hear him, he hollered;
“We best check that out. You’d probably like to stretch your legs anyway ...”
The man inside glanced at the buzzards.
“Yeah,” he said. “There’s somethin’ dead over there for sure.”
The stage creaked to a halt, and the passenger opened the door and stepped out stiffly, slapping the dust from his black clothes. He was lean to the point of being haggard, and none of the deep lines on his face suggested that they came from smiling.
He stopped to light the cigarette he had been rolling on the jouncing stage, and then he settled the gunrig more comfortably on his hips and started for the arroyo.
He was studying the telltale marks on the ground as he went—blood on a rock, hoof prints and footprints.
“See anythin’, mister?” Mason called down from the high seat. “We can’t take too long or we’ll be late. I ain’t been late into Shimmer Creek in near on ten months, and that was only ’cause we run into a real bad storm.”
“This won’t take long,” Ben Crowe said over his shoulder.
The driver sighed and checked his watch. He was on time so far, but he still had twenty miles to go.
Crowe nearly stepped on Jason Henley’s battered body. There was no obvious sign of life, but Crowe squatted down and touched the artery on the neck. He felt a feeble pulse.
“Well,” he said, “maybe you matter to somebody.”
He got to his feet and walked further into the arroyo. Buzzards flapped into the air, squawking and complaining at being disturbed. Crowe pursed his lips and went close enough to see what they had been feasting on. Then he returned to the mouth of the arroyo.
“There’s one feller dead and another one in bad shape but still alive,” he said flatly.
Mason climbed down from the stage.
“Judas,” he said. “There goes the schedule.”
He followed Crowe to the arroyo, and the gunman simply pointed down at Henley and folded his arms.
Mason was about to ask Crowe for help, but something stopped him before he mouthed the words. Cussing and grunting, he pulled Henley’s limp body off the ground and started to drag him back to the stage.
Crowe went ahead and opened the door.
“Put him in the compartment,” he said, “while I take another loo
k around.”
“What about the dead feller?” Mason asked.
“I don’t reckon there’s enough of him left to bother,” the gunman shrugged, “but that’s up to you.”
“This here is a stagecoach, not a hearse!” Mason snapped, and then he climbed onto his seat and began to shave a fresh sliver of tobacco from his plug.
Crowe shrugged and sauntered back into the arroyo.
He returned a few minutes later but offered no information on anything he might have seen.
“Best drive on,” he said curtly.
“I sure won’t argue with that,” Mason said as he waited for Crowe to climb aboard.
He had been thinking about telling Crowe that the injured man was Jason Henley, but he decided it was none of the gunman’s business.
Gathering up the reins, he slapped them over the rumps of the horses and guided them back onto the trail.
Inside the stage, Crowe unceremoniously splashed water from his canteen over Henley’s discolored face. Henley began to groan, but they traveled several miles before he finally stirred.
“Well,” Crowe asked with mild interest, “what happened to you?”
Henley looked at him blankly. “Where am I?”
“On the stage to Shimmer Creek. We found you a few miles back, real close to bein’ buzzard bait. What happened?”
Henley tried to remember. His brow furrowed with the effort, and finally a gleam of enlightenment showed in his reddened eyes.
“Tom Bassett!”
“Who?” Crowe asked.
Crowe’s toneless voice was beginning to annoy Henley, but he said;
“Tom Bassett, he worked for me in Shimmer Creek—and when I find him, I’m goin’ to kill him.”
“Reckon he has it comin’,” Crowe said coolly.
“You could say that,” growled Henley, and for the first time, he realized that he was on a stage. He looked hard at Crowe, and finally asked, “Who are you, mister?”
“Name’s Ben Crowe.”
Henley tried to sit up and even managed what was meant to be a smile.
“Well, I’m Jason Henley,” he said, “and I’m sure glad to see you.”
Crowe studied him thoughtfully for a moment before he nodded. “I didn’t expect to be met in this fashion, Henley. Seems your troubles are worse than you let on.”
“It’s nothing you can’t get me out of. I’m sure of that.”
“Let’s find out about that,” the gunman said. “What is it you want from me?”
Henley mopped his face with a stained handkerchief and reached for Crowe’s canteen. He drank greedily then wiped his mouth.
“That’s better,” he said gratefully as he handed back the canteen. “Have you heard of a feller by the name of Halliday?”
“Buck Halliday?”
“That’s him. I had Shimmer Creek just the way I wanted it until somebody sent for him. I had a pretty tough bunch working for me, too, but that bastard cut ’em to ribbons.”
Crowe folded his hands loosely in his lap and studied Henley with disturbing intensity.
Henley shifted uncomfortably under Crowe’s intense gaze, and asked anxiously, “Something wrong? You know this feller?”
Crowe nodded.
“Well, what about him?” Henley pressed.
“We locked horns once before.”
Henley brightened.
“Then I guess you’ve got more reasons than money to want him dead,” Henley said hopefully. “All the better.”
Crowe shrugged and turned to look out the window. The country was sweeping past as the stage rocked along the trail, trying to make up time.
The full heat of the day was hammering down on the stage now, and the air that filtered through the curtains was hot as a furnace.
“I can’t say I feel that way about it,” Crowe said eventually. “But I wouldn’t mind seein’ him dead. As I recollect, he backed down the last time I came up against him.”
“He backed down from you, did he?” Henley grinned. “Now ain’t that music to my ears! So you called his bluff, and he backed down.”
“I sure wish you’d stop tryin’ to put words into my mouth—if that’s all right with you.”
Henley’s mouth opened in protest, but then he caught the cold look in Crowe’s eyes and simply closed it again.
Crowe stared blankly at the passing landscape. He was thinking about another place and another time.
Impatient though he was, Henley waited quietly for Crowe to speak.
“How far out of town do you reckon we are now?” Crowe asked so unexpectedly that Henley jumped in surprise.
Henley peered through the side curtains and said, “About five miles, no more.”
Crowe reached up and knocked on the ceiling until he had Dick Mason’s attention.
“Pull up, driver! Right here.”
Mason kept driving as he shouted, “What in hell for? We’ll be in Shimmer Creek in no time a-tall now ...”
“Stop here, I said!”
Mason leaned back on the reins and kicked the brake handle forward. The stage slewed to a halt.
Watching Crowe nervously, Henley licked his lips and asked;
“What you got in mind? You’re not backin’ out on me, are you? I’ll pay you more if that’ll make a difference. Just so you do the job.”
“Shut up,” Crowe told him fiercely, and then the gunfighter stepped out of the stage and waved for Mason to join him.
Mason stayed on the high seat and spat a brown stream of tobacco juice over the side in preparation to speak.
“Mister,” Crowe said with quiet menace, “this ain’t some game we’re playin’. Do what I say, and do it now.”
“I’m comin’!” Mason said hurriedly as he dropped over the side.
He stumbled but scrambled to his feet and stood watching Crowe nervously.
“We’re gonna take two horses,” Crowe announced. “It ain’t far to town, and you’ll make it fine. I’ll need a blanket, too.”
“Mister, them horses ain’t mine to give,” Mason protested. “They belong to the Butterfield Overland Stage—”
Crowe’s gun was in his hand. Neither Henley nor Mason had seen him draw—they only knew that the six-gun had been in the holster and now it was in Crowe’s hand.
Mason nodded nervously.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
Crowe slid the six-gun back into leather and turned to Henley.
“Maybe you feel well enough to help him,” he said.
“I ... I guess so,” Henley said uncertainly.
“Do it then, or we’ll be here all damn day,” Crowe said, and then he leaned against the stage wheel and began to roll a cigarette.
Henley was furious. No matter how much Crowe was paid, he was still a hired man with no right to be giving orders to the boss. Much as he would have liked to say that, Henley kept stonily silent.
Nothing was as important as getting rid of Buck Halliday, and Crowe was the man for the job. Besides, Crowe scared him. The gunfighter was beginning to look very much like the kind of mad dog who wouldn’t think twice about biting the hand that fed it.
It took all of ten minutes to unhitch two horses and rearrange the others in the shafts.
Both Henley and Mason were sweating and cussing before the job was done, but they kept their griping to themselves.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Mason whispered to Henley. “Throwin’ in with a feller like that sure ain’t likely to win you any friends in Shimmer Creek, you know. From what I hear, your name is mud in that town already. This can only make it a damn sight worse. If you’ll take my advice you’ll—”
“Henley,” Crowe interrupted. “Knock him out and throw him in the stage. Hobble that team so it don’t run off before he comes to.”
Mason straightened and put up his fists, but Henley was making no effort to carry out Crowe’s orders.
“What in hell for ...?”
“Just do it,” Crowe said, and althoug
h his voice was soft as ever, it was heavy with menace.
Henley turned and stared uncertainly at Mason.
“Maybe it’s best to just do what he says,” Henley muttered. “Hold still—and I promise I won’t hit you too hard.”
Mason had heard enough. He reached down for the gun on his hip, but before his fingers even touched the butt, Crowe fired and the bullet tore into Mason’s shoulder.
The driver staggered back against his stage, clapping his hand to the bloody wound, but then fury took over from the shock and he was reaching for his six-gun again.
This time, Crowe waited until Mason had the gun out of the holster. His second bullet nicked the weapon and sent it spinning off into space. As soon as it hit the ground, the gunman fired once more, shattering the butt plate and knocking the six-gun several yards further from its helpless owner.
The echoes died away while Henley and Mason stood there, gaping.
“Go get that gun now, Henley,” Crowe said tonelessly. “And knock him cold, like I told you in the first place.”
Crowe stepped out of the scant shade of the stagecoach and sauntered forward with the arrogant ease of a man who had the world at his feet.
Mason simply stood there, with his hand clapped to his bloody shoulder again. He watched Henley dully as the man hurried to retrieve the six-gun with the broken butt.
Henley was on the way back when Mason muttered a curse and broke into a run.
It was Henley and not Crowe who gunned him down with his own bullet from his own gun.
The bullet hit Mason squarely in the back, and he fell facedown beside the horses in the shafts. The horses reared in their harness, and the stage started to roll.
Crowe coolly grabbed for the two horses who had been taken out of harness and held their heads.
Henley stepped forward far enough to grab Mason’s foot and drag him clear of the nervous teamers. Then he turned him over and looked back at Crowe and said;
“He’s dead.”
“I’d hope so,” Crowe said. “You were no more’n ten feet away and his back was turned.”
The teamers were running now, and the stage rocked and rolled behind them.
