by P McCormac
Turlough, seeing the action, hauled on his reins and pulled up, blocking Beth from going any further and swinging around, urged both horses back the way they came. A few shots were fired after them but they turned into a side street where they dismounted.
‘We’ll go around the back of the hotel and try and find out what’s happening,’ Turlough yelled.
Leaving the horses, they skirted the back alleys, heading towards the hotel, all the time listening apprehensively to noise of gunfire. Before they got to their objective, they ran into a group coming the other way.
‘Doctor McCullough,’ Turlough exclaimed. ‘Where’s Cyriac?’
‘He’s back there in the hotel,’ the doctor panted. ‘Lend me a gun and I’m going back there to help him. He’s holed up there with a pack of wolves ready to tear him to pieces.’
Before Turlough could reply, he spied Aimee coming towards them, still mounted.
‘What’s happening?’ she yelled and dropped down beside them.
‘Doc says Cyriac is holed up in the hotel with a crowd of gunnies holding him at bay,’ Turlough replied. ‘We ought to help him.’
‘I put a couple of barrels into the crowd at the front of the hotel.’ Aimee was pushing more shells into her weapon. ‘That ought to pare them down a mite.’
‘Damn it to hell, I need a gun,’ the doctor grumbled. ‘Ain’t any of you got a spare?’
‘Here.’ Beth pulled a pistol from beneath her coat. ‘This will be more useful to you than me.’
The doctor eagerly took the weapon, checked the loads and looked up at his companions, his eyes bright and eager.
‘Let’s give those fellas hell.’
Cyriac emptied his borrowed Colt into the closed door – the bullets punching through the flimsy wood panels. He heard screams and curses from outside and yells of anger. There was the thud of a body falling to the floor. Then the sound of running boots as the gunnies fled out of danger.
Tossing the empty weapon to the floor, Cyriac grabbed another Colt and strode over to the wrecked door. Keeping to one side out of the line of fire in case any of the gunmen thought of firing back, Cyriac kicked away the chair blocking it. Still keeping well to one side, he pulled open the ruined door. Curling his hand around the door frame and without looking, he fired off a few shots. There was no response so he squatted down and risked a peep into the corridor. Other than the dead gunman lying in a pool of blood, the corridor was clear.
Keeping a cautious look out both ways, Cyriac stepped through the doorway and fished a Webley five shot from the hand of the dead gunman and stuffed it in his belt. Warily he walked along the corridor with a gun clenched in each fist, expecting any moment gunmen to appear and start firing back at him. Arriving on the deserted landing, he paused. Piled in a heap were the weapons that had been taken from him when he arrived at the hotel.
He shucked the borrowed guns and checking to make sure they had not been tampered with, he armed himself with his own weapons, tucking the Bowie into its sheath.
‘Your boss is dead,’ he yelled out. ‘If you want to keep fighting for a dead man, that’s your choice. I’m coming down and any man I find with a gun in his hand I will kill. I’ve already killed all your buddies in room seven.’
Slowly he began to descend the stairs, expecting any moment an outbreak of gunfire but all remained quiet. With a quick leap he was at the bottom of the stairs, guns sweeping the lobby, trigger fingers ready. Where he had expected a horde of gunnies there was no sign of anyone. As far as he could see the lobby was empty. There was a faint noise behind him and he swung around, firing off two rounds but there was nothing there.
‘Come out, whoever you are,’ he called.
From behind the reception desk, a hand came up and slowly moved back and forth.
‘Don’t shoot. I’m only the messenger,’ a quavering voice answered.
The other empty hand appeared followed by a head and then, visibly shaking, the hotel clerk stood upright.
‘I have a message from Clive Carter. I’ve to tell you to look out in the street.’
Cyriac walked to the window and risked a peek outside. Aimee was sitting in the dirt while the doctor worked on a bloody wound in her leg with Beth assisting. Turlough’s shirt was blood-soaked and Mrs Roberts and Arlene were supporting him, one on each side. Arranged across the street were armed men with guns trained on the little group.
‘I see them,’ he said, the cold rage growing in his head and spreading.
‘If you don’t come out and surrender, he says his men will kill your people.’
CHAPTER 35
Cyriac stood at the window, his eyes scanning the buildings opposite, craning his neck to take in as much as was visible from his vantage point. He could see men sheltering in doorways and counted up to six.
‘Which one is Carter? Describe him to me.’
‘He is a big fella, with dark eyes and a mop of red hair.’
‘How’s he dressed?’
‘He wears a black low crowned hat with a silver band. In fact, come to think of it, he dresses all in black.’
Cryiac narrowed his eyes, thinking deeply, trying to figure a way out of his predicament. Before he could come to any conclusion he heard someone shouting his name. He walked to the door and pushed it open, making sure to keep under cover.
‘Yes, this is Halkias.’
‘What do you want?’ the voice called.
‘I’ve come here to kill Clive Carter,’ Cyriac answered. ‘He murdered my brother.’
‘I’m Carter,’ the voice called back. ‘How do you know it was me as killed your brother?’
‘You were seen. Let those folk go. They ain’t part of this vendetta. This is just between you and me.’
‘Is that so? Well, they bought into it just the same. They were on the way to rescue you when they ran into me. Tough! We finish this here and now. Either you come out and surrender or we kill your people.’
Cyriac stared at the sorry group in the street, wounded and helpless.
His people, Carter had said. But he had no people. He only had Milo and Milo was dead. Yet the phrase stuck in his mind – his people!
Turlough hounded because he was heir to a valuable gold claim.
Beth and Aimee thrown by mischance into the group, not flinching when it came to helping him keep Turlough alive.
Doctor McCullough, a man doing his best to practice his medicine in a crooked town and keep his daughter safe.
And then there was Arlene. Before she left the hotel she had hugged him.
His people!
‘I have no people,’ he whispered.
But the more he looked out at that pitiful group in the street, the less he was able to believe he was not responsible for their fate.
A shot rang out and Cyriac saw the dirt kicked up in the road in front of the little band.
‘Time’s running out, Halkias,’ Carter called.
‘They tell me you are a fast man with a gun, Carter,’ Cyriac called back.
‘The best. I’m still alive while I got a tally of fifteen men who thought they were better than me.’
‘That’s impressive. Fifteen! How’s about you and I shoot it out? Just you and me – man to man.’
‘No chance, Halkias. I got you over a barrel. You got nowhere to go. The only thing certain is that you have a chance to save your folk if you give yourself up.’
‘I thought as much. Gunnies like you are lily-livered scum hiding behind a gang. Back-shooters that only come out from under their rotten log when the odds are in their favour. I doubt you killed fifteen men face to face. More than likely sneaked up and shot at them from a dark alley while your gang put in a few shots to make it safe for you to crawl outta your hole.’
‘That’s a lie. I ain’t no back-shooter.’
‘Is that so? Black told me if I got out of the hotel alive I needed to watch my back because Clive Carter would come one night and bushwhack me.’
‘Elwood never said no
such thing.’ There was an edge of anger in Carter’s voice.
‘He can’t say one way or another cos I killed him like I kill anyone as comes up against me. I killed Ginsburg and Linenan and a host of your buddies. I guess that’s why you’re scared to face me.’
‘I ain’t afraid of no man.’ The anger was rising.
‘Back-shooters are the lowest form of life crawling on this earth. They’re like maggots – feeding on cadavers. I guess they have a special smell, too. Let me guess, you probably wear black so as you can sneak about at night and do your killing. You’re scared now, ain’t you, Clive? Your men watching and listening and they know the truth. You’re afraid to come out in the daylight to do your killing. Huh, I bet those fifteen you killed were mostly women and children. Did you have to sneak up on them while they weren’t watching?’
‘I ain’t no woman killer, you son of a bitch. Come out and face me and I’ll show you who’s afraid.’
‘Sure thing, Carter the Coward. You got all your men ranged around so they can shoot me up a mite to make it easier for you.’
‘I do my own killing, you son of a bitch.’
‘Stand your men down and come out and face me.’
There was no reply and Cyriac waited.
‘You heard him, men,’ Carter called eventually. ‘You go on down the saloon. I’ll follow on as soon as I kill this bigmouth son of a bitch.’
Cyriac watched the men step out from cover.
‘You sure about this, Clive?’
‘Do as I tell you. I’ll make short work of this blowhard.’
They went, holstering guns as they walked down the street in the direction of The Golden Nugget. As the last of them moved away, Cyriac stepped out on to the boardwalk. He had located the direction from which Carter’s voice had originated and he was watchful for any sign of treachery from the gunman.
‘Cyriac,’ Arlene called. ‘Don’t do this.’
‘He’s a killer,’ the doctor added.
Cyriac held up his hand, palm towards them, in a gesture of reassurance.
‘Go on home now. Attend to your hurts. This has got to end now.’
A dark clad figure stepped into sight further down the street. Clive Carter, renowned gunfighter with fifteen notches on his gun, came out into the street to add another name to the list of men he had killed.
Cyriac holstered his guns. The group in the road had not done as he had told them. They were waiting to see the outcome of the gunfight. Cyriac started walking.
CHAPTER 36
A silence descended on that street so quiet Cyriac’s footsteps sounded loud like the slow beat of a drum as he stalked towards the killer. Carter stood in the road, his hands poised over his guns. He wore crossed gun belts with tied down holsters sporting twin Colt Peacemakers with inlaid pearl handles. He was almost as tall as Cyriac but not as bulky, having a sinewy build.
‘Time to die, greaseball,’ Carter called.
Cyriac said nothing, walking grimly on, narrowing the gap between himself and the killer.
‘That’s far enough,’ the gunman warned. ‘I don’t want your blood soiling my shirt.’
Still Cyriac remained silent, steadily pacing along the street, the distance between the men narrowing. Cyriac’s hands stayed by his sides, not swinging as he walked bent slightly forward as if eager to close with Carter.
‘I said that’s far enough!’ There was a hint of edginess in Carter’s voice.
Cyriac was seemingly indifferent as he stalked forward, neither hurrying nor dallying, steadily getting closer and closer to the gunman. They were only yards apart and still Cyriac came on. It was too much for Carter. His hands dipped and he snatched his guns from their holsters.
Cyriac moved too, his arm coming up with bewildering speed, the light glinting on steel as the big Bowie left his hand in an underarm throw, spinning through the air and driving into Carter’s throat, throwing him back. Blood welling up, spurting in a crimson streak down his front.
One gun fired, well wide of its target, but then Cyriac was on the gunman, punching Carter in the chest with a powerful blow that lifted him from his feet and dumped him on his back. Carter lay staring up at his attacker, the handle of the Bowie jutting from his throat. He was trying to bring his guns into play. Cyriac straddled the wounded man, a boot on each hand, Carter’s guns useless as the weight of the huge man crushed his fingers into the dirt.
Cyriac reached down and pulled the knife free, blood dripping from the blade. Carter opened his mouth as if to say something but all that emerged was a bubble of blood. His eyes were wide, staring at the man who had just defeated him.
Clive Carter, feared gunman, had been beaten to the draw by a knife but it was no ordinary knife. The Bowie was a knife designed for killing, the steel blade nine inches long and honed to razor sharpness.
Cyriac crouched bent over the dying man.
‘You won’t be lonely in hell, Carter. Elwood Black and Sheriff Ginsburg are waiting for you to join them. Give them my regards.’
The light faded from the dying man’s eyes and all movement stopped. Cyriac wiped the blade of his knife on the gunman’s shirt and stepped back, looking up the street in the direction of the saloon. A group of Carter’s gunnies stood on the boardwalk, staring down at him.
Casually Cyriac bent and plucked Carter’s twin guns from his ruined hands and stood holding them. Moments passed and then without a word, the gunmen turned and one by one stepped back inside the saloon. When the swing doors ceased moving, Cyriac tossed the guns on to the dead man’s chest, turned and walked back towards the group by the hotel.
‘Let’s get you inside,’ he said, bending down and taking Aimee under the arm. ‘How’s the leg?’
Aimee could not reply, for she was gritting her teeth against the pain. Doctor McCullough took her other arm and together they helped her into the hotel.
Behind came Turlough assisted by Beth. There was a slight disturbance from behind and Cyriac looked over his shoulder to see the storekeeper holding a weeping Mrs Roberts in a tight embrace. The man looked towards Cyriac and nodded.
Arlene was kept busy, helping her father attend to the wounded. She appropriated bed sheets from the hotel, tearing them into strips as makeshift bandages and pestering the clerk for hot water. During a break, she looked around for Cyriac and not seeing him, asked her father where he was.
‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve been too busy to notice anything other than patching up these two.’
‘I saw him go out the front,’ Turlough said.
A bullet had gone through the right side of his chest, not doing any serious damage. Arlene had a sudden premonition and quickly went outside. There was no sign of Cyriac.
Roberts the storekeeper was tending to his wife on the porch. A bottle of brandy was on the floor and both had filled glasses. Mrs Roberts was red eyed from weeping and her husband had a protective arm around her.
‘Have you seen Cyriac?’ she asked.
Roberts pointed vaguely down the street. ‘I saw him go in that direction a while back.’
Arlene picked up her skirts and started running but stopped when she saw the horseman.
‘Cyriac!’ she yelled. ‘Cyriac!’
The horse stopped and he wheeled about and watched as she closed the distance between them.
‘Where are you going?’ she panted, out of breath.
He stared down at her and she knew then he was leaving.
‘Miss Arlene, there is no place for me here. I have done what I came here to do and now I must move on.’
‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded. ‘I want you to stay.’
He bowed his head, looking down at his scarred hands folded on the pommel of saddle. So ugly and misshapen. He held them up.
‘Miss Arlene, take a good look at these hands. They are killer’s hands. They have done terrible deeds over the years. You are a lovely, refined young woman. You deserve someone better than me. I am no fit companion for respectable folk like y
ou and your pa.’
‘I don’t care.’ There were tears in her eyes as she gazed ardently up at him. ‘A man can change.’
‘Find yourself a good man, Miss Arlene – someone more deserving of you.’
He picked up the reins and tugged the horse’s head about and nudged it forward, away from Arlene.
‘Cyriac,’ she called.
But he kept riding stiff-backed. She stood in the road, a lonely figure watching him ride out of her life.
