Cross-Draw

by John J. McLaglen

  He grinned briefly at his reflection in the side of the glass. Down by the livery stable, he’d done something he hadn’t done in a coon’s age—almost prodded some feller he didn’t know into going for his gun. And without any reason other than feeling like a little action.

  Herne set the glass to his lips and drank.

  Maybe the old timer had been right. What was it? Something about poison wanting to get out of his body. Well, if he did feel like that he had good reasons. His wife, Louise, attacked and raped by a gang of drunken gamblers and her mind so affected by it that she had taken her own life. Becky choking on her own blood in a hotel room with nothing he could do but watch her die. Friends like ...

  Friends like ...

  Damn it! Seemed like every friend he’d ever had had gone. Dry-gulched in some arroyo out in the middle of nowhere. Shot in the back in the dark of an alley. Gunned down by some young punk kid the day those twinges in the aim made the action that second too slow.

  Herne thought about the albino, Whitey Coburn, spilling his life out over pieces of gold he’d never own in the fetid squalor of a New Orleans warehouse.

  It didn’t seem to Herne, as he finished his shot of bourbon, that he had a friend left anywhere. It was just him now. A gunfighter fast approaching the wrong side of forty. His time running out.

  One thing was certain—more certain than ever before —incidents like that back there by the livery stable, there’d be no more of those. He couldn’t afford to do time’s work for it. Throwing his life into the balance for no reward.

  More shots sounded from down the street. Herne tipped the neck of the bottle one more time.

  Tolly Richman had made it to The Five Aces saloon. He hadn’t even stopped long enough to be certain what had happened to the lawman he’d shot. Tolly had carried on across the street as fast as he could, finally pushing through the bat-wing doors and skidding to a halt by the first of the tables. The pistol was still clasped tight in his right hand.

  ‘Damn, Tolly! We guessed it was you causin’ all that ruckus.’

  ‘Would’ve come to see if you needed any help, ’cept we was busy drinkin’.’

  The boys from the Double C laughed and banged bottles and glasses on the bar. Tolly stared at them through narrowed eyes, not moving.

  ‘Shay. Get to the door.’

  The big cowboy at the end of the line shifted so that his back rested against the counter. ‘You expectin’ company, Tolly?’

  ‘Do what I damn well say!’

  Shay looked at the others. ‘Hear that? Put a gun in his hand an’ he thinks he’s ramroddin’ the outfit.’ The big man stood up and stepped away from the bar. ‘Well that ain’t the way I say it goes.’

  Tolly jerked his head towards the door. ‘Way you say ain’t likely goin’ t’ matter much. There’s some lawman out there in the street.’

  ‘What’s he doing there, Tolly?’ asked Paulie Yates.

  ‘I shot him.’

  The cowboys looked at Tolly in silence. Then one of them whistled and another said softly: ‘Sweet damnation.’

  ‘Paulie, you take a look,’ said Shay. ‘But be careful.’

  They waited while the cowboy moved to the doors. He was shorter than the rest, hat hanging down behind his head, stocky, bandy legs. He squinted down the street and turned back into the saloon.

  ‘He ain’t kiddin’. There’s folks startin’ to lift him away and they ain’t handlin’ him like he’s more than dead.’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Shay, banging his open hand down onto the counter of the bar. ‘So you finally did it, Tolly. You finally shot yourself a marshal.’

  Tolly sneered, half in pride, half in fear. He slid the gun back into his holster and went up to the bar to pour himself a drink. The Double C boys made room for him and the bartender, sweating more than a little, watched him carefully from the far end of the counter.

  There were only four others in the saloon; a couple of old men who’d forgotten all about their unfinished glasses of beer; a youngster who hadn’t properly come round from the previous night’s drunk and a gambler who had been hoping to pick up some of the cowboy’s wages before they drifted off out of town. He sat there and shuffled his pack of cards, calculating the odds of them letting him simply get up and walk out of there.

  They didn’t seem to be very good.

  ‘What you do it for, Tolly? Why d’you kill him?’

  ‘He was comin’ fer me. Took a shot at me.’

  ‘Why’d he do that?’

  Tolly grinned: ‘Maybe cause of what I did to the town barber.’

  ‘What was that, Tolly?’

  Tolly’s grin grew into an open laugh. ‘Killed him.’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Shay. ‘Holy Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Quit beefing Shay,’ said Tolly. ‘It ain’t your trouble.’

  The big cowboy rounded on him, anger showing in his large blue eyes. ‘Like all hell it ain’t. What you think they’re goin’ t’ do? Let us ride out of here like nothing happened?’

  ‘I told you, Shay, it ain’t your fight!’ Tolly’s eyes had narrowed again; the line of his mouth was like a pencil mark below the clotted blood that clung to his upper Up. Here and there white splotches of lather hung beneath his chin and on one side of his face. His right hand hovered over his holster.

  Shay backed several paces away, making room for himself to get his own pistol into action.

  At the end of the bar, the barkeep thought about the sawed-off shotgun that was hanging on a couple of nails under the counter. The gambler had stopped shuffling the pack and was turning the cards over, face upwards, one at a time; not looking at them. The old timers still stared, still forgot their beer. The kid reckoned it was likely a dream.

  The rest of the Double C cowboys watched also, unable to work out what to do or what they wanted to happen.

  Then Paulie Yates took a pace towards Shay. ‘Ain’t no sense in it. Shay. No good fightin’ among ourselves. We got enough on our hands gettin’ out of here. Need every gun we got.’

  ‘He’s right, Shay,’ said one of the others. ‘No sense you and Tolly facin’ off that way. Let’s get us out of here.’

  Tolly let his hand move an inch away from his gun butt and Shay did the same.

  ‘Why don’t you let me make a run fer it on my own?’ Tolly tried again.

  ‘Cause you already come runnin’ here.’

  ‘Cause you’re Double C same as us,’ said Paulie. ‘An’ when chips are down that’s what counts.’

  ‘All right.’ Shay pointed at one of the cowboys. ‘Go check our horses are still outside. Tolly, where’s yours?’

  Tolly shrugged. ‘Up by the barber’s, I guess.’

  Shay made a face. The cowboy peered through the bat-wing doors.

  ‘They’re still here, Shay.’

  ‘How’s it look? What’s happenin’ out in the street?’

  ‘Nothin’. Nobody in sight either way. Like the place’s gone to sleep.’

  ‘Right. Now take it easy and see if you can get to one of the horses. Paulie, you cover him. If you can mount up, head over for Tolly’s horse and ride it back here. We’ll be waitin’.’

  The cowboy looked at Shay anxiously, but there was no way of backing down. He pushed one of the doors gently back and stepped out onto the boardwalk. Looked around and stepped towards the hitching post where the animals were tethered.

  Behind him, Paulie leveled his Colt between the bat-wing doors and watched. Waited.

  There were two shots, almost simultaneously, from across the street. Neither of them was accurate. The rifle shells ricocheted off the front of the Five Aces. The Double C cowboy lay flat on the boardwalk, one arm over his head.

  ‘Get back!’ yelled Paulie Yates and triggered off a shot at the windows opposite. Tolly had ducked down by the side of the door, his own pistol drawn and ready. Shay and one of the other cowboys were close by the saloon window.

  The Double C man crawled back inside, just as a volley of shot
s sang out from the far side of the street. Tolly and Paulie Yates answered quickly and Shay smashed a pane from the saloon window with the barrel of his pistol and started shooting in the direction of the puffs of rifle smoke.

  And now someone else was joining in from further up the street.

  ‘Ain’t there no back way out of here?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be much use. Not with the horses out front. We sure ain’t about to walk away from no posse.’

  ‘What the hell folk in this town want to carry on like this for anyways?’

  ‘Right. Why don’t they mind their own damned business?’

  ‘Maybe they figure gettin’ one of their lawmen gunned down for no good reason is their business.’ The bartender had got to within a foot of the shot gun. He was sweating a deal more now and, out of sight, his hands shook a little.

  Tolly turned his head and told the man to keep his mouth shut, then hastily snapped off a shot across the street.

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘I think we make a run fer it.’

  Shay stood up and holstered his gun. ‘Tolly, you ride double with Charlie. Paulie an’ me’ll cover the rest of you till you’re mounted up. Then you do the same for us.’

  ‘But

  ‘No buts. That’s what we’re doin’. An’ now. So move it’

  The cowboys readied themselves, Shay taking the window and Paulie Yates the door. Behind them the bar-keep eyed the gambler who had stopped laying out the cards. The two men nodded to each other and the gambler rested his right arm on the edge of the table. One sharp movement and the pressure would release the small derringer he kept on a spring-loaded clip inside his sleeve. That would close up the odds more than a little.

  Shay and Paulie began firing at the same moment; the four Double C men went through the bat-wing doors at a crouch, scrambling towards their horses. Charlie hauled himself up into the saddle first. As his right leg was swinging down into the stirrup, a .44 slug took him high in the shoulder, whirling him about and back down towards the ground. One of the other cowboys yelled with surprise as a shell stroked a straight line down his hand and forearm.

  Tolly dropped into a kneeling position and took aim; there were three men running towards them from higher up the street, supported by a flurry of fire from a variety of weapons. Tolly took a bead on the leading man and dropped him with a single shot. His second missed its target; the third wounded one of the oncomers in the leg.

  ‘Get back inside!’ Shay’s voice boomed out through the roar of gunfire and the cowboys bolted for the saloon door. All except Charlie.

  His horse was galloping the length of the street, spooked by the heavy shooting. Charlie’s boot had got jammed in the stirrup and he was being dragged with it, head and shoulders bouncing from the uneven ground. Charlie was only part conscious, vainly trying to reach down to his leg.

  As the stampeding horse rushed past them, several of the good citizens of Liberation emptied the chambers of their guns into Charlie’s body. It was good target practice and kind of fun to watch the cowboy’s form buck and leap as it sped through the dust.

  ‘Jesus! See what them mad bastards are doin’ to Charlie?’

  ‘Sweet damn!’

  Tolly wiped at his forehead with his right arm and as he did so, he saw underneath the edge of his shirt sleeve the movement behind the bar.

  ‘Look out!’

  He had a long way to go for his gun and besides he was ducking away to the left fast, seeing the barrels of the American Arms 12-gauge shotgun poking over the counter of the bar.

  Paulie Yates spun round, too, but slower than Tolly. He took the full force of both barrels from less than twenty feet. The blast picked him up and hurled him towards the wall like he was a bundle of rags.

  Tolly fired at the barkeep, missed, bent low and ran for the end of the bar. Shay was down behind an upturned table, pushing his pistol round its side. The others were torn between covering the street and watching their backs. One of the old timers made the mistake of moving too suddenly and nearly got his head blown off; instead he saw his beer glass smashed to smithereens in front of him.

  The barkeep hurled the shotgun at Tolly and made a leap for the top of the counter. He was straddling it, staring across at the gambler for help that he must have known wasn’t going to come, when the cowboy’s first shot ripped into his right buttock. The impact sent him down to the end of the bar, arms thrown sideways part in an attempt to keep balance, part reaction to the wound.

  He was reaching round towards it when Tolly’s second bullet smacked into the base of his spine. The arm stopped moving; the fingers opened out into a curve then froze. His head came back as if pulled by an invisible wire and his body arched further backwards. Tolly saw the face upside down, the mouth open wide, tongue and teeth and the beginnings of a torrent of blood.

  He fired a third time: the barkeep’s face exploded before his eyes.

  ‘Tolly!’

  Tolly looked round quickly, responding to Shay’s call. The gambler had dived to the floor and was trying to burrow under the chairs; the two old men had scuttled into the far corner behind the upright piano; most of the Double C boys were engaged with what was going on out in the street.

  There was a skylight two-thirds of the way back and Tolly saw that it had been prised open. The barrel of a rifle appeared through the dark space and a shot went crashing into the table Shay was using as a shield.

  Tolly ducked down alongside the bar and fired for the gap. Nothing. The rifle fired again and both Shay and Tolly replied. And again.

  ‘Damn it!’

  Shay started to roll the heavy table to one side, seeking a better angle. Tolly squeezed himself round the end of the bar and edged along behind it.

  The next shot from the skylight struck one of the Double C cowboys defending the front of the saloon. There was a yell and the clatter of a gun being dropped as the shot man rolled over clutching at the back of his thigh.

  ‘Bastard!’

  Shay showed himself for a fraction of a second and drew fire. Again, thought Tolly. Come on, Shay, again. Shay obliged. Tolly fired for the space, aiming above and behind the rifle barrel, steadying his aim with his left hand below the right wrist.

  The rifle slipped slowly through the space, finally plummeting straight down as it left its owner’s fingers. There was a sighing sound and then the sniper toppled through the skylight and struck the board of the saloon with a crack that snapped his neck on impact.

  The body slowly slumped onto its side and Tolly could see the wound high in the man’s chest where his .45 slug had struck him.

  ‘Fine, Tolly,’ said Shay.

  Tolly acknowledged the remark with a quick wave of the hand and went towards the saloon window. Paulie Yates was sitting back against the wall, a bloodied mess of flesh and bone. There was a dark red pool on the floor between his legs.

  ‘How many?’

  The cowboy at the window glanced round. ‘Couple over the road still; few more down the street. Maybe we took the guts out of ’em,’

  Tolly nodded. ‘Maybe. Like they did to Paulie.’

  Shay heard and called across. ‘That shotgun, Tolly. See if there’s any buckshot down behind that counter too. That’d work for us real fine.’

  Tolly nodded, smiled and went over to the bar, keeping low. He found the box of buckshot. And a bottle of whisky. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig, moving his head aside when the spirit burned the back of his throat, then coughed and belched.

  ‘Here, Shay. Catch!’

  Tolly threw another bottle over to where the big cowboy was crouching. Shay caught it left-handed and called his thanks. If they were going to be there for a while, they might as well enjoy it as best they could.

  In the more salubrious surroundings of The Cattlemen’s House, Jed Herne was feeling pretty much the same. Most of the other customers were clustered around the doorway, or standing two or three thick on the balconies above, straining their eyes into the gathe
ring dusk and seeing what they could of the shoot-out down at the Five Aces.

  The bottle of Jim Beam was close to half-way empty: Herne was feeling close to pretty good.

  Chapter Three

  Herne saw the group of men bustle into the bar and stand in a huddle not far inside the doorway. Men in suits for the most part; hair brushed and moustaches clipped, boots in best leather—store owners, bankers, cattle buyers, likely a minister—members of the town council. Herne recognized them and despised them for what they were. Businessmen who would do anything to preserve the peace as long as that peace was necessary to the continuance of their trade.

  They’d buy your gun and sing your praises until you’d | done their dirty work for them; then they’d pay you off with as little as they could and expect you to get out of town fast. Until you did, there wouldn’t be another civil word and they’d do their best to make sure their wives and kids didn’t even have to look on you.

  Their suits were shrouds of morality that stank from fifty feet away. Herne looked away and cleaned out his mouth with another shot of Jim Beam.

  He could wait: he knew what they wanted: knew they would come to him sooner or later. He read the writing on the bourbon label yet again, though by now he could have recited it by heart. He’d seen that label a lot of times.

  A lot of towns.

  Towns with solid names like Dodge City, religious names like Corpus Christi, names that rang with their own past like Cheyenne—towns with fancy names like Liberation.

  Everyone the damned same.

  ‘That’s him. That’s the feller up there.’

  Herne recognized the voice of the old timer from the livery stable before he picked him out. He was standing at the edge of the circle of councilors, scratching at his head with one hand and pointing up at Herne’s booth with the other.

  After several minutes discussion, two of the group detached themselves from the rest and walked towards Herne, making their approach as dignified as they could.

  Jed Herne wanted to laugh in their faces. Instead he gave a sort of snort and pushed his chair back onto its rear legs.