None of the others had taken heed of the suggestion. Not only that but they had each appealed to arm themselves rather than seek safety. Even his own clerk had moved to the front door to take the place of Jensen and actually began exchanging gunfire with the marauders. As if the din of all the shooting and screaming from outside wasn’t enough, the shattering reports of those doorway guns—from practically inside the office—made Mycroft wince and recoil with each blast. He badly wanted to retreat as far as possible from the noise and violence. At first, not wanting to appear the utter coward he truly was, he’d refrained from ducking back into the cell block. But with the door so close and hanging so invitingly ajar, he could no longer resist.
Once into the cell block, Mycroft found it cooler and more dimly lighted than the office. And while the noise from without wasn’t completely muffled, it was diminished considerably. The wave of relief he felt was only short-lived, however.
“What the hell’s goin’ on out there?”
The harsh demand startled Mycroft. Somehow, in all the other excitement, he had forgotten there was a man in one of the cells. The very individual, in fact, whose fate had brought him there. Mycroft turned sharply and got his first look at Ben Craddock.
Pressed close to the bars of his cell, gripping them tightly, the outlaw insisted, “What’s with all the shootin’ and runnin’ around? I got a right to know.”
Recovered from his original surprise, Mycroft adjusted the lapels of his suit coat and automatically donned some semblance of his lawyerly manner. “Yes. Yes, of course you do. Though it’s not very good news, I fear. The Legion of Fire, it seems, is attacking our town.”
Craddock’s eyebrows shot up. “The Legion of Fire! Why would they be messin’ with this little pissant of a town?”
“That I do not know,” Mycroft replied. “All I know, reportedly at least, is that’s what is occurring. And what I know for certain is that it sounds like a veritable battlefield out on the street.”
“Yeah, that fits the Legion, all right,” Craddock said, grimacing. “They don’t just ride in and rob. When they get done with a town there’s nothing left but empty cash drawers, bullet-riddled bodies, and ashes.”
Mycroft shuddered. “What a dreadful image!”
Craddock scowled at him. “Who are you, anyway?”
“My name is Mycroft. Jules Mycroft.” The lawyer pushed back his shoulders and struggled to compose himself. With a somewhat rueful smile, he added, “You might be interested to know that my purpose in coming here this morning was on your behalf, to determine that you were being treated fairly by the marshal and especially by Jensen, that ruffian of a bounty hunter. Although I dare say all of that is now of secondary concern.”
“The hell it is! Not to me it ain’t,” Craddock protested. “What if the Legion picks this place as one of the ones they decide to put a torch to? That’d be their idea of big fun. Burn down the marshal’s office and jail on their way out of town. They don’t call them the Legion of Fire for nothing. Don’t you see where that would leave me, trapped behind these bars? I’d be roasted alive!”
“Good Lord,” Mycroft said, his expression aghast. “That would indeed be . . . But no, the marshal will never let that happen. His daughter is in this building, too, out in the other room. Besides, as you just saw with Jensen departing out the back, he and the marshal are planning a counterattack on the marauders.”
“Counterattack! Two men against the Legion?” Craddock scoffed. “They’ll be lucky to survive, let alone do any good as far as curbing the raid until the Legion is good and ready to ride on. I’m in terrible jeopardy here, I tell you! You’ve got to do something to help me!”
Mycroft recoiled at the suggestion. “Me? What can I do?”
“You can let me out of this damn cell, that’s what! I’m a fightin’ man. I know how to use a gun and I ain’t afraid to jump into the middle of a battle. I’d be fightin’ for my own skin, true, but I’d also be fightin’ for the town.” Craddock lowered his voice, his tone turned coaxing. “Look, I’ll admit I don’t really give a damn about your town, but if I went out there shootin’ against the Legion of Fire, it would amount to the same thing, right? I won’t insult you by pretendin’ to promise I won’t try to escape if I get the chance . . . but I’d still have to fight through the raiders in order to do it. And hell, there’s at least a fifty-fifty chance I might stop a bullet. Even that’s a helluva lot better than bein’ trapped in here and riskin’ bein’ burned alive!”
“You make a compelling case for your dilemma,” Mycroft responded, appearing shaken and sincere. “But surely you must understand mine as well. I . . . I can’t just release you. It would go against everything I—”
“Yes, you can!” Craddock jerked futilely on the bars he was gripping. “The others will never even notice. Hell, they may all end up dead anyway. The cell keys are hanging on the other side of the door. I saw them there when they brought me back. All you have to do is reach around and grab them. For God’s sake, man, have some mercy!”
Mycroft backed away, suddenly feeling threatened in a different way—by his own temptation. He shook his head. “No. No, I can’t do that.”
Craddock sagged against the bars as if in defeat. He groaned. When he spoke again his voice was barely above a hoarse whisper. “I know it was too much to ask. But, oh God, how I wish . . .” His voice trailed off. And then, after a moment, his face lifted. “One thing more I will ask, though. Can you get me a drink of water? I haven’t had anything since last night. I asked for some this morning but they never got around to it. I was parched then, and after thinkin’ and talkin’ about burnin’ up, I’m even more so.”
“Surely. Of course I can do that,” Mycroft replied.
“There’s a pump of some kind there in that side room,” Craddock said, pointing. “I heard Jensen usin’ it to wash up this morning. I expect there oughta be a cup in there, too.”
* * *
“That’s all of it,” bank president Gerald Epps said, turning from the vault he was kneeling in front of with a fistful of bills and stuffing them into a large canvas money sack. He looked plaintively up at Sam Kelson and added, “Except for a little more in the tills at the clerk stations.”
“My men will have taken care of those,” Kelson said. He smiled over the muzzle of the Colt he held trained on Epps. “You did real good, mister. It’s nice to meet a fellow who knows how to be smart and cooperate.”
“Just don’t hurt any more of my people. Please,” Epps said.
“We’re here for money,” Kelson told him. “There’s no profit in killing unless it’s defense or to make a statement in order to help the job go easier. Now stand up.”
As Epps rose rather stiffly to his feet, Kelson called over his shoulder to the lean, handsome, narrow-eyed man who was standing watch at the front door. “How’s it going out on the street, Cisco?”
“Everything’s under control,” Cisco Palmer answered. “Except maybe down by the jail. Looks like the marshal and one of his deputies have gotten past the men you sent to keep ’em pinned down. They’re trying to work their way up this way but some more of our boys have spotted them and are turning to deal with ’em.”
“They’d damned well better,” Kelson growled. “Get on out there and give the signal for everybody to start wrapping things up. And tell them to break out the torches!”
The bank president’s eyes went wide. “You’re not going to burn my bank, are you?”
“We’ll burn whatever the hell we feel like. Besides, what difference does it make to you now?” Kelson sneered. “There’s no money left in the joint.” Again calling over his shoulder, he addressed a sinewy, broad-shouldered man with the coppery skin and facial features of an Indian. “That female customer who passed out when we first came in—she coming around yet, Smith?”
“Yeah, looks like she’s stirrin’ some,” answered No Nation Smith.
“Get her on her feet. Find something to tie her hands with,” Kels
on ordered. “She’s coming with us.”
“No. Please! She’s done nothing to you,” Epps protested.
Kelson grinned lewdly. “Not yet she hasn’t. But I guarantee she’ll do plenty for me and the boys before we’re through with her.”
Epps’ lips peeled back. “You filth!”
Kelson hoisted the money sack, still with his Colt leveled on the bank president. “You go ahead and hold that thought. But, even more important, you’d best hold your disrespectful damn tongue!”
Epps shied back, his anger fading even faster than it had flared. “I . . . I . . . You promised you wouldn’t shoot me if I cooperated. I’ve done nothing but.”
“Yeah, but now I’m starting to think your heart wasn’t really in it. Besides,” Kelson said, obviously taking great pleasure in Epps’ fright and discomfort, “I didn’t promise anything. What I said was, if you cooperated it might spare you having your blood splashed all over some coins. As you can plainly see, there aren’t any coins close by.”
Kelson’s Colt roared one time, spitting flame and a lead slug that made a red-rimmed hole in the middle of Epps’ forehead as it took him to a place where he was beyond worrying whether or not his bank burned around him.
Chapter 14
“Can you see them? Is Father still okay?” Millie Burnett asked anxiously, crowding up close behind Russell Quaid and Doc Whitney as they maintained their vigil in the jail office doorway.
“Yes. He and Jensen are both okay,” Russell answered. “They’re working their way up both sides of the street. They’re playing it smart, keeping to cover by going from building to building, doorway to doorway.”
“It looks like they already picked off a couple more of the raiders,” Whitney added. “But they’ve been noticed now and are starting to draw heavy return fire.”
“But they’ll stay safe as long as they keep to cover. Right?” The concern in Millie’s voice was barely controlled.
“They can’t do it all on their own, though,” Whitney said. “Thank God it looks like there’s some fighting back going on inside some of the stores, too. That’s what it’s going to take to turn the tide.”
Suddenly Russell went very rigid.
Seeing this, Millie said, “What? What is it?”
“Flames. Smoke. See it, Doc? Some of the buildings have caught fire.”
“Caught fire, hell!” Whitney exclaimed. “They’re being set on fire. That’s the way the damn Legion does it. They’re aiming to burn down our town!”
Millie caught her breath. “Oh, my God.”
Whitney turned from the doorway, his expression agitated. “I can’t remain here. I’ve got to go out there and do something to help.”
“But the marshal insisted we stay here,” Russell said.
“The fight is out there, not here!” Whitney barked back.
Russell thrust out his chin. “All right, then I’ll go. Somebody has to stay here with Millie and Mr. Mycroft. You’re too important to risk your life out there, Doc. Plus, like I said before, I can move faster and—”
“Enough of that, you young pup!” Whitney cut him off. “Yes, you may be younger and more limber. But I’m craftier and have the experience of dodging more bullets in the late war than you’ve ever imagined. What’s more, I have this”—he seized his medical bag and held it up—“and in addition to whatever good I can do with a rifle, there’s bound to be folks out there who will need the immediate care and aid only I can provide.”
“But, Doc. If anything happens to you—” Millie tried to say.
Once again Whitney interrupted. “I don’t intend to let anything happen to me, my dear. Like I said, I’m a crafty old dodger.” With his medical bag in one hand and a Winchester in the other, he turned back to the front door and to Russell standing there. “Don’t try to stop me or follow me. It falls to you to look after things here. You’ve done a fine job so far this morning, son. Keep it up.”
Then he was out the door and turning up the street.
* * *
Luke was pressed into the recessed doorway of a confectionery shop, trading lead with two raiders who were across the street inside the Keg ’N Jug Saloon, one firing back from the busted-out front window, the other from behind the edge of the batwing doors. Burnett had worked his way up to the near corner of the saloon, at first intending to come around and surprise the pair inside while their attention was drawn by Luke.
That plan had to be abruptly altered, however, when a trio of still-mounted raiders from farther up the street spotted what was going on and came riding down to aid their cohorts. Rifle fire from the marshal and a shotgun blast from Luke halted the riders before they got too close, causing them to abandon their horses and scatter to cover on either side of the street.
The situation had turned into a stand-off, with Luke and Burnett occupying these five, preventing them from participating in any more looting at least. At the same time, it kept them from progressing on to engage the main body of raiders. In other words, it was almost like being pinned down back at the jail all over again.
To make matters worse, licking flames and rapidly increasing plumes of smoke could be seen rising from several of the buildings up the line.
“You see that?” Burnett hollered over.
“I see it,” Luke replied through clenched teeth.
“That means they must be regrouping, getting ready to ride out, but they aim to leave the town aflame behind ’em,” the marshal said.
“We may not be able to do anything to stop them from here,” Luke called back, hating to admit it. “But we can sure as hell stop these five from riding out with them.”
“Go ahead and give it your best, big talker,” shouted the raider in the saloon window. “The only thing you’re going to stop is a bullet—and I’d be more than happy to be the one to give it to you!”
Luke responded with a rapid-fire volley of shots that sent three slugs sizzling through the saloon window. But the man there had immediately ducked safely out of the way after shouting his taunt.
Cursing under his breath, Luke pressed back into the doorway recess as a return barrage from the other raiders was unloosed in his direction. In spite of bullets hammering close all around him, it was with steady hands that he reloaded the discharged cylinders in his Remington.
All the while, up the street the fires were crackling louder and the flames were rising higher.
* * *
Moving slowly, cautiously up Burnett’s side of the street, Doc Whitney paused behind a thick old cottonwood tree crowding the back edge of the walkway. This was partly to catch his breath and partly to assess the situation he saw just ahead. The marshal and Jensen were pinned down from advancing any farther. To his added distress, the doctor also saw how chaos and shooting were continuing to rage farther up the street and how the menacing fires were spreading. Burnett and Jensen were halted from continuing on, and that meant he was, too.
For a moment Whitney considered moving to the back side of the buildings and working his way up that way. He figured he had a good chance of moving from his current position since he hadn’t been noticed yet by Burnett or Jensen or the raiders firing on them. After all the years he’d lived and practiced in Arapaho Springs, he reckoned he knew the back alleys and ins and outs of the town as well as anyone, probably better than most.
But then what? Did he move past where the marshal and Jensen were pinned down and try to accomplish something on his own in the thick of the chaos? If so, what would that be? Yes, he might happen on some wounded citizen to whom he could render aid . . . but without cover fire, that would mean a greater risk of revealing himself and catching a bullet, or ten, of his own. Despite his braggadocio back at the jail, Whitney was a realist. He wasn’t afraid, but at the same time he knew his limitations. And moving past the marshal and Jensen without trying to help their situation didn’t set right to begin with.
Again in spite of his earlier assurances of being good with a rifle, it had been years sin
ce he’d fired one. Still, he’d been pretty damn good at one time.
As these conflicting thoughts raced through the doc’s mind, a sudden realization hit him. From his vantage point, he had a good angle on two of the raiders who’d abandoned their horses and taken to cover on the opposite side of the street, just up from Jensen’s doorway. They were ducked down behind a long watering trough in front of the barbershop. Every time one of them popped up to throw some lead, he left himself momentarily wide open to Whitney’s line of fire.
The doctor made his decision. He’d quit the jail to find a way to do more good than he could from back there, to administer healing if possible, to fight if necessary. Right now he had the opportunity to do more good by fighting.
Placing his medical bag on the ground at the base of the cottonwood tree, Whitney adjusted his stance slightly and brought up the Winchester. He braced the barrel in a notch between two branches. It was a fair distance, fifty or so yards. But hell, as a lad in his teens he’d hunted jackrabbits from that far and more, and bagged them regularly. A man-sized target, even if he was a bit rusty, ought not be too much of a problem.
The doc waited, concentrating on slowing his breathing. When one of the men popped up from behind the trough, he was ready. He pulled the trigger.
Chapter 15
“He-e-elp! For God’s sake, somebody—help. He’s going to kill me!”
The frantic wail coming from the cell block spun Russell Quaid and Millie Burnett away from the office doorway where they’d been watching Doc Whitney make his way up the street.
“Help!” the voice hollered again. When it attempted to say something more, whatever it was going to be came out as merely a strangled, elongated gargling sound.
With a Henry rifle thrust before him, Russell rushed over in response to the plea. Millie was right on his heels. At the doorway leading back to the cells, he said over his shoulder, “Stay back!” even though he knew it likely wouldn’t do any good.
After pausing to slowly push the door all the way open with the muzzle of his rifle, Russell followed it cautiously into the cell block. His eyes made an alert sweep and then locked on the source of the cry for help. From behind him, he heard a sharp intake of breath from Millie, who of course had stubbornly refused to listen and stay in the other room.
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