Looking up over the rooftops, Calhoun could see horsemen entering the town by some of the side streets, and back along the main drag a fierce encounter was taking place at the other barricade. The defenders were putting up a good fight but it seemed there just weren’t enough of them.
Calhoun had time to see the marshal racing for cover behind an overturned wagon before he leaped to his feet and ran to the end of the rooftop. He jumped over the parapet to land on the roof of the building next to it. He was firing as he went and now bullets were screaming through the air and passing menacingly close overhead. Coming to the opposite end of the roof he lowered himself over the edge to drop the rest of the way into an alley below. Then he ran to the end of the alley and began to pour lead at the horsemen who were now galloping down the street in numbers. He wanted to get among the streets and alleys on the far side in an attempt to counter the riders who had circled round. It was also the side of town on which Mary’s café was situated.
Choosing a moment when the street seemed relatively free of combatants he ran out into the open, crouched and still firing as he went. A rider suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, bearing down on him, but he rolled out of the way of the horse’s hoofs and fired upwards at the rider who flung up his arms and went flying backwards out of the saddle. He lay inert in the dust of the road while the horse continued to hurtle wide-eyed down the main street.
Calhoun was in danger now of being shot at by his own side as well as the enemy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the marshal sprinting for the saloon where he crashed through the batwings to take up another position from which to spray lead into the attackers who had at last overcome the barriers at either end of the street.
Calhoun was exposed but he picked himself up and made a dash for a corner of another alley. He made it as a hail of bullets tore up the dirt around his feet. He had already discarded the Henry on the roof of the building and now the Winchester was hot in his hands. Running out of ammunition he threw it aside and drew his Army Colts. Looking down the alley he could see horsemen passing across the entrance.
He had began to move down the alley when his attention was attracted by a dark pall of smoke which began to swirl across the lower end of the main street. He realized that one of the buildings had been set on fire. Smoke continued to billow, then a column of flame burst through the roof of one of the stores accompanied by the sibilant crackling of fire.
For a moment he considered trying to battle his way down the main drag towards the fire but, thinking better of it, he continued down the narrow passage between two high buildings which led to a parallel street of smaller stores and frame houses.
Reaching the end he poked his head out to ascertain what was happening. A couple of riders were coming towards him. He stepped out into the open, fanning the hammer of his gun, and both riders toppled from the saddle. The spurs of one of the riders became entangled in the stirrups as the frightened horse set off at a wild gallop, dragging the man along with it. His screams rang in Calhoun’s ears as he ran along the street in the direction of the fire.
Dense clouds of smoke were now pouring from the burning building and as fresh flowers of flame began to bloom above the rooftops it was obvious that other buildings had caught alight. The sounds of gunfire were being drowned by the crackle and roar of the flames.
Veering off down another turning, he emerged on to the main street again. Even as he sprinted for cover there came a shattering explosion and the saloon in which Grayson had sought shelter ripped apart. A dazzling sheet of fire swept across the road burning and singeing Calhoun with its heat and causing him to be momentarily disorientated by the blast. His ears rang and there was blood coming out of his nose, but shaking his head to get rid of the concussion, he ran forward again, bursting through the batwing doors.
‘Grayson!’ he screamed. ‘Are you in there?’
The saloon was a mass of flame and dense black smoke and the stairs had been partly blown away. There was no response to his shouted question but through the dense pall of smoke Calhoun detected the shape of a body lying sprawled across the stairs on the top landing. Tying his kerchief over his mouth and keeping his eyes partly closed against the stinging effect of the smoke he managed to make it to the foot of the stairs. Further progress seemed impossible, however, as there was only a yawning gap where the middle section of the stairwell should have been.
‘Grayson!’ he shouted again. ‘Can you hear me?’
The figure at the top of the stairs suddenly stirred and, coughing and spluttering, the marshal struggled to his knees and began to crawl forwards.
‘Is that you, Calhoun?’ he managed to gasp.
‘Yes, it’s Calhoun. Try and get as far as you can down the stairs and then jump.’
The marshal coughed again, then seemed to gather his wits. Getting to his feet he staggered down the few remaining stairs, clinging to the wall. When he reached the last remaining stair he stood looking about. The heat was overwhelming and Calhoun realized that there could be further explosions at any moment. He was blinded by the smoke and his throat and lungs were burning.
‘Jump!’ he repeated.
In the next instant the marshal had launched himself off the stair to come crashing down on the floor beneath, toppling over and wincing with pain. Calhoun made his way to the marshal’s side.
‘I’ve done my ankle,’ Grayson said.
Without bothering to reply Calhoun bent down and hauled the marshal to his feet, holding him beneath one armpit and putting the marshal’s other arm over his shoulder.
He stepped forward and the marshal gasped with pain.
‘Sorry,’ Calhoun said, ‘but we’ve got to get out of here.’
Somewhere at the back of the saloon there came another loud bang and what was left of the bar came crashing forwards, sending splinters and slivers of glass flying through the air. Gasping for breath the two men inched forwards towards the door, having to take a detour to avoid huge tongues of flame which barred a more direct route to the exit. To Calhoun the going seemed infinitely slow and the marshal was a dead weight but somehow they managed to reach the batwings and stagger outside. The marshal hopped a few more paces before they both collapsed to the ground in the shelter of a water trough.
Calhoun took off his bandanna, soaked it in the water and held it first to the marshal’s face and then to his own. His skin was blistered and burnt but the cold water brought a blessed sense of relief. Struggling to turn his head he observed what was happening in the street. Gunfire was still booming and there seemed to be something going on at the opposite end of the drag to where the fires were raging. A group of riders had dismounted and were throwing burning faggots into the buildings and on to the roofs. Flames began to spread from that end of town also. In between there were bodies of men and horses lying in the dust which swirled around thick with the smell of ash and smoke.
‘Isn’t the café thataway?’ the marshal spluttered. ‘Better get down there.’
Calhoun hesitated. ‘What about you?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be all right,’ the marshal said. Calhoun looked at him. The marshal’s hair and eyebrows were singed and his face was black. His clothes hung in tattered rags around him and he could barely move because of his injured ankle. Despite everything and for no reason Calhoun couldn’t help grinning.
‘Sure, you’ll be fine,’ he said and, seeing that the marshal had lost his weapons, he thrust one of his Colts into his hand.
‘Take this,’ he said. ‘Stay here under cover of the horse trough.’
‘Guess I ain’t got much option,’ the marshal said.
Things seemed quiet temporarily and Calhoun took advantage of it to dart across the road and back down the alley. Sheets of flame were billowing over the intervening roofs and a pall of smoke hung in the air. Sounds of shooting still burst upon his ears from the direction of the main street but it was becoming more sporadic. After all the fury and pandemonium this area seemed eerily calm.
> As he arrived at a familiar junction Calhoun could see Mary’s eating-house up ahead. Mercifully it was untouched by the flames and, although he knew she was not in there anyway, he felt a sense of relief. He turned and started down the street. Black smoke was billowing everywhere but the sounds of shooting seemed to have subsided.
Suddenly a figure loomed into view from behind a tree, taking Calhoun by surprise. A gun exploded in the man’s hand and Calhoun felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder as a bullet scorched his flesh. The next bullet might have found its mark but just as the man pointed it again, pausing for a second to steady his aim, a brown blur flashed across the space between them. It was Cherokee, the cougar. The man let out a gasp of pain as the cougar’s teeth buried themselves in his hand. Then Calhoun’s gun spat flame and lead and the man was lifted backwards by the impact of the slug. He fell to the ground in a welter of blood, the cougar still clinging to his hand. Calhoun prepared to fire again but the man did not move and when Calhoun came up it was clear that he was dead.
‘It’s OK, girl,’ Calhoun said. ‘Ahiya’a!’ The cougar seemed reluctant to release its grip of the man’s hand but as Calhoun bent down to stroke her she ceased growling. ‘Where did you come from?’ Calhoun said.
It was not the first time that kind of thing had happened. He guessed that the animal, excited by all the noise and shooting, had escaped from the outhouse. As he kneeled drops of rain began to splatter from the overcast sky. The storm which he had observed on the horizon from the rooftop had arrived over the town.
Calhoun began to run back the way he had come, the cougar running alongside him. When he turned into the main street buildings were still burning at either end but already the flames were less rampant as the driving rain began to quench them. There was no further fighting taking place and no sign either of the riders. Only dead men and horses littered the street.
A group of men were continuing to fight the fire and it looked as though the storm might have spared the rest of the town. Gun in hand in case of further eventualities, Calhoun ran down the street in search of the marshal whom he had left behind the water trough.
He was still there, stretched out in exhaustion and scarcely able to move even if he had wanted to. Behind him the saloon was a smouldering shell. Flames were still licking quite high but the rain would soon extinguish them. A powerful acrid smell filled the air.
‘We done it!’ Grayson said. ‘We beat them off!’ Calhoun took the marshal in his arms, carried him to his office and laid him on a bunk in the corner. ‘I’ll get the doc,’ he said.
‘Leave it!’ Grayson snapped. ‘There must be others needing his help more than me.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be OK?’
Just at that moment the door flew open and Mary ran in. ‘I couldn’t sit and wait any longer,’ she gasped.
Calhoun hesitated a moment more.
‘I’ll see to him,’ Mary said. Turning to Calhoun with an appeal in her eyes, she added: ‘Please be careful.’
Carrying that look with him, Calhoun rushed out and ran down the street to join the small group of townsmen who had been fighting the larger fires at the other end of town. There wasn’t a lot to be done except help the rain by pouring buckets of water over the lingering flames and over the smouldering ruins to prevent them catching fire again. A few people were beating at the flames with blankets.
Presently they were joined by more helpers as people began to emerge from shelter. The undertaker’s wagon appeared rolling down the street, collecting bodies.
It was a scene of misery and desolation. A number of the buildings along the main street at this end were completely destroyed and others were badly damaged. A pall of smoke and ash hung over the town and always the driving rain came battering down as though the heavens wept. Corpses of men and horses still littered the roadway and the only movement was the undertaker’s cart.
Calhoun carried on walking. At the opposite end of town there was a similar scene of destroyed and damaged buildings and debris from the barricade littered the ground. Calhoun felt utterly weary. He did not know how many people had been killed on either side or whether the battle was truly over. Maybe the remaining attackers would come back again to finish the job. For the present he did not care.
Feeling numb with tiredness, wet through and hurting from his various wounds, he began to stagger down the street towards where he had left the marshal and Mary.
Chapter Three
Hiram Bingley awoke on the day following his arrival at the Crutch Bar feeling little the worse for his encounter with the outlaws. After eating a hearty breakfast he wandered out into the yard. A few cowboys were just coming out of the bunkhouse and a couple of others were slouching around the corral rails.
‘Mornin’!’ one of them called, an old hand named Orne Thompson. Hiram lifted his hat and walked over to join them.
‘Mighty fine day,’ Thompson said.
‘Sure is.’
‘Doin’ anythin’ much?’
‘Nope.’
Thompson spat and looked at his fellows. ‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘me an’ the boys were just figurin’ to fix up a little badger fight. Wondered if you might be interested.’
Bingley nodded. There was an eager if puzzled look on his face. Thompson indicated a big burly cowboy who was sitting on a fence rail.
‘Ray here reckons he has the most fierce ornery damn badger in the territory. Isn’t that so?’
The big man spat. ‘Ain’t no dog can beat her,’ he said.
There were some shouts from the cowboys. Thompson smiled and held up his hand to restore order.
‘We’ll see. Thing is, most of the boys have got their money on either the dog or the badger. We need someone to be referee. Someone without any pecun’ary int’rest, if you see what I mean.’
‘You mean you want me to be referee? Goldurn it, I’d be plumb honoured.’
Quite a big crowd of cowpokes had now joined the group at the corral and with one accord they began to move towards some outhouses. As they went they were whooping and shouting and a degree of excitement was in the air.
‘What do I have to do?’ Bingley enquired.
‘Don’t worry none. There ain’t nothin’ to it,’ Thompson said, proceeding to give Bingley some basic advice on how to hold the badger. ‘Pull hard an’ you’ll be helpin’ the dog, pull soft an’ you’ll be favourin’ the badger.’
Bingley nodded but was beginning to feel a little apprehensive. The whole group came round the side of a barn; tethered to a post at a corner of an open space was a bedraggled dog.
‘There he is,’ the big man called Ray said. ‘Ain’t he a beaut?’
Bingley looked at the dog. It was lying full length and had apparently just woken from its sleep. It raised a bloodshot eye and looked at Bingley. Both of them wore a similar expression on their faces.
‘He don’t look like a fighter,’ Bingley exclaimed after a few moments. In fact the dog looked like a mangy cur. Nearby was a large tub with a length of rope running out some distance into the yard.
‘The badger’s under there,’ Thompson said.
‘Here, let me explain the rules,’ someone added. He stepped out and began to explain to Bingley what he had to do.
‘When Thompson gives the order to pull, just give the rope a good hard yank,’ he concluded.
Ray bent down and untied the dog. For a few moments it remained inert before slowly struggling to its feet and shaking.
‘Thataboy Rocky,’ Ray said.
The group had gathered in a circle about Bingley. Bingley looked round at them expectantly. His hands gripped the rope tightly and his arms were taut.
‘Pull!’ yelled Thompson.
Bingley pulled the rope. At the same moment a cowboy tipped the tub from the rear. Over Bingley went in the dust to howls of laughter from the watchers and where he had expected the badger to be hidden was a chamber-pot full of stale beer.
‘Watch out for the hell-hound!’ someone
shouted.
‘My money’s on the badger!’ came the reply. The laughter continued as Bingley dragged himself to his feet.
‘Good job he got some dirt on that there shirt. The glare was beginnin’ to hurt my eyes.’
‘Won’t need no mail-order catalogue. We got a livin’ one right here.’
Bingley gave an embarrassed grin.
‘Come on,’ Thompson said, slapping him on the back. ‘Let’s head for the bunkhouse. I reckon you could do with a real drink.’
Laughing and joking they came round the corner of the corral. Bingley’s uncle was standing on the veranda with a broad grin on his face.
‘Don’t be too hard on him, boys!’ he shouted. ‘Or I’ll have my sister to answer to!’
Back in town there was concern that the riders would return, but there was no sign of them by evening and people began to feel a little easier. By that time a clearer picture of what had occurred had begun to emerge. The townsfolk had lost five of their number and in addition there were twice as many carrying injuries, at least two of which were relatively serious. Still, the doctor expected them to make a full recovery. One of the minor wounded was the marshal.
Of the attackers nine had been killed. There was no way of calculating how many had been wounded because if there were any they had managed to get away. Only one slightly wounded man had been caught and he was recuperating in the town jail along with the gunslick the marshal had arrested previously.
The town was a mess but already steps had been taken to begin clearing away the wreckage. It was the storm that had saved it from an even worse fate. All the rest of that day the rain had poured down, only beginning to clear as darkness fell.
Late in the evening Calhoun called to see how the marshal was doing. He had been moved to his own house and was sitting up with his bandaged foot on a stool. Mary gave Calhoun an exasperated look.
Coyote Falls Page 3
