by J. T. Edson
Pressing his right elbow tightly against his side for increased firmness and control, Doc aligned the barrel in the general direction of the man with the shotgun. Flashing across, the heel of his left hand took a circular motion which made contact and drew the hammer rearwards. Without the need for conscious guidance, his right forefinger was already depressing the trigger. On being released, the hammer returned and set off the cartridge in the cylinder’s uppermost chamber.
“Fanning”, as the method being employed by Doc was called, did not allow for anywhere near the kind of accuracy that could be attained by more formal shooting. So he was not surprised when his first shot missed. Even while he was controlling the Colt’s recoil kick as well as he could manage, he altered the angle at which the barrel was pointing slightly.
Flame erupted from the Colt’s muzzle for a second time as Doc’s left hand continued its motions, then a third, a fourth and a fifth. Between each detonation, brief though the period might be, he had turned the weapon so that the lead was flying in a fan-like pattern. Fortunately, there was nobody behind the man at whom he was firing and he did not need to worry about endangering innocent bystanders.
Refusing to be distracted by the rolling beat of her husband’s borrowed weapon, Lynn cupped her left palm under the gun-filled right hand. Elevating the Thunderer to eye-level, while her right thumb drew back its hammer, she aimed at the young outlaw at the door. He fired before she could press the trigger.
Aware that his shotgun was still not far enough around to be used, Hadle was conscious of the two bullets that had winged their way by him. They had been thrown by the smoke-wrapped, lean and city-dressed hombre who nevertheless handled the Colt like a top hand gun fighter trained in matters pistolero somewhere west of the Big Muddy. xxvi
The second shot had been much closer than its predecessor and the outlaw knew more were coming. Then he felt himself struck by the third. Even as he was rocked by the impact, he was hit twice more in very rapid succession. xxvii Pitched backwards, he tightened his forefinger on the shotgun’s trigger. Although it discharged, he was already falling and the barrels were tilting upwards. So the nine buckshot balls flew harmlessly into the ceiling. The weapon tumbled from his hands as he measured his length on the floor.
Blaby had just realized that his attempt to kill the “dude” had missed when Lynn cut loose at him. Once again, she scored a less devastating hit than would have been attained if she could have taken a more careful aim. However, it served her purpose. Instead of taking him in the head, the Thunderer’s bullet did no more than tear off his hat.
It also gave the young outlaw one hell of a shock!
For all his aura of toughness, Blaby had never been under fire. Realizing how narrow an escape he had had, he lost his nerve. Dropping the revolvers with a howl of fright, he spun around and dived through the door.
Less hardened as a criminal than any of his companions, Tick had been growing aware that their enterprise was going horrifyingly wrong. So he needed no more than Blaby’s example to decide upon what he should do. Throwing away the revolver he had been loaned for the robbery, he followed his fleeing companion.
Much to their increased terror, the two young men discovered that the sound of the shooting was attracting attention. Already people, including two big and brawny police officers, were running from both directions. Darting to the waiting horses, the pair saw that these might not offer them the kind of immediate means of escape they so desperately required. When securing the animals, they had tied die reins in knots. Disturbed by the commotion, the horses had tried to escape. In doing so, they had tightened their bonds.
‘Come on!’ Blaby shrieked, having unpleasant memories of how the enraged citizens of a Western town he had been in treated outlaws caught robbing its bank. ‘Run for it!’
Tick needed no urging. Springing away from the horses, he fled across the street. With Blaby hot on his heels, he dashed down an alley. He knew that their only hope of salvation was to reach the dock area. Having grown up there, he could find a safe hiding place until he could arrange to leave New Orleans.
Swiveling around as the outlaw fell, Doc was ready to defend himself against whoever had shot at him. Before he could do so, Lynn’s intervention had caused the two men at the door’s departure. A glance told him that the guard, who was straddling the outlaw’s chest and cracking his head with some force against the unyielding floor, needed no help. So he darted across the room.
Approaching the door, Doc glanced at the revolvers dropped by the fleeing Blaby.
The closer sight of them brought the Texan to a halt!
Three – What’s You See In There?
Oblivious of the fact that the two outlaws were certain to be continuing their flight, Doc Leroy stood and stared downwards.
The two revolvers discarded by the young outlaw, Blaby, were—as Doc had guessed—exceptionally fine examples of the type advertised by their manufacturer as the Colt Pocket Pistol of Navy Caliber; which had been rechambered—possibly by the makers’ designer, Charles B. Richards—to take a metallic cartridge instead of the original percussion cap, powder and ball. The frames and barrels were of the Best Citizens Finish, bluing and engraved with elegant scroll work. What was more, the cylinder which had replaced the original was also unfluted and had a similar hold-up scene etched around it. Each set of ivory stocks bore the letters H.P.L. intertwined on what would be the outside when held in the correct hand suggesting that they were a matched pair.
Although that particular product of the Colt Patent Arms Manufacturing Company would not even come close to matching the number of the various types and calibers of the 1873 Model P ‘Peacemaker’ which had been sold, xxviii they were far from a rarity. However, the three letters on the butt were enough to make Doc sure that he would identify their owner previous to them having come into Blaby’s possession. He realized that it was possible somebody with identical initials could also have purchased a pair of the Pocket Pistols equipped with ivory stocks, but the odds were astronomically against it.
The two revolvers might have been fitted with their original cap and ball cylinders when Doc had last come into contact with them, but he felt sure that he knew to whom they had belonged. Nor had they changed hands too long ago. He doubted whether, even if a succession of owners had had them, the most recent—the young outlaw who had dropped them as he fled—was the kind of person to have retained them in their present excellent condition for any extensive period.
Having started to follow her husband, kicking the Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket revolver belonging to the man she had wounded across the room and beyond his reach in passing, Lynn Leroy stared in amazement. Whilst she knew much about the circumstances which had brought an end to his earlier hopes of attending a medical college and completing his education, she would never have imagined what was causing him to behave the way he was.
Despite there being such an element of coincidence that no writer of fiction would dare to use in one of his plots, Doc had known the original owner of the matched brace of Colts.
Nor was it surprising that the Texan had recognized them!
A man did not easily forget the person who had been responsible for the death of his parents!
Doc could not even start to visualize the turn of fate which had, after so many years, brought him into contact with a man who was carrying Hayden Paul Lindrick’s two Colts. He was aware of the superstitious regard in which their original owner had held them. It was unlikely that anybody else would have gone to the trouble and not inconsiderable expense to have them converted so they would fire the more modem type of ammunition. No ordinary set of circumstances would have persuaded Den Lindrick to part with them.
Reminding himself that the man who could solve the mystery was close by, but was trying to get away, Doc prepared to give chase. However, his training as a peace officer and exceptionally proficient gun fighter refused to let him behave in a reckless and unthinking manner. Both of the fleeing outlaws ha
d dropped their revolvers, but either might still be armed with a hitherto undisclosed weapon of some kind.
Counting instinctively as he had been fanning off the shots, Doc knew that the Colt he was holding had at the most one more bullet and might even be empty. So he let it slip from his grasp. Snatching up what should have been the left side Pocket Pistol, as the feel of the initials on the stock against the fingers of his right hand informed him, he lunged through the door. One glance at the five still rearing and frightened horses told him all he needed to know. Gazing around, he was just in time to see Blaby and Tick running into the alley across the street.
On the point of going after Doc out of the bank, Lynn noticed that the other woman was kneeling and staring at the man who had accompanied her. There was blood flowing from the side of his skull, but not enough for him to have received a direct hit in the head. Nor would his chest still be rising and falling as he breathed if he had, although the slight twitching of his limbs could still be happening so soon after death.
No matter how lucky the man had been, Lynn knew that he needed medical attention as quickly as possible.
Bearing that thought in mind, Lynn darted out of the building. She found that Doc was crossing the sidewalk in pursuit of the rapidly departing outlaws. A quick glance to her left and right supplied the information that several men, including two members of the New Orleans Police Department were doing the same thing.
‘Doc!’ Lynn yelled, skidding to a halt. ‘Leave the john-laws to chase them. There’s a bad hurt man in here needing you.’
The sound of his wife’s voice reached Doc as he was leaping from the sidewalk and trying to decide whether to try to liberate one of the horses as a means of speeding his pursuit. What the words implied struck him immediately. Much as he wanted to catch the man who might be able to solve the mystery that was plaguing him, he still had the instincts of a doctor.
There was another reason why Doc should not keep up the chase, apart from such humanistic considerations. It was based upon his experiences as a peace officer. While he had spent many of his leisure hours in the company of Captain Phillipe St. Andre and had given a demonstration of gun fighting techniques for members of the New Orleans Police Department, not every officer had been able to attend. If the pair who were approaching had been absent during the display, they were unlikely to recognize him. Seeing him running from the bank, armed in such a fashion, they could draw a dangerously erroneous conclusion. Neither held a revolver, but he had seen how effective some of their colleagues could send a night-stick spinning through the air to bring down a fleeing fugitive. Like Blaby, he appreciated the danger from a mob of aroused citizens. If he should be felled in what they regarded as an attempt to flee from the crime he had been committing, they might not give him an opportunity to explain.
Finally, the two policemen had in all probability been walking their beats in this area for long enough to have a vastly greater knowledge of its geography than Doc possessed. In which case, they stood a far better chance of hunting the two outlaws through the back streets. Their chances would be increased if they did not have to delay either to deal with him, or to listen to an explanation of his presence.
‘Go after them, gents!’ Doc called, coming to a halt and allowing the Colt to dangle muzzle downwards. He addressed the words to the policemen, who were already changing their direction so as to converge with him. ‘I’ll take care of things inside.’
With relief, the Texan saw the nearer officer wave confirmation with a night-stick loaded hand. Then, as the pair resumed their original route towards the alley, there was the sound of rapidly approaching hooves and wheels.
Turning his head, Doc let out a low grunt of satisfaction, surprise and relief intermingled. Coming along the street at a fast pace were four riders. Behind them, the driver of a New Orleans Police Department’s ‘paddy wagon’ xxix was urging his four-horse team to gallop as swiftly as possible. Even without that much of a clue, the Texan would have known that reinforcements of the best possible kind were on hand. The horsemen were ‘Sherry’ St. Andre and members of his Bureau of Detectives.
‘Good for Sherry!’ Lynn enthused, as her husband walked towards her. ‘Only how did he get here so handy and useful?’
‘Likely we’ll soon enough get told,’ the Texan replied. ‘What’s wrong, honey?’ Lynn asked worriedly, reading the perturbation behind Doc’s almost expressionless features and in the timbre of his voice. Remembering how he had come to such an abrupt halt inside the building, she went on, ‘What’d you see in there?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ the Texan answered. ‘Go back in there and pick up your bag, it’s got all your ill-gotten gains in it. I’ll wait for Sher—’
‘You’ll come in and take a look at that wounded man!’ Lynn declared in the tone which her husband had learned to know meant she would accept no refusal. ‘Sherry’ll know where to find you and there’s enough of them so you won’t be needed in the posse.’
‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ Doc drawled and reversed the Colts, holding them forward. ‘Here, take these and keep them for me, honey. These folks likely haven’t seen a doctor toting a brace of hog-legs.’
‘They’re more like “shoat-legs”,’ Lynn sniffed, extending her left forefinger and hooking it through the two trigger-guards. A ‘shoat’ was a small, or baby pig. ‘Real fancy lil things, though, aren’t they?’
‘Real fancy,’ Doc conceded and again something in his demeanor drew his wife’s eyes to his face. As she glanced down at the Colts, then lifted her gaze once more, he went on, ‘I’ll tell you in a while, honey.’
‘Huh huh!’ Lynn grunted, knowing that the matter was very important to her husband, but not of absolute urgency.
Returning to the inside of the bank, the young couple found that the manager and the tellers had come from behind the counter. The former, showing alarm and concern, was with the other woman at the side of the wounded man. Some of the latter were gathered around the bank guard and the two living outlaws, but two were picking up Lynn’s money. None of them were anywhere near the corpse of the man Doc had killed.
‘I—er—That is—I –!’ the manager began, clearly feeling that he should make some comment and yet unable to put his thoughts into words. He was a small, plump, pompous-featured middle-aged man and his face showed he had been badly shaken by the recent events. ‘The ba –I—!’
‘Best let me take a look at the wound, ma’am,’ Doc suggested, ignoring the bank official and kneeling at the woman’s side. ‘I’m not a qualified doctor yet, but I’m a senior student over to the Soniat Memorial-Mercy Hospital.’
Although the Texan did not mention the fact, he had had more practical experience in the treatment of gunshot wounds than the majority of the qualified doctors at the Hospital. Nor did he wait for permission before reaching out and cupping his left hand under the injured man’s head and raising it from the woman’s knee. Staring at him through her tear-reddened and frightened eyes, she raised no objections. In fact, she seemed grateful for the chance of assistance and was disinclined to dispute his right to render it. Under the circumstances, as he realized, she would have been willing to let any competent looking person help her. However, she did not offer to move away from her husband.
‘Here!’ Lynn said to the bank’s manager, seeing what was happening and offering him the three weapons. ‘Hold on to these for me.’
‘Wha—?’ the official yelped, drawing his hands away and with an expression of horror coming to his face. ‘You—?’
‘They won’t bite you, blast it, nor go off even, unless you cock the hammers and squeeze the triggers—Or drop them!’ Lynn promised, the last three words being uttered as she thrust the revolvers into the man’s reluctant grasp. They produced the desired effect, for he clutched the weapons and allowed her to devote her attention to something of more importance at that moment. Bending and giving a nod to her husband, she hooked her hands under the other woman’s armpits. Liftin
g gently, she went on, ‘Up you come now, honey. There’s nothing you can do down there except get in Doc’s way. And don’t you worry none. He’s smarter than he looks—Which I reckon you’ll agree he’d have to be.’
Gasping as she felt herself being lifted with a strength that—without being harsh or forceful—she could not resist, particularly in her present condition, the woman looked at the speaker. She saw a pretty face with such an air of complete assurance that she felt herself growing calmer. Glancing down, she found that the slim young man had taken on the support of her husband.
Resting the man’s back against his bent left knee, Doc studied the wound to satisfy himself that his first impression had been correct. It was a bloody furrow, but neither too wide nor deep. For all that, he knew it could be more serious than merely a nasty looking graze. There was a possibility that the skull had been fractured by the. impact. Or other complications might have resulted from what, despite having glanced off, must have been a hard blow.
While making his closer examination, Doc followed his father’s advice. ‘Eyes first, hands as little as possible and questions, if they could be answered, last.’ Feeling his patient stirring, he knew that he might soon be able to obtain verbal information and hoped it would be forthcoming.
A low groan left the man and his eyes opened. For a few seconds, they stared upwards blankly and Doc waited in tense expectancy. Then the glassiness left them. Giving another pain-filled moan, the man stared around and started to move.
‘Norrie!’ the woman gasped, but Lynn kept a firm hold of her.
‘Take it easy, amigo.’ Doc advised gently, restraining the man’s attempt to sit up and look around. ‘Your lady’s safe and hasn’t been hurt. But you have. Not real bad, but enough to stop you jumping up and doing a jig.’
