by Will DuRey
The rider of the second horse was Marty Levin. ‘Get out of here, Ben,’ he shouted while making sure that his own horse remained a barrier between Gus Remarque’s hired gun and the man on the ground.
From along the street the roar of the shotgun added to the commotion closer at hand. The distance that separated the farmers from the cowboys probably made that weapon ineffective, but nonetheless, it announced their participation in the conflict. Ben wanted to put an end to their involvement, but the safety of Jonas Petterfield and Dick Garde was no less tenuous than his own. Marty Levin’s words were still ringing in his ears and he scrambled to his feet and made a dash for the far side of the street.
A gunshot sounded, a man grunted but Ben didn’t stop or look back until he reached the temporary sanctuary of the corner of the hardware store. Those who had been drawn by the prospect of an argument between their sheriff and the major surrounding landowners were now scattering as guns were fired and men lay bleeding in the street. Marty was on the ground, lying under the legs of his own horse, his face twisted with agony.
Jarvis Wilson couldn’t comprehend the behaviour of Gus Remarque’s ranch hand. Ben Joyner would be dead and the big chestnut his if the horse under him hadn’t been barged aside. But the older man would pay for his interference. The first shot hadn’t killed him but the next one would. However, just as it had done when Ben had been his intended victim, his recalcitrant horse was, once again, making it difficult for him to get a clear line of fire at his target. Then the discharge of the shotgun’s second barrel distracted him and he turned his attention to the men firing from further down the street. The farmers were the prime reason he’d come to Pecos; he would return and finish off the wounded Long-R man when he’d dealt with them. He fired his pistol in their direction with little expectation of hitting anyone. He hoped the farmers would run, thereby giving him the pleasure of riding them down. It would be like hunting slow moving game.
After discharging both barrels, Jonas Petterfield cast aside the shotgun and pulled a handgun from the waistband of his trousers. In these later years of his life he’d hoped to live peacefully tilling the land and raising crops, but as a young man he’d been one of Sam Houston’s Texas army that routed Santa Anna’s Mexicans at San Jacinto. He knew how to fight. Beside him, Dick Garde, who had been a soldier during the Civil War, sighted along the long barrel of the rifle in his hands. He pulled the trigger. Through the rising smoke he saw Davey Pursur throw up his hands as the bullet struck his body. The foreman tumbled from his horse.
That rifle shot surprised Jarvis Wilson, too. It passed so close to his own body that he felt the disturbed air on his cheek. Instinctively, he pulled the reins, roughly, suddenly checking the pace of the mount that, only moments earlier, he’d spurred for pace. The horse, already unnerved by warlike sounds, reared and tumbled, spilling its rider onto the street not far from the corner of the hardware store where Ben Joyner was watching.
Stepping forward, gun in hand, Ben shouted for Wilson to surrender. It was to no avail. Wilson had clung on to his pistol when falling from his horse and was pulling the trigger even as he rose to his feet. He had never had any doubt that he was the better man with a gun so when Ben’s bullets smacked into his stomach and he found himself on his knees he could only watch as blood spread across his shirt. Strength left his arms and his pistol fell from his grip. He tried to speak as Ben approached but no words came and he pitched forward on to his face, dead.
Gatt Stone had seen Ben emerge from the side of the hardware building and once again he was overcome with a thirst for revenge. Like Jarvis Wilson, he had never entertained any thought that Ben Joyner would prove to be the better man in a shootout, but he needed to gain his own retribution for the damage that had been done to his shoulder, the pain he still suffered and the humiliation he’d been subjected to by an employer who was reluctant to pay the fee for a task he was barely capable of undertaking. The injury rendered him incapable of drawing a gun with his right hand and his accuracy with his left was not a talent about which he could brag. So, as shots were being exchanged between Wilson and Ben, he dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks, aiming it like a missile at Ben Joyner.
A shout from an unrecognized source alerted Ben to the new danger. Even so, he barely had time to react. He jumped backwards but couldn’t fully evade the onrushing animal. He was lifted off his feet by the force of the impact and flung heavily on to the ground. His gun was sent flying from his hand in an unknown direction. When he got to his feet, the horse was bearing down on him again. He knew that if he went down under its hoofs it would be the end of him; Gatt Stone was in no mood for showing mercy. A shout of encouragement for his opponent reached his ears. He knew it emanated from Gus Remarque.
The horse hit him again, flinging him into the centre of the street. His head bounced off the road but, although stunned, he knew he had to get up again. The fact that Gatt Stone hadn’t used his gun planted the thought in Ben’s mind that Gatt’s right arm was almost beyond use. It gave him an opportunity for success. In ungainly fashion, he stood and watched as Gatt circled his horse to renew the attack. When it came, Ben dipped his shoulder as though he meant to move to the left side of the horse. Gatt turned his horse, following the line that Ben seemed intent upon. Although groggy and bruised from the buffeting, Ben was still more agile than the horse. At the last moment, he changed direction so that he was at the other side of the horse. Reaching up, he grabbed Gatt’s right arm and pulled.
The first squeal of pain confirmed Ben’s suspicions: Gatt was handicapped by his injury. As Gatt slid off the side of the horse Ben was able to grab the shoulder. The other man hollered, reflecting the intensity of pain he was suffering. When he hit the ground, Ben stamped on his enemy’s injury then thumped his head repeatedly on the hard street until he lost consciousness.
Stepping away from his beaten foe, Ben found himself facing his former employer. At the start of the conflict, Gus Remarque had considered himself certain of victory. The shooting of Sheriff Vasey had been a message to every Pecos citizen that he, Gus Remarque, controlled events in this part of Texas. It should have been the signal for his men to clear every farmer out of the area, but nothing had gone according to plan after that. Marty Levin had openly betrayed him, had prevented Wilson killing Ben Joyner, and the rest of his ranch hands had done nothing to assist. The ranchers too, who had as much to lose from the arrival of land grabbers, had stepped away from him when John Vasey had gone down. Weak men, he thought, who shied from deeds that needed doing and the prospect of a visit from Texas Rangers.
‘Well,’ he said aloud, ‘if I have to do it myself, it merely increases my power.’
Reaching inside his jacket, he produced a Colt from a shoulder holster and pointed it at Ben Joyner. Ben, exhausted and sore, could only look at the hole from which the bullet would come that would end his life. A shot rang out and Gus Remarque stumbled forward, fell to his knees, tried to rise then rolled onto his back. His eyes were open, his lips moving as though he had questions that needed answering.
Ben raised his eyes to the veranda outside the Alamo Hotel. Elsa Tippett still held the rifle tight against her shoulder and she kept it there when she began walking towards her fallen victim. When she reached the place where he lay she looked down on him and it seemed to Ben that she was satisfied that he was still alive.
‘You killed my son and my brother,’ she said. ‘Called them cattle thieves, tied ropes around their necks and choked the life out of them. Cast them aside with the same disdain that you showed for this piece of paper.’ From a pocket she’d produced a creased document, which she fluttered in front of his dying eyes. ‘But Brad Raine retrieved it, knew it was a legal document for the land you found them on and brought it to me. I came to Pecos to kill you, Mr Remarque. I want you to know that.’
Elsa Tippett pointed the rifle at the rancher’s body and pulled the trigger.
For a handful of seconds, silence settled over Austin Street
until the doctor darted forward to examine the shot men for signs of life. Then the farmers hurried along the street in the knowledge that their homes were safe, and Lottie Skivver clung to Ben Joyner’s arm as though afraid he was about to fall through a hole to the earth’s core.
Elsa Tippett shouldered her rifle and returned to the hotel.
