Spurs eyes began darting everywhere with the instinctive nervousness of the eternally-hunted man, searching out possible cover for men with guns, instinctively searching for cover for himself, nerves and muscles tight with the thought of the necessity of action that must come faster than thought.
The rear of the saloon reared black and square against the moon, casting a long shadow. The heavy planks of the loading platform received the full rays of the moon.
Then came the triple click of a cocking gun.
Every nerve in Spur’s body jumped. His thumb-ball pulled back on the hammer and he shouted to the sheriff, ‘Sing out.’
Evidently, the man hadn’t heard the other gun. But he’d heard Spur’s and it had frightened him. Confused he stammered, ‘Wh…what?’
‘Sing out, you fool.’
The sheriff turned to gape at him, the truth came to him and he began to shout as the gun over by the saloon fired twice quickly so the roar of it sounded like one long shot.
The sheriff screamed out, ‘No … don’t…’
The shots were wide. One went through one of Nick’s windows with the sound of shattering glass, the other plunked hollowly into a plank.
‘Sheriff’s here!’ Spur was bellowing, but a third shot came. He heard the fat man’s squeal of fear and saw him lurch away to the left. Sudden terrible indecision took a hold of Spur, his attention torn between the hidden gun and escaping lawman. He shouted, ‘Stay still,’ but the sheriff went on. For some reason unknown to himself Spur jumped after the fleeing man and laid his long-barreled Remington over his head. By the time he’d done that he knew that there were two gun’s hidden in the moon-shadow to the rear of the saloon. He was maybe a half-dozen yards from Nick’s rear door and out in full moonlight. If he went back in there, he’d be cornered.
He dropped to one knee beside the sheriff’s prostrate form, waited for the gunflash and fired once when it came. Probably a miss. Certainly both guns replied.
He howled out, ‘You’ll kill the sheriff,’ but he didn’t know why he wasted his breath. All he wanted then was to get out of there fast as he could.
Driving himself to his feet, he started a run away from the buildings. Both guns by the saloon went crazy and a man shouted at the top of his voice. He heard a pounding of feet and then he trod on an empty tin among the trash and went down hard.
He heard himself curse, but, though he was winded, long habit drove him hastily to his feet to sight a moving shadow, throw a steady shot at it and then duck to one side out of his own smoke and away from the tell-tale flash of his gun.
Feet pounded in the alleyway, guided by one of the men by the saloon who kept up a continuous and frightened howl. Spur put a last shot into the narrow way and turned into a run again, moving carefully now, trying to pick his steps in the moonlight, dodging trash, bending low to avoid showing a silhouette to be shot at.
Suddenly, he was out of the trash and his footsteps became silent on soft soil. Above the heaving of his breath he heard the wake of violence he was leaving behind him, the confused orders, the stammer of gunshots.
He was telling himself, I’m getting too old for this game, when he heard the sound of the rifle and worry swooped deep in his understanding. By the tone, he guessed it was a Henry and that meant a magazine of shots, a steady stream of maiming or even killing lead being sent after him. A little to one side of him he saw the dark frown of the timber and angled towards it, sending up a small thanksgiving, his nerves and muscles horribly expectant of the sickening impact of a ball.
He was hit as he got into the deep .shadow of the first cottonwood.
It took him at an angle across the fleshy part of his back, spun him violently around and smashed him against the trunk of the tree.
He grasped at the tree with his left hand and said very clearly, ‘My God, I’m hit.’ He’d dropped his gun, so he bent to grope for it, measuring the pain in his back and finding that it was numb and he could feel nothing but a heaviness there.
It came to him with something like surprise that if he had been in a tight spot back there in the Greek’s place, he was in a worse one now, separated from his horse by the men back there, wounded and winded. He’d have to have a lot of luck to get himself out of this one.
Stay still, he told himself. They can’t see you here if you don’t move.
He leaned his left shoulder against the tree, watching the buildings and then hearing the men beginning to stumble their oath-ridden way through the trash, as he loaded his gun by feel. They were on the edge of fear, he knew, and if he played this carefully he could use that fear as a weapon. Among them were men who alone might not have been afraid to tackle him, but a bunch of men take their strength from the weakest member. All collections of men had their weak members and they were usually pretty weak at that. So a good wounding might stop this.
They were halfway across the trash when he had his gun loaded and stood waiting with his thumb on the hammer, finding he was calm now. As he waited, he mentally inspected himself, finding his gun-arm was badly hampered by the wound in his back, making his movements stiff and awkward. He gave that a moment’s thought and transferred his gun to his left hand. If he didn’t hurry his shot, he’d do as well with that hand as his right.
The noise of the booted feet among the airtights stopped as their courage ran out. They shouted to each other and eyed the dark wall of the trees doubtfully. Cautiously, Spur stepped behind the trunk of the tree, steadied his left wrist against it and picked his target. This was a large shadowy bulk that he hoped was the big loudmouth he had encountered in Nick’s.
Someone was shouting, ‘Git on, can’t you? He’ll be by-Gawd halfways to Montany if’n you don’t stir yourselves.’
‘If’n you’re so damned eager, Jack,’ someone sang back, ‘you go right ahead, boy.’
Spur lined his gun up with the target’s calf and fired.
Two things happened. The man went down as if he’d had his legs driven from under him and for a brief part of a second every man there went still as death.
Then they erupted.
The wounded man yelled he was killed and started thrashing around, the rest of them stampeded back the way they had come, kicking up hell’s own noise as they went. One of them did as Spur had done, trod on a can and went down bellowing, but was up with the magic of fear and went pounding on his way to safety. Spur gave them another shot and started to move away into deep timber.
He hadn’t covered a couple of yards when he heard that Henry again. Something whined past his ear and drove chips from a tree near him. He moved hurriedly to the right, hurting his back as he turned and heard the second shot almost at once, showing that the man back there was levering the gun as if his life depended on it.
Spur’s left leg was torn from under him and seemed to disintegrate violently. He lost his balance and seemed instantly to have his face driven into the dirt.
Something inside him didn’t seem able to accept that this was happening to him—Sam Spur knocked over by some small-time citizen. He’d be on his feet and getting out of there fast any minute now. He tried it and found he couldn’t even get to his knees.
His ears were alert for any sound behind him, the carefully placed booted-foot as the rifleman came to see if he’d made a hit, nerves jumping because of the famous gun that might be waiting in the darkness for him.
The famous gun!
Spur realized his left hand was empty.
He started groping around, knowing if he didn’t find that gun, this could be the end.
There came a soft, high-noted crack. Cottonwood twig underfoot. He twisted his head awkwardly to look back at the town, trying to catch the blackness of a man’s body against the few lights. He could see nothing. Twisting his neck that way showed him his back wasn’t completely numb. Pain was starting through it now.
He went looking for his gun again, urgency growing in him, growing and growing the longer he didn’t find it. Something cold and wet dropped o
n to his hand and he found with a shock that it was sweat from his face.
A soft hesitant sound reached his ears and he stopped his searching left hand as he gave the sound all his attention.
At first he couldn’t identify it. Then the note changed a little and he realized that it was two men whispering together.
How far?
About twenty-five yards, his mind told him. Two of the sons of bitches had a little more sand than the rest.
What of the rest?
A shout came from the backlots and men were on the move. He considered that and decided that they were fanning out and aiming to come at him from either hand. The two whispering back there in the start of the trees were holding the center. By God, if he didn’t find that gun, this was the finish. The thought startled him and some of the old bitterness, so lately discarded came back to him, dampening him and bringing with it a feeling of utter hopelessness. But that didn’t give him any ideas about not having a try to get himself out of this. The instinct for survival had been called upon too many times for it not to come automatically to his aid now.
He debated whether he should start crawling and forget the gun and decided that his movements would be clumsy on account of his wounds and he’d be sure to give himself away. Lie still and see what happens.
Rolling on to his left side, so he could see and hear more easily, he felt something hard push into his back.
He lay very still for a moment, taking that in, the near-pain alongside the back-wound, then he started to chuckle softly to himself in the darkness, knowing it was the gun and knowing in the second of finding it, he was transformed. Sam Spur was another man with a gun, worth ten of that trash creeping like God-damned bugs through the timber.
He moved over painfully and found the gun with his left hand, dusted it off with the palm of his right, hurting his back-wound as he did so and sweating a little, then replacing the spent charges. He would like to have had the saddlegun with him; he was no slouch with the Remington .44, but the Spencer would really have told. However…
A light breeze fanned through the trees and it cooled the sweat on his face and refreshed him a little. He knew he was getting weaker by the minute and that if he didn’t get himself out of this and bind up his wounds, they wouldn’t have to shoot him to kill him. He’d slowly bleed to death without any help from them.
The two men had stopped whispering now and were moving very cautiously in his direction.
He searched the darkness and found one of them, decided he could kill him from here. He wondered whether it was worthwhile to needlessly kill a man, knowing the chances were he’d be dead himself before long. But he knew that hope hadn’t died in him.
A whisper came to him clearly.
‘Somewheres around ... he was hit…’
‘Maybe he’s daid.’
They stopped moving and Spur found himself holding his breath.
Some fool a couple of hundred yards away fired a gun off and that was followed by a chorus of shouts. Sounded like alarm.
In a slightly louder voice one of the men near at hand, said, ‘They found him.’
‘Naw. He’s around here someplace.’
‘Listen to the fellers. Must be him.’
Spur guessed the speaker was eager to get out of this forbidding darkness. Something moved and he saw the dark shapes of the two men close together against the soft glimmer of a lamp in a house. He lifted his gun and laid it on them.
Abruptly, one of them started quickly back and hurried out of the timber. The other stayed where he was and Spur saw the black pencil-line of the rifle. This then was the man who’d hit him. He sensed that this man had more guts than the rest. He guessed he’d come ahead.
That suited him. If the fool wanted killing, he’d come to the right man. His resolution to step aside from violence slipped away from the old, cold rage, the fury of being pushed around, of being told he must go this way or that, of knowing much of the law was crookeder than him, of knowing that men placed a cloak of righteousness over the age-old law of dog-eat-dog.
This man here with the Henry thought he was being mighty lawful, but the only difference between him and Spur was that he ran with a pack. Well, he was on his lonesome now and in a minute he’d know what it was to be caught high and dry with a steady gun pointed at his belly.
Laying the gun down gently, Spur took his hat off, sent it sailing a dozen yards to his right and quickly picked up the gun again.
He almost laughed when he heard the gun cock and the following roar of the heavy rifle.
The ball tore its way through leaves and struck a trunk. When Spur fired, the man threw out his hands, dropped the rifle and hit the ground without a cry. Spur re-cocked the Remington and waited. The man let out a high keening noise that was followed by a soft, bubbling sound, and finally by silence.
Complete silence, because the men further off had all gone still at the sound of the two shots.
Spur couldn’t see the other man, blinded as he was by the flash of his own gun. He coughed a little on the black powder smoke and started to drag himself painfully over the ground. His gun hampered him and he put it away, so he could use both hands. His back and leg were throbbing alarmingly now. After a while, he became so weak that he stopped and pulled his bandanna from his pocket, sat up carefully with his back to a tree and tied the cloth tightly around the outside of his pants’ leg. That didn’t ease the pain any, but it eased his mind.
Half-listening for any sounds of danger, he stayed where he was, resting his shoulders against the tree, careful to keep the wound in his back clear of it. He wondered why he had shot the man with the rifle and he mulled over the problem with such intentness that he started to be frightened that he was growing light-headed. He gave himself the explanation that the man might have walked on him the next moment and he’d have had to kill him anyway. And he might have got himself shot in the process. That almost convinced him. But not quite. He got down on his belly and started dragging himself along once more.
Not long before he began to feel really bad; his periods of rest began to grow longer and came more frequently. Once when he stopped he heard the discovery of the man with the rifle and by the sound of things, he was dead. He wondered how deep this timber was and what lay on the further side of it.
After a while the sounds died away, either in his head or in reality and he dragged himself on again. He got himself caught up in some brush and decided that it was more than he could manage that minute, so he folded his arms and lay his head on them. He must have slept.
CHAPTER SIX
When he woke, he was shaking with cold and his teeth chattered so noisily that he thought, in one crazy moment, that the sound ought to be heard back there in the town.
The moon was very bright, now, and he lay in a patch of it. Rolling over on to one side, he looked up into the brilliant cold orb, trying to find his place in time and circumstance, slowly dragging the story of the last few hours back into his chilled brain—the sudden shooting from the darkness just before he put out his fire before he slept, his killing of his attacker with a lucky shot in a practically non-existent light; the taking of the dead man into town, playing it safe and legal. Or so he’d thought. More fool him. He remembered the sheriff and his doubt, the deputy with the big ears; the blowhard in the Greek’s place, the woman who wanted to help.
Then the man with the rifle. The last killing of all. And maybe that was true—maybe it was the last killing of his life. The last single thing in his life except for his lying here like a wounded animal slowly bleeding out his life-blood in a patch of brush.
He couldn’t believe it was happening to him. Not to Sam Spur. Other men died, but not him. He’d survived a dozen gun-battles, met noted badmen and marshals face to face and come away alive walking on his own two feet. Now he had to die after being shot-up by a pack of hicks. There was an injustice to it all that aroused a weak and almost hysterical anger in him.
Then he asked himself how lon
g he’d lain here, had the hue and cry been called off, were they waiting for daylight to take up his trail, scared after the killing of the man with the Henry. That added.
So get on, Spur, while you can.
But can you?
The will in him seemed to have bled away.
His ears caught a sound and fear settled in him like a solid, tangible thing. A whimpering sound, then a distant, mournful note, halfway to a howl.
‘My God,’ he whispered out loud, ‘they’ve got dogs.’
Only luck could save him now and it looked to him mighty like his luck had run out.
He got his sound leg under him and heaved forwards, tried to support himself on his hands and they failed under him. His face was driven into brush and he felt the flesh rip where a branch caught him. Dumbly and painfully, he extricated himself and started again, edging his way forward, feeling the thorns ripping at his clothing and flesh, but ignoring it in the face of greater danger.
He didn’t know how long he kept going, but when he stopped he heard a shout and the excited yelping of the dogs so close that he could almost hear the shouted words of the men.
Weak or not, he got himself moving. Then the idea hit him that maybe he could walk after all. Anything was better than trying to get through this stuff this way. Slowly, gritting his teeth together against the pain, he got himself to his feet, found the whole world whirling drunkenly and waited with iron patience till it stilled itself.
He started forward, caught his foot in something and went down.
The pain from his wounds seemed to drive through him like hot flames and he cried out. But he climbed to his feet again and, allowing himself no pause, started lurching and staggering on. He kept going longer than he had thought possible and at a good speed compared to the crawling, but finally when he came to slightly rising ground, he couldn’t make it and was forced to sink to the ground and rest.
The sound of the dogs and men didn’t seem any closer and he thought maybe he’d got mixed up in time and it was only a matter of seconds since he’d got himself out of that bunch of brush.
The Gun is my Brother Page 3
