‘When you’re ready,’ Spur said and the little man went into the gunfighter’s crouch. Spur remained upright, standing straight as a ramrod and the town held its breath as it realized they were at last to see the legend come alive in the almost never witnessed, nearly-ritual even-draw.
They began murmuring when Spur started to pace slowly backwards, going past Smelling up the street, so the big man had to jump back to get out of the line of fire. Ten paces and Wragg roared, ‘Runnin’? Stand and fight, man.’ Disappointment was heavy in his voice. Spur paced on, getting his back away from the alley alongside the Drover’s Rest, away from the windows of the saloon.
He’d accomplished two things by the time he halted. One, he was clear of a back-shot. Two, he’d lengthened the range and in a fight like this a man grabbed any advantage he could. He waited till he was in a patch of shadow in the middle of the street before he halted.
Then he called, ‘Make your play,’ knowing the little man had to be superlative shot to make it.
Wragg was shouting with rage and that was a good thing. A man didn’t shoot well under violent emotion. Sam Spur hadn’t stayed alive this long for nothing. The little man ran forward, hand on the butt of his gun and Spur slowly drew his gun, cocked it and took aim. He’d have to kill the little rooster to stop him. A damned pity.
Wragg halted, jerked his gun from leather and fired. But the range was too long and the shot whistled by a foot to the left and the crowd started scattering frantically as it hit a street lamp, started it swinging.
Spur was about to press the trigger as he stepped to one side when a rifle slammed. The sidestep had saved his life. Rage blossomed momentarily in him as he realized he’d been set up, but it evaporated with surprise as he glimpsed Sheriff Carlson bellying down in the street-dust and firing rapidly into the mouth of the alley.
There was no time to see any more—he gripped his right wrist with his left hand, took his careful aim as Wragg triggered off his second shot and fired. He missed and cocked again as Wragg ran towards him, firing as he came. Dust flicked up and tickled his nostrils, lead passed his left ear, close, then Wragg was within easy range and he fired again at the moving target.
Like a drunken dancer, the little man leapt crazily into the air, screaming, and hit ground, giving out a breathless yelp.
Spur stayed still, cocking his gun and keeping it on the prostrate figure. He’d seen men die for failing to take that precaution. Tradition would allow him to take another shot to make sure the little man was finished. But he waited, not liking to do it.
‘Throw your gun aside,’ he said.
Wragg made no movement. Spur stepped forward.
As he did so, the little man flipped himself over like a grounded fish and the gun-flame licked out hungrily at Spur. Something struck him hard on the side of the head and the skull seemed to burst open like an egg, the town rocketed out of existence and he had a curious sensation of falling a long way.
But he knew when he hit ground. Heard himself groan and his own voice said clearly, ‘You ain’t dead. Lift your gun and kill him.’
Someone screamed ‘Sam.’ The sound was a long way off, but it managed to threaten to split his ear-drums and some sixth sense in him told him it was Lucy.
If she was there that made it even more important that he keep going and finish this.
By will alone, he forced his eyes open and found that he was lying face downwards in the dust. Straining his head and its mass of pain backwards, he put his dimmed sight on a pair of boots lying on the ground not so far away. Slowly they stood upright and he knew there was a man above them and that man held a gun in his hand pointed at him, Spur.
Fire three feet above those damned boots and quick about it or you’re a dead duck, Spur.
It took both hands to lift the Remington. Dully his mind asked him how many shots he had left. If any. And he couldn’t answer. He could only hope.
With all his diminishing strength he heaved back on the hammer, aimed carefully above the boots and saw the foresight of the pistol wobbling precariously.
When at last he found the initiative to press on the trigger, the Remington jumped out of his hand and struck him in the face. He hardly saw the boots go over and kick spasmodically, small spirals of dust riding in the dim light. Distantly, a voice shouted: ‘I shot the son, I shot him.’ Somehow he knew that was the sheriff advertising his shooting of the bushwhacker. Silently he blessed the man.
His mind told him clearly, You’ve been hit alongside your head. That’s thick enough. Get up and stop acting the fool.
His gunman’s instinct told him it wasn’t all over yet. Wragg and Smelling hadn’t been the end of all this. Plenty of other men had once wished to see him hanging by his neck.
He knew he had his legs straining under him to get him up.
Dust wafted into his nostrils as someone came running up to him. Hands held him and he heard a woman weeping.
‘Lucy,’ he said.
‘Are you all right? Oh, Sam, are you all right?’
He put a hand up to his face and wiped something wet out of his eyes. When he stared at his hand he found he could see. He had wiped away blood.
‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘Look bad, is all.’
The sheriff’s face loomed.
‘You all right, Sam. You see me get that son?’
‘Yeah—I’m fine and I saw you get him, sheriff. Thanks.’
‘For nothing,’ the fat man said largely. ‘Let’s you an’ me get him over to the hotel, Lucy.’
There were men all around them now. They didn’t seem to be showing animosity and that vaguely surprised him.
He stumbled up the sidewalk, through the swing doors.
Bob Thurminger stood in front of him, saying, ‘You’ll do, Spur. That little rattlesnake had it coming from ‘way back.’
They went on, came to the foot of the stairs and there they stopped abruptly. There was no walking past a Colt even if held in the hand of a man as broken as Shwartz.
‘I said I’d get you,’ he told Spur. ‘You can’t dodge this one.’
Without hesitation, the sheriff batted the gun aside, smacked it out of the hand and kicked it clear.
‘I’ve seen all the gettin’ that’s goin’ to be done in this town,’ he said. ‘Take a walk, Shwartz, and thank your lucky stars you’re alive.’
They went on up the stairs. Spur’s head ached so badly he was no more than half-aware of what was going on. All he was sure of was that Lucy was holding his arm like she never meant to let it go and that seemed a pretty fine thing. There was another thing though—the law in this town had accepted him.
In the room, Foggart was gazing at the door anxiously from his bed. When he caught sight of Spur, he said, ‘I should have known.’
Spur managed a lopsided grin.
‘Move over, Ly—I’ve come to share some of that nursing.’
They put him on his bed, the doctor came and dressed the wound, declared it no more than a splitting of the scalp-flesh and Lucy fussed around. When he lay quiet with a thick white bandage around his head, Carlson said, ‘There’ll be a trial, Sam. There’s got to be. We’ll try Smelling and that little rat, Nick. We’ll try you, too—but it’ll be self-defense and I’ll be talkin’ for you. Bank on that.’
‘Thanks again.’
The sheriff went out, taking the doctor with him.
Spur looked at the marshal and said, ‘Be a friend, boy—close your eyes and your ears.’
‘Din’t see any reason why I shouldn’t watch and listen … if I’m going to be best man.’
Spur blushed. Lucy laughed.
Sam took a-hold of her hand and told her, ‘It wasn’t nothin’ of the sort. Just I wanted to ask you to take a message to Janey for me.’
Lucy tightened her lips and said, ‘Anything you say, Sam.’
‘Right—ask her if she’d object to having me as a pa.’
Lucy laughed and sat on the bed, holding Spur’s hands.
>
‘I’m looking—and listening,’ Foggart told her.
‘Who cares,’ she said and kissed Spur. When she finished, she told him, ‘I’ll vouch for Janey.’
Foggart said, ‘Put it off for a month. I shan’t be walking till then.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Peter Christopher Watts was born in London, England in 1919 and died on Nov. 30, 1983. He was educated in art schools in England, then served with the British Amy in Burma from 1940 to 1946.
Peter Watts, the author of more than 150 novels, is better known by his pen names of "Matt Chisholm" and "Cy James". He published his first western novel under the Matt Chisholm name in 1958 (Halfbreed). He began writing the "McAllister" series in 1963 with The Hard Men, and that series ran to 35 novels. He followed that up with the "Storm" series. And used the Cy James name for his "Spur" series.
Under his own name, Peter Watts wrote Out of Yesterday, The Long Night Through, and Scream and Shout. He wrote both fiction and nonfiction books, including the very useful nonfiction reference work, A Dictionary of the Old West (Knopf, 1977).
PICCADILLY PUBLISHING
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The Gun is my Brother Page 19
