‘This yere sounds mighty unlikely to me,’ growled Poynton.
‘What was this jasper’s name, allus supposin’ he ever drew breath?’
‘Oh, he drawed breath all right,’ Severn said gravely. ‘His name was Owen, as I recall, Nige Owen. Short, thickset feller with long black hair. I come across him in Golden, near Denver. Used to back his hide ag’in the bullet from any gun, buffler rifles barred o’ course. I can see him now, standin’ up ag’in a tree — so the shock wouldn’t knock him back-asswards — chest bared, jinglin’ a poke o’ gold eagles an’ darin’ any man in the crowd to take a chance — even money, peso for peso, that no man in the crowd could put a slug through him. Well, they rolled up. I should smile: every jasper with enough dinero for a .45 slug aimed to lift that poke an’ go on a hoot, but Owen collected every time. He was what yu call plumb impervious.’
‘Nige Owen, yu say?’ queried Poynton irritably. ‘I’m damned if I ever heared o’ nobody like that!’
‘No matter,’ chuckled Severn. ‘Let me finish the tale. After each contest, Owen would pick up all the slugs what had flattened after hittin’ him. Mostly they was nice an’ round, so he’d trim ’em up a mite, polish them some, an’ use them to trade with Injuns, sayin’ they was Mex pesos. Them pore dumb Redskins’d fall for it every time, an’ Owen would win twice around: first time the money, an’ then some pore warwhoop’s winter catch o’ pelts for the flattened slugs. Anyways, he finally slipped up an’ got done fer.’
‘What happened?’ The two listeners were agog now with interest in the Marshal’s outlandish story.
‘Well sir, this half-starved Injun comes a-mopin’ along, an’ puts up his pack o’ skins for a crack at Owen. Owen allows he’ll bet, an’ takes up his position by the tree, a-grinnin’ like a Chessy cat, on account o’ the Injun ain’t got nothin’ more than an ol’ muzzle-loader, which Owen calculates couldn’t shoot a hole in a wet newspaper. Well, he was right an’ he was wrong. The redskin sets up an’ aims, an’ puts about half a pound o’ ball right through the roof o’ Owen’s mouth.’ He paused a moment for effect. ‘Owen died with that big fat grin pasted all over his face, what little brains he had spread half across Colorado, an’ the Injun is explainin’ to everyone how sorry he is, he plumb forgot his ol’ Betsy pulled a mite high. Ain’t nothin’ nobody can do about it, so he picks up Owen’s poke an’ skedaddles, an’ they bury pore ol’ Nige right there under the tree. Put a purty stone on the grave too, with a right purty message. In fact, that’s why I’m tellin’ yu this story. What was on that stone is somethin’ yu boys ought to keep in mind.’
Ray Poynton raised his sweat-stained old hat high above his head and then dashed it to the floor.
‘Damblast yu to Hellangone, Severn!’ he shouted. ‘Tell us what the Hell it said.’
Severn grinned, edging towards the doorway.
‘It said: if yu ain’t got anythin’ to say, keep yore big mouth shut.’
And he was outside before they could lay hands on him.
Chapter Ten
Mike Turnbull and his companions had decided to have a few farewell drinks at the cantina before they picked their guns up at the jail and hit the trail for the border. It was a quiet evening; a few people talking at tables around the place, a young gambler whom Turnbull had not seen before quietly playing solitaire beneath the wall lamp on the far side of the room. Once, the Marshal looked into the cantina as he made his now obligatory circuit of the plaza, quietly checking that all was in order in the little town, always tipping his hat to the ladies, passing a few words with the men he saw, keeping without overtly seeming to do so to the well-lit parts of the ramadas, checking doorways. Severn did not know when, where, or how the next assault would come; but he would not be caught off guard when it did. Turnbull’s boys raise their glasses in salute as he looked in briefly, and when he had gone, Ogston remarked That boy’s mama didn’t raise no fools.’
‘Said it afore,’ was Long’s laconic observation.
‘Yu reckon he’s got a chance in Hell against the Cullanes, Mike?’ put in Les Lawrence.
‘Nary a one,’ Turnbull replied. ‘But that’s his own look-out, not our’n.’
‘Yo’re damn tootin’,’ agreed Ogston. ‘Diego! Set ’em up here again, will yu?’ Ogston turned towards the old bartender, frowning as he saw the expression which was on the man’s face. Diego Cruces was looking towards the batwing doors of the cantina with a face filled with horror, fear, and disbelief. Ogston swung around to see what had caused it.
‘What the—!’ burst from his lips, only to be stilled as he saw what Diego had seen, and what every man in the cantina now saw almost simultaneously.
There were four men just inside the cantina. All of them were big men, out three were dominated by the sheer size of the fourth. Marco Cullane stood there in the flaring light of the coal-oil lamps and his voice was as harsh as a rasp file on a horseshoe.
‘Everybody sit still an’ nobody will get hurt!’
There was a silence in the cantina which could have been ripped apart by a sigh, and the men at the bar stood as if turned to stone.
‘Is that ... is that. ...?’ whispered Dickie Drew out of the side of his mouth. Turnbull inclined his head forward just a fraction to signify assent. ‘Marco Cullane!’ he hissed ‘An’ some o’ the boys.’
Marco Cullane prowled forward towards the bar, reaching across it with a ham like hand and grasping the front of Diego’s shirt, twisting it into a lump and hauling the old man up on tiptoe.
‘Yu — greaser:’ he snarled. ‘Get some drinks!’
A contemptuous thrust of his huge arm sent the old man staggering backwards, to crash into the wall of rough shelves behind the bar. A spasm of panic crossed Diego’s face, and he cried out in pain at the force of Marco’s push and the impact of the collision. A trickle of blood spread across his chin as he inadvertently bit into his lower lip; the old man’s eyes glazed and he reeled forward against the bar, catching hold of it to steady himself.
‘Drinks, yu damned mestizo!’ roared Marco, sweeping his right hand across in a backhanded blow which caught old Diego on the side of the head and smashed him into an unconscious heap at the far end of the bar.
‘Damn pig!’ shouted Marco Cullane, and his wicked eyes glared at the men ranged in front of him at the bar. His arm shot out and a finger as thick as a rifle barrel jabbed into Turnbull’s chest.
‘Yu!’ snapped Marco. ‘Git around behind that bar an’ get me some drinks.’
Turnbull did not move. He took a half pace backwards, and held up a hand pacifyingly.
‘Mister, I don’t want trouble. I ain’t even armed. But I ain’t no barkeep, neither.’
Marco turned to face his followers, who had sidled up behind him. He let out a roar of forced laughter.
‘Yu hear what this whelp sez, boys?’ he grinned. ‘He sez he ain’t a barkeep.’
‘Ha ha,’ said one of the men, a compactly built fellow with dark hair and a face which would have been handsome but for a certain curl of the mouth which bespoke innate cruelty. ‘Funny,’ said Marco Cullane almost musingly. He was half turned away from Turnbull, and his next action was therefore all the more unexpected. Moving with a treacherously fast half turn, Cullane whirled around, and his huge fist slammed into Turnbull’s face, smashing the man’s nose into a bloody pulp sending him flailing, careering backwards, to slam up against the wall with a sickening thud. Turnbull slid to the floor, face downwards in his own blood.
For a still, long, unbelievable moment there was a silence and then Turnbull’s men launched themselves at the huge man like screaming devils out of the depths of Hell. Their sheer weight of numbers drove Cullane backwards one step, two, three; every man of them was rangy, hard, toughened by a lifetime in the saddle, and their flailing blows smashed against Cullane’s body with meaty, telling thuds. But three steps was all that Marco retreated. Then with a huge, animal roar, and feral grin on his face like that of some berserk creature, he l
iterally picked up Dickie Drew by the middle and using the smaller man as a bludgeon hurled him downwards on to his companions.
The sheer, astonishing impact drove Bronco Ogston to his knees, half conscious, with Drew inert across him. Marco Cullane roared again, an animal bellow without any human sound in it. His right fist crashed into Tom Long’s stomach, well below the belt, and the laconic puncher went down on the floor retching and heaving. One of Cullane’s sidekicks stepped into the fray, and a well-aimed kick behind the ear put Long out of it completely.
‘Get the Hell back, damn yu, Chapman!’ roared Marco, as he reached backwards for Lawrence, who had leaped upon him from behind, his sinewy arms wrapped around Cullane’s throat, exerting all the stranglehold pressure that the wiry tracker could muster. But his grip was no match at all for Cullane’s huge strength, and the big man whirled Lawrence around, turning on his heel and holding Lawrence’s arm, threw the tracker away from him and then, still holding Lawrence’s right arm, pulled it backwards. A scream burst from Lawrence’s throat as the bones in his shoulder dislocated, and he slumped ashen-faced on his knees. As he did so, Cullane brought up his own huge thigh, and his knee crashed into the side of Lawrence’s head. Lawrence went back and sideways, smashing into a table, sending it rolling aside as he hit its heavy edge. He lay without moving on the floor, and Marco Cullane wheeled around, the fiery light of madness and rage in his eyes, hands closing and unclosing, ready for the further attack which did not come.
The saloon was a shambles. It had all happened so quickly that none of those watching could be altogether sure of the evidence of their own sight; yet there stood Marco Cullane, a trickle of blood coursing from a gash on his cheek, while before him and around him five fully-grown men lay broken, crushed by his incredible strength.
‘Chicken farmers!’ yelled Marco Cullane, glorying in the destruction he had wrought. ‘Sheepherders! Peasants! Ain’t there a man among yu?’
He glared at the men who had witnessed the awful brawl. They sat or stood where they were, absolutely still, not one of them daring so much as to blink for fear of incurring the awful wrath of this insane giant.
‘Not one, huh?’ grunted Marco Cullane. ‘Yeller, every man jack o’ them: So be it: Yu — Chapman: give me a hand, here!’
The dark man, Chapman, hurried to do Marco Cullane’s bidding. Between them they went behind the bar and systematically worked their way along the shelves. They smashed every glass, every bottle, everything moveable. The other two men joined in with enthusiasm, tearing down the shelves, reducing them to so much kindling.
When they had finished, Marco Cullane stood amid the wreckage, his chest heaving, a bottle of tequila clutched in his huge fist.
‘Chapman — get to the door!’ he snapped. ‘Allen, over by the back door. Nixon — by the wall.’ His red, piggy eyes glared under the beetling brows towards the batwing doors. With a curse, he smashed the top of the tequila bottle on the edge of the bar and poured a drink into one of the few glasses left intact. Marco Cullane drank the fiery liquid down as if it were so much water, and sloshed another drink into the glass, then hurled the bottle through the window into the street.
‘Damn and blast yore eyes wherever yu are, Mister big-time Marshal!’ he yelled. ‘We’re takin’ the town back! Come an’ see if yu can stop us!’
Over against the far wall beneath the lamp at the table where he had been playing solitaire until the astonishing fracas which had just transpired, Rick Main edged by inches towards the window through which Cullane had just hurled the tequila bottle. If there was a chance of warning Severn before …
‘Where in Hell are yu goin’, tinhorn?’
Main went rigid at the wicked growl; that Cullane had seen him was almost unbelievable. That the big man had so swiftly crossed the room and was now towering over him like some astonishing prehistoric monster, aching to kill, was beyond his comprehension.
Main opened his mouth, but even as he did so, Chapman at the door hissed a warning, diverting the giant’s attention.
‘Marco!’ Chapman signaled. ‘It’s him. It’s Severn. He’s comin’ across the plaza now!’
Chapter Eleven
Severn stepped through the batwing doors in one smooth, deceptively simple movement. Both his guns were in his hands, and he took in the whole scene in one swift, all-encompassing glance.
The place was a ruin. Broken furniture, splintered tables and chairs, shattered glass littered the floor. The sprawled bodies of several men lay in various corners of the cantina. One of them, sitting up against the far wall, retching and groaning, he recognized as Tom Long, one of Mike Turnbull’s men. All this he saw, but in a moment’s glance; for all his attention was fixed upon the man who stood glaring at him in the center of this astonishing scene. Legs astride, arms akimbo, huge chest heaving, black hair matted with sweat, the man was like some creature from a deep jungle.
Marco Cullane or I’m a Navajo, was Severn’s immediate conjecture; but surely not alone?
Too late he sensed the movement behind him and to his right. Chapman moved forward in a sidling movement, the barrel of his forty-five pressed firmly against the Marshal’s spine.
‘Let go yore guns or I’ll blow yu every whichway simultaneously!’ the gunman snarled.
There was no alternative but to do exactly as he was bidden. The Marshal would face the longest odds with a wry smile, but he was not foolish enough to try to outwit the threat of a .45 slap against his spine fully cocked. He eased the hammers of his own weapons forward, and let them fall to the ground.
‘Get in there!’
With a rough push, Chapman thrust the Marshal forward into the littered space in front of the splintered bar. Severn, off-balance, half slid on the floor, stumbling over the leg of one of the pulverized tables. He stopped, half stooped, about two feet in front of Marco Cullane who stood waiting with a smile on his face like a steel trap. With a gesture almost negligent, the big man swept his fist upwards, catching the Marshal off-balance, striking him a terrible blow on the temple which all but plunged him into unconsciousness there and then.
Severn reeled upright, on his heels for a moment, then lurched back into the arms of Chapman, who caught the victim, bending his arms, and thrust him once more forward towards the waiting Marco Cullane. Senses reeling, Severn managed, with a desperately agile movement, to move an inch below the lopping haymaker which Cullane hurled at his head. The man’s bearlike arm caught the Marshal on the top of his head, tearing his scalp, knocking him sideways to trip and fall across broken furniture. Fighting to clear his brain, Severn knew he was in deadly peril. He could not see clearly. His focus was shot, and there was a roaring in his ears like some mighty torrent. Instinctively, he rolled away and backwards, jarring his shoulder against the sharp edge of a broken chair, seeking to avoid the expected smashing blow which Cullane would be aiming at his defenseless head. To his astonishment he heard a roar of laughter. In the same moment, his eyes cleared, and he looked up to see Marco Cullane standing in the center of the shattered cantina, his hands on his hips, roaring with amusement at the scuttling creature which sought to escape a danger which was not there.
‘Don’t yu be afeared, Marshal,’ cawed the big man soothingly. He made a beckoning gesture. ‘C’mon, get up on yore feet. I want yu to know what happens to yu. Get up, get up. We got all the time in the world. Yore greaser amigos ain’t goin’ to help yu none tonight!’
Severn got slowly to his feet, trying to act more hurt than he actually was. Both Cullane’s blows had been punishing ones, but they were not crippling. Any advantage he could achieve in this desperate situation would be a major one. His eyes hastily moved along the line of awed spectators. He saw Rick Main, and in the same moment the man who held his gun aimed almost negligently at the gambler. One there, he thought, Chapman is two. Any more? One at the back door. Four altogether.
Cullane caught the movement of the Marshal’s eyes, and another brute roar of laughter tore itself from his thick
lips.
‘Lookin’ for help, Marshal?’ Marco Cullane jeered. ‘Well don’t bother yoreself none. Ain’t nobody goin’ to interrupt this little shindig.’
He moved forward, and Severn as instinctively moved back. he did so, a pistol roared, and the bullet whirked! by his right foot, blasting a sliver of wood out of the floor. Chapman idly blew the smoke from the barrel of his gun, and said reproachfully, ‘Yu better stand real still, Marshal, or yo’re liable to lose a toe or three. Marco ain’t needin’ no dancin’ lesson.’
‘No, by God!’ snarled Cullane. ‘If there’s any lessons to be give tonight, then it’s Mister High an’ Mighty Severn as is goin’ to get one!’
He came forward at Severn like some great stalking animal.
‘Señor Poynton, Señor Poynton, pronto, pronto!’
The woman was almost hysterical; she had been passing the cantina and, stopped by the sounds of conflict within, had witnessed in terror the events which had transpired there. She did not know how she could help, and so she ran across the plaza like some demented thing, hammering on the door of the jail until old Ray Poynton came grumbling to answer her repeated pleas.
‘¿Que pasa, Dolores?’ he said, his pulses quickening when he saw the woman’s distraught features. ‘What is it?’
‘The señor Marshal,’ the woman panted. ‘They have heem preesoner. The Cullanes. The beeg one, Marco, he weel keel Señor Severn. You must come quick and help heem!’
She tugged importunately at the old man’s sleeve, but he shook her hand away. In the dim glow of the lamp in the little room his face was ashen.
‘Yu — yu got to get someone else, Dolores,’ he managed, his voice cracking. ‘I — get Señor Shearer. Get Yope. The priest. Go on, woman, get them!’
‘You — you will not help heem?’ The woman’s voice faltered.
‘Damn yu, never mind about me!’ the old man snapped. ‘Get Shearer and Yope as fast as you can. How many o’ them is there?’
Sudden--Dead or Alive (A Sudden Western #4) Page 9
