by Scott Connor
‘What have I become?’ he whined.
Lincoln shrugged. ‘What did you say, Whiskey Bob?’
Whiskey Bob shuffled Mason’s belt round his rags and wiggled his hips. He gulped to clear his gritty throat.
‘I asked if the dandy wanted his gun back, after I’ve finished with it.’
Mason wrinkled his nose. ‘No way.’
‘Only thing the dandy’s getting wrapped round his body is a noose,’ Lincoln said, ‘and sooner than he thinks, unless he starts behaving real good.’
Whiskey Bob nodded. ‘Make the noose a pretty one, with plenty of bows.’
Lincoln glanced through the door, then swirled round to face Sam.
‘Get the dandy ready. It’s time to leave here.’
Sam strode to Mason and dragged him to his feet.
‘You can’t go anywhere,’ Mason said, ‘you’re surrounded.’
Lincoln counted the men he and Sam had hit out the back and near the coach, plus the man Jed had shot.
‘With Whiskey Bob, it’s three against thirty. We’ll be fine.’
‘I make that two and this pile of horse dung against thirty,’ Mason said.
‘Sam, find a gag. I’ve had enough of his whining.’
Sam nodded and scurried behind the bar. Lincoln turned to Whiskey Bob. He reckoned he could see odor rising from him.
He accepted grime, but this wreck wallowed in filth. Whiskey Bob wouldn’t last a minute once they left the saloon. But he was doing him a favor, letting him die like a man rather than as the animal he’d lived as.
‘You ready, Whiskey Bob?’
Whiskey Bob glanced at the whiskey bottles behind the bar. He licked his lips and rubbed a shaking hand over his mouth.
‘Yeah. It’s now or never. What do you want me to do?’
In the corner, Mason laughed. ‘You’re our secret weapon. You can stink them out of the stable.’
Lincoln spun round to the bar. ‘Sam, I told you to gag him.’
‘Still trying to rip a rag off this body,’ Sam said.
From by the bar, Lincoln heard a ripping sound. He turned.
Whiskey Bob had torn a length of cloth from the bottom of his ragged jacket. He handed it to Sam.
In open-mouthed shock, Mason stared at the advancing Sam.
‘Oh no, you can’t do that. I’ll choke.’
‘Good,’ Sam said and wrapped the damp rag over Mason’s mouth and nose.
Mason struggled, but Sam pulled the rag tight. Mason shook his head but the rag was firm.
Then he breathed in. His eyes glazed and he fell back against the wall.
Lincoln and Sam both chuckled. Then Lincoln strode to the door.
As Frank knew what he planned to do, he needed to do something different. In the dark, escape from the back would be easier, but they wouldn’t travel far before the men hunted them down.
In the doorway Lincoln examined the coach. He leaned against the door frame and peered down the boardwalk. The next-door hardware store provided better cover.
Lincoln checked his rifle and gun, then strode to the cupboard that blocked the entry to the store. He leaned against the cupboard and turned to the others.
‘All right, listen. This is what we’re going to do.’
Chapter Eleven
‘I just know Lincoln,’ Frank said as he glared at Cody.
‘You know the big man well then, do you?’ Cody said. ‘He’ll sneak someone out, will he? That dead man ran straight at the stable. That’s a sneaky move.’
‘I do know Lincoln, but better than I knew Jed.’
Cody snorted and signaled one of his men to take watch.
Frank grabbed his right arm, forcing himself to not put a bullet in Cody’s back. He glanced at Jed’s body in the road and sighed.
Events had become unpredictable and Frank now realized that he liked predictability as much as Lincoln did. He shuffled into the middle of the stable and faced Mason’s gang, who now operated as Cody’s gang.
With a grunt of irritation, Frank banged his fist against his thigh.
‘All right, what’s your plan now? I suppose you want to storm across the road and take Lincoln by superior numbers.’
Cody grinned. ‘Sounds like a plan to me.’
‘So you don’t care if you lose half your men?’
Frank glanced around the surrounding circle, trying to catch someone’s eye. Nobody met his gaze.
Cody patted his knife against his chin.
‘Want to know how I got this scar?’
‘Nope.’
Cody shrugged. ‘Someone challenged me for control of this gang and I misjudged him. I thought him a fancy city gambler. I was wrong. His name was Mason Black. Mason’s gone now and so we do as I say again.’
Frank waited until Cody turned. ‘Mason Black isn’t dead. He’s with Lincoln in the saloon right now.’
Cody spat on the ground. His scar glinted red in the half-light.
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘You never asked. You think my ideas are worthless. Except you know squat.’
Cody paced back and forth, banging his knife against his thigh.
‘What do you reckon, Shaun?’
A bearded man shuffled from the sea of yellow slickers.
‘I don’t trust Frank. I reckon you should slice him open and see if there’s a real man inside.’
Frank shuffled back a pace. ‘Mason’s alive but wounded. He’s resourceful. He’ll find a way to help us. What do you reckon to that?’
Cody paced in a small circle. ‘I reckon you’re lying. We heard the shooting inside. Marshal Big Man would shoot to kill when ambushed. There’s no way that Mason Black would only be wounded.’
‘I know Mason’s alive,’ Frank said, ‘because I shot him.’
Through his yellowed teeth, Cody dragged in a slow breath.
‘Shaun’s right. We don’t trust you. If you can double-cross the big man and Mason, I reckon you can double-cross us.’
‘Wouldn’t do that. I winged him.’
‘I’ll let you prove it, funny man,’ Cody said. He nodded to Shaun, who underhanded his knife to Frank.
Frank feinted to grab the knife, but then withdrew his hand and let it plummet to the earth. A ripple of laughter from the gang filled the stable.
‘Cody, this is pointless.’
‘Take the knife, funny man.’
Frank considered the knife. In a one-on-one gunfight, he could take Cody and any man in this gang, perhaps even Lincoln these days.
In a brawl, he could hold his own, but the type of fighting Cody wanted was something he always avoided.
‘I don’t want to kill you. We need to work together. When Lincoln realizes help isn’t coming, he’ll send out Sam from the saloon.’
‘I say, he won’t,’ Cody said, grinning. ‘Time to see if you’re man enough for this job. We only had Mason’s word for it and he isn’t here to vouch for you.’
Cody knelt. He removed his knife from his boot, the blade red and gleaming. He stood, his yellow grin bright in the gloom.
Frank grabbed the knife at his feet. ‘Come on. We need to be alert. Fighting isn’t right.’
Cody smirked and pointed his knife at Frank’s throat.
‘Seeing as how you can no longer predict when the big man is coming out, your use to me has ended.’
‘Lincoln isn’t coming out.’
Cody wiped the blood from his knife on to his sleeve and inspected the edge.
‘Oh so perfect Marshal Big Man. Can’t spot a double-dealer like you, or stop one of his men trying a suicide run. We do things my way now, and I say we force him out.’
Cody threw back his head and laughed. Frank grimaced as a wave of pungent odor washed over him.
‘Our knife fight is going to sort that out, is it?’
‘We don’t have to fight. I say the big man will come out, if we cut more pieces off his deputy.’
Frank glanced at Dave, whose bloodied head was slu
mped against his bonds. He was weak but he was breathing.
‘That won’t help,’ Frank said.
Cody grinned. A wide arc of yellow gleamed at Frank.
‘As you’ve said, but I don’t care which deputy. You decide which one loses pieces. You or him.’
Frank lifted his arms wide. ‘Do what you must, but Lincoln won’t come out.’
Cody grinned wider, exposing a wider band of yellow, and paced towards him.
Frank backed. His stomach somersaulted at the evil smell of Cody’s breath.
With his knife, Cody pointed. ‘I’m doing nothing. Prove we can trust you. You’re doing the cutting.’
As he remembered he held a knife, Frank shuffled two paces towards Dave. Each step was dreamlike.
Frank halted. ‘I can’t hurt a former partner.’
‘What was Mason then, funny man?’
Frank hung his head and paced to Dave, who raised his head. His unfocussed eyes washed over Frank. The wasted side of his head gleamed darkly, a ragged ruin.
Frank lifted his hand. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I got an ear off him. I’d like a matching pair.’
Frank moved the knife towards Dave’s bloodied head. His hand shook. He grabbed the hand.
‘Sorry, Dave,’ Frank mumbled.
‘What did you say?’ Cody said.
Frank swirled round, his heart thudding. ‘I said Dave’s conscious. You could breathe on him and knock him out.’
Cody laughed. ‘You are a funny man.’
Frank turned back and tried to make his hand move closer to Dave’s head, but his bowels turned to ice at the thought of hurting an unarmed man.
‘Let me prove my worth another way. This is your skill. Let me show you mine.’
‘Your skills mount to squat,’ Cody said. ‘Don’t kill him. We need him alive to scream. If he dies, I’ll see how loud I can make you holler.’
Frank turned as Cody placed his back to him.
‘Cody, you’re an animal. I’m not cutting him.’
Cody spun round, grinning. He pointed his knife at Frank.
‘Then it’s time for a good clean, dirty fight.’
Poised, with his knife arm outstretched, Cody paced in a circle, keeping out of Frank’s range.
Frank crouched as the men edged into a circle for this fight, their eyes eager. Within seconds, money changed hands and all of it was on how long Frank would last.
Frank had seen enough knife fights to know the rules – or lack of rules – that operated.
You crouched, with both hands out. If you aimed a lethal body blow, you risked receiving one in return, so instead you scythed slashes against your opponent’s arms and legs. When you’d weakened him, you relaxed and kept back, encouraging him to take the risks.
Provided you dealt with his inevitable desperate lunge, you’d win as you took the weakened man down a piece at a time.
Frank rushed Cody, kicking a cloud of dirt at him. Then, while Cody battered the dirt away, he followed through with a slashing scythe of his knife at Cody’s left arm. Then Frank dropped to the ground and rolled to stand upright, five yards away.
While Cody blinked away the dust he waved his knife in long arcs. Then a yellow grin and white eyes peered from a mask of dirt.
Blood dripped down Cody’s sleeve, but less than Frank hoped to see.
‘Lucky first strike,’ Cody said. ‘You should’ve finished me.’
Frank adopted the crouch. ‘Didn’t want to. We can work together.’
Cody lunged and slashed for Frank’s right arm.
Frank danced back, the blade scything through air. He regained his footing and shoveled dirt at Cody again, but he couldn’t find purchase and slipped to one knee.
Cody laughed. ‘We will work together. You’ll sing so loudly, the big man’s soul will turn to ice.’
Using his nimbleness to disorientate Cody, Frank leapt to his feet and swung his knife, but Cody swayed back.
‘Stop talking,’ Frank said. ‘Your breath is making the horses ill.’
‘Ever heard of the devil’s grin?’ Cody lunged again.
Frank avoided the feint, but stumbled. ‘Go on. I like anything funny.’
‘It’s your last laugh when I rip open your throat from ear to ear.’
Frank transferred the knife to his left hand. Then he thought better of the move and passed the knife back.
Cody leapt forward and sliced his knife across Frank’s arm. Expecting to see blood flow, Frank glanced down, but only his sleeve flapped, now ripped open.
‘Best you could do?’
‘Called judging your opponent’s strengths,’ Cody snapped. ‘Except you have none.’
Frank lunged, and Cody danced back. Off-balance, Frank stumbled and his swing nearly landed him on his back. He righted himself.
‘This is ridiculous. We can sort this out after we have the carpetbag. Lincoln could be escaping as we fight.’
Grinning, Cody threw the knife from one hand to the other.
‘I thought you said the big man would never leave the saloon? Hard to trust anything you say.’
Frank straightened. He drew the knife to his chest and turned it over.
When Cody raised his eyebrows, Frank judged the distance to Cody, then backhanded the knife at him.
The knife spun from his hand. It flew within inches of Cody’s right ear as Cody flinched back, and dug deep into the center of a circling gang-member’s slicker.
The stabbed man clutched the knife. He fell to his knees with a strangulated cry as redness flooded over his hands.
Cody roared with laughter. ‘Brilliant throw. He’ll need a plug for that hole. Guess what I’ll cut off you to fill it?’
Frank backed against the circle of men, who pushed him towards Cody. He stumbled, but his right hand brushed against his gunbelt. He stood tall and grinned.
‘Perhaps I’m not as good as you with a knife, but what do you say to knife against gun?’
Cody held his knife higher and smirked.
‘All right, funny man.’
Frank forced his breathing to slow, installing calm. He chuckled.
‘Let’s sort this out, stink man.’
Chapter Twelve
Lincoln looked through the broken storeroom window and held up a finger.
The light from the saloon lamp only lit the boardwalk. Beyond, the coach was only an outline in the night, surrounded by swirls of dust that arced down the road.
Lincoln held up a second finger and considered the warehouse, seeing no rifles this time. An open door at the back of the stable lit the ground behind the warehouse.
For the last time he glanced at Jed’s body, which lay in a boneless heap in the middle of the rutted road. Lincoln held up a third finger and stepped over the window frame of Patrick’s storeroom.
On the boardwalk, he checked that no one lay on the ground beyond the edge of town, but he only saw rutted earth in the dust-clouded gloom.
An acrid odor filled Lincoln’s nostrils as Whiskey Bob clambered over the window frame. Lincoln leaned against the hitching rail as Sam and Mason joined them.
They were protected beneath the boardwalk canopy, the danger coming the second they moved away.
Lincoln glanced over his shoulder. Whiskey Bob grinned his near toothless grin, and Sam nodded, his eyes bright in the gloom.
Even Mason’s eyes were bright above the sticky rag, but whether from the possibility of imminent rescue, or imminent death, Lincoln couldn’t tell.
‘Try anything, dandy,’ Lincoln whispered, ‘and you die first.’
When Mason nodded, Sam patted his head.
‘He speaks more sense, now he’s gagged.’
With the carpetbag settled on his shoulder, Lincoln filled his lungs with a long drag of air. He pulled his hat low into the wind and flexed a long hand, counting again on three fingers. On three, he vaulted the rail and bolted for the coach, head held low.
From the stable, the rifle s
tayed pointed at the saloon.
Lincoln drew his gun, but didn’t fire. Firing on the run was a hard shot to make and every second until anyone noticed them increased their chances.
Lincoln was half-way to the coach when the rifle swung towards him. He dropped to the ground and rolled on to his front as a single shot whistled over his head.
With the carpetbag at his side, Lincoln steadied his elbow on the ground. He swung the barrel towards the rifle and fired.
On the second shot, the rifle-owner cried out.
Lincoln didn’t wait to discover whether he’d acted terminally. He rolled to his knees, then feet, and ran for the coach. From in front, a loud thud sounded.
The rifle’s owner sprawled on the ground by the door, his body nestling in a rising dust cloud illuminated by the glow from the stable.
To Lincoln’s side Sam hurtled for the coach, dragging Mason along, while Whiskey Bob fired wildly in all directions, whooping and gibbering his delight.
With his body bent double, Lincoln ran the last five yards to the coach and leapt into the driver’s seat. He dropped his carpetbag at his feet, and lay his rifle across his lap. Ignoring whether Sam and the others had made the coach yet, he grabbed the reins and yanked.
The gang’s outlines closed as they scurried through the stable door.
‘Go,’ Lincoln shouted and shook the reins with a crack like thunder.
All four horses bustled against each other. Sam and Jed chose the best horses, but this wasn’t fair to any animal. After a long day’s travel, they’d stood in the dark for two hours without watering or feeding.
The horses whinnied with a cry of almost human pain, then bolted. The coach shunted with a lurch that almost threw Lincoln between the horses.
A shot cannoned from the stable, followed by a second.
Lincoln gritted his teeth. He’d taken bullets before, but only when giving as good as he received.
The horses dragged the coach to a slow canter aimed at the stable.
A row of yellow-clad men emerged to stand in the stable doorway, hats pointed into the howling wind. Lincoln’s only protection was the gang’s surprise in his bolt for freedom.
Another shot echoed. A man in the stable doorway spun to the ground, clutching his shoulder.
Another shot rang out and a second man folded over, hands wrapped around his stomach. Lincoln cracked the reins again, forcing more speed from the horses.
