by Scott Connor
‘Go. That’s great shooting, Sam. Go.’
From the corner of his eye Lincoln saw a flash. The shooting didn’t come from Sam, but from the body of Jed in the middle of the road.
‘Jed, you ornery devil,’ Lincoln cried. Jed must have spent so many years checking others weren’t playing dead that he’d decided to do it himself.
As Lincoln judged how to swing round to pick up Jed, another shot rang out and Jed’s head lifted and fell. Then his face pressed into the dirt.
The coach hurtled at the stable. Lincoln gritted his teeth and nodded in farewell to Jed.
‘Go,’ he roared.
Now came the action he’d agreed with Frank would be suicidal. He needed to swing the coach around before the stable, giving everyone inside a clear shot at the side of the coach and him.
Lincoln cracked the reins as quick as he drew his gun.
‘Go! Go!’
Without thinking he pulled hard on the reins, aiming the coach into the stable, rather than swinging it away. He transferred the reins into one large hand and swung his rifle forward.
The row of men in the stable doors edged back and forth. One man at the side lifted his gun as he took steady aim at Lincoln.
Lincoln stretched his arm and fired. The man danced back.
The other men dropped to the ground, rolling away as they realized that Lincoln aimed the coach at them.
One man stood in the middle of the stable doorway, gun raised, ready to shoot Lincoln. Then, with a cry, audible above the pounding hoofs, the man leaped to the side as the horses charged into the stable.
‘I’m coming for you, Frank,’ Lincoln yelled at the top of his voice as the coach thundered into the stable.
Lincoln jumped to his feet. He wedged his feet wide and yanked the reins, his rifle thrust forward, ready to take any easy shot.
The gang scattered. They leapt into the stalls, unable to doing anything but preserve their lives.
The horses’ hoofs echoed with a hollow sound. Yellow flashed beneath him as at least one gang member failed to move quickly enough.
As Lincoln hurtled through the stable, he glimpsed the bloodied body of Dave with his head slumped on his chest. Beside Dave, Frank crouched beside a stall.
Lincoln swung his rifle round to Frank, but he reacted too late as his former deputy flashed away behind the speeding coach.
‘I’ll not rest until you swing,’ Lincoln roared as lead ripped into the coach beside him.
The doors at the back of the stable were fully open. Other gunshots echoed in the confined space, then they sped into the night.
The blackness hit him.
Blinking to free his night blindness, Lincoln realized that he had no idea what to do next. The feeling hit him with a rush of pure animal pleasure. For the first time in years, he’d acted without planning.
Lincoln cracked the reins again and pictured the terrain he’d seen when they’d ridden into Dust Creek. Although rutted, the ground wasn’t rough enough to break a wheel, but not smooth enough to ride at speed. He pulled on the reins and steered round in a long circle back to the trail outside Dust Creek.
The horses hurtled at reckless speed into the dust-filled darkness, but Lincoln only had sufficient riding experience to crack the reins.
A hand landed on Lincoln’s shoulder. He pulled away, ready to throw the man into the horses’ path, then saw that the man was Sam.
‘Give me the reins,’ Sam shouted over the bone-jarring rattle from the coach.
Lincoln passed the reins to Sam.
‘I’m getting us back on the trail to Hopetown,’ he shouted.
‘You don’t say. I wouldn’t have guessed.’
Lincoln patted Sam’s shoulder and swung round to face Dust Creek. Already they’d hurtled headlong for two hundred yards and the pursuit hadn’t started.
The spectral outlines of riders mingled outside the stable, bathed in yellow stable light. Then they were gone – stolen by the dust. Then even the stable lights faded into the gloom.
Lincoln maneuvered round in the seat, ready to fend off the pursuit. When pursued, he’d always been inside the coach. The rider’s position wasn’t ideal for anything but riding.
Lincoln chuckled as his new found adventurous spirit grabbed him. He snaked on to the top of coach, jammed a foot beneath the side rail and looped an arm under the back rail.
The coach bucked beneath him, jarring his body. In the morning, bruises would cover him from head to foot, but Lincoln chuckled.
The wind ripped through his clothing. The star-filled night sky emerged from the swirling dust as they sped from Dust Creek, filling him with the coolness of the outdoors.
Another heavy thud hit the coach. Lincoln’s foot ripped free as he swung away, to then swing back.
Below Lincoln smooth earth hurtled by now that Sam had them back on the trail to Hopetown.
‘Go, Go,’ Sam cried. ‘Wind, wind, wind.’
Without anything to hold, the acceleration slid Lincoln to the back of the coach. But Lincoln gripped his rifle tighter.
Frank pressed flat against the stalls, as the riders freed their horses and bolted for the doors. In surprise at Lincoln’s sudden action, he shook his head.
As the main surge of riders galloped by, Frank shuffled towards a spare horse.
‘That’s Glen’s horse,’ Cody said.
‘Sorry,’ Frank said and stepped away.
‘All right, Glen won’t need it no more.’
Frank swirled round.
‘So,’ he spat, ‘do I kill you now, or wait until we have Lincoln?’
Cody mounted his horse and dragged it from the stall.
‘Later will do, funny man.’ Cody galloped into the night to disappear into the dust.
Frank mounted his horse too and dragged on the reins. He relaxed as his new mount shuffled round to trot from the stall. He let the other gang members bolt from the stable, then edged around the men trampled by Lincoln’s mad dash into the night.
Dave whimpered. For a moment Frank glared down at Dave, then dismounted and stalked towards him.
Dave stared back, his bloodied face ragged and his eyes watery.
‘So,’ Dave whispered, his voice tortured, ‘are you going with them, or running, double-crosser?’
Frank bit his lip and glanced along the stalls, seeing an old horse towel. He grabbed the towel and twisted it into a rope. He wrapped the makeshift tourniquet below Dave’s elbow and pulled it tight.
‘Don’t worry. I saw someone do this once. You’ll live.’
‘I’d sooner die than owe my life to you,’ Dave spat.
Frank appraised the damage to Dave’s arm and head.
‘You’ll be fine. You have one hand and one ear left. Just don’t expect to wear too big a hat.’
With watery eyes, Dave glared at him.
‘You aren’t funny. You never were and you never will be. Run like the dog you are.’
At the thought of escape, Frank’s heart thudded.
‘I’m not running.’
‘Don’t matter where you go,’ Dave said, attempting to shrug his arm from Frank’s outstretched hand. ‘Lincoln will still hunt you down.’
Frank knotted the tourniquet as hard as he could. He sat back on his haunches as he considered whether the bleeding from the stump had slowed, but so much sticky dampness coated Dave’s clothing, he couldn’t tell.
But Dave’s eyes were bright through his blood-matted hair.
‘Don’t thank me, then,’ Frank said. ‘I saved your life back there and just now.’
Frank searched for something to help with Dave’s head wounds, but saw nothing useful. But as the bleeding from his head was limited, he picked up a knife and cut Dave free from the stall instead.
In a bloodied heap Dave plummeted to the ground, his eyes wild and wide.
‘You only saved me because you didn’t have the guts to kill me.’
Frank loomed over Dave’s body. ‘Don’t push me.’
<
br /> With an annoyed oath, Frank hurled the knife into the ground and paced to his horse.
‘Pity Cody didn’t cut you open,’ Dave shouted after him. ‘Your insides would be brighter yellow than the slickers they wear.’
Frank turned and leapt at the knife. He swung the blade round and ran back to stab it under Dave’s chin.
‘Take that back! I did everything to save your life in here.’
With his chin held high from the knife, Dave spat on Frank’s boots.
‘You’re only interested in Frank and keeping his worthless hide in one piece.’
‘I didn’t see Lincoln rushing to free you.’
‘Lincoln did what he had to do. You disgrace everything you touch.’
Frank pressed the knife into Dave’s neck. A single drop of blood welled and ran down the edge of the knife.
‘Take that back, or I’ll kill you.’
With his eyes sane, Dave grinned. ‘You haven’t the courage.’
Frank gripped his knife tighter and tried to force his hand to plunge the knife into Dave’s neck, but the hand just shook.
‘You’re only alive because of me.’
Dave grinned wider than Frank’s widest grin.
‘I owe you nothing. When Lincoln makes you swing, I’ll be on the front row.’
Frank relaxed his grip on the knife. ‘If I’d known you’d be so ungrateful, I wouldn’t have saved you.’
‘I am, so kill me and prove Cody wrong.’
For a moment Frank glared into Dave’s eyes.
Then he dragged the knife from Dave’s neck and slipped it under his tourniquet. With a swipe, he ripped away the towel. Fresh, bright blood welled.
Grinning, Frank jumped to his feet and hurled the knife into the night. He turned from Dave and leapt on to his horse. One last time he held the reins high and glanced down at Dave’s slumped body.
‘Rot, damn you,’ he muttered.
‘Go to hell,’ Dave whispered with his eyes closing.
Frank spurred his horse and sped into the night.
‘I intend to,’ he said.
Chapter Thirteen
Lincoln rolled on to his back and risked that the bouncing of the coach would throw him to the ground. He reloaded his gun and rolled on to his front, keeping his face low to the roof.
The riders pursuing them were indistinct in the gloom, their horses throwing up dust to add to the dust in the wind.
The coach pounded over another rock and Lincoln lifted from the roof, then clattered down again. A wave of nausea hit him, ripping his breath from his lungs. Lincoln concentrated on breathing, as flashes of light filled his vision.
When his vision cleared, Lincoln decided he’d been adventurous enough for one night and he could return to his usual tactics. He wrapped his arm round the rail, reached down the side of the coach, and banged on the window frame.
Over the rattling of the coach, he heard Whiskey Bob hammer on the roof.
Lincoln counted to three and leapt over the rail and swung down. His knees crashed against the side of the coach.
He gritted his teeth against the pulse of pain, which ripped through his legs, then dragged his feet up. Arms wrapped around his body. He slid his feet into the coach, then released the rail.
He slid through the window and landed on top of the damp and vile-smelling Whiskey Bob. Lincoln rubbed the base of his spine and leapt into the seat opposite to Mason.
‘You ready, Whiskey Bob?’
Whiskey Bob rolled to his feet and rubbed a shaking hand over his face, his gun dangling from his other hand.
‘Already killed me six of them varmints.’
Lincoln rubbed his knee, probing for lasting damage.
‘You’d better reload then.’
Whiskey Bob fumbled with his gun. In the corner, Mason slumped with his head lolling.
With his bruises checked, Lincoln leaned forward and dragged the sodden rag from Mason’s mouth. Mason drew in a deep, gasping breath.
‘Have you been hit?’ Lincoln asked.
‘You don’t care,’ Mason gasped.
Lincoln tossed the rag from the window and wiped his hand on a seat.
‘Nope, but I don’t want you dying before I hand you in.’
Mason dragged in deep breaths. Color returned to his cheeks.
‘Give me a gun. I’ll get Cody for you.’
‘Nope, dandy,’ Lincoln said through gritted teeth.
‘You can’t fire a gun and a rifle. Give me the rifle.’
Lincoln shrugged. ‘No way I’ll trust you. I know where your loyalties lie.’
Mason leaned forward. ‘Wrong, lawman. Frank shot me, but he and Cody are working together, so I reckon Cody’s double-crossed me as much as Frank’s double-crossed you. I don’t care about your mission, but I do care about revenge – my revenge.’
‘I don’t believe a word of that.’ Lincoln rubbed his chin. ‘But I do believe you reckon I’m going to make it. And when I do, you’ll swing, so the only way you might earn a reprieve is to turn on Cody.’
‘Perhaps, but remember, I didn’t even get the chance to fire at you. Cody and Frank are the only ones doing that.’
Lincoln patted his rifle. ‘That’s as maybe, but I’m not risking a bullet in the back.’
‘If I wanted to kill you, I would, but it’d be cleaner than letting Whiskey Polanski’s aim kill you.’
Mason nodded at Whiskey Bob. Kneeling on the floor, Whiskey Bob fumbled at his belt, failing to wrap his shaking fingers around the bullets, which cascaded to the floor in a steady stream.
Lincoln winced. ‘Let me help.’
Whiskey Bob held out his gun. The weapon slipped from his shaking fingers to the coach floor, so Lincoln picked up and loaded the gun.
In an attempt at a smile Whiskey Bob bared his few teeth. He bit his own hand and slipped the gun into his still fingers.
‘Thanks. Did you bring whiskey? It’d help me aim lots better.’
Lincoln bunched his jaw. ‘Nope.’
As Mason snorted, Whiskey Bob ran his other palsied hand down his face.
‘How long we got, before I need to kill me some more?’
From above, Lincoln heard a crash. Splinters peppered his arm.
‘Now seems like the right time.’
Lincoln quickly checked his gun, then patted Whiskey Bob’s shoulder. Whiskey Bob darted his head through the window and fired.
‘Take that, varmints,’ he shouted.
Lincoln grabbed Whiskey Bob’s shoulder and dragged him back into the coach.
‘Listen. Keep your head below the window and only lift to fire. Pick a target, fire, then dart away. Don’t wait to pick another target, or see if you hit the first one.’
‘And don’t bleed over me,’ Mason said, ‘when they hit you.’
‘Be quiet,’ Lincoln said, ‘or I use you for cover.’
Lincoln didn’t wait to see if Whiskey Bob followed his advice. He picked a shape in the dark, fired, then ducked. From his glance out of the window, he’d seen a wide expanse of riders hurtling by, perhaps ten on his side alone.
Lincoln lifted, aimed, fired and ducked. He alternated windows after each second or third shot.
If Frank were amongst the following riders, he’d know this tactic, but it wouldn’t help. Deadly shooting while on a galloping horse was a skill few had, Frank included.
As he heard no firing from inside the coach, Lincoln turned. Whiskey Bob knelt between the seats, his cheek pressed against the side of the coach.
‘You been hit, Whiskey Bob?’ Lincoln said.
Whiskey Bob clutched his stomach and retched. Dark brown sludge dribbled down his front, merging with the other stains that coated his rags. The strong whiff of Jed’s coffee filled the coach.
Lincoln sighed. He lifted his boot on to the seat and dragged out the knife that he’d taken from Patrick’s workshop. With a single swipe, he severed Mason’s bonds.
‘Never took you for a knife man,’ Mason said.
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‘Not so predictable, then?’ Lincoln thrust the rifle and a handful of slugs to Mason. ‘Time to prove your loyalty. Help me and you won’t swing.’
Without uttering a word, Mason grabbed the rifle and slugs. He checked a bullet was in the chamber, then massaged his wrists and straightened his necktie.
He pushed Whiskey Bob into the middle of the coach, wiped his hand on the seat, and knelt below the window. He bobbed up, fired a shot, then ducked.
Lincoln couldn’t tell if Mason fired to kill, but he appeared to be taking risks.
Mason reloaded and fired again. ‘As I’m your deputy now, when do I get paid?’
‘Deputy Dandy Mason sounds wrong. You’re as much a lawman as Frank is.’
‘What if I get Frank?’
‘Frank’s mine,’ Lincoln said, pausing from his firing. ‘Don’t forget that.’
Whiskey Bob clawed on to a seat and leaned his forehead against the window frame.
‘That’s it,’ Mason said with a laugh. ‘Give them target practice.’
Lincoln bobbed up, fired, then dragged Whiskey Bob from the window. Whiskey Bob swayed, his eyes glazed.
Lincoln examined his damp, gleaming rags, searching for a gunshot hole.
‘It’s now or never,’ Whiskey Bob slurred, his eyes seeming to focus a moment. ‘I’m ready to go when you are, just give the word.’
Gunshots clattered against the window frame as the outlines of riders flanked the coach.
As Whiskey Bob slumped, Lincoln leapt to the window and fired four times in rapid succession. Two riders collapsed from their horses, as he dropped to the seat. He lay on his back and reloaded his gun.
Again, he bobbed up and peppered six shots across the riders. The other two riders fell back either because he’d hit them, or from self-preservation.
Lincoln grinned. Hopetown must be getting close.
‘How you doing, Dandy Mason?’
Mason pushed the sleeping Whiskey Bob on to his seat, then spat on his hands and rubbed them vigorously.
‘Fine, except Whiskey Polanski keeps getting in the way.’
‘Bob, my name’s Bob,’ Whiskey Bob slurred, opening a red eye. ‘Where’s Adam? He gets me whiskey.’
