by Arthur Kent
A minute passed. Then footsteps inside the bank building. They were fast. The bolt rattled on the door and it swung open. A pencil of light seeped down a crack. Then two figures filled the doorway. Each carried money sacks.
Frome brought the gun up, levelled it as the men stepped into the open, and said, ‘Kyle?’ Then he fired at the first figure, not giving the man time to go for his holstered gun. The man folded away. But the second man was already moving, launching himself at the nearest of the ponies.
Frome heard his snarl and recognized him as Kyle Bennett. A coin bag struck the animal’s rump. Then Bennett brought up his boot at its stomach. And then he ducked away.
The horse came up on its hind legs, rolling away, bumping into Frome’s bronc. The pony on Frome’s right broke away, galloping for the mouth of the alley. The injured bronc followed it; and Frome’s, skidding and bucking and trying to unseat him, attempted to follow the others.
Frome sprang from the saddle, relaxing his body. He hit the ground and rolled away. He heard Bennett running ... running down towards the corral. He balled over, snatching his other Colt from his holster, not attempting to find the one he had dropped. He aimed it along the alley and fired at a vague shape.
The shape vanished near the poles. Frome came up in a crouch. He went to the side of the alley, working along to the disused corral. He heard voices now and movement on Main Street. People were hurrying to see what had happened, but Frome knew that they would not come too close. They would stay at the top of the alley until the gunfight ended and make things difficult for him by creating a lot of noise.
If Bennett was making any noise then Frome didn’t hear it. He could only rely upon his eyes, and there was little light. For all he knew Bennett could have ducked around the corral and be well away by now. The end of the bank building fell away and Frome was in the open. Vaguely, in the light from that one lamp further down, he could see the flaked, weather eroded poles of the corral. He stepped out and towards it instinctively sensing in some way that Bennett had not gone far ... that he was somewhere near the corral.
Then flame stabbed across the corral towards him. He ducked. The bullet gouged wood behind him. Even as he ducked away, so Frome fired, pumping a shot across the corral.
Flame answered him, from a yard away as Bennett moved and fired. Frome spread his legs. Aimed the Colt across the corral, then began to fan the trigger and move the sight. He pumped four bullets across the corral at spaced intervals of a yard. Then he collapsed on to his knees, fingers snatching fresh slugs from his shellbelt and reloading the Colt.
A long silence. Frome watched between the poles. Then Bennett’s voice reached him. A chuckle ... or a sob? It seemed to end on a note of hysteria, or fear, or pain.
Frome strained his eyes, the Colt, reloaded, coming up.
Bennett spoke again, an unmistakable sneer in his voice. ‘What are you waiting for, gun-shy?’
Frome knew better than to answer him. He began to belly forward, sliding beneath the pole, worming to the centre of the corral.
‘You’ve blocked every move I’ve made, Frome,’ Bennett said a moment later, ‘but I’ll take you with me ... they won’t get me to hang.’
Frome still didn’t reply. He thought he had placed Bennett now. There was an old lean-to wall parallel with the corral. Frome judged it to be eight foot high and some five yards long. Somewhere along it, probably propped against it, hidden by it, Bennett stood and waited.
‘I underestimated you, Frome. Thought you a no-gun. Shouldn’t have sent the Breslows ... should’ve come for you myself. I didn’t get you then, but I’ll live long enough to get you now.’
Frome reached the corral poles. The wall began some ten feet away. He raised himself, laying the barrel on the pole, waiting. He couldn’t open fire before Bennett showed himself, he realized. If he tried to get Bennett by firing wildly it would be like trying to hit a needle in a haystack, and Bennett would only need to fire once to hit him.
‘Well, where are you?’ Bennett jeered. A slight movement. ‘Waiting for your sheriff and the posse?’
Frome swung the barrel of his Colt to the right, placing Bennett at the lower part of the wall by his voice. It came to him that Bennett’s voice sounded unnatural, off-key.
‘I tell you,’ Bennett snarled suddenly, ‘you’re not going to take me alive and hang me!’
And then Frome saw Bennett lunge out from the wall six feet from him, turn, and stagger towards the poles where he lay.
‘I’m coming for you... .’
Frome fired as Bennett began to speak. He got the big man squarely in the Colt’s barrel line, and he fanned the hammer, pumping all six shots at the lunging man. He saw Bennett vividly in the flashes made by the gun. He saw the big man’s arms flake out. He noticed that Bennett’s hands were empty as the hammer fell with a dull click on an empty cylinder.
Frome forked over the poles. He moved to where Bennet had fallen. He bent to his knees, struck a match on his boot, and looked at Bennett’s hands. The righthand was wrapped in bandage. The bandage was muddy black and the blood on it was hard, dried. He noticed that there was no guns in Bennett’s holsters.
The match went out. He struck another, moving along the wall. He found the bags of money. And he found Bennett’s Colt by the corral rail. It came to him then that Bennett had been unarmed when he had taunted and challenged him; that Bennett had stepped out purposely to his death by bullets ... rather than surrender and await a judicial trial and a law-man’s rope.
People moved in around the corral now. Lanterns were held high, chasing away the shadows.
Frome looked once more at Bennett. The man was face down, his head oddly twisted. And in the light from a lamp Frome could see the smile which twisted the blond man’s lips. Bennett had a reason to smile, he reflected. He had lost out on all his earlier tricks, but the last one had paid off.
A man moved up beside Frome. He asked timidly, ‘What happened?’
Frome said caustically, ‘Indians tried to rob the bank.’
‘Indians?’ the man was surprised. ‘What would Indians be doing? ... But that’s Bennett, ain’t it.’
‘Was – Bennett.’
Frome pushed through the crowd. He saw a man he recognized. He said, ‘There’s a lot of dough lying about in canvas bags. Better get some help and round it up. Also you’d better go check in the bank. I think you’ll find the chief clerk out cold.’
The man began to select some help.
Frome moved down the alley towards Main. The hate had left him now. He felt sapped, deflated. He became aware of his discomfort, hunger, tiredness. He thought of the steak he had seen Sturmer slicing into. He thought of the big bath Karno had up at the hotel, he thought of Curly.
He saw a figure, slight, almost boyish, fill the mouth of the alley. He quickened his step and his heartbeat seemed to increase in tempo. Then he saw that it was Curly, and that she was moving towards him ... moving fast.
She met him near the mouth of the alley, her face lifted, fear leaving it, a radiant smile replacing it. He took her into his arms and he kissed her. She stepped back slightly and he saw the tears of joy that flaked her cheeks.
‘Oh, Dave,’ she whispered, ‘it doesn’t matter... . It was so long ago.’
‘But... ?’
She touched his lips with her fingers.
‘I loved him – yes,’ she said, ‘but that was in another lifetime.’
Frome ran his hands through her silk soft hair. Then they turned, arm in arm, and moved towards the boardwalk of Main.
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