by Chuck Tyrell
The watch showed 11:37.
Stryker wiped down his own six-gun and a second one he took from the desk. Both were .44 Colt Frontier revolvers. He loaded the cylinders with six cartridges each. Twelve shots to take care of King Rennick and his men.
11:44
“You walk on my left,” Stryker said to Dan. “When the shooting starts, I’ll jag left. You fire the shotgun, then skedaddle right, behind me. It’s hard to hit a quick-moving target. But don’t shoot on the run. You’ll just waste bullets.”
“I got you, Marshal.”
11:48
Stryker stood. He carefully tied his holster to his thigh. It wouldn’t do for his gun to hang up. He stuck the spare revolver in his waistband where it was ready to his hand. He settled his hat on his head.
11:53
“Let’s go,” Stryker said.
“I’m ready, Marshal.” Dan’s voice quavered a bit.
Stryker left his black frock coat hung over a chair. “Sun’s bright,” he said, “shouldn’t be too cold.”
Dan ignored his mackinaw on its peg in the wall. He clamped his teeth tight and loosened the big Dragoon revolver in its holster. He took the Greener from the gun cabinet, broke it open, and checked the loads one last time.
Stryker led the way toward Corduroy Road with Dan two steps behind and off to the left. At the top of the grade, Stryker pulled out his watch. “One minute to noon,” he said.
A moment later, the batwings of Old Glory swung open. King Rennick had also shed his coat. Kid McQueen dressed as always in a flannel shirt and cowhide vest. Ace Tyler looked slovenly, but his shotgun gleamed, freshly cleaned and oiled. The three gunmen stepped off the porch of Old Glory and walked up Corduroy Road, three abreast.
Matt Stryker and Dan Brady started down the grade. Stryker walked swiftly; Dan lengthened his stride to keep up.
The hired gunmen splashed across the Bog Creek ford, spread out slightly, and began their walk of death, moving east on the road. Half a dozen onlookers pushed their way through the saloon’s swinging doors.
Stryker’s fast pace shortened the distance to King Rennick’s gunfighters almost before they could ready themselves. Dan kept a dozen paces to Stryker’s left. He eared back the hammers of the Greener. “Not yet,” Stryker said in a low voice.
When the gunfighters were fifty feet away, Stryker shouted, “King Rennick’s my meat!” He suddenly sprinted directly at the suave gunman whose hand darted for the handle of a Remington Army thrust into his red waist sash. Stryker’s Colt was out and yammering. Bullets smashed into Rennick’s body, lifting him to his toes and toppling him to the ground as his revolver crashed – once, twice, three times – the bullets digging holes in the hard surface of Corduroy Road.
Both Kid McQueen and Ace Tyler aimed at Matt Stryker, but he had already changed directions, darting to his left.
As the shooting started, Dan dropped to the ground and rolled twice to the right. He came to rest on his belly with the Greener pointed at Ace Tyler who had triggered a barrel at Stryker and missed. Dan licked his lips and touched off a barrel. The Greener kicked back against his shoulder and sent a load of buckshot smashing into Ace Tyler’s side, turning him away just as he triggered the second barrel of his sawed-off. Dan rolled away and came up on one knee, the Greener pointing in Tyler’s direction. The gunman was down, his dirty shirt tinged with blood. He clawed at the revolver in his waistband, murderous eyes on Dan, then pushed himself into a sitting position. Tyler raised the six-gun as if it weighed twenty pounds, but the second barrel of the Greener bellowed before Tyler could get a shot off. The buckshot took him full in the chest. He threw his arms wide and went over onto his back. Ignoring Tyler, Dan pulled the heavy dragoon Colt from its holster, cocking the hammer as he brought the weapon up. Hot lead burned a crease across his shoulder, but it bothered him no more than a mosquito bite. He looked over the killing ground. Tyler down and unmoving. Rennick curled in a ball on the ground. Matt Stryker standing spraddle-legged, exchanging shots with Kid McQueen. Dan ran toward the marshal, who dropped his .44 and drew his spare.
“Get the Kid,” Stryker shouted at Dan. The deputy stopped, lifted the big Dragoon as if he were target practicing, took a long breath, and squeezed the trigger. Kid McQueen hollered as Dan’s bullet took him in the right shoulder joint, smashing the youngster around and making him drop his gun.
“Good man,” Stryker said.
“Give up, Kid. This is no day for you to die,” the marshal said to the gunman.
The Kid nodded. “You got me, Marshal. Can’t hold a gun. Never was no good with my left.”
“Stryker!” It came almost as a scream. Stryker and Dan whipped around as one. King Rennick stood with his legs spread apart. Blood covered the front of his shirt and dripped from his trouser cuffs. He held a Remington with both hands. “Damn you to Hell, Matthew. I swear, you’re coming with me.” As he spoke, he pulled the trigger. The bullet took Stryker high in the chest, almost knocking him down. Rennick eared the hammer back and shot again. Stryker staggered and went to one knee. He raised the spare .44 and the sound of his firing blended with the roar of Dan Brady’s Dragoon. Both bullets found Rennick, one entering his left eye and exiting in a cloud of bloody mist, the other catching him in the throat. The man they called King collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
Kid McQueen sat down where he stood, his right arm hanging useless. He was no danger any longer. Stryker tried to stand but couldn’t make it. “Leave me be, son,” he said to Dan. “I’ll do. Find that girl.”
“I’ll find her, Marshal, or I’ll die making a try at it,” he said. He left Matt Stryker bleeding on the grass beside Corduroy Road and strode toward the swinging doors of Old Glory, ejecting empty shells from his Dragoon and replacing them with cartridges from his belt as he went. The onlookers scattered when he climbed the steps to the porch.
“Ca-a-a-hill!” He screamed, and charged through the batwings. A pistol shot cracked from within the saloon; its slug tore a chunk from the doorframe as Dan went through. He saw Morales with a smoking gun in his hand. Dan dived for the floor while taking an offhand shot at Morales to shake his aim. A bullet plowed into the hardwood floor not six inches in front of Dan’s face. He fired the Dragoon like he would point his finger.
The bullet went true. It pierced Morales’s brisket. He dropped his gun and splayed his fingers over the wound in his chest. “Madré Mia,” he whispered as he sagged to the floor, the light dying from his eyes.
The back door flew open. Nate Cahill barged into the saloon with a shotgun. He looked wildly about, searching for a target. His eyes fell on Dan struggling to his feet. He raised the shotgun to his shoulder and a blast shook the saloon. Dan flinched, expecting a double dose of buckshot to nail him to the bar.
“Nate Cahill won’t bother you no more, Deputy,” said Tom Hall, smoke curling from the twin barrels of the shotgun he had poked through the window.
At last Dan could scramble to his feet. He echoed Stryker’s words. “Leave me be, Tom. Go take care of the Marshal. I’ll find Miss Prudence.” Dan held his Dragoon at arm’s length, aimed at Jigger the bartender. “Pull the shotgun out, Jigger, and put it on the bar.”
Jigger did what he was told.
“Push it over here.”
He did.
Dan picked up the shotgun. “Now just back off and stay put.”
Jigger hustled to the other end of the bar.
Dan held the shotgun muzzle up and emptied it into the ceiling. He’d have to go upstairs. He hoped Prudence would be there. The shotgun blast would give them something to think about. He reloaded the Dragoon. He had twelve shots for whatever came. He took a deep breath, walked to the back door, dragged Nate Cahill’s body out of the way, and started up the back stairs.
Chapter Twelve
Prudence finally fell asleep despite the cold, and woke only when the door creaked open. “Who’s there?” Her voice cracked. “What do you want?”
She could only
make out a dark shape in the glare from the door. A hard hand grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Ouch. You’re hurting me,” she said.
“That right? How’s this?” The hand twisted harder.
Prudence gasped.
“Hurt? Well, maybe you’ll find out what hurt really means. Nate wants you upstairs. Come along.” Wynn Cahill cut the strips of canvas binding her ankles with a sharp Bowie. He jerked her forward. “Move it!”
Prudence stumbled from the lean-to with Wynn holding tight to her arm. He steered her to the stairway at the back of Old Glory and forced her up the steps.
“Got the girl,” Wynn said at the door.
“Bring her in.”
At least it was warm in the room. Nate Cahill sat behind his grand mahogany desk. Breed leaned against the wall, his arms folded. He scowled. Morales stood beside the door.
“King will have Matt Stryker and that deputy taken care of at noon,” Cahill said. “Morales, you head on down to the bar. Get Jigger to send something up for the girl. Once the law is out of the way, Comstock will come through with the money, sure.”
“Sí,” Morales said. He clumped down the stairs. A few moments later, Jigger the bartender came with saleratus biscuits, some fried bacon, and a mug of coffee.
“Cut her loose,” Cahill said to Wynn.
Wynn’s Bowie sliced the bonds from Prudence’s wrists.
“Eat,” Cahill said.
“I couldn’t,” Prudence said. “I won’t.”
“Suit yourself,” Wynn said. He backhanded her, his knuckles smashing into her cheek. She fell into the easy chair behind her. The surprise of the blow kept her from crying out, but tears welled in her eyes as her hand went to her bruised and swelling face.
The sound of gunfire brought a smile to Cahill’s face. “That’ll be King and his boys doing for the marshal,” he said. Shotguns crashed. Then pistol fire again. A short silence, then four pistol shots too close together to be one gun. Silence. Cahill looked at his brother. Both men wore huge grins. Breed hadn’t moved an inch. He seemed to be watching Prudence.
“Ca-a-a-a-hill.” The scream came from the front door of Old Glory. A six-gun spoke, followed immediately by another.
“Damn,” Cahill said. “King must not have got them all.” He snatched a sawed-off shotgun from the gun rack and checked its loads. “Watch the girl,” he said. He threw open the door and pounded down the stairs. Wynn walked over and slapped Prudence across the face. Breed started. He seemed ready to draw his gun.
“You sit quiet, missy,” Wynn said. “I’ll take care of you later.”
Tears leaked from Prudence’s eyes and ran down her cheeks.
A shotgun bellowed below. Then another. Buckshot came flying through the floor. Wynn jumped away. “Goldam!” He started for the door when the sound of running footsteps came from the stairs. Wynn jerked his Colt from its holster. He stepped against the wall where the door would hide him when it opened. Breed stood with his arms folded as before. The door crashed wide and Dan Brady charged into the room.
“Dan! Watch out!” Prudence finally found her voice, but her warning came too late. Wynn Cahill stepped out from behind the door and clubbed Dan with the barrel of his Colt. Dan’s Dragoon flew from his hand and skittered across the floor. He dropped to his hands and knees, but didn’t go all the way down.
“Stand, if you can, deputy,” Wynn ordered.
Dan shook his head as if to clear it, then struggled to his feet.
Prudence looked at Dan, then at his Dragoon, then back at Dan. The gun was too far away.
Wynn jerked the Peacemaker from Dan’s belt and tossed it after the Dragoon. He hit Dan lightly across the face with the barrel of his revolver. A three-inch gash opened up below Dan’s cheekbone and splashed blood across his face. He staggered but didn’t go down.
“Where’s my brother, deputy?” Wynn said.
Dan stood silent.
Wynn swung the revolver back across Dan’s jaw. “I asked you a question, asshole. Answer.”
Dan spit blood and mucus to the floor at Wynn’s feet. He raised his face to look Wynn in the eye. “Dead,” he said. “Killed by Tom Hall’s shotgun. You’d best let Miss Prudence go. King’s bunch is dead or down. Morales is done for. No one to back your play now, bad man. Give it up.”
“I’ve got you!” Wynn screamed. “I’ve got her! You all are going to wish you was never born before I get through with you.”
Prudence looked at the Dragoon again. Was there a chance she could reach it?
“You just stand right there, Mr. Deputy. I got just the thing for you.” Wynn sidestepped around Cahill’s mahogany desk. He opened a drawer and rummaged about for something. “Ah, there it is.” He showed Dan a ridged lump of lead. “This here fits right in your fist, you see. This here is what happened to Stryker’s face. Let’s see what it can do to yours.” Wynn shifted his revolver to his left hand and grasped the lump of lead with his right. Two long steps back around the desk and a looping right to Dan’s ear. Dan went down but clambered up again just in time to meet Wynn’s fist to his jaw. As he crumpled, Prudence leaped across the floor, scrambling for the cocked Dragoon Colt that lay half under the desk. She stretched her right hand out as she dived and her fingers closed on the handle of the big gun.
“Damn you, bitch,” Wynn shouted. He dropped the lump of lead and tossed his Colt from left hand to right.
Desperately, Prudence struggled to being the heavy Dragoon into line.
Wynn cocked his Peacemaker. “You’re dead meat, whore,” he said, raising the Colt toward Prudence.
Suddenly Breed moved. His hand blurred to the gun at his side and in less than a quarter of a second it belched fire and its slug took Wynn Cahill through the left bicep, pierced his chest, plowed through the back side of his heart, nicked his spine, and slithered along his ribs to exit behind his right arm.
“Wha . . .” Wynn dropped to the floor, his mouth working like a landed carp.
“You don’t shoot women,” Breed said.
Wynn didn’t reply. He was dead.
Boots sounded on the stairs and Fletcher Comstock burst through the door to find two gun barrels aimed at his gut. Breed held one with casual confidence. Prudence held the other with both hands, her legs curled under her and her back against the desk.
“Whoa, whoa. I’m friendly,” Comstock said. “I’m going to put my guns away. Don’t get sudden.”
Dan heaved himself to his hands and knees. “Good to see you, Mr. Comstock,” he said in a small voice. “Breed saved Miss Prudence. You leave him be.”
“Never shot a man who had the drop on me.” Comstock shoved his Colts back in their holsters.
“It’s been done,” Breed said. “My cousin Garet Havelock got Juanito O’Rourke when he had the drop.”
“Havelock’s your cousin?”
“Mother’s side.”
“Jeez.”
Comstock offered Dan a hand. Dan grasped it and let Comstock pull him to his feet. “How’s Marshal Stryker?” he asked.
“Hit pretty hard, but he’ll live. That’s what Doc Huntly says anyway.”
“Tom?”
“He’s with the Marshal.”
Breed helped Prudence to her feet. “This is yours,” she said, holding the Dragoon out to Dan.
“Yeah. Looked for a minute like you were gonna save my bacon with that abbreviated cannon I carry around on my hip.”
“I hope you carry it a long time,” Prudence said. “I’ll feel safer.”
Guns of Ponderosa save innocent lives
Gunfire erupted near the GW&SF ketch pens on Corduroy Road as Ponderosa’s intrepid lawmen met and subdued killers hired by the infamous Nate Cahill. The conflict began moments after noon on the day before yesterday when the killers, identified by onlookers as King Rennick, Kid McQueen, and Ace Tyler, began shooting at Marshal Matthew Stryker and Deputy Daniel Brady.
When the gun smoke cleared, those observing saw Rennick and Tyler on the gr
ound lifeless. Kid McQueen had been shot through the shoulder by Deputy Brady. He will live but may never regain the use of his right arm. Marshal Stryker was wounded in the action, suffering shots to his chest and shoulder. Doctor Vernon Huntley’s opinion is that Marshal Stryker will live.
Said Cahill held Miss Prudence Comstock prisoner and attempted to extort $10,000 from her brother Fletcher Comstock of Comstock Log and Lumber Company with that fact. Following the gunfight at Corduroy Road, Deputy Brady invaded Nate Cahill’s stronghold, the saloon Old Glory, where he shot and killed Juan Morales, one of Cahill’s band of outlaws, and where Deputy Thomas Hall shot and killed Nate Cahill himself before he could shoot Deputy Brady.
Miss Comstock was held prisoner in the room above Old Glory. Deputy Brady proceeded to that room, searching for Miss Comstock. The room was occupied by Cahill’s brother Wynn Cahill, Miss Comstock, who Cahill was determined to abuse, and Seth Graffunder, who is also known as Breed. The younger Cahill disarmed Deputy Brady and began to beat him. In the melee Miss Comstock attempted to reach a discarded revolver with which to dispatch the younger Cahill. Cahill turned his own pistol on Miss Comstock and would have murdered her if not for Mr. Graffunder, a relative of U.S. Marshal Havelock, who shot and killed Wynn Cahill. Thanks to our intrepid lawmen, Ponderosa is once more safe to the ordinary citizen.
Dan Brady made the rounds at night; once just after dusk, once about midnight. Rolly Parsons took over Old Glory and seemed to be running a reasonable operation. The rule against weapons in Ponderosa still held, and Dan made it stick. He’d come away from the gunfight at Corduroy a harder man. His mild manner made some newcomers misjudge him, but if they stepped across the line, he came down hard. The old Dragoon he still carried was just as effective at buffaloing wayward cowboys and bluejacket soldiers as Matt Stryker’s Frontier Colt.
