by B. S. Dunn
He hoped to have the element of surprise on his side, enabling him to take them all out, but no, alas. As they say, even the best-laid plans can come undone.
‘Hey, mister!’ A woman’s voice broke the silence.
Brolin looked up but continued his pace. A woman leaned through a second-storey window of the Silk Purse and waved frantically to draw his attention. She was young, red-headed and dressed in a pale corset that forced her milky-white breasts to bulge upward.
‘Hey mister!’ she called again. ‘Can you help us?’
A larger blonde woman joined the redhead at the window.
‘Come on, mister,’ she screeched. ‘Get us out of here. Quickly!’
Brolin cursed under his breath; then suddenly, as if on cue, the Lumberjack’s double batwing doors burst open and three men spilled on to the boardwalk, guns drawn.
Stall was first in line; he sighted Brolin as the gunfighter brought the Winchester around to snap a shot off from the hip.
‘Son of a bitch, it’s him!’ the outlaw snarled. ‘It’s Brolin.’
The Winchester’s barrel spat flame and the bullet chewed splinters from the saloon’s awning upright, close to the killer’s head. Stall flinched instinctively and the reflexive action threw off his aim.
The shot flew wide of its mark but close enough for Brolin to feel it pass. He lurched to his left and looked for cover. He found it on the other side of the street.
He dived behind a water-filled trough just as Kansas and Murphy opened up with their six-guns.
Their bullets hammered into the trough and gouged out wooden splinters. The wicked slivers scythed dangerously through the air above Brolin. More shots dug into the damp earth beside the trough and others burned the air above it.
The Winchester whiplashed as Brolin snapped off a shot at the exposed Murphy. The slug missed and shattered the saloon’s large window behind him.
Brolin dropped back behind cover as an even more ferocious storm of lead assailed his position.
Though he was behind cover Brolin felt too exposed. If he stayed where he was the outlaws would flank him and cut him down.
Stall had been thinking along those very lines. When Brolin came back up to fire again, he caught a glimpse of Kansas moving left.
Brolin fired twice at the fast-moving outlaw but the shots only kicked up dirt at the outlaw’s heels. Brolin dropped back down as more shots from Stall and Murphy came at him.
Damn it! He had to move now. He looked about from his current place of refuge and tried to figure out his best escape route. The buildings behind him were no good. They were more than likely locked, and would only serve to trap him for the outlaws. The only other viable option seemed to be the river.
About a hundred feet separated him from the embankment that fell away to the raging torrent of white water below.
Now or never.
Brolin got to his feet and launched himself on his run. He’d covered no more than a few yards when a hail of bullets forced him to retreat.
Brolin dived back behind the trough, glad to be still in one piece.
‘Goin’ somewhere, Brolin?’ shouted Stall gleefully from across the street.
The gunfighter remained silent. He had more pressing problems than becoming engaged in a yelling match with Stall.
He looked down at the Winchester and guessed there were only a few shots left in the magazine. He’d fire them, then run before they could flank him.
Brolin took a couple of deep breaths. He was about to fire when a drumming of hoofbeats hammered out on the bridge’s boards.
He swung his head and saw, of all people, King, riding hell for leather towards him and waving his double-action Lightning.
As the horse thundered off the bridge King started to fire wildly. No shots found a mark, but they had the desired effect of keeping the outlaws’ heads down.
‘Damn fool!’ Brolin cursed loudly.
The gunfighter took advantage of the cover-fire distraction and ran full tilt towards the river.
Keeping his head down, pumping his legs furiously, it still took Brolin what seemed to him like an eternity to cover the open ground.
Meanwhile, gunfire still echoed from the false-fronts that lined the street.
The drop-off loomed large in front of him when the sudden high-pitched shriek of King’s horse brought him to a sliding stop. A mixture of anger and helplessness flooded through Brolin as he saw the bay down on its side and King struggling to free his trapped leg.
The Colt Lightning had spilled from his grasp and now lay out of reach, leaving him vulnerable.
Through his struggles, he looked towards Brolin and their eyes met. The store owner ceased his fight to free himself.
‘Go!’ he screamed. ‘Get away.’
Brolin paused, then took a tentative step towards the trapped King.
The outlaws turned their attention back to Brolin and opened fire.
A bullet clipped his coat; another gouged a bloody furrow in his left shoulder, knocking him off balance. Down on one knee, he glanced again at King.
‘Go!’ King yelled again.
Another slug snapped close to Brolin’s head and his survival instinct kicked in. He pushed his concerns about King aside and lunged backward over the steep embankment. He hit the slope and slid down into the Standish River’s raging waters.
The moment he splashed into the fast-flowing river a bone-chilling coldness took his breath away as though he had been punched in the stomach.
Brolin opened his mouth and gasped for air. Instead, freezing mud-filled water flooded his throat and caused him choke and splutter. He fought hard to keep his head above the turbulent torrent but the strong undercurrent dragged him down.
The powerful flow carried Brolin swiftly along the rock-strewn watercourse. He let the Winchester go so that he could put all of his strength into surviving this ancient battle of man versus nature’s fury.
His lungs burned in their quest for air as he was sucked below the surface once more. He intensified his efforts, hands the water as he reached out and pulled back in an attempt at a crawl.
Just when Brolin thought he was winning fate dealt a hefty blow in the form of a large lump of granite.
A boulder sat proudly above the surface, powerful currents eddying about it. It was an immovable object, battered and worn down over thousands of years.
Brolin was hurled brutally against it. His head connected solidly and stars flashed before his eyes. Stunned, he lost all of the fight he’d displayed earlier. Now he was helpless; the unforgiving current sucked him below the foaming white water and out of sight.
Thirteen
King watched as the gunfighter disappeared over the river’s embankment. Despite his own dire predicament, a sense of relief flooded through him at the thought that Brolin was getting away.
The gunfire died away but the sound of approaching footfalls changed King’s relief to fear. He renewed his struggle to free his trapped leg. It was a vain attempt; it was pinned fast beneath the dead horse.
‘Murphy, check the river,’ King heard Stall order.
Murphy loped across to the riverbank, leaving Stall and Kansas to tend to the trapped store owner.
‘I know him,’ Kansas said, recognizing King’s features. ‘He was on the train too. How in hell did you fellers get out of the church?’
King stayed silent.
Stall stared hard at the store owner, trying to place him. Then he nodded.
‘Sure, you’re the feller with the woman and the two brats.’
King bridled.
‘One,’ he grated through clenched teeth. ‘One child. You animals murdered my boy.’
Stall shrugged nonchalantly.
‘Too bad.’
Something akin to a primeval growl escaped King’s lips and he renewed his struggles to be free. Never had he wanted to kill someone as much as he did right at this moment.
As he fought to escape he prayed earnestly for God’s help to fin
ish this one last thing.
Murphy came running back.
‘No sign,’ he panted. ‘He’s either dead or the river took him. Either way I’d say he’s dead.’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed,’ Stall reminded him caustically, ‘Brolin has a habit of comin’ back from the dead.’
Murphy shrugged. ‘I say he’s dead.’
‘And I say don’t be so sure.’
‘This feller won’t be comin’ back,’ Kansas said. He cocked his six-gun and pointed it at King’s head.
The store owner froze as he stared down the gaping barrel of the outlaw’s nickel-plated Colt. A new surge of fear coursed through him as he waited for death to come.
Stall threw a hand out to stay Kansas’s trigger finger.
‘No, wait!’ he snapped. ‘Keep him alive for now. If Brolin is still alive he’ll be back for him.’
Kansas stared hard at the outlaw boss.
‘You mean we’re stayin’?’ His tone was one of disbelief. ‘You can’t be serious, Mike. We need to get gone from here. The law could show up here at any time.’
‘We’re stayin’,’ Stall insisted.
‘Hell, Mike!’ Murphy put in. ‘After what happened with the train and what we did to the posse that was tailin’ us, we can forget lawmen. These mountains are goin’ to be crawlin’ with soldiers. And in case you ain’t noticed, there’s only the three of us now. We need to leave. I for one ain’t hangin’ around here waitin’ for a cavalry troop to come ridin’ in.’
With a fluid movement Stall drew his right-side Colt and aimed it at the of Murphy’s face.
‘I said we stay.’ His growl was low, menacing. ‘If Brolin’s alive he’ll be back. I’m not leavin’ here to have him on our back trail. And that’s what will happen if he’s alive. No, it ends here.’
Murphy stared nervously at the six-gun and swallowed the lump of fear in his throat. Then he nodded his acceptance.
Stall holstered his gun and stabbed a finger at King.
‘Now get him out from under that horse and into the saloon. I want to ask him some questions.’
Kansas and Murphy took King’s arms and roughly wrenched him from beneath the dead horse.
‘Take it easy,’ the store owner protested.
‘Get up,’ Kansas ordered.
King staggered to his feet and straightened up. He winced as a bolt of pain shot through his injured leg. Still, he was able to put weight on it.
‘Move.’ Murphy’s voice was harsh and a vicious shove accompanied it as King limped towards the Lumberjack saloon.
~*~
The roar of rushing water filled Brolin’s ears as he ascended from the cold depths of darkness. His head wound throbbed from its forceful impact with that damned rock. He rolled on to his back and lay there trying to gather himself.
His shoulder wound burned when he moved his arm and the bright sunlight almost blinded him when he tried to open his eyes, forcing him to shut them again..
Brolin sat up drunkenly. His head swam.
He blinked his eyes again to clear his vision. Clarity returned slowly and Brolin was eventually able to take in his surroundings.
He was lying on a flat, sand-covered bench area on the southern bank, where the river curved. He had no idea how he’d managed to drag himself from the fast-flowing torrent.
Above the bench the bank was little more than a gentle slope, covered in a blanket of lush green grass. On the opposite bank large pines over a hundred feet tall reached up to the sky.
Brolin climbed to his feet, wobbled unsteadily, then checked for the Remington. It lay in the holster. At least he had one weapon, after losing the Winchester in the river, and the Sharps was still on the horse.
He made his way slowly up the bank. Once at the top he stopped to take a break. The pain in his head had increased with the climb and his vision became blurred once more. Brolin slumped to his knees.
He put his arms out to regain his balance but to no avail. Slowly, like a giant redwood, Brolin teetered forward beyond the point of no return as the soft green carpet of grass came up to meet him. Once again, everything went black.
When Brolin came to for the second time it was dark and he was cold. He was bone-chillingly cold wrapped in his damp clothing. Somewhere on the mountain slopes a wolf howled, its mournful sound carried eerily on the clear night air.
Brolin shivered uncontrollably; he knew he needed to get warm or the cold would kill him. A sudden gust of wind rippled through the trees with a low whistle.
Brolin got to his feet and turned right. He staggered into the darkness and followed the river back to town. He had no idea of the distance he’d been swept, but the need to get warm overrode all else and Miller’s Crossing was the only place he’d find a means to do it.
~*~
Candy dabbed at the cuts and bruises on Letty’s face with a wet rag, trying to clean up the dried blood as best she could.
No matter how gentle she attempted to be, every now and then the semi-conscious whore would moan in protest at the pain. Each time she did, Candy winced and apologized softly, but continued her tender ministrations.
The room they were in was on the Silk Purse’s second floor, right at the front of the building.
A small kerosene lamp cast a dull orange glow throughout the meagerly furnished space. It contained a bed, an aged dresser and a small bedside table made of hardwood. A pitcher of water stood beside a shallow floral dish meant for washing in, which Candy had half-filled so that she could wet the rag she was using on Letty.
A long strand of red hair fell across her pale face as she leaned forward to clean a smear of blood from the corner of Letty’s bruised mouth.
From the corners of her powder-blue eyes slid tears; they rolled down her cheek and splashed on to her unconscious friend. Stall had beaten Letty mercilessly after the plump whore had given him lip. What concerned Candy most was that she might not pull through.
The rattle of a key in the door lock drew Candy’s attention. The door burst open and a man was shoved roughly inside. He fell to the floor and lay there.
‘Got some company for you,’ Murphy sneered.
The door slammed shut. King dragged himself to a sitting position and rubbed at his leg. One of his eyes was nearly closed and blood trickled from his nose and split lip.
‘Are you OK, mister?’ Candy asked in a husky voice, showing concern.
King looked across at the redhead, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and noticed that it came away red with blood. He fingered his split lip and winced.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he told Candy. He nodded at Letty. ‘How about your friend?’
Candy’s face took on a somber expression and she shook her head.
‘I don’t know. She needs a doctor.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘That son of a bitch Stall beat her,’ Candy said harshly.
King remained silent.
‘I’m Candy,’ she said introducing herself. ‘My friend in the bed is Letty.’
King told her his name. ‘How many others are there?’ he asked
‘There’s six more working girls,’ she told him. ‘All locked up in other rooms.’
Candy paused for a moment, then her eyes grew wide and she leaped to her feet.
‘Your friend. Did he get away?’
The store owner shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He went into the river.’
Candy was wearing an emerald-green dress the hem of which, King noticed now that she was standing, fell almost to the floor. The bodice stopped at her ample breasts, barely covering them. Her shoulders were pale, almost luminescent in the lamplight.
‘Will he help?’ she asked. ‘If he’s still alive, will he come back to help?’
King didn’t hesitate in his answer.
‘If he’s alive he’ll be back. You can count on it.’
Fourteen
Brolin shook uncontrollably as the dark night grew bitterly cold. Snow had begun to fall
and a white powder dusted his trembling shoulders. He’d staggered back towards town for the best part of two hours and was about done in.
He knew that it couldn’t be much further to town and, despite his bone-weary fatigue, he knew he couldn’t stop. If he did so he would die.
From the darkness loomed the buildings of Miller’s Crossing; large, square, unnatural shapes that almost seemed darker than the night itself.
Further away shone a light in a window. It guided him like a moth to a flame, into the town.
~*~
Simon Ford had refused to be driven from the town that had been his home for the past five years. Partly because he’d become stubborn with age, mostly because he was the local doctor and had a critically injured lumberjack in the other room. A logging accident had brought the man in two days before and he’d still not awakened from the depths of unconsciousness.
Ford was a man in his sixties with wavy gray hair and droopy eyes. He had begun to stoop with age but his mind was as sharp as ever.
He turned another page in the leather-bound medical journal he was reading about head trauma. The living room of his small house-cum-surgery was well lit by two lamps. One stood on the mantelshelf to the left of a log fire, the other on a dark hardwood sideboard. A tall bookshelf, filled with numerous books, stood against the same wall as the sideboard.
Ford paused and looked up from his reading. He frowned and the lines on his face knitted together as he listened again for what had caught his attention. He waited a little longer. When nothing happened he shook his head and went back to his book.
The noise that had made Ford pause reached his ears again. This time it was louder, unmistakable. It came from his back door.
Ford placed the journal down on the small round-topped table beside his chair and rose to investigate.
He walked steadily to his back door, then paused to listen. The knock came again, weaker this time.
Ford reached out and grasped the doorknob. He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and opened the door.
The man who stood before him shivered uncontrollably from the cold. Snowflakes had settled on his shoulders and his face had a tinge of blue about it.
