The Streets of Vermijo

by Neil Hunter

  And then the solid thump as one hit his left shoulder, half-turning him in the saddle. He lost his grip on the rifle and it slid away from him. A moan escaped his lips as pain flared, his left arm hanging limp. He fought to keep his nervous horses still, fighting off the surge of nausea that rose and righting himself in his saddle.

  He saw the rider coming up the slope, closing the distance between them. Colston dropped his right hand and went to haul his Colt from the holster. It was only when the pistol refused to slide free he remembered it had the hammer loop in place. He worked it free with fumbling fingers then made to draw again. By this time the rider was close enough to be in pistol range. Colston swung the weapon up and thumbed the hammer, firing as soon as it locked back. He fired at the rider’s bulk. The shot went wide and Colston dragged the suddenly heavy gun back on line and fired again. Saw the rider’s horse falter, start to go down on its front legs.

  ~*~

  There was no time to do anything but kick his feet free from the stirrups as Frank’s horse collapsed under him and he felt himself being thrown forward. He wrenched his body around, dropping from the saddle and sensed the ground coming up fast. He made an attempt to stay on his feet. Managed to keep some semblance of balance, knowing that every second he wasted would give his opponent a better chance of hitting him. He jerked his body round so he was facing Colton—recognizing him now he was close—and pulled his rifle on line.

  Colston, clinging to his saddle horn with a shaky left hand, arced his Colt back on Frank. The simple act of maintaining his grip on his saddle drew waves of pain from his shoulder. He persisted, aware of Frank targeting him with his Winchester.

  ~*~

  Frank saw Colston had lost his handgun in the collision. Went for his own but the moment was lost as Colston, lunging up and forward, swung a closed fist that caught Frank alongside his jaw, tearing a gash in his flesh. Frank’s head spun from the blow. He felt a surge of anger, set himself and returned the blow, his own big fist clouting Colston full in the mouth. As his lips split and spurted blood Colston was brought up short though only for an instant. He set his feet and threw up his arm to block Frank’s next punch, pushing his fist aside then driving his next punch at Frank’s exposed stomach. Breath gusted from Frank as he took the blow, turned on his heels and slammed his right arm across the side of Colston’s head. It was a solid blow. Colston grunted, sent off balance, sensing Frank moving in close to launch a full attack. He launched a flurry of fists that hammered at Colston’s face and body. Frank might have been older than the outlaw but it made little difference. It was anger that drove his attack, his solid blows pushing Colston backwards, the sound hard and heavy. It took all of Colston’s own strength to absorb the blows, his face bruised and bloody as he reeled back under Frank’s onslaught. When his feet slipped from under him it was almost a relief as he stumbled and thumped to the ground on his butt. It offered him a brief respite from the marshal’s blows.

  For a few seconds Colston was in the clear and despite the dazed condition he was in he still had enough sense to offer resistance. He was unable to use his left, but his right was still working. His hand went to the heavy knife he carried sheathed on his belt. He plucked it free and before Frank could step clear Colston stabbed out, the keen blade sinking into the lawman’s right thigh, going in deep. Frank howled in pain, staggering back, feeling blood pulsing out around the steel blade.

  ‘Yell, lawdog ’cause I aim to stick that blade in your black heart.’

  Colston pushing himself upright, making a desperate lunge in Frank’s direction. His hand was reaching for the knife buried in the lawman’s leg, a croaky laugh rising in his throat.

  His hand never reached the knife.

  As if suddenly remembering he still carried his holstered Colt, Frank curled his fingers around the butt and pulled the revolver. He settled the muzzle on Colston and pulled the trigger. The spurt of flame was the last thing Cy Colston saw as the lead slug drove into his skull, tearing into his brain and out through the back of his head. He toppled back, hitting ground hard and lay still.

  Frank felt his right leg weaken. Registered the pain from the knife.

  The same damn leg that had taken a slug during the final showdown with the Lockharts. Now that was some bad luck, he thought.

  He let himself slip down, favoring his wounded leg. It was starting to throb with a deep seated ache. Frank found himself shaking his head as he stared at the knife in his thigh.

  Another pair of pants ruined was the single thought running through his mind.

  He was starting to consider it was becoming an expensive pastime being a lawman.

  After a couple of minutes he carefully examined the wound. It was in the fleshy part of his leg. At least clear of bone. He sat for a moment, considering what he needed to do. He had heard the advice about not taking out a knife from a wound until a doctor could deal with it which advice was not relevant at the moment.

  Frank, you’re going to need to do this yourself ‘cause you are a long way from any damn doctor.

  He decided there was only one way to tackle the situation head on. There was no profit in sitting and thinking it over. He clasped his left hand over his thigh, gripped the knife handle and yanked it free with his right, a surge of warm blood following as the blade came out. Frank gave a strangled yell as pain engulfed his leg. He threw the bloody knife from him, clamping his right hand over the wound, rocking his body back and forth as the pain pulsed through his limb. He expressed his feelings in a protracted litany of every cuss word he knew and didn’t stop until the pain began to lessen.

  Frank kept his hands against his blood-soaked pants, doing what he could to compress the wound. He took his neckerchief and bound it tightly over the wound. It was the best he could do right now. He stayed where he was and let the sickness settle before he slowly stood and limped to his horse. He unhooked his canteen and took a swallow of the warm water, leaning his body against the bulk of his grumbling horse. He sluiced water over his face, sleeving away some of the blood there. His bruised flesh was still aching from Colston’s blows.

  Colston’s horse stood, head down, watching him. It was tired from Colston having pushed it and when Frank approached it stayed where it was. He took his time crossing to the horse, taking slow steps until he was able to lean against the animal, stroking its neck.

  Checking Colton’s saddlebags Frank found the dead man’s share of the takings from the bank at Vermijo.

  ‘Well hell I never had this much money in my hands before,’ he said.

  He put the money back and fastened the pouch, he brought his own bags and possessions and slung them in place. He took time to reload his rifle and revolver. He used Colton’s slicker to cover the body, placing stones to keep the edges down. There was little else he could do for the man. In time the ever present wind would disturb the covering and expose the body, scavengers would appear and the bare bones would be left to bleach under the relentless sun. That was inevitable. The cycle of life and death came and went regardless of man and his resistance. Mortal struggles had their time but life’s span offered no escape.

  Frank climbed slowly into the saddle, easing his aching leg into position. The wound was still leaking blood but not too fast. Beneath him the horse shied uneasily, unsure of its new rider. He soothed it, leaning forward to stroke its neck, talking soft and the animal finally settled.

  ‘We got us a way to go, feller, so try to give me a steady ride.’

  Frank turned the horse around and set it on a course that would, hopefully, let him find Luke. He felt the wind rising, sweeping more dust over the landscape. Finding his grandson was not going to be easy but Frank was hoping to locate him.

  ~*~

  Luke was hunkered down in the lee of a massive boulder, studying the layout of what he would learn was Burgough’s. Right now all he saw was the sprawl of buildings, partly obscured by the wind-blown dust and the daylight fast slipping away. He had been in his present position f
or the last couple of hours. Had seen the two men leave the building and collect their horses from the stable and ride away. The trail he had been following had led him here so Luke was confident his man was holed up in the building. Most likely sitting out the dust storm. With the storm showing no signs of letting up and darkness setting in riding through the prevailing conditions would be risky.

  Which left Luke between a rock and a hard place.

  Did he stay where he was and have himself battered by the storm, or move in and confront his man? That was going to happen one way or the other whether he moved now or later.

  Close by Luke’s horse stamped restlessly, nervous in the rising wind and choking dust. It occurred to Luke he might have a solution to his immediate problem and moved immediately. He loosened the horse’s reins and led the animal out from the cover of the boulder, walking slow across the uneven ground. He took a long, wide circuit of the building, at least thankful there were no windows that might give away his presence and the buffeting wind would cover any sound he might make. He circled the building, crossing the rear, then cut across to the stable. Luke eased open the half door and steadied it until he was able to guide his horse inside the shadowed building. He felt the door push against his hand as the wind caught it.

  There were three horses already settled in the stalls. Luke looked them over. A pair in one stall. Then a single animal, its coat powdered with dust. The saddle and trappings nearby had a similar coating of dust. When Luke ran his hand across the horse’s back, he could feel the slight moistness from the recently lifted saddle.

  Luke’s quarry.

  It had to be.

  He pushed the thought to the back of his mind as he led his own horse into an empty stall and spent the next minutes unsaddling and settling the animal. He used a piece of cloth from his saddlebags, damped with water from his canteen, to clear dust from the horse’s nostrils and around its eyes. He located feed in a barrel and put some out for the horse, tipping water into the stall’s trough.

  ‘Rest easy, boy. My turn now.’

  Luke took one of the revolvers he had acquired, checked it was fully loaded and tucked it in his belt at his back, letting his coat fall over to cover it. He made sure his holstered gun was ready, checking the action was free from any dust that might have drifted into the mechanism. He decided against taking his rifle. His intention was to go inside Burgough’s and that was going to mean close quarters if anything happened. Swinging a long gun around could easily slow a man down. He nodded to himself after accepting he had twelve shots available to him. If he couldn’t back his play with a pair of fully loaded handguns … he did tip out some extra shells from his saddlebag supply, dropping them in a pocket.

  He squared his hat, pushed the door open enough to step outside. He felt the powerful slap of the wind, hunched his shoulders against the rain of dust that hammered him. The light was fading fast now and Luke found he could barely see beyond the confines of the immediate area. A low moan of sound accompanied the wind, adding a haunting atmosphere.

  Pushing against the wind Luke crossed the yard, pausing at the door to Burgough’s. He dropped his right hand and loosened the holstered Colt. He was experiencing a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. Enough to make him pause before he reached for the handle of the door. The feeling was strong enough to hold him immobile as he considered what he was about to do and recalled something his Grandfather had told him…

  ‘Hell, son, I’d be a full on liar if’n I told you I was never scared at stepping into a gunfight. Man who ever said that was a pure storyteller. Think on it, Luke. You’re willing to set yourself up as a target for another hombre with a gun. Be damn sure that other feller is thinking the same. Nobody goes with a willing heart into a shootout without he don’t wonder if this time he’s going to take a bullet. That’s a powerful reason to step away free and clear. An’ no man could be called a coward if he did. Easy enough for the others to call him names because they don’t have to prove themselves. When you pin on that piece of tin don’t think you have to be a damn fool to prove yourself. Face whatever you get into but stay as safe as you can. An’ just remember, Luke, I’m backing you whatever you decide…’

  Luke figured one thing Frank Tyler could do was talk a long streak. Luckily for the most part it was good sense.

  And damned if he wasn’t about to put Frank’s sage advice to the test. Luke sucked in a breath and worked the handle and pushed the door open and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and surveyed the lamplit room. The warm air was heavy with the smell of cooked food, lingering tobacco smoke. There was coffee too. It was strong and Luke felt his stomach growl. He surveyed the area, taking in the table and benches. The makeshift bar. The cast iron stove throwing heat across the room.

  At first Luke thought the place was deserted. Until the bearded figure of Elmo Burgough stepped out of the shadows, planting both hands on the scarred bar top.

  ‘Hell of a day it’s turning out to be,’ he said.

  Luke stepped up to the bar, nodding his agreement. He stared around the empty room.

  ‘Looks to be a quiet one as well.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘That coffee smells good.’

  ‘No argument from me. You fancy a cup.’

  Luke nodded. ‘Or two,’ he said.

  ‘Find yourself a seat and I’ll bring it over.’

  Luke chose a spot where he could cover the whole room, door and all. He was close enough to the stove to feel the comforting heat. Dropping his hat on the table he scrubbed a hand through his thick hair, feeling the grittiness of dust there. He watched as Burgough brought his cup of coffee, noticing the man’s limp as he walked.

  ‘Caught it in a bear trap an age ago. Lucky not to have lost it completely. Happy to say it wasn’t one of my own traps. Would have been downright shameful if it had been.’

  ‘I ’spect so,’ Luke said. He took a drink. ‘Now that is good coffee …’

  ‘Elmo Burgough…and you’d be?’

  ‘Luke Tyler. Deputy US Marshal Tyler.’

  Burgough’s face showed no immediate reaction. He watched as Luke eased his coat open to show the badge pinned to his shirt.

  ‘I’d venture you’re on the hunt,’ Burgough said.

  ‘Could be.’

  Burgough nodded. ‘Have to be a strong reason for a badge toter to ride all the way out here.’

  ‘Job takes a man where he’s needed.’

  Burgough turned and limped his way back to the bar, making his move too obviously casual.

  ‘You wanting food?’

  ‘Can’t say no to that.’

  ‘Got some good steak meat in the kitchen. All the fixings to go with it.’

  Now Burgough was speaking in a near soft, friendly tone as he moved behind the bar.

  ‘You ridden a distance?’

  ‘Town called Vermijo,’ Luke said.

  ‘Can’t say I heard of it. They got problems?’

  ‘Bank was cleaned out. Manager murdered. Bunch who did it rode out, then split up.’

  ‘Posse out after ’em?’

  Luke shook his head, lifting his coffee cup again. In his left hand.

  ‘Town sheriff, US Marshal and me is all.’

  Under cover of the table Luke had slipped his hand to the butt of his Colt.

  Despite his feigning an interested pose as he listened to Luke, Burgough’s eyes flickered to the right for an instant.

  Luke saw he had glanced at the door on the far side of the room.

  That was when Burgough reached beneath the bar and produced a cut-down Greener shotgun. He might have been hindered by his damaged leg but his hands were fast and sure as he leveled the twin muzzles in Luke’s direction and hauled off yelling.

  ‘Lawdog, Jubal. Lookin’ for you. I got the drop on him,’

  Luke heard the throaty boom as the weapon discharged its deadly load, his body already twisting in a frantic turn. As it took him off the bench, he let go
of his cup, snatching his Colt free. Luke felt the burst of lead shot burn the air, snatching at the back of his coat. Then his left hand hit the puncheon floor and he let himself go into a shoulder roll, hammer back on the revolver as he swiveled his lean body around.

  He saw Burgough leaning forward, the Greener wavering back and forth as he sought to pick up Luke’s moving form. The bulk of the table and bench briefly covered him, allowing Luke the thinnest of chances to return fire. He forced himself to blot out the image of the shotgun’s smoking barrel. Thrust his Colt forward and fired. His shot hit the edge of the bar top, blowing out a shower of wood splinters almost in Burgough’s face. The man stepped back, shotgun raised toward the roof, giving Luke the opening he needed. He settled the Colt, hammer already back and touched the trigger again. The Colt spat smoke and flame. Burgough went back a step as the big .45 caliber slug of lead slammed into his chest. The Greener roared a second time, the discharge going into the roof.

  Luke rose to his feet, ignoring the sting across his back where Burgough’s first shot had skinned his shoulders. He pushed aside the bench as he took a step forward, lifting his revolver again and with cold, deliberate intent put a second shot into Burgough’s body. The man gave an odd grunt, toppling backwards and crashed into the lined up bottle on the shelf behind the bar. He fell amid the sound of breaking glass and lay still.

  Dropping his Colt Luke reached back and drew his second revolver, dogging back the hammer.

  A pre-warning sense made him turn in the direction of the far door. A moment later it crashed open. Framed in the doorway was a tall figure clad in grubby long-johns, a brace of pistols in his hands. He opened fire without hesitation, the crash of the shots muffling the yell of rage coming from his lips as he advanced into the room. Wood splinters exploded from the table as the misjudged shots struck it.

  Luke felt the sting as slivers scraped his cheeks. The pain spurred his response and he stood his ground, lifting his Colt and dropping the hammer on his first shot. The .45 slug slammed into the shooter’s mid-section, pushing him back a step. A look of astonishment clouded his face.