by Mason, Zack
He looked mad enough to spit nails. His hand hovered over his pistol grip, one moment away from drawing on me. I wasn’t about to draw on him. Even at the ready like he was, I could probably still beat him, but I had enough blood on my hands. If he wanted to shoot me, so be it.
He didn’t. Instead he jerked his head towards the jail, indicating I should move that way. I started over and he followed.
***
A few minutes later, harsh words greeted me when I reemerged from the Sheriff’s office into the street.
“You ain’t got no idea who’s been yanking your chain, Halfbreed!”
“Why don’t you tell me, Talon.”
John Talon wore a dirty, trail-worn black hat with its bent brim pulled down low in front of his eyes. He had squared off in front of me about twenty feet away. The heat of the noon-day sun drew beads of sweat from my forehead and some of it trickled down into my eye. Instinctively, I wanted to wipe my vision clear with my sleeve, but any motion would be interpreted wrongly.
John Talon wasn’t sweating, not one bit.
I watched the muscles in his forearms twitch and contract in a revolving manner as his dancing fingers hovered over the grips of his guns. I should be watching his hands, I reminded myself.
Jim Talon stood to his left, his trail clothes smeared with streaks of dirt. His grimy face bore a lazy grin, his eyes mocking me as they watched. He was supremely confident in their ability to kill me, and he was right to be. They definitely had the advantage. Thankfully, he only wore one pistol. I didn’t know what miracle had led him to bring only one to the fight, but I was grateful for it.
Luke Phillips stood to John’s right, cool as a cat. He wore no grin, nor did any malice shine in his eyes. His stance simply spoke of sheer confidence, his face a witness of calm assurance that he could beat any man. He was not ruled by hate or passion. His mind was calculating, cold, and merciless. His fingers did not dance, nor hover in expectation. His thumbs were hooked loosely in his belt, waiting. I knew that in the same instant someone moved, his hands would drop and smoothly draw both guns, and before anybody else had cleared leather, his would be blazing. It would be lighting fast, and very probably the last draw I would ever see.
Charlie Pugh stood to Luke’s right. Pugh’s mouth twisted with an ugly sneer that made him resemble a growling bulldog. As it always did, insanity danced in and out of his eyes. He was ready to kill and would do a lot of it in his days until someone stopped him.
“Talon, the only man I’m after is the man who killed my brother. I don’t have any beef with you four.”
“What if I told you I killed him?”
“I’d have you arrested, but I don’t think you did. I think there’s somebody behind all this. Just tell me who it is, and we can let all this go.”
“What are ya, yella?” Jim piped in, “Why don’t you just shut up and start shooting.”
John added, “Nah, we didn’t kill yer’ brother. If you wanna know who did, maybe I’ll gut shoot ya, and then tell ya while yer’ dying. I think Jim’s right. I think yer’ yella!”
“I’m not going to fight you, John. My fight isn’t with you.” My ears couldn’t believe what was coming out of my mouth, but there it was.
None of them budged. They were determined, ready to fight.
“Well, maybe we’ll just have to start the dance for you then!” John growled.
“Hold it right there, boys!”
Sheriff McCraigh was behind me. He emerged from the shelter of the jail and stood next to me, shotgun in hand, badge firmly displayed on his chest. I’d never been happier to see him.
That’s why he’d motioned for me to go into the jail when I’d arrived a little while ago. He’d warned me the Talon’s were out looking for me. He’d also wanted to let me know he’d inspected the damage and the tracks at the canyon and decided that I wasn’t part of the rustlers.
His commitment to fairness in spite of personal feelings repeatedly impressed me. Now, he was backing me against the Talon gang.
“What I see here is shaping up to an unfair fight. Four against one? Any of you boys wants to take a shot at Halfbreed here, you’ll have to answer to my little peacemaker.” He patted the long barrel of his gun affectionately.
I thought that might end it right there. Nobody likes to go up against a shotgun at that close a range. It could tear a mighty big hole in a man.
Instead, the Talons, Phillips, and Pugh just slowly spread themselves further apart, assuring the 12 gauge couldn’t take out more than one of them at a time. McCraigh wasn’t likely to get a second shot.
John Talon let out a high whistle, and three more men materialized from the shadows across the street, positioning themselves behind the four gangsters. All carried six-guns and rifles.
Sorely outnumbered and out-gunned, I unconsciously glanced around, hoping someone else would come to our defense, but no one did. I looked at McCraigh to see if he was changing his mind about standing by me, but his eyes were fixed on Jim Talon.
He wasn’t leaving.
At least, I wouldn’t go down alone.
I was facing some of the fastest and meanest men in the territory, and I couldn’t keep my eyes on all of them. Leaving Jim Talon to Sheriff McCraigh, I focused my attention on John and Luke. They were both deadly as a rattler. I’d never heard of anyone beating Luke at a draw.
I hoped Pugh’s initial shots would go wild like the last time I faced him. That might give me just long enough to take down either Talon or Phillips before I was killed.
Death was looking me in the eyes either way. I didn’t have much hope of taking out four or five men at close range by myself.
We wouldn’t be getting help from anybody else, that was for sure. I was surprised enough that McCraigh was backing me.
John Talon dropped for both his guns simultaneously. His shots would be dead on. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Jim Talon beginning his draw.
Watching Luke Phillips was like watching the movements of a beautiful dancer. His hands did not jerk or fumble, they simply glided down to his holsters, deftly lifting his ivory-handled tools out and up in one smooth motion.
John’s guns were almost up. Luke’s were already aimed. To my surprise, both of mine were as well, one at each of them.
I had beaten them.
With my right, I squeezed off several shots at Luke. The first struck him in the shoulder, but he didn’t even flinch. My second missed. Smoke exploded from both his weapons, and hot lead tore into both my shoulders. The excruciating pain nearly crippled me.
My left hand barked and John stumbled, twisting in agony. As he fell, he jerked off a shot that struck my side, sending more burning sensations throughout my body.
McCraigh’s shotgun roared, followed by several pops. Jim Talon’s stomach was a mass of gore. He’d taken the full brunt of the shotgun blast. He was a dead man, and he knew it, but he’d managed to take McCraigh down with a couple of shots in spite of his wound. I was alone now.
With my left, I shot John Talon in the head. He was finished. With my right, I shot Luke Phillips in the stomach. He staggered away.
Charlie Pugh’s shots were as wild as I expected, but our close proximity still made it very scary. Dust spewed up around my feet, and my hat was knocked off my head. One of his bullets tore a path through the back of my calf.
I was having trouble standing now. Weakness was growing. One of the riflemen hit my left arm, forcing me to drop that gun, but I steadied my right, aimed, and took out the rifleman on the far right. I was more worried about them than Charlie.
I grabbed my fallen pistol and scrambled for cover behind a water trough. Too weak to fire as I ran, it was all I could do to keep moving. The second rifleman shot me in my left shoulder again. Pugh finally got off a decent shot and hit me in my right thigh. As I ducked behind the trough, I squeezed off a round which struck the first rifleman in the chest, putting him out of action. Then, the shooting quieted.
&nbs
p; I lifted my head over the edge of the trough, and the last rifleman took a shot at me, missing. We exchanged fire for several rounds from our respective hiding places.
For the next few minutes, I routinely let a few fly Charlie’s way just to keep him down. I had to reload several times, but being behind cover allowed me to do it with relative impunity.
My left arm was stiffening up. I was forced to drop my left gun again, and depend completely on my right.
With one last lucky shot, I wounded the last rifleman, and he dragged himself back into an alley. Pugh had run out of ammunition, which made me deliriously happy, but instead of ending the battle, he decided to charge me.
I had a fresh load of ammo, but was too weak to aim well. Blood blossomed on his legs, arms, and stomach as I fired, but still he came on like a rampaging bull. I hit him in the chest again and again.
Blood foamed around his mouth. His face took on a grotesque, inhuman character in his rage.
He was almost upon me now. I steadied my hand and waited till the last possible moment before firing. A neat hole formed in the center of his forehead, and he collapsed to the ground next to me.
I’d won.
Somehow, I’d made it through the fire.
Yet, I was having trouble breathing. I’d been shot seven times, and only by a miracle was I still alive. I couldn’t feel or move my left arm. My calf and side burned intolerably. My thigh was bleeding a lot, enough to be concerned. I tried to tear off a piece of my shirt to make a tourniquet, but now my right shoulder was freezing up, and I couldn’t maneuver well enough to do it.
The colors of the devastation before me began to brighten and fade in a slow, unpredictable rhythm. A loud buzzing filled my ears.
Into my blurred vision stepped Luke Phillips. He stood over me, blood saturating the lower part of his shirt. His mouth twisted in a sloppy grin. I’d never seen him look like that before. He almost looked like Charlie.
His gun lifted as the evil smile reached his eyes. I tried to raise my right gun in defense. I knew my left was useless, but I couldn’t feel my right now either. I was about to drift into unconsciousness or worse. The retort of one final shot broke the gunpowder-singed silence.
Luke’s smile faded and he crumpled to the ground. I couldn’t understand who had shot him. I just knew it hadn’t been me.
Then, Doc was standing over me, rifle in hand, sober as the day he was born.
He dropped the rifle and knelt beside me, barking orders and pleas to people I could no longer see.
***
Ice-cold water on my face shocked me out of my com-atose state. The pain throughout my body was terrible. Stiff was not a sufficient word to describe what was happening in all four of my extremities.
I was lying on a cot in a small room.
The door opened and in walked Doc. He was still sober, though he certainly stank of the whiskey.
“Well, my boy, I don’t know how you made it out of that firefight alive, but I’m glad to see you are going to make it. You’ve got some holes in you, but they’ll heal, I expect. None of the bullets hit any vital organs, believe it or not, and the only lead which didn’t pass all the way through you, I was able to get out while you were unconscious.”
“Did you shoot Luke Phillips?”
“Yes, but think nothing of it, my boy. He was about to gun you down.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten involved,” I croaked weakly, “Not for me.”
“No trouble. You’re a decent sort, Halfbreed. A man’s got to take a stand sometime in his life. I figured it was as good a time as any.”
“How long was I out?”
He pulled out his pocket watch by a golden chain. It was missing the glass face. “About 4 hours. Now that you’re awake, let me get you some medicine.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.” I struggled to a sitting position. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Nonsense!” The doctor eased me back down onto the cot. “You stay put. You’re in no condition to go anywhere — I’ll be right back.”
He hurried out the door, presumably to get me some medicine.
I knew I couldn’t stay cooped up in the middle of town like this. Somebody with powerful connections was still out to get me, and I didn’t know who they were. As long as I was lying here helpless, I was a sitting duck.
I sat back up, and with a groan, I struggled to my feet. A little unsteady, I almost fell several times. I could barely walk on my legs, they were so swollen. The pain was almost unbearable. My shoulders hurt just about as much. My arms weren’t going to be much use to me for a while either.
I staggered out the back door and into the alley behind Doc’s office. One agonizing step at a time, I made my way to the front of the buildings and looked for my horse. I finally found him down at the hostler’s. Somebody had taken him there after the shooting to be cared for. No matter how people felt about a man, they weren’t about to abuse his horse if they could help it.
Mounted, I groggily considered my options, but I had none. Every door in Cottonwood would still be closed to me. Nobody knew about my experience on the mesa, nor would they care. The Sheriff had stood by me, but he was either dead or wounded. I was half-dead myself and wouldn’t make it for long on my own. I had to get somewhere I could be cared for.
God, if you still want me to live, you’ll have to provide, because I don’t know where to go.
Suddenly, I had an idea. A strange and unconventional idea. Maybe one born from the mind of a delusional man. Still, something told me it was my only choice.
***
I trembled as I rode. Not from cold, for there was not a chill in the air. It could have been fear, or nervousness, or simply having lost so much precious blood. My clothes were sticky with it. My dirt-soaked, shredded shirt clung limply to my torso.
Such thick pain can be unpleasant enough by itself, but when trimmed with a never-ending general discomfort, it can get downright torturous. Coagulated blood had glued the ripped fabric of my jeans to my wounds. So, when I dared take a step, or my horse moved too sharply, the cloth pulled and ripped at them, provoking annoying twinges of pain to buzz around my mind like fingernails on a chalkboard.
I swayed with my mount as he trod onward. My body felt weaker than at any other time in my entire life.
Few men get shot seven times and live to tell about it. To me, that meant whatever God had for me to do, I obviously hadn’t done it yet, because he had stepped in once more to save me from the guillotine. The Lord knew I wasn’t doing much myself in the way of avoiding it.
I had to pause my horse at the halfway point to my goal. The pain in my leg had grown unbearable. Every step of the animal’s gait seemed to inflame it more, and I felt a fever coming on.
I dismounted and hastily built a crude fire to relieve some of my shivering. Once I had some flames going, I realized it really wouldn’t be big enough to help much, and I was in no shape to search for more fuel.
I could feel a bullet embedded in the muscle of my thigh. Either Doc hadn’t been very careful, or he’d been drunker than I thought, because he’d sure missed a pretty obvious piece of lead.
If I let it be, I was sure to develop a serious infection, and at a minimum, I’d lose my leg. I needed to get that bullet out — and fast.
I sterilized my bowie knife in the tiny fire, and began to prod. Flames of searing pain barreled up my leg and hip.
I forced myself to concentrate in spite of its intensity. I could not afford to faint or pass out. I dug deeper until I located the spent bullet, a dull grey slug bathed in a pool of bright red. It felt lodged against the bone.
With a sudden jerk, I tried to flick it out of my leg. Agony roared, and I lost consciousness. There was no way of knowing how long I was out, but it couldn’t have been too long, because my leg was still bleeding pretty steadily when I awoke. A red puddle had formed around my knee in the dirt. The bullet lay in the dust next to the fire.
Dragging myself over to my saddlebag
s, I took out a small tin of whiskey and poured some of it on the hole in my thigh. I manipulated the wound, opening and closing it to get the whiskey down into it. In addition to being an antiseptic, it would have a slight numbing effect.
Very slight, apparently, because I almost passed out again.
I had some whiskey left, so I distributed it among my other inflamed wounds. Every little bit would help.
Next, I tore my shirt into several strips and tied them around the worst of my injuries to slow the bleeding.
After taking a few minutes to catch my breath, I tried to get moving again, but found I couldn’t stand up on my leg. No matter what I did, I kept falling back to the ground helplessly.
So, I dragged my broken form through the dirt over to my horse and grabbed the stirrup for support. I tried to use it to pull myself up, but the horse shied away a few steps, dragging me with him and evoking immense waves of new pain.
If I wasn’t careful, he’d spook and run off. Then, what would I do? So, I tried again, as slowly and as patiently as I could manage in my condition.
Finally, I gained enough support to pull myself into a half-standing position, leaning into the steed. Blessedly, he stood still, seeming to sense my agony.
I swung into the saddle, and pain and blood flowed from the holes in my shoulders and side. I was beginning to lose hope that I would make it after all.
My mind swam as I rode, not able to focus on anything specific, even if I strained for it. The pain screamed so loud any rational thought was drowned out. Mercifully, the ride soon devolved into a numb, stuporous journey.
I wasn’t even aware of it when I reached the ranch. I just felt rough hands pulling me from off my horse.
After that, I blacked out completely.
