by John Glasby
‘Then I’m makin’ it my business as of now.’ Frank flipped back his jacket to reveal the star. ‘Now which room is Blackie Carron in?’
‘He ain’t here,’ grunted out the other suddenly. He squared up to Frank.
‘I happen to know he is.’ Frank scarcely seemed to move, but the next moment his left hand had grabbed the other’s shirt front, twisting it into a tight ball as he pulled the man closer to him, thrusting the barrel of the Colt against the loose skin at the base of his throat. His thumb tripped the hammer back with an ominous click. ‘Guess you just made a mistake, Frenchy.’
He saw the other’s adam’s apple jerk as he swallowed convulsively. For the first time a look of fear appeared in his eyes. ‘All right. So I made a mistake. He’s upstairs. Second room on the left.’
‘Alone?’
The other nodded wordlessly. Frank released his grip on him and the man staggered back against the wall, watching him out of hate-filled eyes. Frenchy got most of his custom from the Double Circle men, so it was only natural that he should side with them against him. Also, the shrewd French-Canadian had a good idea which side his bread was buttered, figured that whatever happened, Witney Foran was soon going to be the top man around Benton and he was not a man likely to forget his friends — or his enemies.
The smell of the place was musty and mildewed, with the remnant odours of a thousand things hanging in the still, unmoving air. Something scurried across the floor ahead of Frank as he reached the top of the stairs and stood quite still, listening around for any sign of movement. The door which Frenchy had indicated was closed and he tip-toed over to it, pressed his ear against it for a moment. There was no sound from inside. Was Blackie there or had he seen him coming and somehow guessed his intention? If the Double Circle ramrods were in town looking for him, it meant they had decided he was a menace that had to be got rid of as quickly as possible and it was unlikely they would relax their vigilance simply because he had, until a little while ago, gone around unarmed.
Then, as he stood there, he heard the creak of a bed spring. Gripping the door handle, Frank twisted it sharply, thrust the door open and stepped through, levelling the gun on the man who lay sprawled on the bed. Blackie started up as though shot, then sank back on to the bed, eyes smouldering.
‘So somebody gave the little boy a gun,’ he said sneeringly. ‘I wondered when they’d get around to that. I suppose it was that fool Talbot who did this. Anythin’ he’s scared to do, he tries to pass on to somebody else.’ He sucked on the cigarette he had been smoking. ‘And now you’ve got the drop on me, what do you reckon you’re goin’ to do?’
‘I figure the first thing will be to lock you up in the town jail. Then you’ll answer to a charge of murder.’
The other grimaced. ‘You’ve got no proof of that, Condor. You’re bluffin’ and I aim to call your bluff right now.’ He made to swing his legs to the floor and get to his feet.
Frank thumbed the hammer back. ‘I’m warnin’ you, Carron. You make a move without my say-so and you’ll stop lead. I’ve suddenly developed a palsied trigger-finger thinking over what you’ve been doin’ around here and you can look on this badge here as a licence to kill.’
Carron stiffened abruptly. His hand which had been on the point of reaching out for the gunbelt hanging over the back of the nearby chair, halted in mid air. Stepping forward, Frank eased the twin Colts out of their holsters and tossed them into the corner of the room. ‘Now get on to your feet. Make one move I don’t like and I’ll plug you.’
‘You’ll never get away with this and you know it, Condor. Put me in that jail and Witney Foran will be ridin’ into town with so many men they’ll put this place to the torch.’ A murderous fury blazed up in the other’s dark eyes, burned like a fire whipped up by the wind, then died as a crafty expression replaced it.
‘Maybe he’ll try,’ Frank said evenly. He made a quick motion with the gun. ‘Now move ahead of me, down the stairs and out into the street. Don’t expect any help from Frenchy. I’ve already had a talk with that critter. He knows exactly what to expect if he tries anythin’. Reckon he’s too fond of keeping his hide unperforated to bother about you right now.’
Some of the indolence left Carron. His mouth was firmly set as he moved slowly in the direction of the door with Frank’s gun barrel poking him hard in the spine. At the door, he paused, half-turned. ‘Why don’t you get wise to yourself, Condor? You’ve got no call to like this town any more than we have. Just where do you fit into this affair?’
‘Let’s say I don’t like snakes who make their livin’ shootin’ men in the back like Slim Edmonds, or stringin’ up badly wounded men whose only fault was that they weren’t on Foran’s side.’
‘You’re sure making one hell of a mistake doin’ this,’ Blackie grunted. ‘You’ll never get me to that jail. I’ve got men outside who’ll drop you the minute you show your face outside the door of this place.’
‘Maybe so. But there ain’t a bullet made that could stop me from smashing your spine with one shot. So just ponder on that while you’re goin’ down the stairs.’ He thrust the gun barrel a little harder into the foreman’s back, felt the other wince, then move forward. Slowly, they made their way along the passage and down the stairs. Frenchy was nowhere to be seen as they went along the narrow hall towards the front door. For a moment, Frank wondered about the other. There was the possibility that he had slipped away to warn the other Double Circle men of what was happening. But he hadn’t any time to think about that now. He had only to relax his vigilance for a moment and Carron would turn it to his advantage.
The street door was open and Carron went through slowly, Frank following close behind. In spite of his show of confidence, he was feeling somewhat uneasy in his mind. Carron was not the sort of man to go with him like this, without a fight. It seemed more probable that he knew his men had been warned and he was keeping his eyes open, ready to explode into action the moment somebody started shooting. It all added up to the possibility of there being half a dozen or so guns waiting out there for him among the lengthening shadows around the buildings on either side of the street and it reminded him of the sort of target his broad back made for any marksmen behind one of the windows or perched on the flat roofs.
‘You still think you can go through with this, Condor?’ sneered Carron. ‘Seems to me that you’re getting almighty nervous.’
‘Then you’d better be careful it doesn’t spread to my trigger finger,’ retorted Frank. ‘Walk along the boardwalk to the jail, Carron. Remember what I told you. The first sign of any trouble from those riders with you and you’ll get the fast bullet.’
The length of street as far as the square was empty — ominously so — as the two men began to move slowly towards the jail. Frank ran his gaze slowly over the horses tied up outside the saloon. He recognized several of the Double Circle mounts but there was no sign of any of the crew. The shadows between the buildings lay thickly on the ground, plenty of places where men might lie in waiting. One of the horses at the hitch rail snorted suddenly, kicked out at the flies which buzzed in an irritating cloud about it. Almost as if the abrupt movement had been a signal, a voice yelled harshly:
‘Condor!’ The echoes chased themselves into silence among the houses.
Blackie Carron half turned his head. There was a grin on his fleshy features. ‘Reckon you’re in a spot now, Marshal,’ he grated. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘Just you keep on movin’,’ Frank said tightly. He had sighted the shadow thrown by this man just between the saloon and the grain store next door to it. ‘Better warn those boys of yours that you get a bullet if they don’t step out into the street with their hands lifted.’
‘Go to hell,’ snarled the big foreman savagely. He stood quite still in spite of the hard pressure of the gun barrel in his back.
‘Step away from Blackie, Condor,’ yelled the voice again. ‘This is the last warnin’ you’re goin’ to get. There are four g
uns trained on you.’
Frank hesitated for less than a second. He had just glimpsed another of the Double Circle men crouched on the roof of the livery stables a few yards further along the opposite side of the street. Before Carron could make a move, Frank reversed the gun in his hand, hitting Blackie on top of the skull with the butt, sending him sprawling to the slatted boardwalk. Even before the other’s unconscious body had crashed to the ground, Frank was diving for the cover of the water trough a couple of feet away, skidding along the rough wood as bullets crashed over his head, embedding themselves in the slats. Something laid a burning touch along his upper arm. He flinched, but steadied himself long enough to loose off a shot at the man on the roof of the stables. He saw the other draw back sharply, drop his gun and clutch at an injured arm. Not good enough to put him out of action for good, Frank thought tautly. But it gave him enough time to divert his attention towards the man in the narrow alley. The gunhawk’s pistol barked sharply and the slug whistled within an inch of Frank’s head.
Leaving the unconscious foreman where he lay, he got his legs under him, thrust himself off the ground in one quick leap and ran for the narrow lane which adjoined the building, jumping away from splintering stone and whining lead as more bullets followed him. At the rear of the building, a sharply-angled wooden erection gave difficult access to the roof. Holstering the Colt, he jumped for the overhang, caught it with his fingers and hung there for a moment with every fibre of his arms screaming with the agony, then slowly succeeded in hauling himself up on to the overhanging bar, wriggling along it with his legs, steadying himself as he reached the far end. Now he was lying athwart the broad beam where it joined the wall less than four feet below the level of the roof. Even so, it was not going to be easy to make it.
Bracing himself, hanging on only by his legs, he eased himself up slowly, balancing like a wire-walker, then leapt into space, fingers clawing for the stone abutment which projected out from the corner of the roof. Clasping it, he hung there, sucking air into his lungs, then pulled himself up to safety with a wrenching of shoulder muscles. Bending low, he ran to the front of the building, crouched down near the stone parapet.
The man who had been hiding in the alley across the street was just visible now, a dark figure peering towards the rear of the building around which Frank had disappeared a few moments before. He was almost an open shot from that angle. Another two men were lying on their stomachs behind the horse trough further along the street and on the roof of the building almost directly opposite, he could make out the prone figure of the fourth gunman. If there were any other Double Circle riders around he could not see them.
Easing the Colt from its holster, he levelled it across his left arm, took quick aim at the man in the mouth of the alley and fired swiftly, saw the other suddenly arch as the bullet took him just above the heart. The gunhawk lifted slightly on splayed-out legs, planed backward under the leaden impact. He hit the dust with a sickening thud and lay still, his pistol jetting aimlessly at the sky. Frank had seen many men go down like that and not one of them had lived more than a few seconds afterwards.
But the shot had given away his position. The man on the opposite roof jerked up his gun, aimed and fired in the same fluid motion. The bullet ricocheted off the roof, the twisted slug of lead screaming over Frank’s right shoulder. One of the men behind the horse trough yelled harshly, in a scared, high-pitched voice, jerking up his gun. Drawing himself into a half-crouch to expose as little as possible of his body to Frank’s fire, he turned about and vanished into the saloon, the doors swinging shut behind him. His companion tried to do likewise, reached the slowly-swinging doors just as Frank’s bullet took him in the back. He collapsed in an inert heap in the doorway, his gun falling from nerveless fingers.
Ignoring the splash of white-hot lead on the edge of the parapet, Frank sighted on the man on the opposite roof. The other had thrust himself down behind one of the abutments with only part of his legs visible. Frank waited with ill-concealed impatience, the other Colt balanced in his hand now. There had been no time in which to reload the first. From where he lay, it was impossible to see what was going on in the street below. Most of the townsfolk who had been watching, had prudently vanished into the nearby buildings, scattering the instant gunplay started up. But Carron was still down there, unconscious it was true, but there was still a chance for one of his boys to sneak up directly beneath where Frank lay and take him away. He snapped a couple of shots at the gunhawk, aiming over an extended arm. The elevated brim of the other’s hat disappeared, but it was impossible to tell whether or not he had been hit. It didn’t seem likely. Scenting victory, Frank edged a little closer to the drop-off of the roof. Almost instantly, there was return fire from the man behind the opposite abutment. The man was evidently unhurt, but he was excited and began to fan.
Clenching his teeth in sudden frustration, Frank waited for the other to reappear, knowing he had the man pinned down, unable to move forward or backward without exposing himself. When the seconds had lengthened into a couple of minutes without any further move on the other’s part, Frank decided there was only one way to force the man out into the open. Deliberately, he rose to his knees, his gaze fixed on the spot behind which the man lay.
‘All right. Throw down your gun and lift your hands,’ he yelled loudly.
The other’s reaction was, as Frank had expected, immediate. He threw himself sideways as the man rose, lining up his gun on Frank. He was still in mid-air when he fired, saw the other stagger as he was hit, then tilt and sway drunkenly, pitching forward. For a split second he teetered on the very edge of the roof, then dropped forward into nothing. He hit the top of the boardwalk immediately beneath, crashed through it with a loud splintering of wood.
When there came no further movement from the street, he lowered himself from the roof on to the low veranda, then dropped lightly to the ground, moving over to the man on the far side of the street. As he neared the man he saw to his surprise that the other was not dead, although he was pretty near it. A faint groan escaped from the man’s bloodless lips and he tried to roll over on to his back. His eyes were already glazing over, blood trickling from his mouth and dripping off his chin. His gun lay in the dust some feet away from his clawed fingers which groped blindly for it. There was something of deep hatred in the dark eyes as he paused, then fumbled beneath his jacket.
‘Don’t try it!’ Frank warned. He knew the signs better than most. A small Derringer hidden in an arm holster.
The other did not seem to hear. With the last ounce of his strength, he struggled desperately, managed to half draw the small gun from its holster before the Colt in Frank’s hand spoke again. The slug knocked the gunslinger back among the splintered wood, dead for sure this time.
Straightening up, Frank drew a deep breath into his lungs, pouched the smoking Colt. He turned to glance in the direction of the small group of men who had come tumbling through the doors of the saloon now that the gunfight was over, men who stared open-mouthed at the bodies in the street.
‘Better fetch the undertaker,’ Frank said thinly. He spun on his heel and walked back to where Blackie Carron still lay on his face. As he reached the foreman, the other pushed himself up on to his hands, his head hanging down between them. He shook himself feebly, lifted his head to stare up at the tall man standing over him.
‘All right, Carron,’ Frank snapped. ‘On your feet. We’ve got an appointment with the sheriff.’
The other offered no reply. Sullenly, rubbing the back of his head, he staggered to his feet, stood swaying for a moment, staring about him at the scene of carnage in the street. There was a look of stunned surprise on his features as he moved along the street with Frank following close behind.
Not until Carron was safely locked in one of the cells at the rear of the sheriff’s office, did Frank force himself to relax. Talbot replaced the bunch of keys on the book behind his desk. There was a troubled expression on his grizzled face.
> ‘Somehow, I’m not sure whether this was a wise move on your part or not, Frank. Witney Foran is sure goin’ to be as mad as hell when he hears about this little episode. He won’t rest until he’s got Carron out of jail and fixed you for killin’ his boys.’
‘That’s the way I’m figurin’ it too,’ Frank affirmed. ‘It may serve to force his hand. And when a man’s made to act without thinkin’, out of pure rage, he’s liable to make mistakes. That’s what I’ll be waitin’ for.’
‘Just so long as you know what you’re doin’,’ grunted the other. ‘You say one of ’em managed to get away. You can bank on Foran knowin’ about this before nightfall. Hope you weren’t plannin’ on leavin’ town for a while. If you were to leave us at the mercy of the Double Circle crew, this town wouldn’t be in one piece by mornin’.’
‘You’ve no need to worry on that score. I don’t aim to leave until I know what Foran is aimin’ to do.’
‘Good.’ The other was plainly relieved at this. ‘I’ve got some of the ranchers comin’ into town shortly after dark. Reckon they don’t want to be seen abroad until they hear your proposition. Can’t say I blame ’em. This Foran is a tough man to cross. I’d sooner step on the tail of a rattler than go up against him; and most of these men feel the same way. They’ve seen what he can do to get what he wants. Reckon a lot of the smaller men figure that they’re too unimportant for him to worry about, that he won’t want to grab off their bit of land and water if he can get his hands on Carson’s place. Maybe you can get them to change their minds, but you won’t find it easy.’
‘They’ve got to know the score sooner or later. No use stickin’ their heads in the sand and thinkin’ there’s no danger just because they’re small fry. If they do that, he’ll simply pick ’em off one at a time without any trouble. Now he’s got the Macey brothers to back his play, as well as Frisco, he’ll be feelin’ pretty confident of himself.’
*
