No shouts: no more shots. Hart barged the back door open and went in. Both men at the front whirled their guns to face him.
‘You sure take chances,’ said leather-jacket.
Hart nodded. There’s one round in back.’
‘Jesus!’
More shooting from out front drew their attention. Hart hurried back to the window and peered out, waited until he saw another flare of gunfire and then answered it. Thunder rumbled across the sky.
‘Damn it!’ cursed leather-jacket. ‘What are we doing gettin’ trapped in this hole like fools?’
Hart would have grinned except that it wasn’t really funny. It never was when the tables were turned.
Thunder rolled and echoed overhead.
The air was taut: heavy.
No one had fired a shot for a full minute. Two. Three. The detective by the door finished reloading his gun and dropped it back into his holster. Through a more distant drumming of thunder they heard, just, the sound of horses’ hoofs, moving away.
Leather-jacket went for the couple cowering behind the bar. ‘You bastards said they’d left! You let us sit here in some stinkin’ trap!’
‘Easy,’ said his colleague, still looking out through the window into the dark.
‘You lied your hind teeth off!’ His fist slammed down on the bar and small pieces of broken glass jumped into the air.
‘That don’t have to be,’ said Hart, stepping closer.
The swollen face turned on him. ‘They said those killers had left town.’
Hart pushed another shell down into his Colt and shrugged. ‘Maybe they did.’
‘Then, in God’s name, what happened here?’
‘They came back.’
Chapter Eleven
The stump of candle sent out a pale, faint light from the center of the room. When the wind cut through the rotting boards the flame peaked and thinned, threatened to gutter and go out.
Waite leaned against the bottom edge of the window frame, staring out. A ring of almost white light came off the rim of hills to the east and above it patches of deep red cut the gray-black dark. Water ran fast down the gulleys that marked the outer edges of the abandoned town and spread out into the plain.
Whoever had built here, for whatever reason, they had not stayed long. Ten buildings, a dozen at best, left years back to the creatures that had lived there long before this brief attempt at civilization. Now they waited there - Waite, Walker, Weston, Colley. Waited and watched.
‘See anythin’?’ called the Negro from under his blanket.
‘No,’ Waite growled back. ‘There ain’t nothin’ movin’. He ain’t there.’
‘He?’ Walker pushed himself up onto one arm.
‘Yeah. The one with the pearl-handled gun. The one from Caldwell. The one from the train.’
‘I thought there were three of ’em.’
‘The other two are nothin’. It’s him.’
Walker threw back the blanket, stood up and laughed. ‘You’re lettin’ him get to you.’
Waite took a couple of angry strides away from the window. ‘What the hell d’you mean?’
Walker grinned.
‘Out with it, you dumb nigger!’
Walker was still grinning, but the expression in his eyes had changed, hardened. ‘He’s gettin’ to you. Getting you spooked. Worried. You think that fancy Colt of his has got your name on it.’
‘Bullshit!’
The Negro’s smile faded. ‘You should have killed him on
the train.’
Waite stared at him a moment and then turned back towards the window.
‘An’ you know it. That’s what’s eatin’ into you. Part of it. You had the drop on him an’ you should have taken him and then none of this would have been happening.’
‘Shut it!’
Waite whirled fast, the long coat spinning out behind him, his hand curving over the butt of the Smith & Wesson Schofield he had holstered at his hip.
Walker shifted his stance, spreading his legs. His left hand flexed close over the grip of his Colt Peacemaker.
‘Shut that goddam nigger mouth of yours before I shut it once an’ for all!’
The smile was seeping back on to Walker’s face. The angrier Waite became, the better it was going to be if the showdown came.
‘You should have killed him, Waite. You just weren’t good enough.’
‘Stop that sneerin’ before I blast it off your ugly black face!’
Walker laughed out loud, mocking. ‘Waite, if you couldn’t take him, what in the Lord’s name makes you think you can take me?’
‘We’ll see!’
‘Right!’
As both men began their moves the sound of a Winchester being worked stopped their fingers inches from the butts of their guns.
‘Don’t be fools.’
The hands still hovered, hesitated. The flickering light from the single candle sent light and shadow alternating over Weston’s face as he leaned back against the side wall, his rifle in his hands and shifting through a narrow arc between the two men. The black leather patch that covered his right eye seemed even less natural in that light, Weston’s face pale and flat against the dark triangle.
‘Not now.’
Colley’s angular body appeared in the doorway. ‘Not now. Weston’s right.’
Colley’s sawn-off shotgun was loose in his right hand, pointing towards the floor.
‘One day,’ said Waite, threateningly, his sunken eyes staring at the Negro. ‘One day I’m goin’ to show you I’m faster’n you’ll ever be.’
Walker laughed, a short, mocking laugh that nearly sent Waite’s hand back to his pistol - would have done if it hadn’t been for the Winchester that was covering him, the shotgun in the opposite doorway.
He pointed a long finger at the Negro. ‘Faster’n you’ll ever be.’
‘Thought someone was takin’ watch,’ said Colley. ‘I done my spell.’
Walker nodded.
‘It’s Waite,’ said Weston.
Waite grunted and spun on his heels. Through the window he could see to the left that the dawn was rising over the hills; the slim ring of white light had spread and yellowed out; the scarce patches of red above it had broadened into deep orange. To the right the outlines of the other buildings stood out clearly and beyond them the lightening expanse of flat prairie.
Weston put up his rifle and leaned it against the wall to his left. His head was throbbing bad, it felt as if someone’s fist was clutching at his brain and squeezing, releasing and squeezing tight. Back of his one good eye a nerve started to tick remorselessly.
He reached out for the three-quarters-empty whiskey bottle and the back of his knuckles sent it over, rolling along the pitted boards.
The sound spun the others round.
Weston scrambled after the bottle, whiskey spilling out down the open neck as it rolled.
‘What the hell?’
His hand seized the bottle and he set it to his mouth, swallowing hard and deep, seeking to blank out the pain in his head.
A low rolling followed the first light of sun in from the hills and they knew it was thunder.
‘Jesus! If we—’
‘Quiet!’
Waite was staring through the window, his eyes fixed on the plain, a still small object moving forward, slow, very slow, little more than a speck but one which refused to change direction and came on and on.
Walker appeared alongside him and followed the direction of Waite’s pointing finger.
He saw the moving shape and nodded. ‘That him?’
‘That’s the bastard.’
‘How can you be sure? That could be anyone.’
Waite shook his head.
‘Anyone.’
‘It’s him.’
Walker grabbed at Waite’s sleeve. ‘You can’t tell. There’s no way of being certain.’
‘I know.’ Waite knocked the Negro’s hand away. ‘I feel it. Inside. I know it’s him.’
<
br /> Walker nodded, stepped clear. ‘Then’s let’s get ready for him.’
Weston squeezed between two piles of decaying lumber and reached his hand upwards to the nearest rung of the ladder. His fingers tapped the underside of it and then fell back. Weston took the Winchester in both hands and threw it up on to the platform, hearing it land and roll. He jumped for the rung, his hands closed about it, there was a cracking sound, another, he hauled his body up and shifted his right hand up onto the next rung. As he reached it, the first one split and broke.
Weston’s body swung there, one arm holding him as he bounced against the stacked planking.
His head throbbed and sang.
His arm muscles ached.
He slowly pulled himself round until he could reach up with his other hand. This rung seemed stronger and he trusted it for a few moments before continuing his climb. His breath was rattling in his chest by the time he reached the level platform and scrambled after his rifle. A night spent on damp boards, wrapped in a damp blanket hadn’t helped. The whiskey had kept the coughing at bay, had warmed his guts, but now it was wearing off. Unlike the pain inside his head.
Weston elbowed his way to the narrow opening that gave out on to the entrance to the deserted town. The boards underneath him were anything but stable, smeared with the dirt of birds and God knew what else, thick with dust that rose up and choked his mouth and nostrils. A spider’s web laced itself stickily across his face and he clawed at it, his fingers sticky with it then, thin strands left over his patched eye.
It was more than damp: wet. Already he could feel it seeping through his clothes. He began to shiver. Out over the flat land, thunder echoed and shook and almost before it had lightened the sky began to gather in fresh dark.
Weston poked the barrel of the Winchester through the narrow gap in the wall and looked along it. The shape had got closer, filled out into detail. A rider on a gray horse, riding tall, taking his time. A black Stetson on his head, some kind of bright-colored blanket over his body. Slow and easy, just keeping on coming. Coming.
Weston angled the Winchester sideways and levered a shell into the chamber. It was like it had been at the train, like it had been so often, one shot that had to count, one only and he had to make it good.
The thunder rolled. Weston shivered and pulled his coat collar up to his neck and shivered again.
The rain had washed out most every trace of their tracks, but Hart didn’t figure there was any place much else for them to go. Not once they’d started out in the direction they’d taken. Without bothering to rein in, he surveyed the range of desolate, blackened buildings that thrust up out of the foothills before him. They could have ridden right through, of course, kept on going up into the hills. He didn’t believe it. They’d made one try at stopping him - him and the railroad men. They weren’t likely to pass up a near perfect set-up for an ambush, not after they’d made one play. No: they were there somewhere, hidden behind those decaying walls, waiting.
Hart scanned the blank boards with narrowed eyes, his mouth a tight line across his lean face, skin stretched tight over his cheekbones, stubble grazing his chin. His darkening brown hair fell close to his collar, the brown here and there showing its first touch of gray.
The thunder made him glance up at the hills; the sky seemed to be pressing down on the earth, tightening on it like a clenching fist. A sudden clap made the gray toss her head and balk and Hart soothed her and quieted her and set her on her way until the next one, even louder. A fork of lightning lit the hills brighter than the brightest day and Hart had to fight not to be thrown from the saddle. With the second, lesser, flash of lightning came the rain.
‘Clay! Easy now. Clay! Steady now. Steady!’
Gradually the gray calmed and they continued towards the buildings, hazed as they now were in the slanting rain.
The thunder bore down on Weston’s skull, each fresh clap and boom seeking to crack it apart; the heaviness of the air oppressed him, smothering his brain; he found it increasingly difficult to breath. The inside of his head was a maze of pain. Rain swished and swirled across his vision, the figures of horse and rider were obliterated from his sight for seconds at a time.
He thought for one moment they had disappeared, vanished into the storm, but then they were there again and nearer. Much nearer. How had they got so far in such a short space of time? They were still coming forward at the same unhurried pace. Weston’s finger slid inside the trigger guard and his good eye sighted down the barrel. His target was lost in a wind-torn blur of rain.
To Hart the outlines of the buildings began to shift and change shape; he pulled his hat down harder on to his head, tightening the cord beneath his chin. From eyes that were no more than slits he saw the nearest of the buildings loom through the driving rain at his left side. A barn, something like. A tall structure with an A-shaped roof. A movement jarred his vision and he widened his eyes. Immediately the rain stung like needles.
He tugged at the reins and altered track, heading to the right and three tumbledown shacks, one after the other, collapsing together.
He almost lost the sound of the rifle amidst the storm. The sideways movement of head and body was more instinctive than anything, a lurching with the wind that swung him round and brought his body back up with the Colt tight in his hand.
He sought the source of the shot as the rain lashed hard into his face and this time the movement was more distinctive, the flash clear. He shifted the balance of his body in the saddle and brought the Colt round and fired twice, aiming for the base of the A. Both slugs tore through the wood, shifting away, breaking one of the boards clear through.
He waited for another movement, a further sight of the rifle, but there was nothing. Only the loose end of board flapping wildly in the wind, banging back and forth to an erratic rhythm.
Hart glanced backwards, wondering how far behind him the two railroad detectives were; hoping that he could get it finished before they caught up with him. He knew the storm would have slowed them down badly, if it hadn’t discouraged them altogether. He could imagine leather-jacket scowling and telling his colleague that they’d as well wait until the worst of the weather had cleared. Let that mad bastard go hunting ’em in this if he’s fool enough, we’re not getting paid enough to make it worth our while.
Hart grinned grimly. That was likely true - and it was why he was out in the heart of the storm doing what he had to do. He had reasons that went deeper than how much he was being paid.
Lightning struck the sky wide open.
Teresa was dead.
The memory shook the pain in his shoulder vividly awake.
Thunder rolled.
Hart kicked the gray’s flanks with his spurs and moved her over to the comparative shelter of the trio of shacks. He got down from the saddle and, Colt in hand, kicked back the swinging door of the first. It was empty. Rain poured through one corner of the roof, trickled down the walls, seeped everywhere. The wind rattled the boards and planks. Many more hours of this and the whole place would be so much timber on the ground.
Hart checked the middle shack, which was also empty. Partly shielded by the buildings on either side of it, it was stronger. He pulled the gray inside and tethered her tightly to the wall, looping the reins through slits in the boards. He slid the sawn-off Remington from the soaking saddle bag, broke it and checked the load, snapped it shut.
He’d settled for one, wounded him at least.
Three remaining and all he had to do was find them before they found him.. He gave the gray a parting pat on the nose and went back out into the rain.
When Weston had made his first shot, his hands had been shaking so fiercely he had been unable to prevent the barrel from knocking against the edge of the wooden floor on which he was lying. The rain obscured his target so much that for seconds at a time he was looking through the sights at nothing at all. Then he was there, the blanket clear for an instant, and Weston had squeezed back on the trigger.
; Even as he’d been doing so, he’d known the shot was going wide. His head had throbbed, his finger vibrated inside the trigger guard, the man at that final second swirled away in the slanting lines of rain that fell endlessly.
Weston held his breath and watched the man’s reactions, sliding round so as to be able to lever another cartridge, seek a second attempt. He shouldn’t have had a second attempt; shouldn’t have needed one. He never had before. Had always told himself if his first try with the Winchester didn’t make it, everything was up.
Well he’d be damned if that was so!
Weston peered through the rain and mist with his single eye and tried to ignore the thunder that was sounding inside his head, the way his skull was pressing down on him, closing in, tightening.
There!
He had Hart in his sights, clearly, aiming for the center of the chest, not taking any chances. Finish the bastard! Finish him! Finish—
He couldn’t, didn’t believe it. The shot went wide. The strength of the wind such that he hadn’t made adequate allowance, he didn’t understand, two shots he’d had, one more than he should have needed.
The wood in front of his face erupted inwards. Something like a knife seared his arm, hammered and sliced it, the skin springing back like ripened fruit to let the flesh swell out. Splinters drew blood from his cheeks, his lips. The Winchester dropped from his hands. The board below was cleaved in two by the second bullet.
Weston was hurled back as the slug punched into his throat and he grabbed at his neck, flailing, missing. He tried to open his one eye but somehow it wouldn’t open at all. Then he realized that wasn’t so. It was open all along. All he could see was red. It was clogged with blood.
He lay on his back and couldn’t understand how the rain was getting in through the roof of the building so easily. Running over and down his face, his neck, soaking his shirt till it clung to his body like a second skin. He thought he should call out something, a warning to the others. He didn’t try. They wouldn’t hear me above the storm, he told himself. They wouldn’t hear me.
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