by John Benteen
“Sharon—” Hitchcock protested.
“Hush,” she said, in an old, tired voice. Then she said, “You’re damned right I can. My father made me learn. Thank you, Mister—”
“Calhoon. Billy Calhoon, of the Johnson County, Wyoming, Calhoons.” His eyes raked up and down her bruised, yet defiant body. Then he looked at Cutler. “Don’t worry about her. Hitchcock and I will see to her.”
Cutler met his eyes. What he read in them made him nod. It also sent a faint chill down his spine. Until tonight, this had been a young, unsteady, arrogant rooster, easy pickings. Cutler had not worried about a showdown with him, gun speed or no. But what he was looking at now was a man who had killed another man the hard way. The iron had come into Billy Calhoon’s soul, and he would not be easy pickings any longer. He was young and fast and smart and now he was hard as well, and if he still wanted his showdown, the odds against Cutler walking away from it alive had suddenly shrunk; and they might diminish even more before what was going to be a bloody night was over.
But Cutler said, “All right. There’s not much time to argue. I figure we’ll take up station in the cantina. This is where they’ll head when the shootout starts in the plaza. We’re the trained fighting men and we’ve got the best guns. It’ll be up to us to keep them from breaking out of this end of town. We’ll turn them back and by then the people at the plaza will have those old weapons reloaded—”
“Like shooting doves,” Calhoon said.
“What?” Hitchcock asked.
“Doves. We shot ‘em up in Texas. You put guns at both ends and both sides of a field. When a bunch of doves come in, you keep ‘em moving back and forth, from guns to guns ...”
Cutler looked at Calhoon respectfully. “That’s the theory, Billy.”
“Yeah,” Calhoon said. “Well, let’s go. They’ll horse around at the mine for a while, try to read the sign, then they’ll give up and come in . . . Maybe we’ve got ten minutes, maybe we’ve got an hour. Then our shoot begins.”
They walked down the street to the cantina. By now, except for the glowing lantern in there, plus the carcass of the jaguar hanging from the well, there was no sign that anything had taken place in Villa Hermosa. The women were behind locked doors at the far end of town; their men waited, with vengeance in their hearts, around the plaza.
Cutler shoved open the cantina door and they entered. Then Hitchcock stopped short, staring at the body of Perez with the knife protruding from its chest. “Who,” he asked hoarsely, “did this?”
“I did,” said Sharon coolly.
The man turned, looked at his daughter. “Sharon … ”
She smiled, a terrible smile. “It was a real pleasure,” she said. Then she stepped over the body, still holding the ivory-handled gun in her hand.
Hitchcock followed her, and they went to a corner of the room. Sharon stood motionless, while Hitchcock talked with great animation. Beside Cutler, Fernandez said, “He does not understand. She is not his baby girl any longer.”
“No,” Billy Calhoon whispered. “She’s a woman, by God. The way she handles herself, she could be a Calhoon woman ...”
Cutler went to the bar, found another bottle of tequila, and drank long and deeply. In a moment, Hitchcock joined them, face pale. “If I get my hands on Gorman ... By God, after what he’s done to her—”
Hernando took a snort from the tequila bottle. “Senor Hitchcock, do you want to hear a prophecy?” He looked at Billy Calhoon, who had gone to the corner where Sharon sat at a table and took the gun from her hand and began to instruct her in how to use it. As if she had never seen a pistol before, she listened carefully, but from time to time her weary eyes went from the gun to Calhoon’s face.
“Don’t give me any mumbo-jumbo, Fernandez,” Hitchcock said harshly.
“I give you none. I tell you only that your daughter will be all right. I think you will lose her again, yes, but this time not to any creature like Gorman. This time, you will lose her to a man . . .”
Hitchcock looked at the pair in the corner, then he reached for the tequila bottle, too, and he drank. He ran his hands over the three dynamite bombs in front of him on the bar. “Gorman,” he said. “God damn it, why don’t he come?”
Perez’s store was a log building just across the street from the cantina. Cutler lay deep in the thatch of its roof, the weapons laid out in front of him: the Krag, with plenty of cartridges, his Colt, and the single dynamite bomb he had brought up here with him, three sticks bound together, capped and fused. There was also a tequila bottle, which was far from being full, and Cutler was more than a little drunk.
He had not meant to get that way. It was his rule never to drink when he was working. But despite all effort to put them down, during this long wait, old memories had roiled up in him. What had brought them back had something to do with Sharon Hitchcock. There was something about the way she carried herself, something about her cold courage mingled with copper-haired beauty, that stirred thoughts of Doreen to life within him. Again he saw her mangled, dying in his arms; and even in her pain her last words had been words of love. He thought about that, and he thought about the great killer bear he had pursued so long and with so little luck after that, and what he felt was more than he could endure. So he had hit the tequila, enough to dull the pain, but not enough, he knew, to slow him down or throw off his aim. But he was tired, and as he lay there, staring at the cantina across the street, for a moment he had the strange sensation that Doreen was in there and that the bear was coming for her, and—
Then the morning wind, blowing from the Gulf, freshened and cleared his head and he came alert again. Not long until dawn now, and still no sign of Gorman. He hoisted himself cautiously on his elbows and looked up and down the street. It was a big trap he had set, and for dangerous game, and he had tried to make it perfect, foolproof. But he knew the nature of Gorman and the kind of men riding with him too well not to understand that before the trap was sprung, some of the trappers would die, too, along with the quarry.
In the murky light of false dawn, the street of Villa Hermosa lay absolutely empty of life, the only motion a riffle of dust caught in a breeze. As always, every house was locked and shuttered, as if in fear of the jaguar—and of Gorman.
But the houses around the plaza were jammed with fighting men, and there were more on their roofs, burrowed down in the thatch as he was. So were the huts on down the street, all the way to the cantina and the store. That was the end of the killing zone; beyond that, the women and children were forted up for safety in the remaining huts—all save Sharon Hitchcock. She was over there in the cantina, with Billy Calhoon and her father. Fernandez and Mansilla were in charge of the men around the plaza, and Fernandez had with him one of the dynamite bombs. Hitchcock, in the cantina, had the other. All three of them would have to be used carefully and with accuracy to keep from destroying the village itself and injuring its own defenders.
So everything was ready, Cutler thought. All that was lacking was Gorman.
He took another swig from the tequila bottle, corked it.
And then Gorman came.
First, from westward, there was something like the pounding of a distant drum: the hoof beats of a big crew, riding hard, more a vibration than roll of sound. But it was still a long way off.
Cutler raised up higher, lifted his Krag, staring at the plaza. He moved the gun in a signal. Mansilla, on the roof of a house at the very opposite end of the street waved a rifle barrel in reply. Then Cutler sank down again, but not so far that he could not see the plaza, where the jaguar’s body still dangled by the well.
Even as he watched, a rim of sun edged above the westward hills, and the quality of morning light cleared, things coming into sharper focus. Mist, however, hovered in the valleys and ravines beyond, a swirling fog of it.
Then, out of that drifting gray, Gorman’s riders came, mad with the night’s fruitless search and pushing their weary horses hard. They flowed down a hill well beyond the
village, a river of gunmen, vanished into a foggy ravine, climbed out onto the plateau, the drumming of hooves louder now. Then down into the bowl again, and now they were entering the far end of the village, still coming hard, galloping toward the plaza. Cutler saw unsheathed rifles glinting in the first rays of the morning sun, and he saw a black-clad figure on a big gray horse riding at the column’s head.
Now, entering the plaza, they spread out, flowing around both sides of the well, filling that widening of the road with horsemen; but they were still traveling too fast to make easy targets, and in the murky light they rode right past the jaguar’s carcass and Cutler thought, damn it, are they never gonna spot it?
Then a horse whickered and shied violently. Cutler heard its rider’s curse, saw the man fight it to a standstill. Then the shout went up: “Gorman! Hey, Gorman, look here! That damned cat—”
Preacher Gorman, already almost clear of the plaza, reined in, swung his gray around. He stared for a moment at the spotted carcass hanging from the well. The other riders turned, too, and now they were all clustering around the enormous body of the jaguar. Gorman fought his unwilling gray up close to it, put out a hand to touch it wonderingly. The others crowded around. For one long moment, then, bunched like that and frozen in amazement, they were marvelous targets.
And in that light and with their antique weapons, there was no other way the villagers could have taken them. For thirty seconds, the plaza was totally silent. Gorman dropped back into his saddle. Then two things happened: his mind clicked and he yelled, “Get out of here!” and his hand swooped down for his right Colt. And Mansilla pulled the trigger of his weapon and at that signal the villagers opened fire.
It was a ragged volley, mostly from single-shot guns, many of them muzzle-loaders, but it did deadly work. Men screamed, horses reared and plunged. Riders pitched from their saddles, were trampled underfoot in the melee.
Gorman’s great voice carried even above the roar of guns. “It’s a trap! Shoot your way out! Back the way we came!” He jerked the gray around, black coat flaring, fired his six-gun at the roof of a house on the plaza’s right. A man howled, pitched forward from the thatch, landed soddenly in the dust. Gorman’s men, recovering from shock, took their cue from that. They got their own weapons in action, rifles and handguns, and now the fire of the villagers ebbed; they took punishment as they paused to reload. That gave Gorman his chance. He spurred the gray, led his men toward the plaza’s westward end, by which they had entered. They surged after him, firing as they went. Gorman’s big horse was just about to enter the narrower stretch of street beyond the plaza when Hernando, stationed there, threw the dynamite bomb.
It went off with a tremendous roar, seemingly almost under the nose of Gorman’s gray. Cutler saw the animal rear, paw the air; a huge cloud of smoke arose and dust swirled; for a second vision was blocked. Then Gorman’s command rang again above the dying echoes of the blast. “They got dynamite! Back around and out the other way!” He was still mounted on the gray, as he emerged from the fog of battle. “Give ‘em hell!” he roared. “Shoot your way clear!” He clamped the reins in his teeth, charged into the plaza, firing right and left with either gun. What was left of his men, perhaps a dozen, charged behind, him, shooting as they came. Villa Hermosa seemed literally to tremble with the vibration of gunfire, the thud of hooves. The villagers hidden around the plaza had reloaded, poured another volley into Gorman’s men. But, riding hard, bent low, shooting back, they were harder targets now, and they broke free of the plaza, came charging down the street toward the cantina, running a gauntlet of fire from other huts along the street as they came. Some of them fell, but Gorman seemed bulletproof, and so did most of the riders charging behind him.
Then Cutler, on the roof, touched a match to the fuse of his own bomb. He held it for a second, then lobbed it cleanly to the center of the street, well in front of Gorman and his men. Gorman saw it, tried to rein up the gray. Then the dynamite went off.
It made a noise like the clap of doom and sprayed dust and smoke, and its concussion sent Gorman’s gray skidding around, colliding with the men who followed him, and for a moment, as they milled, stunned, they were easy targets. That was when Hitchcock, boldly, stepped from the cantina. “Damn you, Gorman!” he yelled and threw the third bomb squarely into their midst.
The log building beneath Cutler shook. The whole world was blotted out in smoke. Dirt and dust spewed up in a great cloud. So did bits of men and horses. From the blur of smoke a few riders emerged, spurring their terrified mounts back toward the plaza, where, by now, Mansilla’s men would be reloaded and waiting for them.
Then a strong gust of fresh wind from the Gulf blew threw the smoke and cleared it, revealing the chaos that last bomb had created. The street was littered with the bodies of men and horses, and Cutler saw that the gray horse had been blown down and was dead. Its rider, black-coated, lay sprawled beside it.
Then, to Cutler’s astonishment, Gorman scrambled to his feet. He shook his head as if to clear it, and then, a gun in each hand, he ran straight toward the cantina.
Cutler cursed and was off the roof, dropping like a cat. As he landed, lead whined around his head. He spun, to see one of Gorman’s men, stunned by the explosion but recovered, lining a rifle across a blown-over watering trough. Cutler fired the Krag from the hip. The man’s face disappeared, and his gun fell loose across the trough. Then Cutler whirled toward the cantina.
Hitchcock blocked the door, as Gorman leaped for it. There was a Colt in Hitchcock’s hand. He lined it at Gorman. Without breaking stride, Gorman fired. Hitchcock fell backwards through the door. Cutler aimed the Krag at Gorman’s back, but then the man had leaped over Hitchcock’s body and was inside. Cutler heard Billy Calhoon yell, “Damn it, Sharon, out of the way—”
Cutler made the door just in time to see it happen. Calhoon was trying to line a gun at Gorman. But, holding Calhoon’s other gun, Sharon stepped directly in his path, blocking his line of fire. She raised the Colt, aimed it at Gorman’s chest. Her face was contorted as she held the heavy gun in both hands. “Damn you, Preacher Gorman—” she screamed.
Cutler stood helplessly, neither he nor Calhoon able to fire for fear of hitting Sharon. Gorman did not even hesitate. With nothing to lose, he leaped straight at the gun, struck out, and as Sharon pulled the trigger, the slug went wild, the Colt knocked from her grasp. Then Gorman had his arm around her, jerked her to him, spun with his back to the cantina wall. And now Sharon was his shield as Billy Calhoon whirled to face him, then helplessly held his fire.
Gorman lined his Colt at Calhoon, pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened, the gun clicked on an empty cartridge.
Gorman cursed and threw the gun. Still holding Sharon locked close against him, his hand flashed down, came up with a knife. Then its blade was against her throat.
“Drop your gun, brother,” Gorman boomed, “or I’ll cut this bitch’s throat.”
Calhoon stared at him. Then, slowly, he turned loose of his Colt and it fell to the floor.
Gorman jerked the girl around, and now his back was in a corner and he saw Cutler in the doorway. “The same for you,” he roared. “Lay down your hardware or I’ll kill this woman.”
Cutler sucked in a deep breath. Then he dropped the Krag. After that, he drew his Colt and tossed it away.
Gorman crouched so that his head was shielded by Sharon’s, but Cutler could see the triumphant smile on his smeared and dusty blade of a face. And Cutler, filled with hatred as he was, had to admit it was a triumph earned with sheer guts.
“Brothers,” Gorman boomed, “you thought you had me! But now, if you value this bawd’s life, you’ll see I get out of Villa Hermosa safely. You do that, this jade lives. You make a bad move, she dies. It’s up to you.”
“Cutler.” Sharon’s voice was thin and steady. “Cutler, don’t let him get away. I don’t care what happens to me. Just kill him, Cutler.” Her voice rose. “Kill him!”
“No,
Sharon.” Cutler’s voice was harsh. “Stand fast, don’t make any bad moves . . .” He hesitated. “All right, Gorman. You win. Let the girl live, I’ll get you out of Villa Hermosa safely.”
Sharon tried to fight. “Cutler, it doesn’t matter! The main thing is to kill him. I’ll—” And Cutler drew in a breath of horror as he saw her push against the knife with her throat and knew what she meant to do, victim of grief and hysteria that she was.
Then Billy Calhoon’s voice rang out. “Sharon, it does matter! It matters to me, Sharon, don’t you understand? My God, don’t fight him, don’t do that, please don’t!”
Outside, now, the sound of shooting had died. There were shouts of jubilation. Sharon’s throat was tight against the blade. Calhoon stood there with his face as pale as paper. His eyes were pleading with the girl. She stared back at him; then she sagged back, and once again there was clearance between her throat and the knife’s edge. “Billy,” she said thickly; only that one word.
“Now, listen,” Gorman rasped. “Here’s what I want. That street out there absolutely clear. Nobody on it, you understand? Nobody. I want every man of yours up there in the plaza. And down here at the other end, I want the fastest horse in this town, with a Winchester in its saddle boot, fully loaded, and a gun belt and a Colt on the horn. Now, out, both of you and see to that, and you—” he looked at Calhoon “—if you value this girl’s life, if you ever want to enjoy that sweet, delicious body of hers, which I can guarantee is delightful, brother, you had better make sure everybody does exactly as I say. Because if there are any tricks and this is my judgment day, it’s hers as well, and you can count on that. Is that all clear?”
“It’s clear,” Calhoon said shakily. “Cutler, for God’s sake, go out there and arrange what he wants.” He moved towards the door, then halted. “Sharon,” he said thickly. “Please don’t ... Do you understand? Don’t try that again. I love you. I promise that I will make living something you want to do again . . .”
