by Tim Champlin
An unnatural glow lighted the town. He wiggled his elbows over the rim and muscled his body upward, praying that neither Rankin nor Boyd had their sights trained on the hole. He crawled out and lay flat on his stomach, while his eyes adjusted to the glare of flames some distance off. Where was he? In spite of Sandoval’s calculations, the tunnel had veered off at an oblique angle, and Charvein found himself twenty feet from the rear of the church, toward the alley.
He turned a half circle and saw an eight-foot fence with several of its vertical palings missing. The light of the approaching flames shone through the fence like a candle from inside a gap-toothed jack-o’-lantern. Through one of the gaps, Charvein could just make out the fire at the assay office declining as the building fell in on itself in a shower of sparks. But flying sparks had ignited the next two buildings and a wave of flames slowly moved toward them.
Scanning a full circle, Charvein saw no sign of Boyd or Rankin. He holstered his gun, crawled back to the hole, and thrust an arm down inside. “Give me your hand.” Up came the Henry rifle followed by two lean, muscular arms. Charvein squatted, locked onto the wrists, and heaved the lithe man upward to the surface.
And lastly came Lucy, brushing dirt out of her hair and eyes.
“I slanted off course with that tunnel,” Sandoval muttered, looking around.
“Probably just as well, since we couldn’t have busted through the church floor,” Charvein said. He saw Sandoval looking warily around. “No sign of them,” he added.
The approaching fire crackled as it devoured the buildings. They could feel the heat and see sparks showering red against the black sky.
“I always feared this town would catch fire by lightning or some accident,” Sandoval said. “Never thought anyone would do it on purpose. It’s so dry, it will all burn down.”
“But only one side of the street,” Charvein said. “Good thing the night wind isn’t blowing, or the whole town would be alight by now.”
A rifle shot blasted from the darkness.
“Oh!” Lucy staggered and would have fallen except for Charvein, who was there to catch her before she hit the ground. He swiftly laid her down next to the fence.
Sandoval was on his belly, jacking a round into the chamber.
Another bullet slammed into the fence over their heads. Sandoval fired back at the muzzle flash coming from behind the church.
“Lucy, you hit bad?” Charvein had his Colt out and fired once.
Sandoval fired again and was rewarded with someone shouting a curse.
“My leg,” she gasped, pulling at the torn hem of her dress.
“Let’s get you to cover,” he said, carrying her around the street end of the fence. His stomach had a fist-size ball in it as he examined her wounded leg. In the glare he saw a neat, round hole in the fleshy part of her left calf, about an inch from the outer edge. He felt beneath and his fingers came away bloody from the exit wound. “Bullet went through. Good.” Some bleeding, but not profuse. Apparently clipped part of the muscle, but not an artery. Aloud, he said, “We’ll bind this up and have you good as new in no time.” He was vastly relieved and tried to make light of it, but he knew it probably hurt like hell and would pain her even worse later.
“Can you stand or walk?” he asked.
She nodded, biting her lip.
More firing from beyond the fence.
Charvein helped her to her feet, and she took a couple of tentative steps, leaning on him. He eased her back to the ground. “I’ll be back in a minute. Got to help Sandoval.”
“I dropped my Colt when I was hit,” she said.
“No matter. Take one of those dynamite sticks and a match and be ready.” He sensed she was deathly afraid but was trying desperately not to show it.
He pulled his Colt and sprinted to the end of the fence, then got down and bellied around to avoid being backlit by the fire.
Sandoval lay prone in the shadow, firing his Henry at some unseen target in the alley behind the church.
“Can you see them?”
“Only muzzle flashes.”
“There!” Charvein snapped off a shot at a dim figure darting sideways toward a rain barrel.
“How’s Lucy?” Sandoval whispered.
“Minor calf wound. She’ll be all right, but we have to get those two or we’ll all be in a fix. Get close enough, we can use the dynamite.”
“Not yet. That’s our ace in the hole. We must be sure.” He aimed the Henry and squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell with a dull click.
“Empty.” He laid the rifle down and crawled back a few feet into the deeper shadow of the fence. “That’s all I have. Extras were in my poncho.”
“Wait.” Charvein bellied toward the spot where Lucy was hit. Feeling around, he finally touched the pistol she’d dropped.
Scuttling back, he handed over the Colt. “It’s loaded, and here’re a few of my spare shells. Lucy still has seven or eight in her pocket.”
“Bueno! Now I have two pistols.”
Two shots blasted from behind the church, slugs slamming into the fence behind them.
Sandoval fired back at the flashes.
Five or six shots exploded in a sudden roar, kicking up dirt and gravel in front of them.
“Uh!” Charvein gasped as a fragment of lead ricocheted and burned the edge of his scalp at the hairline. It felt like a bee sting; warm blood trickled down his forehead. He untied his bandanna and dabbed at it.
The roar of gunfire ceased.
“They’re covering their retreat into the back door of the church,” Sandoval said. “I saw them run inside. They’re barricaded now.”
For a minute all was quiet, save the crackling of approaching flames.
“They’ve expended a lot of ammunition,” Charvein said. “Do you reckon they’ve run out?”
“Not yet,” Sandoval said. “They likely carried enough cartridges that would fit into their belt loops. But even if those were full, a belt does not carry more than thirty-five or so.”
Charvein tried to recall approximately how many shots he’d heard fired that day. “They can’t have many left. Maybe saving the last few for one final defense—or attack.”
“Which do you think?”
“What?” Charvein said.
“Attack or defense?”
“Wish I knew,” Charvein said. “All I know is they’re in there, and we’re out here. We’ve just switched positions from earlier. But I think they’ll try to end this soon.”
“Creo que si,” Sandoval muttered. “I believe you’re right.”
“But we have this,” Charvein said, holding up a stick of dynamite.
“We must save that as a last resort,” Sandoval said.
“What do you think this is, if not a last resort? If we expose ourselves, or try to rush them, we could both be killed.”
Sandoval was silent for a moment. “It would be a sacrilege to blow up the church.”
“I don’t know much about the beliefs of the Catholic faith, but I’ve been told that if the Eucharist is not present, then it’s just a building; there’s nothing holy about it.”
“Verdad. The body of Christ is not there.”
Silence again.
Charvein glanced upward. Showers of sparks patterned the blackness and rained down as the fire approached. “I’m going to check on Lucy. We have to move from here soon.”
“Bring all her dynamite here,” Sandoval said.
Charvein loped around the end of the fence, drawing no fire. He knew the two men were likely watching from one of the stained glass windows in this side of the church, but he was now convinced they were saving their ammunition.
He squinted in the brightness of the flames that were consuming the next building, less than ninety feet away. The heat was becoming intense.
Lucy was stretched out on her side at the base of the fence, unconscious. He turned her faceup. Taking up the canteen that lay beside her, he poured water into his hand and wiped her warm face. The
second time he did it, her eyes fluttered open. “My leg,” she gasped.
He took a quick look. It was no worse than before. Some blood had crusted around the wound. “We’ll fix it,” he assured her. She must have fainted from the shock, or fear, or a combination of things. He could hardly blame her. And the worst was yet to come. “Can you stand up?” He could have easily carried her, but he hoped she’d make the effort on her own.
“I’ll try.”
He slid an arm under and raised her to a sitting position. “I need your dynamite,” he said, helping himself to the sticks that barely protruded from her front pocket. He shoved them inside his shirt. “Okay, now!” She pushed erect, leaning heavily on him.
“Around the back edge of the fence, away from the fire and into the alley.” He thought this the safest course to avoid gunshots from the church.
Once in the cooler darkness away from the bright flames, she said, “Felt a little dizzy for a minute, but I’m okay now.”
He kept walking with his arm around her; she hobbled along, seemingly able to bear a little more of her own weight.
“Where we going?”
“Far away from the fire, where it’s safe,” he said, neglecting to add that he wanted her out of range of the battle.
Beyond the outhouses and storage sheds of the alley, they approached open land leading to the edge of the playa. They stopped, and he eased her to the ground. “Wait here, no matter what you hear.” He slipped the canteen from his shoulder. “Have a good drink of water and rest. Gather your strength. Sandoval and I are going to deal with Boyd and Rankin, who’re holed up in the church. This fight will end very shortly.”
“Oh, be careful,” she whispered. “Don’t take any chances.”
“You can bet on it,” he said, with all the confidence he could muster. “I’ll be back.” With that he turned and loped away, Colt in hand.
Creeping along the edge of the fence, he was surprised at how much easier he could see everything by the firelight. He found Sandoval where he’d left him. They were both within eyeshot of the church’s side windows. The bottoms of the stained glass were about six feet above the floor inside the church. If Rankin and Boyd were to shoot from one of the windows, they’d have to find something to stand on.
“Here’s the dynamite.”
Sandoval bundled nine sticks together and tied them with a strip of cloth torn from his shirttail. Then he did the same with a second bundle of ten. He refashioned the fuses, twisting them together to form one fuse for each of the bundles. Not being used to handling such destructive power, Charvein felt a prickle of chill run up his arms and back.
“We’ve been on the defensive most of the day,” Charvein said. “Protecting the girl and all. They probably feel safe inside that stone church. Not likely it’ll even catch fire. And it’ll stop bullets. They won’t be expecting us to suddenly go on the offensive.” He couldn’t believe his own words. He was suggesting they attack the two men who were forted up and ready for them.
Sandoval silently handed him one of the bundles of dynamite. “You have matches?”
“Yes.”
“The big front doors of the church are broken and will not close,” Sandoval said.
Charvein nodded, recalling the wide entrance where the arched double doors were jammed open.
“We will both approach the front and try to take them with guns first.”
“Right.” Charvein thumbed open the loading gate of his Colt, half cocked the weapon, and turned the cylinder until he found and punched out two empty shells. Replacing them with two cartridges from his belt left him with only eight. He doubted he’d have time to reload once the ball opened. His heart rate quickened.
There was a quiet clicking as Sandoval turned the cylinders of each of his weapons. He snapped the loading gates shut, then rose to his feet, shoving the bundle of dynamite under his shirt.
Charvein did the same, wondering if he would have any conscious realization—even for a split second—should a bullet strike that bundle.
TWENTY-FOUR
“Ready?”
Charvein nodded. “As we approach the front, I doubt they’ll be waiting just inside the doorway.”
“In case they’re watching, we must confuse them by circling the church and approaching from the other side,” Sandoval said.
They padded silently along the fence to the alley and into the darkness at the back of the church, then around behind some outbuildings, where they paused for a good five minutes.
“In case they saw us, we’ll let them wonder where we’ve gone,” Charvein said, glancing at the fire. Its flames leapt fifty feet into the air as it roared toward them, devouring the dry buildings. The light was probably brightening the inside like a rising sun through the stained glass windows. That could both help and hurt.
They crept along the dark side of the church below the tall windows and neared the front. Charvein whispered to Sandoval that they should leave the dynamite bundles just outside the doorway.
Sandoval leaned over to set his bundle down. From behind him, Charvein caught a slight movement inside the doorway. He shoved Sandoval aside at the instant a knife blade flashed in the firelight. The arm holding it banged across Sandoval’s collarbone, and the knife clattered onto the stone steps. Charvein stumbled to one side and fired—too late. He caught a glimpse of Rankin limping into the deep shadows toward the confessional.
Charvein fired again, grabbing Sandoval by the shirt and pulling him back. But no return fire came from inside the church. Maybe Boyd and Rankin were nearly out of ammunition.
“You okay?”
“Sí.”
Both men bellied inside the doorway, guns in hands.
The outside fire lit the biblical figures of the saints in the stained glass windows and cast a blur of multicolored light across the rows of empty pews. Charvein rose above the back of the last pew in time to see Boyd dashing away along the side aisle toward the sanctuary. Charvein fired twice, the confined blasts deafening. He saw Boyd plunge forward but couldn’t tell if he was hit or just diving for cover.
He edged toward Sandoval, who was scuffing along the floor several yards away. “You take Rankin—back by the confessional. I’ll go for Boyd. He ran up front.”
Sandoval nodded, his bronze face even darker in the tempered light through the stained glass.
Ducking below the level of the pews, Charvein scuttled forward along the left side aisle. He was nearly past the front pew when a flash lashed out from behind the pulpit a few feet away. The sagging wooden Communion rail stopped the slug. He slid behind the partial protection of the posts that remained in the ruined railing. He strained to hear Boyd moving, but only his own harsh breathing and thumping heart resounded in his ears.
He sensed movement nearby and fired. But it was like shooting at a phantom—never really there. Two return shots came fast, the blasts echoing off the semicircular wall of the sanctuary. The second shot tore splinters that raked across Charvein’s neck. He felt a sting and then warm blood flowing inside his collar. Two near misses—he was running out of chances and felt his luck changing for the worse. Without a human target, he fired blindly again toward the pulpit. These two were as elusive as hummingbirds, as insubstantial as fog. How many shots did he have left? None. The hammer fell with a dull click. He crawled between the two front pews and reloaded, more by feel than sight.
As he snapped the loading gate shut, Sandoval’s voice came from the back of the church. “Marc!” Charvein had never heard this tone and knew it was trouble. He crawled out and dashed along the aisle toward the rear. Shots blasted from front and rear, and a slug whined off the stone floor near his foot. He ignored it, sprinting even faster.
“Watch out!” Sandoval cried. Charvein didn’t see the danger, but he dove to the floor and slid on his belly; a shot hit one of the Stations of the Cross on the wall just over his head. He looked for muzzle flashes, since the outside firelight wasn’t reliable. He saw Sandoval crawling toward
him, a dark stain on the floor behind.
Charvein shot twice—a fast covering fire until he could grab his friend and drag him behind a pew. “You hit bad?”
“No,” he gasped. “Left arm. High up.”
Charvein sensed movement by the wall near the confessional and fired in the general direction. His ears rang with the explosions, and he was so deafened, he couldn’t tell how loud he was talking. He put his mouth near Sandoval’s ear. “Quick! Out the front.” The two men scrambled toward the outline of the big door. Slugs zinged off the stone walls.
They tumbled off the outside steps, away from the doorway, and Sandoval groaned as he landed on his wounded arm.
Something poked Charvein’s ribs. He groped to pitch it aside, but his hand encountered one of the two bundles of dynamite. He felt for the second bundle.
“Here!” He holstered his Colt and fumbled for a match in his vest pocket.
“Let’s go!” Rankin yelled. “We got’em on the run!”
A figure appeared at the door, but Sandoval’s Colt roared.
“Shit!” Buck Rankin stumbled back inside.
“Something to think about, you wife-stealing bastard!” Sandoval muttered through gritted teeth as he cocked his weapon.
“You hit?” Boyd shouted.
“Naw! Damned greaser can’t shoot. But I got a slug in him,” Rankin yelled.
Charvein struck the match on his belt buckle. Nothing. He tried again, but in his haste he snapped the head off the match. He groped for another one.
Sandoval, lying prone beside him, fired at the door, pinning the pair inside. He cocked and aimed again. This time the hammer fell with a sickening click. “Hurry, señor!” His voice rasped with pain and urgency.
The match flared, and Charvein glanced aside from the sudden glare. His hand trembled as he applied the flame to the end of the fuse. It caught and sputtered, the fuse burning quicker than expected. He set the bundle of red sticks down and touched the flame of the still-burning match to the fuse of the second bundle.
