Chancy grabbed for his Remington. But with his arm around Ollie, he couldn’t get it out fast enough. Fortunately for them, the outlaw was melting too, falling in slow motion with a look of bewilderment on his face.
Both men sprawled flat. Drew’s wide, unblinking eyes told Chancy that there was no hope for him.
In the streets boots thumped and shadows moved.
Chancy had to get them out of there. He hustled Ollie toward the hall, saying, “Sorry, pard,” when Ollie moaned. He kept expecting to be shot at, but they made it to the rear door and out into the night.
It was obvious Chancy couldn’t fight and hang on to Ollie at the same time. He headed north, moving as quickly as Ollie’s weight allowed. Once past the last of the buildings, he angled toward where they had left Missy and their mounts.
Prosperity was an inferno. Flames twenty feet high soared up out of the general store. The stable was ablaze, and so were a couple of cabins. Figures ran about and yelled back and forth.
Chancy grunted in satisfaction. The outlaws couldn’t possibly save their town. By noon much of it would be cinders. He heard more shots and a scream. Ben Rigenaw and Jelly were still alive and taking a toll on their enemies. He needed to get back, needed to help.
“Who’s there?” a voice said out of the dark.
“Me,” Chancy said. “I’ve got Ollie.”
Missy came to help. She took one look and said in horror, “What did they do to him?”
“Nailed him to a wall.”
“How could they—”
Chancy cut her off. “I don’t have time for a chat. Can you take him?”
“Sure,” Missy said, and slipped her shoulder under Ollie’s arm on the other side. “You’re going back?”
“It’s not over.”
“Be careful, you hear me?” Missy touched his arm. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“As Ollie might say,” Chancy said, and grinned, “I don’t want to lose me either.”
He caressed her cheek, then broke into a run. It was hard leaving her. He imagined that with time it would get even harder. His ma always said that love was like a flower. The more you watered it, the deeper its roots went.
Much of the street was now awash in light. The crackling flames threw writhing shadows everywhere. The outlaws were nowhere to be seen. Nor were Chancy’s friends.
Chancy ran to the first cabin on the same side of the street as the general store. Hunkering, he cocked his Remington.
There was still no sign of the outlaws. Evidently they had hunted for cover. Then Chancy stiffened. Down at the far end, close to the burning stable, Krine and Ives briefly appeared. They were there and they were gone, swallowed by smoke.
That smoke posed a problem, Chancy realized. It was spreading like fog. If he wasn’t careful, an outlaw could be right on top of him before he knew the man was there.
Slipping around to the back, Chancy went past the next building and into a narrow gap that brought him to the street. Cautious not to show himself, he edged forward until he could see out.
It saved his life.
An outlaw materialized out of nowhere not more than two steps away. They saw each other at the same instant. Both were so surprised that there was a delay of two or three seconds before the outlaw brought his revolver into play.
Chancy shot him smack in the sternum. He thumbed the hammer, fired once more, and retreated as the man crumbled. Once clear of the building, he sprinted a dozen yards out into the prairie and turned to the south.
Off to his right a ways, the herd was growing restless. Some of the cattle were moving about and lowing. The flames, the acrid smell, and the thunder of gunfire were agitating them. Chancy prayed they didn’t stampede. He doubted the outlaws riding herd were up to the task of stopping them. It took special skill that only came from long experience. Experience only cowboys had.
The loss hit him like a blow to the gut. All the cowboys, all his friends, who had fallen. Men he had worked with for years. Finger and Addy, Mays and Long Tom, and that crusty wizard with an oven, Old Charlie. Drew Case. And the others. There was only Ben Rigenaw and Jelly and Ollie and himself. But his pard was in no shape to ride herd or anything else and wouldn’t be for a good long spell.
Shaking his head to dispel a wave of grief, Chancy moved on. There would be a better time and place to let his emotions out. For now, he must focus on the here and now. On exterminating the vermin who had decimated their outfit.
The thud of hooves brought Chancy up short a second time. Crouching, he sought the source.
A rider was approaching from town, heading in the direction of the herd. A silhouette took shape, the man and the animal as one. The rider was looking back at Prosperity. He was holding the reins and nothing else.
Chancy had never shot an unarmed man. But this was a bad man, one of those responsible for the killing of his friends. All he had to do was shoot. Instead he stood and called out, “You there!”
The outlaw’s reaction was predictable. He drew sharp rein and cursed and stabbed for his six-gun.
Chancy blasted him out of the saddle. Crouching again, he waited to see if the man would rise. The horse, oddly enough, just stood there, unfazed by the noise. Half a minute went by and nothing happened. Slinking over, Chancy discovered the rider on his back, his hands empty, and still alive.
The man saw him. “You’ve done killed me, cowboy,” he said barely above a whisper. “You bastard.”
“You would have done the same to me.” Chancy felt no sympathy whatsoever. “You got what you had coming.”
The man did an astounding thing, given the circumstances. He chuckled. “I reckon I have, at that. I always knew I’d be shot or wind up gurgling at the end of a rope. But you won’t hear me whine.”
“Good for you.”
Sucking in a breath, the outlaw got out, “I lived my life how I pleased. From the day I was fourteen and shot a farmer and took his poke. And you know what? I liked it, cowboy. Liked it more than anything.”
“Robbing and killing,” Chancy said in disgust.
“Go ahead. Judge me. But what do you know?”
“I know I’m not your judge,” Chancy said, and gestured at the firmament. “Someone else is.”
“I don’t believe in that bunk.”
“Which makes you doubly worthless.” Chancy pointed his Remington.
“Wait. What are you doing?”
“Finishing you off. Putting you out of your misery. Sending you straight to hell. Take your pick.”
“There’s no need. I’m fading. I can feel it.”
“Good for you,” Chancy said again, and squeezed the trigger.
Chapter 62
The crackling and roaring of the flames had grown so loud the din of destruction drowned out everything else. As Chancy came up on the stable from the rear, a rafter gave way with a tremendous crash, bringing part of a wall down with it. Apparently the horses in the corral had panicked and broken through the rails. He crept through the opening they had made and squatted in the dancing shadows.
There hadn’t been any yells in a while. No shots either. Chancy hoped it didn’t mean Ben Rigenaw and Jelly Varnes had been bucked out in lead. As for himself, he’d lost count of how many men he’d shot since the whole business started what seemed like an eternity ago. He’d never thought of himself as a gun hand, yet here he was, six-gun in hand, tackling a pack of curly wolves.
Chancy dropped lower. A couple of men were slinking along the corral from the other side, one of them moving as if hurt, the other’s corn-colored hair spilling from under his tilted hat.
“Jelly! Ben! Over here!” Chancy said as loudly as he dared.
Jelly Varnes was smiling, as happy as could be, but Ben Rigenaw was somber as death.
“We saw you sneak up,” Jelly said.
“
Have you seen any sign of Drew?” Ben Rigenaw asked. His face was etched in pain.
“He went down fighting,” Chancy said. “I found Ollie and got him out. He’s hurt real bad.”
“Case is dead?” Jelly said. “One more we owe them for.”
Rigenaw eased onto his heels and leaned back against the rails. “There can’t be many left. No more than seven or eight, I calculate.”
“Don’t forget those with the herd,” Chancy said.
“The more to kill, the better,” Jelly declared, and laughed.
“How can you be so happy?” Chancy marveled.
“Why, trail boss,” Jelly replied with mock gravity, “how can I not? I’m doing what I like best.”
“I thought you like being a cowboy more than anything else.”
“I work with cows to fill my belly and so I won’t have to go around bare-assed naked,” Jelly said. “And to buy the bullets I need to do what I really love. Which is filling polecats with lead.”
“You’re a mite peculiar.”
“No one should like to kill,” Ben Rigenaw said.
“Says the gent who bucked out three of those owl-hoots so quick, they were dead before they knew they’d been shot,” Jelly said.
Rigenaw looked at the Remingtons in his hands. “I don’t do it because I like it. I do it only when I have to.”
“The same as me,” Jelly said, “only I do like it.”
“My pa used to say there’s such a thing as a natural-born killer,” Chancy remarked. “Maybe you’re one of them.”
“Why, thank you, trail boss,” Jelly said. “I’d like to think I’m a natural at something.”
“Enough about him,” Ben Rigenaw said. “It will be daybreak soon and this is far from over. Once the sun is up, their numbers will give them an edge.”
“Then we whittle them down,” Jelly said, and added teasingly, “If it’s all right with our new trail boss, that is.”
“Keep it up,” Chancy said.
“I aim to please,” Jelly said.
Ben Rigenaw groaned, but whether from his wounds or because of Jelly’s antics, Chancy couldn’t say. “We need to get the leaders,” Rigenaw said. “Krine and that mayor and Ives.”
“You can scratch His Honor,” Chancy said. “I did him in the saloon.”
“Damnation, boss,” Jelly said. “Stick with us long enough and we’ll turn you into the next Wild Bill.”
“Will you stop?” Rigenaw said.
“What did I do?”
Chancy kept them on track with “What about the other two? Krine and Ives? I only saw them once, a while ago.”
“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of either,” Jelly said.
“That’s strange,” Ben Rigenaw said. “You’d think they would be in the thick of it, looking to snuff our wicks. They’re the best gunnies in the gang.”
“Who can predict outlaws?” Chancy said.
“Who can predict anybody?” Jelly threw in.
“You sound just like Ollie,” Chancy said. “I’m commencing to suspect the two of you are kin.”
“I almost forgot about him,” Jelly said. “You say he was hurt bad? What did they do to him?”
Chancy related the ordeal Ollie had been through. “He’s safe with Missy at the moment.”
Jelly had lost his smile while listening. “They nailed Ollie Teal to a dang wall? A calf like him, who hasn’t ever harmed a fly?” He started to rise. “Let’s hunt the scum down.”
“Hold on,” Ben Rigenaw said. “We have to do this smart.”
“You’re not the boss,” Jelly said.
“I am,” Chancy said. “And Ben is right. We have to figure out what their next move will be.”
“What’s to figure?” Jelly said. “They’re hunting for us like we should be hunting for them.”
“It’s too quiet,” Rigenaw said. “We haven’t seen hide nor hair of any of them in half an hour or more.”
“They must be up to something,” Jelly said. “Planning to lay a trap for us, I bet.”
“Or maybe they’re lying low because they’re scared. We’ve killed a heap of the buzzards, and their town is burning down around their ears.”
“Krine and Ives aren’t yellow-backed,” Rigenaw said.
Jelly gazed at the burning stable. “Doesn’t matter. Pretty soon they won’t have anything left.”
“They still have our herd,” Chancy reminded him.
Ben Rigenaw glanced to the west. “That must be it. Consarn us for idiots anyhow. Why didn’t we see it sooner?”
“See what?” Jelly said.
“The reason we haven’t seen them. They’re with the herd, getting set to take it north at first light.”
“That doesn’t give us much time to stop them,” Jelly said.
“No,” Chancy said. “It doesn’t.”
Chapter 63
They hurried to reach their mounts, moving along the back of the buildings on the east side of the street.
Chancy was in the lead. He spied a cluster of figures ahead and stopped. He took them for outlaws until he heard low voices.
“Why, it’s a bunch of females,” Jelly whispered.
Even so, Chancy advanced warily. It wasn’t uncommon for doves to be armed, usually with a knife but sometimes a derringer or a pocket pistol. He recognized one of the voices and called out, “Della Neece? Is that you?”
“Who’s there?” came the frightened reply.
“Chancy Gantry, ma’am, with some friends.”
“Thank heavens!”
The next Chancy knew, four women descended on him in a rush, all talking at once.
“We’re so happy to see you!”
“We didn’t know what to do!”
“How could they do this to us?”
“Quiet down!” Chancy said. “One at a time, please.” Besides Della, he recognized Margie and the older dove, Cora. One other was with them. “What are you doing out here?”
“Where else would we be with the town burning down around us?” Della Neece said.
“And lead flying every which way,” Margie said.
Della continued. “When the fuss started, I asked Mr. Krine to protect us. And do you know what he did?”
“He told us to shoo,” Margie said.
“Can you believe it?” Della said. “They went to all the trouble to hire us, to bring us all the way down from Kansas, and then they ran out on us when we needed their help.”
“You can’t trust men,” Margie declared. “Not ever.”
“Ain’t that the truth, honey?” Cora said.
Chancy wanted to get a word in, but he was too slow.
“Now you have to help us,” Della said, gripping the front of his shirt. “You just have to!”
“We won’t last long on our own,” Margie said.
“We’re not redskins,” Cora said. “We can’t live off the land like they do, and that’s what it might come to.”
The fourth woman finally had something to say. “We should go back into the saloon and grab as much liquor as we can carry before it burns down. Things go better with liquor.”
“Don’t listen to Sadie,” Della Neece said. “She goes around booze-blind half the time.”
“Like Hades I do,” Sadie said indignantly.
“Ladies—” Chancy said.
“Just because I take a nip now and then doesn’t give you call to insult me,” Sadie said to Della.
“Sister, if whiskey was water, your boiler would be rusted out.”
Margie and Cora laughed.
“I resent that,” Sadie said, placing her hands on her hips. “Keep it up and I will sock you.”
“Not if you know what’s good for you, you won’t.”
“Ladies—” Chancy tried again.
>
Della Neece poked Sadie in the chest. “Do you know what your problem is, you silly woman? You look in the mirror and don’t see your own nose paint. You think you’re still the sweet little gal you were five years ago when what you really are is a walking whiskey vat.”
“Why, you . . . ,” Sadie said, and cocked a fist.
Ben Rigenaw stepped past Chancy, his growl cracking like a whip. “Enough! You stand here squabbling like biddy hens while your outlaw friends are set to steal our herd. Not another peep out of any of you or we’ll do what they did and leave you on your own.”
Della opened her mouth to speak but evidently thought better of it.
“I’m obliged,” Chancy said.
“Nothing riles me more than a female who doesn’t know when to shut up,” Rigenaw said.
“You must not plan to get married, then,” Jelly snickered.
Rigenaw looked at him. “Or a fella either.”
“Do you mean me?” Jelly said.
Chancy had an accusation of his own to level at Della. “You haven’t once asked about Missy.”
“Oh goodness. I’m sorry. It’s just that with all that’s been happening, my head isn’t working as it should. Is she all right? I helped her, you know. I covered for her at the saloon so she could stay the night at the cabin with you.”
“I’m obliged,” Chancy said. “And yes, she’s fine. We’ll take you to her right now.”
“What then, trail boss?” Jelly said. “These gals don’t have horses of their own, and they sure as hell can’t walk clear to Wichita.”
“We’ll find horses somewhere,” Chancy said. “Take them from the outlaws, maybe.”
“If we can find Laverne Dodger, you wouldn’t need to,” Della Neece said.
Chancy wanted to kick himself. He’d forgotten about the sawbones—and after the man had been so helpful. “What can Dodger do?”
“I saw him,” Della said. “When the stable caught on fire, Laverne got the horses out and led them off this way. I figured he wouldn’t have gone far, and we were looking for him when you found us. I’m sure he’d let us use some.”
Ralph Compton Outlaw Town Page 23
