“You’re in my house now, Marshal,” Deville said. “You can’t make a stand here against the storm.”
Bardwell had a sip from his glass. “I am the fucking storm,” he said, in a low voice that Curtis standing three paces behind could barely hear.
One of the players seated at the round table reached down, a rusty relic of a firearm came up in his right hand. Curtis didn’t have the opportunity to move before the lawman stood silencing the gunman. With the shot, one of the armed employees raised his piece. Bardwell drew his nearside Colt putting that gentleman to the floor also.
“You’ll never make it out of here, Marshal,” Deville laughed. “I’m the only thing keeping you alive at this point.”
Curtis had another look around marking the positions of the opposing gunmen placed throughout the room. If shit got thick in here—and it would—it would be a good to know the locations the bullets would be coming from.
“Is that so?” Bardwell asked.
Deville laughed. “I could snap my fingers,” he said. “And have you and your nigger killed, right here.”
Bardwell laughed. Curtis didn’t like the sound of it, surrounded as they were in this hostile place.
“And I could kill your fat ass before your brain knew to snap them,” Bardwell said nodding at Deville’s fingers.
Curtis had read of the Mexican Standoff and here it was being played out before his eyes. Neither man flinched sitting at the round table.
Deville’s eyes narrowed, as did Bardwell’s. Parle Deville raised his hand to prove what he had said.
Bardwell still seated, raised his Colt faster. The shot, taking the fat man’s thumb and middle finger with it.
“You son of a bitch, Marshal,” Deville said smiling. “That hurts and you’re going to pay.”
“Yeah…?” Bardwell said, smiling.
Three of the house guards raised weapons. Bardwell drew the other Colt, firing both at the same time. Curtis got a round into the furthest one with his long rifle.
“Still want to play, Parle?” Bardwell asked, smiling.
“Oh, yes I do,” Deville said, laughing.
Curtis reckoned the fat man was hopped up on Opium by the way he reacted to being shot in the hand.
Deville nodded to a gentleman across the room. Curtis swung on the man firing and chambering another round.
A long-haired mongrel of a fellow stood from the table producing a switchblade knife. He sidestepped his way around behind the still seated Deville, inching closer to the lawman. Bardwell slipped his Colt’s home only to retrieve the long bladed knife from its sheath.
“You want to fuck, with this?” the mongrel asked, his razor slicing the thick smoky air. Recoiling, the gentleman sliced again this time coming closer to the lawman.
Bardwell grabbed the man’s arm twisting it around behind him. Holding the mongrel’s right arm high behind his back, the lawman slit his neck from ear to ear. Bardwell wiped the blade clean before the man slumped to the floor.
“You’re good, Marshal,” Deville said, smiling. Throughout the ordeal, the fat man had kept his hand under the table and away from view. There was an audible click as Deville raised his weapon with his good left hand.
Bardwell smiled thumbing back the hammer of the Colt pistol. The shot tore a gaping wound in Deville’s throat, big enough to put a fist in.
With nothing left holding them back now, the gunmen in the club began to fire at the two lawmen. The crowd ran for the exits or cowered together for protection exposing those with firearms within the great room.
Bardwell went to work with his single action Colt pistols, Curtis with the lever action rifle. Gunmen fell dead to the dirty floor before they knew what had even happened. The lawmen backed to the door and the outside world. Acrid sulfur smoke mixed with that of the long grass.
“Motherfucker didn’t know when to stop, did he?” Curtis asked, ramming cartridges up the long Winchester magazine to reload.
“No,” Bardwell said, watching the main foyer, the shops, and the entrance.
When the boy had reloaded his rifle, Bardwell filled the cylinders of his pistols before starting forward into the unknown.
Glass shattered and sickly, intoxicated women screamed as the first shots in the foyer were fired. Bardwell looked to the door where a group of armed gentlemen were coming on the run. The guards still hadn’t seen the lawmen and fired into the crowd to disperse it somewhat.
“Make ‘em count, Son,” Bardwell said, standing behind a great pot with the dead remains of an ancient tree.
“I plan to, Sir,” Curtis said sighting down the long barrel.
Two dozen rounds were exchanged. The lawmen remained standing looking for a way to the outside world. The armed gunmen…not so well.
Bardwell started across to the doorway of the saloon where he had spoken with Maddox earlier. Taking refuge just inside of the door, the lawman reloaded the Colts now too hot to touch.
Curtis swung his barrel down the great corridor to the opening of a door. Bright light spilled into the hall. The young lawman fired and chambered rounds in rapid order.
Bardwell waved him forward as he began to lay down a covering fire in that direction. The door slammed shut with a loud bang.
“Duck,” Bardwell yelled, raising one of the Colts over the retreating boy’s head. He fired at the barkeep who went down in the melee. The bullet went on to shatter the looking glass behind the bar.
“Man,” Curtis said. “You rang my fucking bell that time.”
“Would you have rather I let him shoot you in the back?” Bardwell asked.
Curtis smiled, “I get your point.”
Bardwell started around into the main corridor again for the entrance, looking back just once to see Wyman Maddox wave good-bye.
“You take care, Sheriff,” he said.
Bardwell nodded then started off firing at each new target as it presented itself. Curtis followed on his heels keeping things clean from behind.
At the great entrance—ten paces high—the lawmen stopped to reload once more. It was a long way to the city’s perimeter wall.
Coming up the macadam were a dozen of the city’s militia at the double-quick. Like the others inside, these armed men still had no idea of who they were looking for. Alarms blared across the city as the rotating wings of a flying ship became airborne.
The city’s militia fired into the crowd gathered near the entrance trying to disperse them and lessen the odds of getting hit from behind. The intoxicated, drug using zombies and mutants melted into the shadows clearing the way for a gunfight on the streets of Arroyo de las Vegas.
“This doesn’t look good, Sir,” Curtis said, firing a test shot down the steps. One of the defenders rolled to a stop as the others put up their shields in a vain effort to stop whatever was being thrown at them.
“They’re used to the zombies throwing rocks at them,” Bardwell said, firing directly into the plastic shield the defenders stood behind.
Rocks and shattered glass flew over the lawmen’s heads from the wall behind. Tired of being cast aside, the city’s downtrodden, began to fight back. The six defenders remained huddled closely in the center of the protective circle marked POLICE. The lawmen shot into their mass like fish in a barrel.
Electric white light scanned the street. Bardwell reloaded, as did the younger lawman.
Bardwell dared a look back. Three dozen of those who smoked the long grass—when they had arrived—were now in the process of casting stones to those in charge.
“THE CITY IS UNDER CURFEW,” an amplified voice said from the flying machine overhead, MARTIAL LAW IS THE ORDER OF THE DAY. CEASE AND DESIST. GO BACK TO YOUR HOMES,” the firm voice continued. “THE GOVERNMENT IS YOUR FRIEND.”
Standing in the open, the lawmen were cast in hot light from the flying ship. “LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS,” the voice continued.
Curtis raised the Winchester to fire. The round misfired. Bardwell raised his Colts to the flying machine, thum
bing back the hammers. Glass shattered from overhead, raining shards to the great concrete path where he and the boy now stood. The light was no more.
“LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS,” the voice overhead continued.
Curtis had cleared the rifle and fired into the flying ship. The old man had been right. These were a hell of a lot smaller craft than those in Los Angeles.
ROBINSON R22 KTLV was written across the bottom of the beast.
Smoke began to pour from the flying ship. It began to lean to one side before it leaned back to the other. Bardwell continued to fire into the craft, as did the boy.
A great cheer arose from behind as the flying ship careened into the building across the macadam path and exploded, sending shrapnel and twisted metal down the block.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Curtis said, running to the west and the way out of the desert city.
“Best thing I’ve heard all day,” Bardwell said, following close behind.
Chapter Sixteen
More of the city guard closed in from just up the street. Backup for those already down. Whoever ran the city of Arroyo de la Vegas was sending the troops in piecemeal, and that was okay with the lawmen.
Another group threatened from a side street. These looked to be well armed and followed closely behind a heavy vehicle painted in various shades of green.
Drug fueled and fed up, the zombies from behind pushed past and into the streets to slow the approaching authorities.
Those closest swung sticks and threw stones. Overhead flaming bottles flew in the direction of those in opposition.
“What the fuck?” Curtis asked, taking it all in as Bardwell decided the best way out of the city.
“Molotov cocktail,” the lawman said. “Anything flammable will work with a rag stuck down inside. Just watch.”
The first of the flaming glass projectiles landed, shattering in the street. Flames licked at the approaching forces. Rocks and debris continued overhead.
Another of the flying machines was airborne now and drawing closer. Throngs of protesters and curious onlookers parted just enough for the lawmen to get through. Shots were fired into the crowd. Screams went up into the desert night as sirens wailed a mournful song.
Bardwell and Curtis ran for a break in the defensive perimeter and a way out. More shots were fired from behind. It was no longer a matter of crowd control, it was now murder. Rioters set fire to anything that would burn. Canisters of yellow gas exploded in the street causing those nearby to back away to safety and fresh air.
“We ain’t going to get no help from Stewart and his mounted clan this time,” Curtis said, crouching low.
The further the lawmen ran, the closer the gathered crowd of rioters seemed to be. Members of the armed guard were now in a position to open fire on the two lawmen making their escape. Lead ricocheted from the dirty concrete two feet in front of Bardwell.
Both ducked behind a pile of crumbling rubble. Neither said a word. Curtis pointed across the street. Bardwell peered around, nodding he held up two fingers. Both stood firing, surprising the guards. A flash of orange went skyward as one with a rapid rifle fire and fell backward. The shooter was swallowed by darkness. Muzzle flash gave the position of the second shooter away. Both lawmen fired at a point in the black void six inches to the right of the flash. The shooter went to the ground without another shot.
“Come on,” Curtis yelled, starting down the street to the next pile of debris. Bardwell followed noticing that one of the flying machines had noticed their rapid departure.
Taking cover behind the rock wall, Curtis raised his long rifle skyward and began firing into the craft. This one was noticeably larger than the first. The rotary wing of a second ship was close by.
The boy went to the dirty sidewalk loading the Winchester. Bardwell reached up to provide a covering fire against the airborne antagonist. The Colts were empty. The lawman holstered the useless weapons and started for the pair of saddle guns when instead he went for the old Colt, the elders had stamped 1911.
Sliding the bolt as Stewart had done, Bardwell thumbed the hammer, sending ten rounds in quick succession into the flying menace. The craft reversed course, then gained altitude only to begin a sudden, spinning descent into a nearby building.
Curtis loaded now gave the nod. The lawman loaded first his revolvers and then the ten round magazine of the antiquated piece. The weapon was heavy, with the grips Stewart’s clan had fashioned, but felt good in his hand. The .45 caliber load packed a little more punch than the .38 he normally cast.
Approaching militia moved from wall-to-wall in the Indian fashion of old. The lawmen had seen them coming up the unlit street and had a little something waiting for each of the aggressors as he drew in closer.
Rioters between the lawmen and the gate threw everything that wasn’t bolted down into the street to slow the militia’s progress. Neither Bardwell nor Curtis knew if it was planned or spontaneous.
The armored vehicle had been stalled at the corner and set afire. Flames now leaped from the menacing vehicle.
Both lawmen reloaded behind a broken wall somewhere between the rioters and the militia sent to dispatch the uprising now taking place in the city. Electric lights flooded the streets in places where they existed. The rotary wing of another flying machine drew closer. Bullets started to ricochet from the crumbling concrete behind before the sound had even registered. This craft contained a rapid-fire weapon, the lawmen had never known.
Gas canisters exploded alongside the flying incendiaries of the rioters in the street just paces away. Bullets from the flying ship hitting the wall was deafening. Great blasts of downward wind stirred choking clouds of dust and sand.
“They’ve got us pinned down,” Curtis said, looking concerned for their well-being.
“No,” Bardwell said. “They’re not sure where we are.”
Curtis raised an eyebrow.
“Three seconds,” Bardwell said. “They fire three-second bursts, first here, then into the next building, then across the street.”
There was a deafening roar of the rapid-fire cannon overhead. Bardwell held up fingers counting, one, two, and three.
Curtis nodded. The gun overhead fell silent while its gunner searched the rubble for any sign of the intruders.
“They’re blind?”
“Yes,” Bardwell said. “As long as we remain here, they can’t find us.”
“What about the soldiers on foot?” Curtis asked.
“We have to deal with this buzzard first,” Bardwell said, loading his weapons for another go of it. “They shoot where they’re looking,” Bardwell said. “Let them look further down the street and we give them our best.”
Curtis nodded.
Just paces away hovering above the street, the cannon fired again into the rubble of a crumbling foundation. Bardwell held up his fingers counting again, one, two, and three.
Both lawmen stood firing into the open door of the gunship taking the gunner by surprise as he could not swing the long gun that low to return their fire. The gunner fell from the craft to his death in the dirty street as the lawmen continued to fire at the lightly protected ass end of the ship.
Heavy smoke filled the windless gaps between the buildings as the wounded bird lumbered skyward, shrieking in pain.
Both lawmen went to the ground reloading before daring a glance up the street. Curtis stood first firing into the approaching gunmen. Bardwell came on behind providing cover for the long rifle.
Rubber tires were set ablaze in the street closer to the open gate. The city’s nighttime mutants slithered in the shadows daring the militia to come closer.
Loaded again after the last volley, the lawmen ran without looking back and staying as close to the graffiti covered concrete city walls as they could.
A roar went up from those gathered near the gate as the lawmen emerged into the desert once more. The lawmen ran from the remains of what was once dwellings of sort to the next one taking cover wherever th
ey could. The dwelling of the old man—where their horses were hidden away—was still a long way off.
No longer were the city’s armed militia a threat out here in the wilds, but the sound of another flying ship lumbering closer brought the lawmen to a halt. A bullet riddled sign read HACIENDA. The lawmen made their way west into the night and further from the evils of the desert city.
Five bells tolled from a worship house somewhere in the distance. The old man and his desert clan would be saddling the horses and making ready for the lawmen to ride out.
“You think they’ll remember to get our mounts readied?” Curtis asked.
“I do,” Bardwell said, running, his lungs pushing his breath out. There was no threat behind, but time did not allow them to stop and rest either. The daystar would be rising to the north soon and the electric light of the flying ships was scanning the area closer to the perimeter wall. It would only be a matter of time before they enlarged the search area.
The old man stood in the wide macadam path holding the rein of Bardwell’s mare. Others of his clan held the two remaining animals.
“Gunslingers of the old,” he said, holding up a hand in peace. “From the sound of it, I reckon that you have accomplished your task?”
“We did,” Bardwell said, removing the promised payment from the pocket of his trousers and placing it into the old man’s hands.
“Then you must be off, Lawmen of Sacramento,” he said. “And without haste, as the great flying machines will soon be on top of you.”
Bardwell swung a leg over as did Curtis.
“Thank you again, Mister,” Bardwell said. “For what you have done for us, we could not repay you in a hundred calendars.”
“No need to worry yourself, Lawman,” the old man said, smiling. “Your being here has shown the next generation that the law does still exist.”
Bardwell bit off a plug of tobacco making ready.
“Ride west along this pathway,” the old man said. “By the light of the daystar, you will continue to the red rocks beyond. From there go in the direction of the great mountain peak…”
Ain't No Law in California Page 12
