She bit her lip. “You’re asking a lot of me, Cort. I’m not made of iron.”
“You’re made of pretty strong stuff,” he said. “I think you can do it.”
“You believe that? Then I can’t let you down, Cort.” She got up from the bed and moved gingerly around the unconscious man on the floor. “Let’s hurry,” she said, “before I come to my senses and break down and bawl.”
He picked up the shotgun and held the door for her. When she went by she had to pass close to him; she paused and looked up and he wanted to kiss her—he wanted it very badly. But he let her go by and then he went out into the hall and pulled the door closed, and locked it. The man inside might wake up and get out the way he come in—through the window—but that man wouldn’t be dangerous to her again. Not if McQuarter and Hanratty were out of the way.
He knew where McQuarter was—in the Drover’s Rest, still playing cards with Cruze and some others. He didn’t know about Hanratty. He’d have to get them one at a time.
She stopped in the hall just short of the hotel lobby. She leaned one hand against the wall for support. When Danziger came up she said, “I don’t know if I can go through with it, Cort. My knees are giving way.”
“You’ll do fine. Come on—let’s go.” He took her gently by the arm and they walked into the lobby, crossed it and went out into the street.
An earsplitting thunderclap smashed through town, as if every door in Spanish Flat had been slammed simultaneously. Echoes reverberated across the sky, and a torrent of hard rain tumbled onto the town. Its slashing blades cut along the streets, drumming rooftops and boardwalks, dappling and then—almost instantly—flooding the already muddy streets. It was a flashflood storm, the classic desert thunderstorm, a brutal and vicious onslaught of slanting high wind and sudden driving rain.
It drove Danziger and Marianne back to the hotel door and he said, “We’ll go back inside and get you a raincoat.”
She was trembling. “Can’t we wait till it stops?”
“It may go on all night. We’ve got to get this done before they have time to think about setting up an ambush.” He turned her back inside the hotel.
At that precise moment, a horseman splashed up-street at a dead run, spilled out of his saddle in front of the Drover’s Rest, and clambered leaping to the porch. The horseman slammed the saloon doors wide open and stood in the doorway shouting:
“Mr. Cruze—they’re coming. Canaday and his whole crew, not more’n two minutes behind me and riding fast.”
Fourteen
The news reached Six almost immediately; he was coming into the main street from Cat Town, the slicker held up over his head; a man bumped into him and almost knocked him off his feet.
“It’s you, Marshal—thanks be to God. They’re coming in!”
“Who?”
“Canaday and his crew. Must be hitting the edge of town right now.”
Six dropped the slicker back onto his shoulders and ran out to the corner of the block. A dark handful of men were spilling out of the Drover’s Rest and now, summoned by three quick shots from Cruze’s gun, men started pouring up out of Cat Town.
Six smothered a curse. His shotgun was still in the office, a block away. And his erstwhile deputy, Danziger, was nowhere in sight.
I should have known, he told himself bitterly. Sure, Canaday’d leave the herd bedded twelve miles away where the shooting wouldn’t stampede them.
It was no time to cry over spilled milk. The sound of thunder had died but there was a new thunder—the muffled drumming of horse’s hooves, drawing nearer from the south end of town. Six wheeled across the muddy street and ran toward the Drover’s Rest.
Cruze already had himself surrounded by eight or nine of his men. His foreman, Sid Arklin, stood by him with the new shotgun cradled in his arm. As Six passed the front of the hotel a man burst out—Danziger. Marianne Holbrook was behind him in the lobby, putting on a raincoat; Danziger thrust her back and said, “It will have to wait—stay put, stay with these people—” and then Danziger was running alongside Six, bringing up the double-barreled ten-gauge and laying his thumb across the hammers. Danziger shouted in his ear, “How do we handle it?”
“Kill the first man who fires a shot,” Six said, with grim economy. He batted through the rain, bringing his revolver up in his fist from under the flowing oilskin slicker.
More Terrapin hands rushed up from Cat Town, joining the thick knot of men spread along the porch of the Drover’s Rest. McQuarter’s fat shape appeared briefly in the doorway, silhouetted, and then faded back inside. The lamps started to go out. Sid Arklin was shouting orders, and in response the Terrapin crew was spreading itself into a crescent-shaped line with both ends out in the street, forming a human barricade.
Against it rode Travis Canaday and fourteen horsemen.
Six had a quick glance over his shoulder and saw them bearing down at top speed, guns glistening in the rain. Hoof beats swelled and mud splashed the walls of buildings lining the street. Canaday’s crew was within a block when Six moved out into the street, Danziger at his shoulder, and turned flat-footed to face the advancing army. He could feel Danziger’s shoulder blades against his back; Danziger was standing solid against him, but facing Cruze. The two men formed a single shadow in the driving rain, their badges winking dully, eyes hidden by the runneling rainwater that flowed out of their troughed hat brims. Six batted his hat back, got a hatful of water down the inside of his collar, and poked his gun up, cocking it. Danziger was twisted around, looking over his shoulder, and Six heard his quick explosion of breath. Danziger said, “That gunslinger to Canaday’s right—Jeremy, that’s Steve Boat!”
Six watched them come. Warbonnet slowed to a walk the last half block. It was obvious from the grim set of their faces that there was to be no talk. Cruze and Canaday both knew what it was all about—Canaday needed no more than to see Terrapin ranged against him; he required no further explanation. Canaday was a big man, black-bearded in the rainy gloom, on a big red horse. Beside him, flashing pearl-handled six-guns, was Steve Boat. The crew fanned out to breast the width of the street. Six said gruffly to Danziger, “I timed it wrong. You don’t need to stay—it’s my mess, Cort.”
“Seems hardly the time to leave.”
“What about Steve Boat?”
“Jeremy, I don’t give a good God damn about Steve Boat.”
“All right, then. Ready?”
“I was born ready.”
Warbonnet swirled to a halt fifty feet from Six’s lifted gun, and Six said, “Drop those guns, Canaday!”
He could hear the sharp rasp, in the sudden silence, of the twin hammers of Danziger’s buckshot gun snapping back to full cock.
It seemed to be enough to sober Cruze momentarily; there was no noise from the Drover’s Rest. It was Canaday who spoke, his voice roaring across the rain.
“Stand aside, law dog, or I’ll carpet this street with your hide. I got business here and you’re in my way.”
Danziger had his back against Six’s and Six could feel him digging in his heels for firm footing. Six leaned forward slightly over his gun. “I’ll tolerate no range wars in my town,” he said grimly. “Get out or get killed, Canaday. My front sight’s on your chest and when one shot goes off you’re a dead man—you and Wade Cruze together. You’ll both go down in the first volley. Think about that before you open the ball—what good will four thousand cattle do you if you’re both dead?”
A door burst open to Six’s left; he couldn’t help glancing that way, but his eyes shifted immediately back to Canaday before anyone had time to move. His brief glimpse had showed him two figures in the door—Sheila and Gene Lanphier. Lanphier had his long-barreled revolver and now he stepped forward to the edge of the boardwalk.
“I owe it to you to pitch in, Jeremy,” Lanphier said, and in a louder voice he called out, “Count another gun here, both you cattle barons. I’ll kill the first man that moves a gun.”
Behind Six, Danziger st
irred. “Get that woman inside, you idiot!”
Sheila was running forward, grasping Lanphier by the arm. Six could hear her urgent protests but he could not afford to shift his attention from Warbonnet. The gun stood rock-steady in his fist. Danziger said again, “Get inside, both of you!”
Steve Boat gigged his horse forward a pace and said in a rasping level voice, “I recognize the voice, Cort—now stand out where I can see you before I kill you!”
Six’s gun stirred toward Boat. “No time for private feuds, Boat. Settle your horse back and lower that gun—”
But Boat had distracted his attention and that was when a man on the far end of Canaday’s line snapped off a shot. There was no time to tell what it had hit; riders were wheeling their horses and guns started banging, orange muzzle flashes lancing weirdly through the pouring rainfall. Six threw himself down into the mud; he leveled his aim and fired deliberately, his bullet smashing into Travis Canaday’s right arm. He heard the roar of a shotgun but knew it was not Danziger’s—it wasn’t near enough—it must have been Sid Arklin’s. Steve Boat was spurring his horse furiously, trying to break out of the tangle of horses and riders. In the eerie light Gene Lanphier wheeled back toward the open doorway, thrusting Sheila ahead of him—and a wild bullet knocked the woman down asprawl across the muddy boardwalk.
Lanphier wheeled, yelling with blind rage; Steve Boat broke out of the crowd and came bearing down, looming in the street on horseback with both silver guns gleaming. Danziger took a stance behind Six’s prone figure and Six was rocked and deafened by the roaring explosion of the two shotgun charges. Steve Boat was blown—physically blown—off his horse and slammed to earth fifteen feet away.
Lanphier was crouched down on one knee, protecting Sheila with the bulk of his body. His long gun was locked in both fists and he was firing with cool, methodical deliberation, each shot taking effect in the muscle and bone of a man. Six found a word running insistently through his head—Madness, madness! Up on the porch Sid Arklin buckled and fell, gut-shot, and Wade Cruze wheeled slamming back against the wall with a bullet somewhere high in his shoulder or collarbone.
Six scrambled to his feet, heedless of bullets and carnage. There was a weird lull, a silence in the firing, and across it Six’s full-throated voice hurtled with massive savagery: “Hold your fire! Do you want every man on this street to die? A woman’s been shot! Damn you, hold your fire!”
And, suddenly, that was it. They did, they held their fire. The war was over.
Horses stirred. The slashing rain drenched the street. There was no other movement except Gene Lanphier, who walked indoors carrying his wife in his arms. She was moaning. On the street the fixed tableau seemed statuesque until Cort Danziger broke it by walking across to the remains of Steve Boat and prodding Boat’s mangled corpse with the toe of his boot. There was a fragmentary, racing glitter of light as the gun fell out of Travis Canaday’s grip and Canaday lifted his empty hand to clutch his wounded arm.
Terribly shaken, Six had to gather himself with care; his voice was unsteady when he spoke.
“Cruze and Canaday—you’re both under arrest and if that woman dies I intend to see that you both hang. The rest of you have got just five minutes to pick up your dead and clear out of town before I clap you in jail and charge you with murder. Now move!”
Cruze pushed himself away from the wall with an effort. He had no gun, his shoulder was smashed up and he seemed dizzy, but he mustered enough bravado to say, “What about my God damn cows, Six?”
It made Travis Canaday laugh bitterly. “Drop it, Wade—forget it. Never mind the damned cows. You damn fool, we’re all through.”
“That’s right,” Six said through clenched teeth. “You’re all through, both of you. How many nights’ sleep do you think you’ll get from here on in, either of you?”
Danziger came up. He had Steve Boat’s six-guns in his hands. “Five dead men,” he said, “and hardly a man that’s not bleeding somewhere. Is that what you two gents came here for? It’s what you got.” He threw one of Boat’s guns at Cruze’s feet, turned, and pitched the other gun under Canaday’s horse.
“Hanging,” Six said distinctly, “is too good for you two.” Lanphier came out of the open door and every pair of eyes in the street switched to him. “Did somebody get the doctor?” Lanphier said in a dazed way.
“On his way,” somebody said.
Lanphier nodded. “She’ll be all right. It’s just a graze.” His words broke the frozen air of expectancy. Cowboys began milling in the street, picking up their dead and moving away silently, like ghosts—too shamed to speak.
The doctor bustled inside with Lanphier. A group of injured men followed to wait their turn for the doctor’s attentions. Six and Danziger stood like boulders until the street was cleared. Finally Danziger muttered, “They were so busy shooting at each other they didn’t bother with you and me. That’s the only reason we’re alive, Jeremy.”
“And Steve Boat?”
“Steve Boat is a ghost,” Danziger said, “in every way there is.”
Hal Craycroft came out of the Drover’s Rest in his bartending apron. He had a single-bore sawed-off shotgun. Danziger was looking toward the hotel and now his glance shifted around to the saloonkeeper. “Craycroft, where’s McQuarter?”
“Drifted out the back way a few minutes ago,” Craycroft said.
Danziger’s glance shot to Six. And then abruptly, Danziger was off and running toward the hotel.
Danziger’s expression had warned Six. He spoke quickly to Craycroft: “Herd Cruze and Canaday down to the jail for me, Hal,” and got up on his toes, sprinting after Danziger.
Fifteen
McQuarter must have hurried up behind the buildings, crossed the street two blocks away, and made his way back to the alley behind the hotel; he must have come in the back way. A few terse questions revealed to Danziger that McQuarter had appeared in the lobby, drenched through, and during the excitement both McQuarter and Marianne had disappeared from the lobby.
Terror gripped Danziger by the heart, like a fist set to wrench it out of his body; but all the habit and training of years made him steady and alert when he ran into the hall with his gun up and slammed into Marianne’s door without pausing.
The door burst open and he braced himself, gun up, but nothing greeted his entrance except the limp body of the would-be pillow-murderer, still unconscious on the floor.
“Not here,” Danziger muttered, as if he were unable to believe it. He spoke an oath and wheeled back into the corridor, sprinting for the stairs. Six was just rushing into the hotel. Danziger shouted, “Upstairs—McQuarter’s room—hurry, Jeremy!” and went up the stairs three at a time.
He wheeled into the upstairs hall—and came face-to-face with Eddie Hanratty, who was standing guard outside McQuarter’s door. Hanratty’s face was contorted and there was a wicked little two-barrel derringer in his meaty fist. The little gun packed a big .41 caliber charge; it went off point-blank and Danziger felt it hit him somewhere, but momentum carried him forward. He pumped two shots into Hanratty and would have run Hanratty down if the Irishman hadn’t slammed to one side with the force of the bullets. Hanratty fell to the floor, mouth wide open; Danziger went over him and wrenched the door open and piled inside, windmilling his arms for balance.
They were struggling for the gun, McQuarter and Marianne. Danziger’s heart was in his throat. He crashed forward, hurling furniture out of his path; he saw the glaze of horror on Marianne’s face and heard McQuarter’s maddened grunting, like a hog in a slough. Danziger was on top of them instantly, chopping his gun barrel down in a vicious swipe that laid McQuarter’s head open from brow to ear. It knocked McQuarter back but it didn’t knock him out; it hardly seemed to stun him at all—he wrenched the gun away from the girl and brought it around. Danziger saw it coming around toward him, and he tried to bring his own gun to bear, but the bullet Hanratty had fired into him was taking effect and he didn’t seem able to make his muscles
work …
A gunshot boomed, very loud in the small room, and through the thickening red haze of vision Danziger saw McQuarter slump back, the gun falling from nerveless fingers. Jeremy Six was braced in the doorway with his smoking gun out.
Marianne crawled toward Danziger; he could vaguely make her out. He said thickly, “Thanks, Jeremy—thanks,” and he just felt the touch of Marianne’s fingertips and the splash of one of her tears against his face before he lost consciousness.
Lanphier found Six in the little infirmary beside the doctor’s house. Six was sitting with Marianne Holbrook. Lanphier took off his hat and nodded absently to the girl. “How’s Danziger?”
“The doctor says he’ll pull through.”
Lanphier tried to smile at the girl but he couldn’t make it work. “Can I talk to you a minute, Jeremy?”
“All right.” Six went outside with him. The rain had quit. Sunshine beamed down, baking the land, cracking up the mud.
Lanphier squinted against the sky. “I wanted to say goodbye. Sheila and I are leaving.”
“Running away from something, Gene?”
“Maybe you could call it that. But we’ve looked at it pretty cold-bloodedly. I think it’s the right thing to do. We’ll find some town in California or Oregon and change our name. Maybe I’ll grow a beard. The other night, Jeremy, I’d been eating myself to pieces with the knowing that sooner or later some gunfighter would come looking to make me into the next notch on his gun. Somehow I talked myself into the idea that if I could kill enough men it’d scare them off—they’d be scared of me and they’d leave me alone. That’s why I forced myself into that fight. I don’t know if I killed anybody, but I put bullets in two or three of them. But my stupidity got Sheila a scar across her ribs and it could just as well have got her killed. Jeremy, I’d rather die myself than take that chance again. That’s why we’re leaving.”
Marshal Jeremy Six #6 Page 15
