The Desperate Deputy of Cougar Hill (17 page)

“Don’t move!” he ordered sharply as Balder lifted his heels to spur his horse. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re still friends, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Be damned to you!” Balder cried.

Cameron motioned him to ride on. Balder made a sudden surge forward as if daring to find out how far Cameron would go. Cameron sent the roan after him and jerked the reins from the marshal’s hand. He led the other horse to the alley and up it to the jailhouse. Here he locked Balder in one of his own cells.

His movements were slower than he liked. He wanted no lamp to warn Larabee and so he used only the moonlight that filtered into the jail. And his leg began to bother him as soon as he put weight on it. When he left the building, the clock in the office read eighteen minutes after one.

He rode on up the alley, around Mrs. Crotty’s boarding house and on across the street and down the alley that ran behind Jenny’s café to the rear of the bank. He rode quietly until he was even with the café. Then the roan’s front hoof struck a bottle someone had thrown to the ground and the ringing sound brought shadows moving away from the bank wall ahead.

A slash of moonlight struck Jupe Dondee and the gun he held, and Cameron knew he was too late to help the guards. He kicked the roan into swift movement, hugging dark shadow. He called out, trying to thicken his voice. “Cameron killed Arker and got loose. Tell the boss to hurry.”

Jupe answered, “Hale?” in a half-suspicious voice. Then Cameron was on him. Without compunction, he came alongside and drove his gun barrel like a whip into Jupe Dondee’s face. Dondee sagged in the saddle. Cameron struck again, crushing his nose, and he fell soggily to the ground.

Cameron dropped to the ground, holstered his gun and pilled his carbine from the boot. He ran limpingly toward the rear door of the bank. He almost fell over the motionless body of a man sprawled across the sill of the doorway. He stepped into the bank’s backroom, a small place where the stores were kept, and he stumbled. A quick glance showed him the second guard lying where he had fallen.

A doorway ahead led into a hall and as Cameron stepped that way, he saw a faint light dancing ahead. His footsteps resounded on board flooring and Joe Farley called from up near the light: “Jupe? Who was that talking out there?”

“Hale’s come,” Cameron called out, thickening his voice again. “Cameron got loose and killed Arker. We better hurry.”

“Then come here and give us a hand.” It was Larabee’s cold incisive voice.

Cameron moved forward, the carbine resting on his hip. Someone moved in darkness ahead and the light receded. He kept going. He passed the doorway leading into the bank proper and went on toward the vault. Someone moved in that doorway and Larabee said softly, almost pleasantly, “Jupe doesn’t talk quite like that, Roy. All right, Farley, take care of him.”

Farley moved into view, holding a bull’s-eye lantern. “Here?”

“Don’t be a fool! Keep your gun on him. I don’t want any shooting until we’re out of town.” He paused and then said quietly, “But we won’t have to shoot Cameron, will we? Bring him in by the vault I was looking for something to put against the dynamite to muffle the blast.”

Farley made a gagging sound, but the gun he held was steady enough. He said, “Drop that carbine, Cameron,” and when it clattered to the floor, he added, “move in there!” He took Cameron’s handgun.

Cameron walked into the vault room. It was windowless and so the lamp set close to the big metal door was only partially shielded. Cameron only half believed Larabee’s threat until he saw the dynamite placed strategically by the lock. He studied Sax Larabee’s face and knew that the man intended to kill him this way.

“It’s too bad,” Cameron said dryly. “If I was to stay alive, you could think about how you broke me, how you made me lose my job and my land and maybe even my girl. This way you won’t have much to remember.”

“I’ll have enough,” Larabee said. He bobbed his head abruptly.

Cameron heard a bootsole scrape behind him and realized that Farley was coming forward to club him down. Larabee stood to one side, holding his handgun steadily, careful as always.

Cameron waited until he could feel the gusting of Farley’s breath on the back of his neck. Then he dropped suddenly to one knee, pivoting on his good leg so that he faced in the opposite direction. Before Farley could make a move, Cameron drove upward. He caught Farley in the belly with his shoulder, spun him toward Larabee and pushed.

Larabee was setting for a shot and he tried too late to check himself. His bullet slammed into Farley and his staggering body suddenly went limp. Cameron heard Farley’s gun hit the floor. He dropped to one knee. His fingers closed over the gun butt. He jerked the .44 up, lifting his head at the same time.

The force of Farley’s body drove Larabee backwards. He caught himself and pushed the heavy weight to one side. He seemed to sense that he had no time to aim at Cameron. His gun whipped toward the lantern. He fell away as he fired. Cameron’s shot shattered only darkness as Larabee’s bullet smashed out the light.

Cameron could hear Larabee’s soft breathing, and then that was curbed, leaving only silence. Cameron tried to orient himself to the doorway, but the door had been closed when Farley brought him in and there was nothing to see except thick blackness.

Bootsoles scraped over the floor. Cameron swung in the direction of the sound. It stopped and a moment later started again well to the left of the point Cameron had located it. Puzzled, he tried to quess what Sax Larabee was up to, tried to keep up with that quick, deadly brain.

A match flared. Something hissed. Cameron swung toward the sound and the faint glow that showed as the match puffed out. He turned around at the noise of the door opening. Then it slammed shut and the latch dropped down.

From the other side of the door, Sax Larabee called softly, “That’s a short fuse I lit, Roy. Go put it out if you have time.”

What foolishness was this? The burning fuse was less than the room’s width from him — a half dozen strides at the most. Cameron got to his feet and stepped toward the dull reddish pinpoint of light. He was no more than a step away when he heard the door latch lift He jumped back instead of forward. From the doorway, Larabee’s gun blasted viciously and his bullet struck the floor where Cameron would have been standing had he tried to put out the fuse.

Cameron lost his balance as his bad leg gave way. He tried to turn as he fell, to bring his gun up, to get a shot at Larabee. The door slammed shut again.

“Next time,” Larabee called. “How long is the fuse now, Roy?”

Acrid smoke drifted to Cameron’s nostrils now. The light from the burning fuse beckoned to him mockingly. He felt sweat break out on his body and the hand holding Farley’s gun trembled.

How did you best a man who could think as swiftly as Larabee did? A man who could wait coolly beyond that door, knowing the shots would bring townsmen, but willing to take the risk, willing to lose the gold for the sake of gaining his revenge?

Cameron could see only the burning end of the fuse. The light was too thin to tell him how far it was from the dull glow to the dynamite. He might have five minutes. He might have only five seconds. He moved to his left, scraping his bootsoles heavily over the floor, hoping to draw Larabee into opening the door.

“You aren’t going in the right direction, Roy. You’re only wasting precious time.”

Cameron moved again, this time toward the sound of Larabee’s voice, toward the doorway. He felt his foot hit something yielding and he pitched forward, dropping the gun. He found a match in his pocket and struck it alight. The gun lay beside Farley’s dead body.

He heard the door come open and he sought to blow out the match and to roll away at the same time. Larabee’s gun smashed into the darkness. Cameron felt the whip of the bullet and heard it probe soggily into Farley. Then the door slammed again.

He had rolled on the match and there was only the dull glow from the fuse. But that second shot seemed to have jarred his brain. He spent precious seconds examining a sudden idea. Then he went on his knees back to Farley’s body. He lifted it and maneuvered until he had Farley’s arms draped around his neck and Farley’s chest and belly pressed against his back.

With Farley covering his back like clammy armor plate, he dragged himself across the floor toward the burning fuse. He made no effort to be quiet except to hold the .44 up from the rough boards. The reddish glow was some distance from where it had been before, and as Cameron neared the light was strong enough for him to see faint reflection from the metal of the vault.

The door came open. Larabee fired. Cameron felt the jar of the bullet striking into Farley’s body. Then the gun butt smashed down on the burning end of the fuse. The faint light died.

Larabee fired again and again the bullet struck Farley’s body. Cameron straightened up suddenly so that the body slid to one side. He turned, bringing the .44 around in a sweeping motion. His eyes focused on the doorframe as it outlined faint light seeping down the hallway. They focused on the thin darkness of Larabee standing sideways, framed by that light.

A gout of flame stabbed out toward Cameron. The .44 bucked in his hand. He heard a startled cry from Larabee, a gasp of surprise and disbelief. Then the sound was cut off abruptly as something smashed at his shoulder, driving him to the floor. A roaring filled his ears, and for an instant he thought he had missed the burning fuse and the dynamite had gone off. Then he had no thoughts at all. Only darkness filled his mind.

• • •

Doctor Draper said with sour humor, “I told you the other day that you wouldn’t be up and around for a while yet, Roy.”

Cameron could see the doctor’s thin face looming over him. Beyond it, he caught the warm glow of Jenny’s eyes. The face moved away and Jenny came closer. She touched his fingers with her own.

“How long have I been here this time?” Cameron asked. His voice sounded rusty to his ears.

“It’s noon Monday,” Jenny answered. She brushed him with her smile. “But you’re all right, Roy. The bullet’s out and the doctor says the wound is clean.”

“You’re tough!” Draper snapped. He scowled as if he found his own diagnosis hard to believe. “Torn ligaments, two bullet holes in you …” He broke off and went out of the room.

Cameron said worriedly, “Balder — I left him in a cell!”

“Tod and I found him when we came to town with Obed about three o’clock Sunday morning. He said he’d heard shooting from the bank and we went there and found you.”

Cameron said bitterly, “I had to lock Balder up. He thought I was in with Larabee and tried to jail me.”

“He doesn’t think it anymore,” she said softly. “Not after he heard Tod’s story and mine — and Jupe Dondee’s. He’s still alive and he did a lot of talking.” She smiled.

“The marshal seemed almost pleased to have been wrong about you.”

Her smile broadened. “The former marshal, that is. The job is yours when you’re ready for it, Roy.”

“You’re talking too much,” Cameron said. “How can I kiss a woman who’s talking all the time?”

She laughed and bent toward him. Their lips touched. She drew away. “Are you going to do that every time I try to talk?”

“Every time.”

“In that case,” she said, “I’ll plan on a lot of talking.”

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