Twin Guns (11 page)

He released the saddlehorn, which he had been gripping with both hands, in an attempt to raise his hands in the ancient gesture of surrender. He never completed the move, however, for when he relaxed his grip he slid to the ground in a grotesque heap, clawing feebly at leather as he fell.

Josh hurriedly dismounted and went to him. The man was trying desperately to get to his knees but couldn't make it. He fell flat on his chest, managed to turn himself over and lay on his back, arms outflung.

Josh breathed, "Look at the hole in this kid."

The boy, who had propped himself up on one elbow, snarled at him, "Kid, nothin'! I'm past twenty!" He tried to say more, but gasped for breath, and a crimson thread trickled down his beardless chin. He lay watching them, his eyes suddenly pleading. "I ain't dyin', am I?"

No one answered. Josh and the others looked away in embarrassment as Kirby fumbled for words.

The boy spat out his words. "I ain't no cow thief. I been runnin' with Dawes' bunch all right, but I ain't hazed no stolen cows. I'm no cow nurse. I'm a darn good gunhand. Even Whitey says so." He closed his eyes.

"Who is Whitey?" Josh asked, with a glance at the others. Kirby spoke up before the boy could open his eyes.

"I think I know the answer. Remember that pale gent we ran into in the Nugget? The one Lon beaned when he tried to draw on me?"

The boy's eyes opened. In them there was a look of fanatic admiration. "I heard about that. It's a good thing for you he didn't get to make his draw, mister. He's the Lightning Kid, the fastest draw in the country."

"You mean
was
, don't you?" Josh asked, thinking of the furious gunfire they had heard. "What happened at Dawes? That's where you got this hole, isn't it?"

"Whitey was still alive when I got away," the boy answered. "That blasted posse took us by surprise. Dawes didn't even have a man staked out as lookout. Darn Dawes, anyway. He's the cause of all our trouble."

"Looks like you picked the wrong man to work for," Kirby told him.

Scorn crossed the young gunman's face. "Heck, I didn't work for that yellow-livered skunk. He was just boss of the crew; he took his orders from the same place all of us did, the Syndicate at Galeyville."

Realization of the effect his words had on his intent audience suddenly came to him. "Whitey always said I talked too much," he muttered.

"What about the Syndicate, boy? They seem to be the ones who are responsible for this hole in your chest. Better talk fast; you haven't much time."

The boy's glazed eyes were lit by a final spark of anger. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he gritted, and died.

In silence they stared at the dead youngster, Kirby still squatted at his side. He got to his feet stiffly, like an old man. "Blast men like Whitey anyhow. This kid might have been a useful citizen one day if he hadn't give a man like Whitey hero worship." Shaking his head sadly, he went on, "Let's get him off the trail and under the rocks. It'll have to do until someone can get around to giving him a decent burial."

Quietly they set about the unpleasant chore. Then, satisfied that the body was safe from buzzards and coyotes, they climbed into leather. Ringo said, "I hope we're not too late for the fireworks. I just heard some more shootin' up ahead."

"I caught that, too," said Josh. "We better shake a leg. Might be needed."

Things were under control when they crossed H Bar D range and rode cautiously into the yard of the spread's headquarters. They found the posse standing in a group near the front porch. Half a dozen figures lay sprawled in the yard, and they could see several others inside the house. Two possemen stood at either end of the porch, rifles at the ready as they watched a shed among the cluster of outbuildings. Lon Peters was standing near a man whose shoulder was being crudely bandaged. Kirby drew a breath of relief as he saw that his entire crew was safe. There were two still forms covered with a blanket lying on the porch. Peters saw Kirby.

"We just about cleaned out this place," he said. He shook his head, his voice grieved. "Two Acorn punchers cashed in their chips in the fracas. And one of their gang got away. Think he was packin' lead. See anything of him?"

"We ran into him on the trail, Lon. He's dead."

The sheriff showed his pleasure. "That leaves only the skunk in the shed back there, and the job is done."

"Anyone I know holed up back there?" Kirby asked.

"Yeah. An old friend. I think they call him Whitey. He's a hired gunman, and there's nothin' I hate worse." The sheriff's sigh seemed to come from his boots. "I guess the time has come to see whether the old woman was right or not." He started to walk away, but Kirby stopped him, a vague dread beginning to crowd into his mind.

"Lon, wait. Where you going?"

The sheriff's breath came in a groan. "That danged gunhawk is holed up back there with a rifle and plenty of ammunition. If we try to rush him, someone's gonna get shot, mebbe killed. I think I know a better way to make him come out." He tried to move away from Kirby's restraining hand.

"Don't, Lon. I think I know what you have in mind. There must be some other way."

Lon's eyes were reproachful. "You sound like my old woman. There ain't no other way, unless we starve him out, and that might take weeks. That's a storeroom for the cook house." He shook off Kirby's hand and shuffled to the corner of the house where the puncher was watching the shed.

"Lemme get here, son." The puncher moved back, and the sheriff took off his battered hat and waved it around the corner.

"Hey, Whitey, hold your fire a minute. I wanta palaver."

There was silence for a moment, then a hoarse burst of dirisive laughter. "Palaver nothin'! My guns do my talking." A rifle slug tore into the corner of the house.

"That's what I mean," Lon yelled. "I'd like to see how good your guns are. I'll make a deal with you."

Again came laughter. Then, "What kind of a deal?"

"You think you're pretty fast with your iron, don't you? I think you're just a young punk not dry behind the ears yet. Meet me out here in the open, and we'll find out. If your guns are the best and you get me, the posse will give you an hour's start before they take after you. If I get you, it'll just be speedin' things up a little. What are you, a gunman, or a cowardly sidewinder?"

"How do I know for sure your men'll give me an hour? If I get you, they'd fill me full of holes in a minute."

"I'll give you my word as a man and as sheriff. Give me yours, and I'll have a horse brought to the door of your hideout. You agree not to drill the man who brings the bronc?"

"What else?" Whitey yelled.

"We each take ten steps out in the open and draw. You scared?"

Whitey's laugh, slightly hysterical now, floated across the stillness of the yard. "You make me laugh, old man. You gotta deal. But no tricks. Bring a bronc and tie him to the corner of the shed."

"I'll do it," cried Kirby and several others at the same time. But Ringo beat them to it. Seizing the reins of a saddled pony, he stepped out in the open and walked slowly to the shed, the bronc at his heels. To the tense men watching, it seemed to take hours to make the slow march. Ringo never once took his eyes from the shed window. In plain view, he tied the horse to a loose board at the corner of the ancient little building. Then he turned his back to the killer and sauntered unconcernedly toward the house. When he came closer to the watching posse, they could see that beads of perspiration stood out on his face and that his eyes held the hunted look of a man facing sudden death. He stepped around the corner of the house and let go a vast sigh of relief, in which he was joined by his waiting friends. There was quiet at the shed; then Whitey yelled:

"Now what, old man?"

"We'll each take ten steps out in the open, one at a time. I'll come first, then you. After you take your last step, we draw. That suit you, sonny, or are you scared?"

Whitey's laugh was almost a scream. "I'm scared plumb green. Let's see the color of your eyes, old man."

As Kirby watched the sheriff take his first step out in the open, he turned and ran into the house, carrying a rifle he had snatched from the floor. He reached a window from which the entire scene was in view and, after making sure the .30-30 was loaded, dropped to his knees. Just then the sheriff completed his tenth step and stood quietly facing the shed, bony hands dangling from too short shirt sleeves, his leathery old face expressionless.

"All right, badman, it's your move," he called so softly that his watchers could barely hear his words.

The shed door slowly opened inward. Then the pale-eyed gunman stood in full view, his eyes flicking from the sheriff to the house. He took his first step in the open, and those watching took deep breaths almost in unison. Whitey's boots made a second, third and fourth step. Again he paused, had a quick look at the house. Seemingly satisfied, he fixed his colorless eyes on his prey and moved again… five, six, seven, eight. At his eighth step, Lon called too low for the watchers to be sure they heard his words. "I'll wait until you stop on the tenth step. Then make your move."

Whitey nodded. They could see his lips move. "Nine," he was counting aloud. "Ten!" He stopped, his elbows slightly crooked a few inches from his guns. An eternity passed as he stood there, swaying slightly, balanced on the balls of his feet. Then his pale eyes began to glitter with the cold brilliance of diamonds. The sheriff didn't move. Whitey's lips drew back in a snarl. "Damn you," he screamed, and his hands moved with such swiftness that they were a blur. The gun in his right hand crashed first, but the bullet wailed away through the tree tops. At Whitey's scream the old man seemed to shrug his shoulders, and then his scrawny fist was holding a bucking Colt. No one saw him draw, but his gun fired four times, so fast that the sound was like a drum roll. Whitey's frame seemed to come apart, his knees gave way, and he moved so slowly that it seemed to take minutes before his face hit the ground.

The sheriff stood silently looking at the notorious gunman. Those nearest him heard him sigh. "Never did like a danged hired gunslick. Looks like I done plugged me one. Wonder what the old lady will say now."

Kirby's rifle fell from shaking fingers. He heard a ranch owner, a member of the posse, say as they crowded around the fallen man, "I saw Wyatt Earp in a shoot-out once. He wasn't a bit faster than Lon. And look! Four bullet holes between the eyes you could cover with a playing card."

The sheriff ambled to the window where Kirby was standing. "Danged if I don't need a cup of coffee to wash down a bucketful of your best liquor. The boys will see to buryin' these snakes. Let's me and you see how Bill is doin'."

Kirby thrust a boot through the open window, then pulled the rest of his body across the sill. "Lon, that was the bravest thing I ever saw a man do. Wish Muddy was here. Would you mind shaking hands with both of us?"

Grinning, the sheriff stuck out his skinny fist, and his fingers closed around Kirby's like steel wires. Then he complained, "Dang it, boy, you tryin' to bust my gun hand?" Kirby rubbed his lifeless fingers and grinned.

Kirby told the sheriff about the hero-worshipping young outlaw they had met on the meadow trail and about the dying boy's slip of the tongue in mentioning the Galeyville "Syndicate."

"If he had lived just a little longer I might have been able to get more information," he said ruefully.

The sheriff showed no surprise. "Wish he had named names. I've had a suspicion for a while that there was something going on. Rustlin' has gotten so big it has to be by a pretty well organized bunch. Got a few ideas about who heads the wild bunch, too. Mebbe Bill can help out there. That is, if he keeps on headin' up the right trail."

There was real concern on Kirby's tired countenance. "And if he hasn't headed up the last trail," he reminded Lon. "That was a pretty big hole Dawes put in his back." He shook out his reins, and his pony stretched out in a fast lope.

Doc Williams' buckboard standing in the Wagon yard and a wisp of smoke at the cookhouse chimney were the only signs of life about the place when they rode in. Maria met them at the door, anxiety showing in the deep wrinkles around her eyes.

"He's alive," she answered their unspoken question. She nodded toward Bill's bedroom. "Jen and Doc are in there."

"I'll wait in the kitchen," the sheriff said and followed Maria. Kirby stopped in the hall as Doc and Jen came out to meet him. The doctor's face wore a worried frown. "We came out to see if you were back yet."

"How is he, Doc? Is he going…"

"He's alive, but he took a bad wound in his back. The bullet didn't hit his lungs. It went in under the shoulderblade, hit a rib, and came out without doing more than breaking the rib and tearing up a lot of tissue. Naturally it missed his heart… but it was real close. This is just an opinion right now, but I'd say with luck I can pull him through. He's lost a lot of blood and is so weak that we have to think about pneumonia…" He broke off and studied Kirby's intent expression. The doc went on, "What worries me is that he insists on talking to you and the sheriff. I try to tell him the time to talk is when he has rested, but he says that might be too late. Won't even let me give him a shot of morphine until he talks to you."

Jen had slipped her hand into Kirby's, and he held her close, an arm about her shoulders. "He's so different." She looked up into Kirby's face. "He's more like the Bill we used to know. You and Doc go on in; I'll get Lon."

Bill's long length under the bedclothes was still as they entered. Only his eyes showed any sign of life. They were the haunted eyes of a man beset by worry and something like disgust. He was pale under the black stubble of beard, but his eyes sparkled when he tried a grin.

"Howdy, brother mine. How're things at Lazy B?"

"It's all over, Bill. The job's done. How are you making out?"

"I'll do. Dawes? His gunnies?"

"Josh took care of Dawes. The sheriff and his boys handled the others. It was a clean sweep. Looks like there'll be no more trouble on the range."