Twin Guns (14 page)

Again that fleeting expression of fear. "You're making some pretty brash statements for a young fellow. How do you know…?"

Kirby stopped him. "Cut it out, King. I know you've got the paper. I want it. And I mean to have it, one way or the other."

"You got money to meet the principal and interest?"

"Yeah, I have, but not the way you think."

"Meaning?"

"I've heard you're quite a gambling man, King. We'll play one hand of poker, ten thousand cash against the note."

"That's a sucker bet." A hard grin crossed the florid face. "What if I win? I'll have your ten thousand and Lazy B, You're trying to run some kind of joker on me. But you ain't that smart. Oh, I'll take you on. But I don't get it… yet."

"I don't intend to lose," Kirby told him.

Again King's icy grin. "Well, you know how poker is. Some days you don't; some you do. Let's see the color of your ten thousand."

"Get the mortgage out on the table, I'll cover it."

Kirby followed the broad back to the table where he had been sitting. The three occupants got up, wearing worried expressions, and ranged themselves behind King's chair. The punchers, taking in the scene avidly, hadn't moved. The barkeep shuffled his feet uneasily as Curly stopped him with the soft command, "Put your hands on the bar and keep 'em there. Understand?"

The barman cast an agonized glance at the poker table, but his beefy hands flattened out on the bar and stayed put.

Kirby took his place opposite King. He caught a glimpse of an underarm holster as King reached into an inside pocket. From a wallet he extracted a paper, unfolded it and spread it out on the table where Kirby could see it. "Leave it there," said Kirby, and took a bundle of bills from inside his shirt. "I'm covering," he said. "Want to count it?"

King took in the denomination of the bill on top of the stack. He shook his head. "You're word's good. We cut for deal?" He pushed the pack of cards with which he had been playing earlier across the table.

Kirby's heart was in his throat as he reached out and halved the pack. He turned up the nine of spades. He replaced the cards, and King cut… the jack of diamonds.

Relief flooded through Kirby's entire body, so violently that he felt almost nauseated. King had won the deal.

Thick but incredibly swift fingers riffled through the pack. King finished his shuffle and passed them across. "Cut?"

Kirby separated the deck into three piles, then replaced them in different order.

"Takin' no chances," King sneered.

"As few as possible. Deal!"

Kirby's first card was the seven of spades. King drew a red queen. His next was the eight of hearts, King's the deuce of clubs. On the third round Kirby watched the five of diamonds flutter down on his pile and a red four on King's.

The agile fingers flicked Kirby's fourth card to his hand. He felt a moment's puzzlement. His card was the six of diamonds. He's going to give me a run for my money, he thought, and watched the three of hearts drop to King. Kirby held the five, six, seven and eight, a possible straight, open on each end. Unless he paired on the last card King had nothing, and even a pair would lose if Kirby caught a nine.

Someone in the room drew a deep breath, which sounded loud in the unnatural stillness. And King dealt the last card. Kirby watched with inward satisfaction as he caught the ace of spades, and even greater pleasure when King turned up the black queen. He held the winning pair.

King was grinning an icy grimace. His hands moved to pick up the stakes, and he said softly, "Too bad, Street. But some days you don't pick up a copper."

"Hold it, King!" Kirby's voice rang like a bell in the quiet. King's hand stopped in mid-air, then dropped to the table as Kirby picked up his five cards and studied them closely, turning each one over and over. King's face had grown ashen. A muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. Kirby looked up from the cards, and the big man flinched visibly when he saw his expression.

Kirby's voice was deadly. "You don't give your customers much of a run for their money, do you?"

King didn't answer, but his hands clenched into fat claws; his pallor changed swiftly to crimson. Kirby's voice cut into him.

"That last queen you drew, the black queen, was the bottom card of the third stack I cut before the deal. You put the other two stacks down on top of it. I'm lucky I saw it. You even deal from the bottom, too fast for a sucker to catch you." Kirby's gaze was boring into the agate eyes.

"I'm not finished. There was more to tonight's play than trying to cheat me. This pack of cards has been fixed. It's a shaved deck. And that proves you didn't win Bill's money; you stole it. You're crooked all the way, you and your whole murdering, cow-thieving outfit. But you're through now."

King watched, fascinated, as Kirby's left hand moved slowly to pick up the stakes. He tucked the stack of bills back into his shirt. Then he picked up the mortgage and ripped it to shreds. Without a word, he flung the pieces into the gambler's face.

With an animal-like snarl, King's hand darted under his left arm, but before he could complete the draw, Kirby had kicked back his chair and was on his feet. His fist slapped leather and his gun barked twice; the slugs, not an inch apart, thudded into King's chest just beneath the hideout gun. His heart shattered, the big man was dead before reflex action fired the snub-nosed .44 he had tried to draw.

At the first sign of action, one of King's partners dived beneath a table. The other two went down without firing a shot, although each made a frantic effort to draw. Josh put his man down with a bullet through the head, and Ringo's target lay on the floor, trying to prop himself on one elbow, blood staining the boards beneath him. The bartender stared at Curly's gun with the eyes of a fascinated bird watching a snake. The two punchers stood like statues, hands aloft, waiting for the play to end.

Kirby turned slowly on his heel, facing Josh. "I guess this about winds it up," he started to say. His voice ended abruptly, cut off in mid-sentence. As he had spoken, each man had looked briefly in his direction, long enough for the downed gunman to raise his Colt in both shaking hands and fire one shot into Kirby's back. The gunman died even as he fired, so that the slugs which tore into his body afterward riddled a dead man.

Kirby felt a terrific punch somewhere near his belt. There was little or no pain at first, but he knew instantly: This is the reason for the premonition I've been feeling. Is it bad? He saw with brilliant clarity the anxious faces of the Wagon crew as they started toward him. He was even aware that Lon Peters stood there; heard the sheriff's words:

"Danged if you men ever quit…"

The last thing he remembered was wondering as to how the sheriff had heard of his plans. Then there was a vast, whirling blackness, shot through with scarlet sparks, a sudden swell of unbearable pain, and merciful oblivion.

Josh caught him as he went down. "Get a doctor, quick," he yelled, and Curly's boots pounded through the door. They were forcing whiskey between Kirby's pale lips when Curly rushed back into the saloon.

"The doctor is out on the range with a dying man. He won't be back before morning. We'll have to get the boss back to Streeter." He was almost sobbing in his anxiety.

Josh looked pleadingly at the sheriff. "Will he make it to Streeter, Lon?"

Peters knelt at Kirby's side. "Curly, you and Ringo find a rig, a covered one if you can. Get blankets from the store. If it ain't open, break down the door. Mebbe I can stop the bleeding."

He cut away Kirby's shirt, grunting as he exposed the ugly gaping hole in the unconscious man's abdomen. "The slug went clean through, thank heaven. Barkeep, you got any clean towels? Get me some hot water, too, pronto." A decade of experience with gunshot wounds guided his hands as he made a compress to stop the bleeding, after cleaning the wound with raw whiskey. He bandaged the bullet holes, front and back, with clean towels, and forced more liquor between Kirby's teeth. Color had returned to Kirby's cheeks, but his lips were still ashen.

The storm Josh had predicted earlier was at its height as they gently carried the blanket-swathed Wagon owner to a buggy the punchers had found at the livery stable. It had a top and side curtains, but it was a tight fit for the three men. Josh drove the rig, while the sheriff supported Kirby's body in as comfortable a position as he could. They began the drive back to Streeter, lightning flashes cutting the night. Rain fell in torrents, and gusts of wind swayed the high-topped buggy, threatening to overturn it on the trail.

Several miles out from town, Curly yelled through the curtains: "I'm going on in and have Doc get ready." In an instant he was lost in the night. In what seemed like a very few minutes he was back.

"Take the short cut to Wagon," he yelled above the roar of the wind. "Doc is tending a hurt puncher at Triangle. I'll get him and bring him to Wagon… try to have him there by the time you make it." Again he pounded away in the darkness.

The storm did not slacken but increased in violence as they bounced and jolted on the rough Wagon trail. Josh had difficulty finding the turn into the Wagon yard until a flash of lightning showed the way. The brilliant illumination also told the anxious watchers within the house that Wagon's owner was coming home.

Josh brought the buggy as close as possible to the porch as Doc Williams and Jen came out to meet them. Heedless of the pouring rain, the bunkhouse crew surrounded the buggy. Gentle hands lifted Kirby and carried him to the room he had shared so briefly with his bride.

Jen's eyes were wide, her face as white as the sheet beneath his head, as she bent to kiss his cold lips. At their touch his eyes opened and a vast relief crossed his face.

"Jen, I came home. It's all over now. I won't have to leave you again."

"I'm glad, Kirby," she whispered. "I knew you'd come home to me. Go to sleep now. I'm right here. I'll be here when you want me."

He closed his eyes as her lips again found his. And they did not open again as Jen stepped back and Doc Williams took her place.

Dancing shadows flickered on the wall as a breeze riffled the new leaves on the cottonwood outside the window. The shadows, scampering like mice, were the first thing to catch Kirby's attention when he awakened and fought for consciousness. Puzzled, his gaze searched the room, coming to rest at last on the slender girl dozing in the rocking chair. The sunlight touched her hair, bringing out the red highlights and accenting the pallor of her cheeks. Suddenly he knew where he was and why. He struggled to raise himself on one elbow, but the effort brought such an overwhelming giddiness that he fell back. His movement awakened her.

"Jen," he said weakly.

In an instant she was at his side. "Kirby, I didn't know you were awake. Why didn't you call me? I must have dozed off."

"You looked so tired I didn't want to disturb you," he said. "What time is it? From the sun, I'd guess the morning's almost gone. Doc must have given me something to make me sleep."

"Doc said that people suffering shock always sleep a lot. And you lost a lot of blood. Weakness makes you sleepy. The long rest was good for you."

He touched his face, then felt more intently of the stubble of beard.

"Just how long have I been out?" he asked.

"This is the morning of the fourth day since they brought you home."

Alarm crossed his face as he studied her expression. "What does Doc say? Am I…" He waited anxiously for her reply.

"You're fine. The bullet didn't touch a vital spot, and the wounds are healing. Doc says sleep and rest are the medicine you need. If no more infection shows up, you may be up and around in a week."

He caught her hand." There's too much to do. I can't stay in bed a whole week. Couldn't sleep…"

She brushed aside his protest. "Maybe you should remember that you could be sleeping where Bill is." She stopped, aghast at what she had said. "Oh, Kirby, I didn't mean that."

He sought for her hand. "All right. I deserved that. I'm not thinking too straight yet." He spent a moment in thought. "Was anyone else hurt the other night? I don't seem to remember much about the windup. And I seem to have a recollection of a storm."

"You were the only one hurt," she answered. "And they brought you home through one of the worst storms the range has seen in a long time."

His eyes were far away and his voice tired. "You might say that the whole range has been through a bad storm," he murmured, "a storm of trouble. And we had our own storm, didn't we? But it's all over. The sun is shining again, and time will cover all scars." He sighed deeply.

"Right now I could eat up a storm. Do you suppose Maria could scare up a steak and some potatoes?"

She was horrified. "You talk like you just have a sprained ankle. Of course you can't have such heavy food. But Maria's been simmering some broth that smells mighty good. I'll call her."

In a few moments she was back, followed by Maria, bearing a tray whose contents sent their savory fragrance into the room ahead of her. Kirby found that he was ravenous and, propped up on his pillows, let Jen feed him. He felt strength begin to flow through his body and growled again about the ignominy of being spoon-fed like a baby.

"Behave yourself or I won't let anyone in to see you. The sheriff has been here every day. And Josh had to threaten to send Ringo to line camp to get him out of the house."

"Why?" he asked around a mouthful of toast. "What's wrong with Ringo?"

"He feels responsible for your getting shot. Says if he'd aimed better, the outlaw he hit wouldn't have had a chance to shoot you in the back."

Kirby was alarmed. "Where is he? I want to set him right. It wasn't his fault at all. If he hadn't downed his man, I might have more than one bullet hole in me. Send Josh for him."

"Send Josh where?" His foreman stood in the open door. Doc Williams looked over his shoulder. Josh was grinning his pleasure at seeing Kirby able to take nourishment. "Seems to me you're givin' a lot of orders for a sick man."