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Ezra watched helplessly from the bank. His soul cried out silently. There would be vengeance. Ezra had never thought of revenge before. It had all been strictly business. But this time, there would be reprisal. Ezra vowed he would use the second chance Buck had given him. He would survive this day, this moment. He was a survivor. And these men would pay.
Chris Larabee led the others. This wasn't happening. His horse ran as if it were inspired. He was low over its back and the animal's hooves barely hit the ground. JD was at his right, and the geldings were nose to nose. There was too much at stake. As good as the others were on a horse, as much as their missing friend meant to them, they didn't have the same emotions motivating them, urging them on. And so the others were falling behind in this last sprint.
Vin Tanner had slowed intentionally. He could tell that they were going to lose this race. Two hundred yards was all that separated them but it was too much. He saw one man point them out, then another. He saw the third man pull back his hand to bring the whip down on the rump of the horse hitched to the buggy. Too late.
Tanner pulled hard on his horse. The loyal animal read the signs and almost sat down, skidding to a stop as the bounty hunter whisked the rifle from its scabbard. The lean Texan stood in the saddle, over the black's head and gripped with his knees. The horse froze. He'd played this part before. Tanner took a breath, released half of it and then caressed the trigger like it was a lover.
The bullet reverberated through the muzzle just as the wagon shot forward and the rope tightened around his friend's neck. And nothing happened. The death rope vibrated and held the body aloft.
It seemed to Chris Larabee that the echo of that rope pulling taut was like thunder across the mountains. It sounded louder than the bullet exploding from Tanner's gun. He was too late again. But not late so that the ashes were cold, rather so close that the sight would haunt him forever and the question would eat away. What could he have done to be five minutes earlier? How much he was losing could never be put into words. The individual emotions were too powerful, too painful to separate and study. And so, as was his way in recent years, he let the emotions come together into rage. It was only his fury that kept him urging his horse forward when every other fiber of his being wanted to turn and ride away. He wanted to ride away from the guilt, away from the body suspended by a single strand of hemp, and away from the grief the others would try to share with him. But the anger won out - anger at Buck, anger at the lynch mob, anger at himself.
Before JD could even register that the rope had remained in tact after Vin took his first shot, the marksman was aiming again. But then the rope snaked over the support and the body dropped bonelessly to the muddy street.
Then time started again. The adrenalin that played the mind game on Tanner and Larabee and Standish, was mercifully lenient with the youngest regulator, Josiah and Nathan. The time between the buckboard moving, Vin's shot and Buck falling to the ground was in real time for them, and separated by only a few heartbeats.
PART 6
The men on the periphery of the mob saw them first, the five vengeful horsemen bearing down on them. This threat seemed to bring them out of their bloodlust, like coming out of a trance. Even as they realized what they had done, they recognized vengeance bearing down on them. They were too confused, some too appalled by what they had done, to move. The others scattered like cockroaches in the light.
The marshal who was being held by the crowd spun around trying to determine what was happening.
But Halpin's men knew the farce was over. And they ran toward the bank to help gather the loot and escape.
Ezra saw the rope go taut and turned on the man beside him, released his derringer and pulled the trigger. Swenson's eyes went wide and white as the tiny bullet did its job. Without waiting to see if the man was dead, Ezra was already putting his full weight behind slamming his wounded arm and shoulder into the plate glass window, shattering it and, covering his face with his good arm, diving into the street. "They're robbing the bank!" He shouted.
It says a lot about a man, how he reacts to tragedy. JD and Nathan rode straight to Buck. Nathan went to their unmoving friend and with infinite tenderness rolled his face out of the mud, his first thought being to remove the offensive rope from his neck.
JD leapt from his horse and, both guns raised, stood between his friend and the crowd. JD would shoot if given the chance. Unlike Coltrain, JD had no qualms about shooting innocent townsmen. They weren't innocent in his eyes. His eyes showed a rage beyond his years and those men who hadn't quickly melted away from the event, avoided eye contact and circled at a prudent distance.
Vin stopped his horse beside these two. The threat from the rabble was gone. The moment of mob violence had passed. And the reader of men sensed that JD, if he hadn't unloaded on them by now, would not do so unless provoked. Tanner looked down the street.
Chris and Josiah were like wild dingos. They saw the men who chose to run, they saw prey, and gave chase. Their retribution would be swift. The faster of the two outlaws who were being pursued by the gunfighter and the preacher skidded around the corner into an alley behind the bank. The second one, hoping to discourage the chase turned to take a shot at the horsemen bearing down on him. A bullet from Larabee's gun hit the man's thigh before he could pull the trigger. He went down grabbing his leg with both hands, trying to staunch the flow of blood.
Vin was looking for Standish who he knew should be in the area. He saw Larabee and Sanchez's horses pull up in surprise as a familiar wine colored jacket burst through the splintering glass and rolled on the street in front of them. It was so close that flecks of mud, kicked up by the hooves, speckled the gambler's fine woolen coat.
Three gunmen ran out of the bank's door, saddlebags over their shoulders. One had a rifle, the other two .44's. They all had their weapons aimed at Standish. One of the men with a hand gun was able to get a shot off. It went wild. Larabee and Sanchez cut him down. Sanchez shot the second man three times before that first one, wounded, fell into the water trough.
One of Larabee's bullets slammed into the rifleman. Its force threw his chest back, but his feet kept moving. The message from the brain that the body was dead took a few minutes to reach the feet. Then they slid to a stop pushing up tiny pyramids of muck at the worn down heels.
Without acknowledging the two rescuers, Standish staggered and swayed back to the dead men, snatched up one of the .44's on the run and headed back through the bank doors.
"Preacher!" Larabee called, and with a nod toward the surviving gunhands, he left the bigger man to take care of the dead and wounded and the crowd gathering in the street. The dark gunfighter took off to back up the gambler.
Larabee's eyes didn't need to adjust. The bank's lighting wasn't that much off from the dusky evening outside. His instincts clicked in. A dead man was spread eagle on the floor, a small bullet hole between his eyes. Ezra's work. The thought registered in Larabee's mind as he looked around. Most of the broken glass was outside but a few shards twinkled beside the corpse. Sensing no threat, the regulator was already through the low swinging door that separated the front of the bank from the back. The teller, his visor askew on his brow, lay dead, slumped against the counter. Paper money was strewn about. Obviously it had been dropped in someone's hasty attempt to take what they could on the run. The back door was ajar. Chris Larabee slammed through the oaken door into the alley. It was empty. Then the gunshots rang out from the next street over.
Larabee ran to where the alley met a back street in a "T" intersection just in time to see three men making a break on horseback. The man in the lead he recognized as one of Coltrain's deputies. The corrupt lawman still had his own saddlebags over a shoulder, having decided not to take time to secure them to the saddle. Some of the stolen money was escaping on the wind and danced behind the horses.
Larabee, head down, as if a decision was being made, took two unhurried steps into the middle of the street. Then, with his body at an angle to the oncoming horses, he raised his right arm. The gun had been an extension of that move for many years. Ignoring the bullets directed his way by the oncoming horsemen, the gunfighter methodically gunned down one after the other.
The riderless horses continued past the man in black as he casually walked up and studied his handiwork. He would by damn keep the devil busy and give Buck time to slip through those pearly gates. Then he realized Ezra was still missing. Long strides carried him in the direction from which the shots had originally come. It wasn't long before he came to a dead end.
Ezra heard the noise behind him, looked up quickly and identified the leader of the regulators. At the same time, the sound of a hammer falling on an empty chamber echoed from the back wall. Once. Twice.
"Gambler!" Halpin sang out. "I'm out. I give up." The gun sailed across the crates the deputy had been using for cover. "I'm unarmed. Comin' out." Slowly, hands raised, the smiling lawman sauntered from behind his protection. He clearly intended to take his chances in the judicial system, thinking his word against a crooked gambler gave him more of a fighting chance than an empty gun in a back alley.
Moving his gun in a downward motion, Ezra quickly directed Larabee to stay back, stay hidden. The cold, determined look so out of place in those green eyes, had Larabee complying. Standish cautiously moved forward. His wounded arm had him listing heavily to one side. He staggered, slipped in the mud, but seemed to somehow force one foot after the other.
Then it happened. His knees gave out. He fell. The gun jarred out of his hand, skittered and slid across the muddy narrow road and came to a stop just inches from Halpin's boots.
Halpin dove for the handgun, grabbed it, rolled, and came up aiming at Standish. The deputy had only the time to recognize the fact that there was now a small derringer in the man's hand before he heard the explosion.
Standish watched the man through the slight smoke wafting from his derringer. He saw the moment the mean eyes recognized they were dying, that they'd been outmaneuvered and beat and then the light left them forever. The body slumped to the ground.
Ezra was finding that he was in fact surprisingly weak and having trouble getting to his feet when a strong hand grabbed his upper arm and pulled him up.
"What kind of damn fool stunt was that?" Larabee demanded even as he reached the black sheep of what had been evolving into his dysfunctional family unit. The taller man pulled off the bloody jacket, handed it to the gambler who took it weakly and haphazardly in his good arm. Larabee pulled back the once white shirt and as gently as possible probed the entry wound for the bullet.
"I was aghast to find that some of Mr. Dunne's simplistic dime novel codes were influencing me. I couldn't kill the man in cold blood." Then the cloudy green eyes turned to the ones that had been murky with self-hate and anger for much longer. "But that man needed to be dead. He had to die." He didn't say it was because Halpin had heard the words Tanner, bounty and $500 in the same sentence and that made him a threat. He didn't say this was the man who masterminded Buck Wilmington's hanging.
He didn't need to. Whatever Larabee was seeing in those eyes was enough.
Despite his best effort, Standish's legs finally gave way and he began to slump to the ground. Strong arms caught him and guided him toward the main street.
"Nathan's here. He'll take care of you," the surprisingly gentle voice promised. Larabee took the burgundy jacket from his friend. He noticed a worn piece of paper fall from a pocket. He stuck it in his own deep pocket as they made their way back to the main street.