In the hills outside of town, all was quiet. Vin and Nathan lounged beneath the stars, mulling over their own private thoughts and watching the fire dance in the warm spring air. The flames were dying out, and most of the light in the little camp was shining from an old tin lantern perched on a nearby rock.
Vin was idly blowing shapeless tunes on his harmonica and the healer was sitting with his back against a rock, studying the stars, when suddenly they both looked towards the road, instantly alert.
"Rider comin'," Vin announced, smoothly grabbing for his sawed-off Winchester.
Nathan nodded and reached for his own weapon, but before he could grasp it, a familiar voice split the air.
"'Bout dang time I found you two!" said the shadow as it rode up to them.
"Buck!" Nathan exclaimed, holding up the lantern as their comrade trotted into view. He and Vin were on their feet at once.
Buck rode into the small circle of light, dusty and covered with sweat. After reining to a halt, he simply sat on his horse, panting as he regarded both of them and shaking his head. "Here I go ridin' over half the territory tryin' to track you boys down, an' when I finally find ya, you're less'n a mile from town!"
Vin stepped forward, worry creasing his brow. "What's wrong, Buck?"
"Things back there are gettin' all stirred up," Buck answered him, leaning forward in his saddle and crossing his hands over the pommel. "Seems they called a town meetin' for tonight to talk about whether to keep us on."
"Thought that was up to the Judge," Nathan observed, a slight tone of confusion in his voice.
"It is, pard," Buck assured him, sitting back up, "but I figure Conklin an' his bunch think if they yell loud enough, the Judge'll listen to 'em. Chris sent me to find you so we could all be at the meetin', but it's gettin' mighty late now. Likely it's almost over."
"Close as we are, we can be in town in no time," Vin said in a hurried voice, pocketing his harmonica. Nathan was dousing the fire already.
"Bet that ol' snake Wyatt's behind this," the healer mumbled angrily, his expression unmistakable in the dim lantern light.
"Don't worry, he ain't gonna run us out so easy," Vin promised as he walked towards Sire. "I bet Chris-"
From a small distance away in the pitch-black woods, the distinct sound of a loud horse's whinny reached their ears.
All three men stopped and looked into the murky forest, startled.
"You been followed, Buck?" Nathan asked, putting his hand on his gun once more.
"Don't think so," the mustached gunslinger replied, peering into the shadowy woods as he slid off his horse. "But after all the crazy bull of the past month, I sure ain't about to take any chances."
They drew their guns and waited, staring into the darkness. A soft noise came to them, the gentle, rhythmic crunching of a horse's hooves on the dry forest floor, coming slowly towards them.
Silently the three men ducked behind the closest, largest rocks. A large, indistinct shape could be seen among the dark trunks of the trees, accompanied by the snorting and blowing of a horse.
Three guns clicked simultaneously, the small metallic noises echoing in the newborn night.
Vin aimed his weapon at the shadow. "Best show yourself," he said in a loud, warning voice which invited no argument.
The figure moved forward a few more paces, uttered what sounded like a broken groan, and slid off its mount to the ground, landing on the rocky ground with a heavy thud.
Buck, Vin and Nathan rose a little as the dark shape struggled to rise.
"Could be a trick," Vin whispered.
The shape lifted itself up and attempted to stand, but only managed to get to its knees before collapsing again with an even louder cry than before.
At this sound, all three men stood, astonished.
"Ezra!" Nathan cried, grabbing the lantern and dashing around the rock to where the figure now lay motionless.
"Aw, damn!" Vin breathed in anxious surprise as he followed the healer, with Buck on his heels.
Within seconds the horse and rider were fully illuminated by the lantern's dim glow. Its feeble light revealed the prone form of Ezra, lying in a crumpled heap at Chaucer's side, his dusty clothes soaked through with perspiration and blood.
"God'lmighty, he's been shot!" Buck shouted in shock as Nathan knelt beside the wounded gambler and very carefully turned him over.
Ezra's eyelids fluttered open and he peered unsteadily at the men around him. "A...correct if somewhat...obvious observation...Mr. Wilmington," he gasped, the sentence ending with a burst of ragged coughs.
"What the hell happened?" Vin inquired as Nathan ripped open Ezra's shirt to check the wound. Buck was on his knees at Ezra's side, folding up his jacket and hastily shoving it beneath the Southerner's head.
"No, you don't!" the healer interceded as Ezra attempted to answer. "Not one more word outta you 'til we get you fixed up!"
Ezra shook his head and grabbed Nathan's wrist in a faltering grip, halting his examination. "No, wait!" he panted. "You've...got to know-it was Wyatt-"
"Now why don't that surprise me?" Buck growled. "By God, I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch!"
Nathan's lips pressed together for a moment in pure fury. He bit it back and settled for giving his head a violent shake. "I'm right with ya on that, Buck!"
Ezra coughed again. "You are both welcome...to whatever is left after I am through with him," he muttered, his breath easing as he became more comfortable. "He...attacked me while I was transporting Mr. Huston. My instincts were unfortunately correct, he...has a gang and is behind every misfortune we've suffered in the past month. He plans to...drive us out and regain possession of the town."
Vin produced a canteen and put it to Ezra's lips.
"You mean, that guy that attacked Mary, that shot at Vin-all of them are workin' for Wyatt?" Nathan asked as the gambler satiated his thirst.
Ezra nodded as Vin pulled the empty canteen away. "He explained it all right in front of me, I...assume because he believed I was breathing my last."
Vin looked at the other two men. "We got to get to that meetin' an tell them folks what's been goin' on!"
"That skunk'll just deny the whole thing," Buck pointed out.
Ezra coughed. "You might...ask him how my guns arrived in his saddlebags. I saw him put them there...before I lost consciousness."
Vin pursed his lips, then gave Ezra a very light slap on the shoulder before standing up. "You rest easy, pard, we'll take it from here."
His friend took a deep breath and nodded, closing his eyes. "My choices...in that regard seem...extremely limited at the moment..."
"You best just hush up now," Nathan chided him gently, then looked up at Buck. "Wyatt ain't gonna go easy about this, Buck. Think you ought to go with Vin an' back him up. I can take care of Ezra myself."
Buck hesitated, just for a moment, studying his friend's pale, slack features. "Is he gonna be all right?"
"Think so," Nathan said, putting a hand on Ezra's shoulder. "Bullet went through, an' all that ridin' wore him out, but he'll make it."
Ezra's eyes flickered open again, and he gazed at Buck with muted urgency. "I appreciate your concern, my friend," he whispered, "but I will be even better...once that rascal is behind bars or at the end of a rope, where he belongs."
"An' I wouldn't object to that, neither," Nathan added, staring at Buck with an expression full of bitter anger.
Buck gave a short sigh, his blue eyes lit bright with determination. "Well, all right," he murmured, squeezing Ezra's arm before jumping to his feet. "C'mon, Vin, let's go corral us a rattler."
Vin nodded firmly, then turned and hurried to where Sire stood waiting. In one long, fluid motion, he leapt onto the animal's back and gathered up the reins as Buck rode up beside him, ready to go.
"See you both back home," Vin called out, then he and Buck whirled and tore down the moonlit mountain road towards the glimmering town in the distance.
Nathan watched them go, the turned his full attention to Ezra, who was now staring up at the starlit sky with a strange, distant expression in his green eyes.
"I certainly hope so, Vin," Nathan heard the Southerner murmur in a dream-like whisper, but before he could inquire as to the deep emotion which seemed to fill those softly spoken words, Ezra's eyes blinked closed again and the gambler fell back into unconsciousness.
Dr. Fredericks took another draw from his bottle of whiskey and looked over at the clock ticking quietly on the wooden shelf above the door. He'd snuck out of the meeting for a nip, and was preparing to head back. As he put the bottle back under the table in its usual hiding place, his old face wrinkled into smile; ol' Wyatt sure had these hicks fooled. This was going to be easy.
A quick rapping sounded on his door, but before he could get to his feet it opened, and a slender figure stepped through it.
"Huston!" Fredericks exclaimed, as the kid's pockmarked face showed itself. "What in hell are you doing here? If Wyatt sees you-"
Huston's long face was spread in a wide grin. "All us boys are here, doc, an' we don't give a hang for Wyatt no more. Roy's takin' over, an' we're gonna grab what's ours afore that sidewinder takes it all."
Frederick's small eyes widened. "Really! A mutiny, huh?"
A puzzled light flickered across Huston's eyes. "Well...if that means we ain't followin' Wyatt, then yeah. Roy sent me on ahead to fetch you if'n you wanna join the winnin' side."
Fredericks thought for a moment, then looked Huston in the eye.
"Just let me get my guns."
The crowd in the grain exchange was finally settling down as Conklin rapped the gavel a few more times.
"All right, now," he intoned, as the mutterings simmered to a halt. "It's gettin' late and I think we're all just about talked out. You good folks can go on home now, and the council will decide tomorrow what's to be done."
Wyatt raised his hand. "Mind if I say a few things, Harry?"
A quick smile slid across Conklin's face, his eyes disappearing into cheerful slits behind his glasses. "Not at all, Wyatt, go right ahead."
"Thanks," was the humble reply, and Wyatt stood, facing his audience in as dignified and contrite a manner as he could muster. "Now, I got to say, I'm mighty grateful that you've all found it in your hearts to forgive me," he said in a halting voice as he faced his fellow townsmen. "Even if you don't want me as your sheriff any more, I've decided to stay right here in Four Corners for as long as God gives me to live, tryin' to right that wrong and help you good folks out as much as I can. If you'll let me, of course."
"Aw, hell, Wyatt!" chuckled one of the men in the crowd.
Wyatt let a smile tug at his thin lips, then continued. "Well, I can't ever forgive myself for the wrong I did you people, but no matter what, I'll be workin' to earn back your trust for the rest of my days. I've already had several chances to show you I ain't all talk, thank the Lord, and I'll go on taking those chances as they come, with or without a badge. Now, I...I reckon I'm done talkin'. Thank you."
Several people applauded as Wyatt sat down, Conklin as much as anyone else.
"Great, Wyatt, that was fine," he enthused, palming the gavel. "Well, I suppose that just about-"
Chris took a step forward, his boots thumping loudly against the exchange's old wooden floor. "I'd like to say somethin' too, Mr. Conklin."
"You-?" Conklin seemed a bit thrown and sputtered for a moment. "Uh-well, yes, I suppose you can, Larabee. Go, uh, go ahead."
Chris walked slowly to the front of the room, his eyes staying on Wyatt with every step. The former sheriff met his gaze and held it, defiance flickering in his hazel eyes, as if daring Chris to say anything against him.
Finally Chris turned and faced the room, his broad-brimmed black hat held firmly in his hands. "Don't have any fancy speech to make to you folks," he confessed with a single shake of his head. "For the past year, the boys an' I have been lettin' our fists an' our blood do the talkin' in defense of this town." He swept them all with his piercing green eyes. "We're not perfect. But long as we got a sworn duty to put ourselves between you folks an' anyone lookin' to harm you, we'll be there."
He paused, dropped his eyes, toyed with his hat a bit, then shrugged. "Should've had Josiah give this talk," he muttered lightly with a self-deprecating smile, shaking his head before lifting it once more. "That's all I have to say."
He gave them all a nod and walked away to applause from their supporters, looking uncomfortable as he rejoined his friends.
"I hated that," he admitted to Josiah.
"But you meant every word, an' they knew it , Chris," the preacher assured him as the applause died down, mingling with the muffled din as people rose to leave. He smiled. "Course, if you'd *asked* me to do the talkin'-"
Chris grinned and was about to reply when the door to the exchange burst open with a loud bang. The entire crowd gasped and looked up as Vin and Buck appeared, dusty and panting, with anger clearly burning in their eyes.
Vin strode into the room as silence fell, his blue eyes wide and fierce. "We too late?"
"Sorry, Tanner, the meeting's over," Conklin insisted.
"I didn't hear a gavel, did you boys?" Chris asked loudly.
"Not me, Mr. Larabee," JD said in agreement.
"Or me," Josiah added.
"That's right fine," Vin breathed in a tight voice as he marched straight up to Wyatt and looked him in the eye.
Wyatt took a step back. "Here, Tanner, what's this all about?"
"You're a lyin', thievin' rattlesnake, that's what, Wyatt," Vin replied in a deadly whisper, "an' you're through foolin' these folks."
"We know all about your little plan to take over the town," Buck continued, standing just behind Vin with his hands on his hips. "How you been workin' with them outlaws, settin' 'em to shoot at Chris an' Vin an' attack Mary just so's you could look good an' act the hero."
Exclamations of shock ran through the crowd.
"What!" Conklin cried, "Don't be absurd, Wilmington!"
"You been plannin' this whole thing out," Vin said, stepping closer to Wyatt. "You been tryin' to get that badge back so's you can take this town back for yourself. Ezra heard you tell that Huston kid the whole story."
Wyatt laughed as he took one more step back, but it took several moments for him to reply. "Standish? Don't-don't be ridiculous! These are just the ravings of a wounded man, he was clearly delirious."
Vin eyed him evenly. "How'd you know Ezra was wounded?"
Silence fell as every eye and ear turned towards the former sheriff.
"Yeah, Wyatt," Buck said calmly. "We didn't say nothin' about that."
Conklin looked back and forth between the two men, confused. "Wyatt-?"
Chris came forward, just as calm as Buck and Vin, but there was an undeniable storm brewing behind his eyes. "What's the story, Vin?"
Vin never took his eyes from Wyatt. "Ezra's lyin' by the road just outside of town, with a hole in 'im from Wyatt's gun. Nathan's tendin' to 'im, but he was 'bout dead when he found us."
"Seems the good sheriff here shot Ezra an' let that Huston kid ride off," Buck continued. "He an' the kid were talkin', an' Ezra heard every word. It's all a swindle, Chris. Wyatt's workin' for the bad guys."
The murmurings were growing stronger now as the townspeople looked at each other, confused. Chris looked ready to kill somebody, and from the deadly expression he was leveling at Wyatt, it appeared that the former sheriff was the prime candidate at the moment.
Wyatt looked around angrily. "It's all a lie!" he cried. "They're just trying to save their necks, they know you don't want them here. Don't pay them any mind."
"If'n they're lies, then you won't mind provin' it ain't true," Vin said.
Wyatt straightened. "I'll do whatever is required," he promised in a firm voice.
Vin nodded, allowing a small smile to touch his lips. "Mind if we look in your saddlebags?"
For a brief second, fear flickered across Wyatt's face. "My saddlebags?"
"You heard right, pard," Buck said. "See, accordin' to Ezra, you lifted his guns an' put 'em in your saddlebags. 'Course he was lyin', right? They ain't in your saddlebags, or your hotel room, are they?"
"That's simple enough to prove," proclaimed Mr. Heideger, the Swiss owner of the hotel. He was eyeing the lawmen with an angry expression. "They're in the hotel safe. We can go there right now."
Conklin slapped Wyatt on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Wyatt, we'll get this cleared up. Come on."
The look on Wyatt's face told the hired lawmen all they needed to know, even if no one else there saw it.
"I think they're actually in the livery," Wyatt said as the crowd began to file out in the direction of the hotel.
"No, I checked the safe myself before we came over," Mr. Heideger said in firm Swiss tones. "Nobody has tampered with them, Wyatt, I swear. I will open the safe myself."
The smile that crept over Chris's face as he stared at Wyatt's increasingly sweaty countenance was full of satisfaction. "C'mon, Wyatt," he said softly. "What've you got to lose?"
Before Wyatt could think of a reply, several cries arose from the street outside. A young man pushed through the crowd, appearing in the doorway and waving his hat.
"There's a rough-lookin' gang up the street!" he cried. "One of them looks like the kid who shot at Mr. Larabee-I think they're tryin' to rob the jewelry store!"
Mr. Hofmann climbed to his feet using his cane and uttered a vehement German oath.
"Don't worry, Mr. Hofmann, we'll take care of it," JD said quickly, as half of the crowd rushed outside and the other half retreated into the safer corners of the Grain Exchange.
Chris shot a look at Wyatt. "This ain't over," he warned as he palmed his gun, then followed his men outside.
Wyatt couldn't show it, but he felt vastly relieved. He had no idea what the hell that fool kid Huston was doing, coming back here, but it appeared his men were giving Wyatt a chance to act the hero once more in front of the whole town. Probably Huston told them about the meeting and wanted to speed things along; well, if he foiled the robbery of old Hofmann's store, that would certainly clinch things, and the saddlebags would be forgotten-a damn good thing, since Standish's guns were still inside. But if he didn't move fast, Larabee and his men might stop things before Wyatt could. He couldn't have that.
"Hold up, Larabee!" he said aloud, and ran after the gunman.
It was dark in the street, but as Chris and his men began to stride towards the area where the jewelry store stood, they could plainly see several dark shapes moving around its perimeter. Suddenly five horsemen appeared from around the corner next to the store and galloped towards them.
Chris turned and saw Wyatt standing beside him. "Get the hell out of here, Wyatt!"
"Not a chance, Larabee," the former sheriff snapped back. "I want to show this town how much they can trust me." He looked over his shoulder to see a crowd of the curious gathering behind him, Conklin at the fore. Good, Wyatt thought; they'll see everything. Hope the boys have this well planned, we could be in this town by tomorrow.
As the riding figures drew closer and became easier to see, several murmurs ran through the throng of townfolk.
"Hey-isn't that the guy Standish gambled with, who almost killed himself?"
"Looks like him-an' there's the kid who shot Larabee-"
"And that big guy on the horse-he's the one who attacked Mrs. Travis! Thought he was dead-"
"Hey, Wilmington, there's the guy that gave you that black eye!"
"And-there's Dr. Fredericks!"
As the confused exclamations rippled through the small throng, Chris studied the tall, black-haired man riding at the front of the outlaw band. It was, indeed, the man who had attacked Mary. He turned to Wyatt. "Thought you said he was dead, Wyatt."
Inside, Wyatt was seething; damn Roy, for showing up like this when he was supposed to say hidden! This blew the whole story. And what the hell was Fredericks doing up there? But he forced himself to remain calm. "Well, obviously we were wrong, Larabee," he growled.
But he had to keep playing the game, if this was all to go the way he wanted. As the five horsemen reined in ten feet away, Wyatt said in a loud voice, "All right, what's the meaning of this?"
Roy chuckled. "Hell, you know the meanin' well as we do, Wyatt."
It was a casually spoken sentence, its familiar tone indicating that Roy had spoken to Wyatt frequently before.
"That sounded right chummy there," Buck observed. "You two fellas know each other?"
The crowd began to stir again, in a way Wyatt didn't like. What the hell was Roy doing? He cleared his throat and shouted in his best authoritative voice, "Only meaning I can see, men, is that you got to drop your guns an' surrender."
"Hell with that, Wyatt!" Roy barked out with a laugh. "We ain't takin' your orders no more."
There was more murmuring behind him, and Wyatt very clearly heard Conklin's bewildered voice stammer out, "What...what's he mean by that, Irving?"
Chris, Vin, Buck, JD and Josiah all turned to Wyatt and looked at him with knowing expectation.
For several long seconds, Wyatt lost the power to answer. He could only stare at the men arrayed before him, his body going cold as he realized that his plan was crashing down around him. Double-crossed, he thought numbly. They were double-crossing him...
Chris turned and waved the townfolk away. "Get back inside! Now!" he shouted, recognizing what was coming.
Many of them needed no further urging; they were already hurrying away, having no desire to get caught in the crossfire. Many of them stared at Wyatt as they ran off, confused, amazed and angry. Wyatt didn't seem to notice.
"Dammit," the former sheriff whispered, shaking his head as he reached for his guns. "You backstabbin' sons of-"
Chris's eyes widened as he saw what was happening. "Wyatt, NO!"
A second later, the street exploded with gunfire.
As the townfolk screamed and ran, Chris and his men dove for cover, firing at the same time. Wyatt fell into the dirt, cursing a blue streak and grasping at his bleeding, now-useless gun arm. Another bullet had torn into his left leg, the pants leg turning crimson within moments.
The outlaw's horses reared and cried out as one of the men, the dark-haired one who had punched Buck, fell dead from his saddle, landing in the dust with a heavy thud. Fredericks reeled, clutching at the gaping hole in his shoulder, then whirled and without another word tore off down the street.
Bullets sprayed everywhere. The remaining three outlaws returned fire for a few minutes, splintering the wooden tables and barrels that sheltered the lawkeepers.
"Shit!" Roy suddenly yelled, and whirling spurred his mount up the street towards the jewelry store, blood spattering into the dirt from an unseen wound as he rode off. Huston fire off one more shot at Chris before following his new boss, with the third outlaw close on his heels.
Chris and the others rose from their hiding places, panting and covered with sweat. With a barely suppressed grunt of rage, Chris charged over to where Wyatt lay wounded and collared him, hauling him halfway to his feet.
"Goddamn you, Larabee!" Wyatt choked in pain and rage as he tried to free himself from the gunman's iron grip.
"I think He's gonna have a crack at damning you first, Wyatt," Chris snarled, pulling the former sheriff towards a nearby storage shed. With one shove he pushed Wyatt inside and slammed the door closed, twisting the key and then shoving it into the pocket of his long black duster.
"Guess that'll hold him," Buck said with a firm nod. "We goin' after 'em?"
There was a pause. Chris looked at his men, then behind him, to where a few of the townpeople were peeping at them from the safety of porches and windows. Conklin was peering anxiously from the window of the Grain Exchange, his face gray. Residents who twenty minutes before had been ready to kick the seven out of town were now pleading silently for help.
Chris stared at Conklin, at all of them, his green eyes stormy. It would have been so easy to tell them all to go to hell, that if they didn't want the seven's help, then they weren't going to get it. That would have made more sense than charging once more into danger to spill their blood for the ungrateful.
Chris sighed silently and looked at his men. Their faces wore the same solemn expression; they were thinking the same thing he was, and he could see that they had all reached the same decision.
Without another word they turned and ran up the street towards the jewelry store.
"Hurry it up!"
Tyler's rough voice shot through the air as he stood at Jack's shoulder, watching impatiently as his partner tried to jimmy open the side window of the jewelry store with a crowbar.
"Shut up, dammit!" Jack snapped, not taking his eyes off his work. "It's almost open. Go bother Parker and Irish if you're so damn bored."
Tyler snorted and palmed his gun, looking around nervously. "Hell, they're just robbin' the hardware store. That ain't near half as good as robbin' a jewelry store."
The thunderous pounding of hooves grabbed their attention; someone was riding fast up the street towards them.
Jack threw a look over his shoulder as he dropped the crowbar and reached for his gun. "Shit!"
"It's Fredericks!" Tyler gasped, taking a step forward into the street.
Jack jumped to his feet and gaped along with his comrade. Fredericks was tearing down the street, not seeming to even notice them as he bore down on them.
"Ben!" Jack yelled as the doctor drew near. "What happened? Where'n hell-"
Fredericks did not even slow down. He raced past them, bent low over the neck of his horse, and as he shot past both men could see the blood staining his shirt. Without the slightest pause, the older man galloped up the street and into the blackness of the outlying desert.
"Hey!" Tyler cried, as the dust from Fredericks' horse swirled around them in a tawny cloud.
"Somebody shot him!" Jack exclaimed, grabbing Tyler's sleeve. "Damn, they're onto us!"
"Bet Wyatt ratted on us," Tyler growled, his dirty hands balling into fists. "I'm gonna shoot that-"
"Tyler! Jack!"
There were more hoofbeats behind them, and the turned to see Roy trotting up, followed by Earl and Huston. They were all sweaty and highly agitated, and Roy's clothing was spotted with blood.
"Dang!" Tyler spat in surprise.
"Better move fast, boys, Larabee an' his men are right behind us," Roy said as he dismounted carefully. There was a ragged tear on his left sleeve where a bullet had cut a deep crease through his arm.
"Didja find Wyatt?" Jack inquired as he retrieved the crowbar.
Earl chuckled. "Forget Wyatt, we done put a couple bullets in that skunk's worthless hide."
Huston coughed. "They got Walt, though."
Jack hefted the crowbar, paused to consider his associate's death, then shrugged. "Serves that fool right for not shootin' 'em first," he muttered, then went back to work with his crowbar.
Roy turned to Earl and Huston. "Larabee an' his men are comin'. You boys get Irish an' Parker an' keep them hired guns busy 'til we clean this place out."
"Right," Huston said with a grin, and he and Earl moved off into the shadows.
Roy nodded, glanced at his bloodied arm, then looked at Jack still struggling with the stubborn window.
"Oh, for God's sake, Jack," he said in disgust, and with one thickly gloved hand he shattered the glass with his Remington. As Jack and Tyler jumped back to avoid the spray of broken glass, Roy reached up, unlocked the window and slid the damaged casement upwards.
"Heh," Jack said with a shake of his head as Roy began to climb through the window, "guess that's why you're the boss, Roy."
The sound of shattering glass echoed up the now-empty street as Chris and his men got closer.
"Dang!" JD muttered, dismayed.
"Keep sharp," Josiah said in a low voice as several dark shapes moved across the road in the distance.
"Looks like another tough night on the job," Buck muttered as he checked his gun.
"Saw one of 'em go back down the alley," Vin said, grasping his sawed-off Winchester. "Reckon I'll go round 'im up."
Chris nodded to him. "Watch your back."
Vin's head bobbed once, and he was off as smooth and quiet as a whisper.
Chris looked around, then motioned to the others with his gun, his movements saying: Let's go.
They followed him silently, moving closer to the jewelry store, and the outlaws sheltered within it, with every step.
Wyatt sat up in the dark storage shed and cursed his own stupidity.
Shit! he spat to himself as he blinked against the gloom. Why the hell didn't he just gun down Roy and the others? How could he have been so stupid as to trust any of them? He should've known they'd turn on him, and cut him out before he could cut them. And Standish! Wyatt kicked himself for not blowing the gambler's head off when he had the chance. He could have sworn that damned Reb was dead...
He struggled to a sitting position, his wounds protesting with every movement. He ignored the stabbing pain, too angry to coddle himself. Now the whole damn town knew the truth, they'd look inside the saddlebags, and he'd be arrested and hanged. Maybe they wouldn't even bother to arrest him first.
Hell with that, Wyatt thought as he looked around. Tiny shafts of moonlight were leaking in through the splits in the shed's rough board walls, and there was just enough light for him to see. The shed was empty except for a few bags of seed. Wyatt leaned forward and rummaged around, but there were no sharp tools he could use to break open the door.
He sighed sharply and tried the door. The lock held, and he knew his wounds had sapped the strength he'd need to break it down. He sat back for a moments, his injured arm held tight against his body, thinking.
After a few minutes, he rose to a stoop and began testing the boards of the walls. One of them wobbled a little more than the others; it wasn't much, but it was a start. Bracing himself, he began to try and loosen it even more.
Chris, Buck, Josiah and JD continued to creep slowly towards the jewelry store, hiding their every move as much as they could and making as little noise as possible. As they crept closer, they could hear the thieves rummaging inside, opening cases and emptying drawers.
They came within fifty feet. Chris was just about to move across the street when a gunshot rang out, whizzing just past his face. As he leapt back, another shot rang out, with several more close behind it.
"Guess they decided to break cover," Buck observed, after plunging behind a large barrel. When breaks in the firing permitted it, he popped his head up and studied the situation. "Looks like there's three of 'em, coverin' the ones in the store."
"We gotta stop 'em before they take everything Mr. Hofmann's got!" JD gasped, peering over the trough which was protecting him and firing off a round towards the hidden attackers.
The shots became more sporadic.
"Hey, Larabee!" came a familiar, taunting voice as the firing died down. "You find the guts t'face me yet, ol' man?"
A furious voice hidden somewhere nearby hissed, "Huston! You jackass!"
"For Pete's sake, it's that kid!" JD exclaimed after a pause. All four men looked to see Huston standing up from behind an overturned table, guns in both hands.
Josiah looked over to Chris. "Whattya say, Larabee?"
Chris shrugged. "He wants a fight, I say we give it to 'im."
All four of them aimed at the haughty standing figure and opened fire.
The bullets sprayed at the kid's feet and behind his head, shattering the wooden clapboards of the building at his back. Huston let out a yelp, startled, then stumbled into the street, firing a few shots back at them as he ran.
"Huston! Christ!" shouted an angry voice above the din, from somewhere in the shadows surrounding the jewelry store.
"Oh, let 'im get killed," another one snarled.
Chris put out a hand to his men to stop the gunfire, watching as Huston, now white and wide-eyed with fear, turned and ran up the street.
"I'll go lasso 'im, Chris," Buck offered, preparing to stand.
"Careful, he's as dangerous as he is stupid," Chris warned.
Buck grunted. "Met up with that kind before," he murmured, and ran after the kid, ducking bullets as he ran.
Chris turned his attention back to the store. "Josiah, JD, you take care of the front, I'll go 'round the back," he said. "They gotta come out sometime."
"Godspeed," Josiah said with a nod, and Chris slid away, gun held up and ready as he melted into the shadows.
Huston's heart was pounding in his ears as he ran, ducking into every available shelter he could find. His wounded arm was throbbing terribly, and all he could think of was to get away. Forget the money, forget trying to be the man who killed Chris Larabee.
He could double back, find the others of his gang, but they might kill him as well. He never should have broken cover, never-
"Hey! You there!"
Huston turned and fired blindly before taking to his heels again. That tall black-haired guy was after him; he had to go, *now*. Stumbling and cursing, Huston dove into the nearest alley, hoping it would take him to a horse he could steal, and freedom.
He had gone one hundred feet down the alley before realizing it was a dead end.
"Aw, hell!" he cried in dismay, stopping in his tracks as he saw a wooden wall rise before him, blocking his exit. He whirled, determined to run back-
-and saw Buck closing in on him, his gun pointed straight at Huston's head.
"Eeerp!" Huston gulped, suddenly unable to move.
"All right now, junior," Buck said in a stern voice as he slowly drew closer. "Toss that pea-shooter into the dirt."
Huston hesitated.
Buck took one more step and gave the kid his best angry glare.
The young man's eyes widened, and suddenly sitting in jail looked a hell of a lot better than being shot to death.
With a quick, jerky motion, Huston threw the gun to the ground and dropped to his knees, jamming his hands high into the air.
"Don't kill me, mister!" he cried, trembling from head to toe. "I'll tell you everything! All of it! Just DON'T SHOOT ME!"
Buck eyed the kid carefully as he retrieved the gun. "All of it, huh?"
Huston nodded eagerly, willing to do anything to lighten the punishment facing him. Maybe they wouldn't even lock him up. "Yeah!"
After making sure the kid had no other weapons, Buck quickly cuffed him and hauled him to his feet by his dirty collar.
"Right, boy," Buck said in his ear, "Let's get you set up all nice an' snug, an' when this is all over, you can start talkin'. Move it!"
Vin padded quietly down the alley, his sharp blue eyes scanning the dimly lit area. He was sure he saw someone come down here-
A slender form darted in front of him, slipping in and out of the shadows. Vin glimpsed him quickly as he ducked against the wall, and recognized the form at once. It was the same man who had taken several shots at him a few weeks back. So he was working for Wyatt, too; no big surprise there.
And now once more, the hunt was on.
Another gunshot erupted in the night, exploding against the wall near to him. As he pulled away, Vin heard quick footsteps clattering down the alley. Gripping his mare's leg tightly, Vin wove into the alleyway, his ears picking up the staccato sounds as they hurried away, then followed them.
As he sped nimbly after his attacker, Vin could make him out just ahead of him, and kept his eyes fixed to the figure as if they had been born for that purpose. The shadow whirled, fired one more shot behind him which went wide, then ducked into the nearest structure.
It was a large, unused barn, once part of the livery but now abandoned; a section of its roof had burned and fallen in long ago, and now it simply sat, a shattered corpse of a building waiting for burial. Vin slowed and stopped, his instincts prickling wildly. The outlaw knew what he was doing; there were a million places to hide in there. Every ounce of caution was needed if he wanted to bring down this prey.
He moved slowly, easing up to the open door of the old barn, and peered inside. Half of the interior was shrouded in gloom, only partly relieved by the slivers of light dribbling in between the loose, rotting boards which comprised the walls. The other half, which lay beneath the gaping hole of the collapsed roof, was bathed in soft moonlight, revealing empty stalls and mounds of trash left by those who saw the building as a massive dumping ground. Piles of wooden boxes, discarded lumber and window frames from torn-down buildings, broken wagon wheels and the tattered scraps of wrecked wagons littered the floor.
Vin's blue eyes drank it all in at a glance, and he entered very slowly, keen for any sound or movement which would give away the intruder. He was still there; Vin's well-trained senses told him that. A familiar thrill went through him as the feel of the hunt pounded through his veins once more; once this had been his life, and even now he could not deny the somewhat intoxicating excitement of the chase.
He took a few more steps into the barn, carefully studying every possible place where the outlaw might be hiding. His supple fingers tightened around the barrel of the sawed-off Winchester, but he felt no fear; he had learned, long ago, how to stifle all anxiousness in favor of a cool head and steady hands.
Suddenly his eyes caught something just to the right. A glint; he looked fast, at a row of stalls at the far end of the barn. Something was flickering at one of the knotholes in the rotting wood-
Quick as a flash, Vin lifted his gun to aim and fire.
He was one second too late.
The wooden walls of the old barn shook with the loud report of the outlaw's rifle as it went off. Vin fired almost at the same time, an instant before a bullet tore through the muscle between his neck and his left shoulder. The force knocked him backwards, and he struck the ground hard, momentarily stunned as the blood began to pour from the wound, his gun tumbling from his hands from the strength of the blow.
Vin grit his teeth, waiting for the world to right itself as wave after wave of agony washed over him. His left arm felt on fire and numb at the same time, and moving it was next to impossible. He groaned, feeling the wound gingerly with his good hand. The blood felt slick and warm against his fingers, but after a moment he could tell the bullet had gone through. But damn, it hurt...
Vin tried to sit up, pushing away the pain and confusion tugging at the edges of his mind. Something moved in the shadows, and Vin saw the outlaw emerge from the stall and swagger slowly into the pool of moonlight towards him, a rifle in one hand and a smug smile on his face.
He was a tall man, with a plain, vicious face and small eyes. As he drew closer, Vin could see his mouth curl into an ugly smile.
"Well," he said in a highly self-satisfied voice as he kicked the mare's leg out of Vin's reach, "Wyatt tol' me not to kill you before, but he can't stop me now, can he?"
"Reckon not," Vin replied in as unfriendly a tone as he could manage, slipping his good hand beneath his jacket.
"Heh," the man chuckled, taking a few steps closer and stopping at Vin's feet. "Sure am lookin' forward to thet five hundred dollars. I'm takin' ya in dead, 'course, but don't worry-there'll be just enough of yer face left for them t'know it's you."
He began to raise his rifle, but before it touched his cheek Vin's legs shot forward, his ankles twisting around the man's feet and toppling him forward. With a cry of surprise the outlaw fell on top of Vin, the rifle twirling out of his grip as he tried to break his fall. There was a loud thud, a strangled cry, then, for several moments, silence.
With a muffled groan, Vin finally moved, gasping for air as he tried to heave the outlaw off of him. His assailant was no longer moving, and Vin attempted to roll him away, his blood-covered hand still gripping the hilt of his hunting knife which now lay deeply buried in the outlaw's chest.
Finally with one tremendous effort, Vin succeeded in freeing himself from the dead man's weight. As the attacker was pushed to one side, Vin slid his knife from the man's fatal wound. Grateful that he had had enough strength to pull the knife from its scabbard on his belt unnoticed and position it in the right place as the outlaw fell on top of him, Vin kicked the stranger as far away from him as he could, then slumped back to the earth, exhausted and now covered with the outlaw's blood as well as his own.
For hours, it seemed, Vin lay in the dust of the deserted barn, panting and gathering his wits. His shoulder was throbbing horribly, the searing pain ripping through him with every heartbeat. He had to get out of here, Chris might need his help, but God, the slightest movement brought waves of dizziness and nausea so powerful he could hardly bear it. He needed a doctor, but Fredericks was gone and Nathan was out of town looking after Ezra.
Shit, Tanner, he thought as he lay in the dust and stared at the stars shining overhead through the hole in the barn roof. Shit, shit...
"Vin! God'lmighty!"
Suddenly Buck's face appeared among the stars, and Vin blinked. "Buck?"
"Was just lockin' up that kid an' heard the gunshots-where'd he get ya, just the shoulder?"
"Yeah," Vin gasped, trying to sit up and grunting from the pain. "Ahh! Bullet went through, though. Most of this blood's from him." He gestured at the dead outlaw.
"You just set tight, pard," Buck cautioned him, putting one restraining hand on Vin's good shoulder. "Reckon you had enough excitement fer now. Looks like ya managed t'take 'im out, even with a bum shoulder."
Vin coughed. "Least he never thought t'see if I had a knife. How...aaah, shit!...how's Chris doin'?"
"Ain't sure just yet," Buck admitted, a tone of worry creeping into his voice. "We'll get you fixed up, then go see, okay?"
Sweat poured down Wyatt's face as he tugged at the loose board. The wounds in his arm and leg were blazing with pain, but he did his best to ignore it, all other distractions becoming secondary to his greatest desire: escape.
There was a muffled crack, and the old whitewashed board came away from the wall with a small shower of splinters. Letting out a small gasp of triumph, Wyatt pushed the board aside and studied the hole now gaping in the side wall of the storage shed. It was narrow, but he was sure he could get through it. But he would have to move fast; someone-either Larabee or one of his own men-would doubtless come looking for him soon, to finish him off.
Slipping one arm through the hole, he began to work on getting the rest of him free. It took a few minutes of twisting and grunting, and his injured members did not take kindly to such treatment. But finally Wyatt tumbled out into the dirt on the other side of the wall, damp and sore but, finally, free.
Without pausing to pamper himself with rest, Wyatt got to his feet, looking around. He had to leave town, now, but the livery was on the other side of town by the besieged jewelry store. He'd never get there without being spotted. Peering around the corner, he saw a horse still tethered at the Grain Exchange, left there by an anxious owner who had fled the attack of the outlaws.
Without hesitation, Wyatt slipped over to the animal. His sunken eyes flew over its form; not very young or strong-looking, but it would have to do. He swiftly undid its tether and climbed into the saddle, his mind quickly working out the best route out of town.
"Hey! Wyatt! Hey!"
It was Conklin, stumbling down the stairs of the Grain Exchange and running towards him. Wyatt felt his anger rise as he thought, 'Damn old fool!'
"Outta my way, Harry!" Wyatt cried aloud, sawing the horse around. Conklin grabbed the bridle, his tiny eyes wide and confused.
"Wyatt, what the hell's going on?" he spat angrily. "What Larabee said-it isn't true, is it?"
Wyatt pursed his lips as his face turned a very interesting shade of red. "Harry, you let go or so help me God I'll break your damn skinny neck with one kick!"
But Harry's fist tightened around the leather bridle, his own face turning purple with rage and confusion. "Wyatt-"
Wyatt lashed out with his good leg, catching Conklin squarely in the middle of his chest. Conklin toppled backwards, his hat and glasses flying off as he hit the ground hard, and his stunned form was soon engulfed in a cloud of moonlit dust as Wyatt careened down the street towards the open desert.
"How you boys doin' in there?" Parker yelled over his shoulder into the jewelry store. He and Earl had spent the last several minutes trading bullets with JD and Josiah, and both were wearying of the work.
"Fine, shut up an' keep them gunmen busy," was Roy's testy response from deep inside the building.
"Huh!" Earl grunted from where he was crouched down behind an overturned bench. "Bet they're stuffin' it all in their own pockets."
Another shot splintered nearby Parker's head. He dropped behind the large barrel he'd been using as shelter, its wooden form now full of bullet holes, and checked his gun. "This is gettin' right borin', Earl," he commented, looking around.
"Beats waitin' for Wyatt all to hell," was the murmured response. "We shoulda done this weeks ago."
"Mm," Parker said, his gaze fixed on something at the end of the street. "Hey! I'm headin' over to that church."
Earl looked up, puzzled, as he reloaded his gun. "Thought you didn't believe in no God, Parker."
Parker's reply was a contemptuous snort. "Ain't got no use fer God," he said, "but them walls looks mighty strong, bet I could pick 'em off easy from there an' they couldn't never touch me."
"Uh huh," Earl grunted as he snapped his weapon closed. "An' just how you gonna get in? You try an' use the crowbar, they'll just shoot you down."
"Earl, ya dang fool," Parker growled as he fished in his pocket, "I bought that place t'other day, remember? That banker done give me the key to it!"
He pulled an old brass key out and held it up for Earl's inspection.
Earl eyed him doubtfully. "Well, you can go if you like, I'm stayin' put. Don't got no desire to be shot down in the street."
His sandy-haired young comrade shrugged as he palmed the key. "Suit yerself," he said lightly, and without any further conversation he crouched low, fired off a few more rounds, then dashed away.
"You all right, JD?" Josiah asked as he peered around the table protecting him. They were both hunkered down on the porch of the boarding house across from Hofmann's store.
JD coughed and nodded, his own eyes glued to the building. Like Josiah, his skin was shiny with sweat, and blood trickled from the cuts of a few very near misses. "Yeah, preacher, I just wish something'd happen-feels like we been shootin' at 'em for hours, an' I'm almost out of bullets."
"They got to be just about done," Josiah said as he waited for a good time to rise and shoot once more. "That store isn't too-"
His words were drowned out by the thunder of gunfire, and he and JD both ducked back as the wood around them splintered beneath the impact of the bullets.
The instant the noise of the assault died down, JD poked his head up. "Hey! Hey, Josiah, there goes one of 'em!"
As JD shot his Colt Lightning at the fugitive outlaw, Josiah braved a glance into the street. A young, light-haired man was dashing towards the church, dodging bullets as he ran.
"Keep that other guy busy, JD," Josiah said quickly, climbing to his feet and staying low as he followed the outlaw.
JD nodded once, and kept his gun trained on the remaining outlaw while Josiah made his move. To JD's surprise, the last outlaw did little to cover his comrade's escape beyond firing a few shots in Josiah's general direction. After this tepid display of loyalty, he returned his full attention to JD.
The young man sighed to himself and mopped the sweat off of his brow as he regarded his arsenal. Whatever was going to happen, he only hoped it occurred before he was down to his last bullet.
Josiah trotted down the street, his gaze riveted to the scruffy figure jogging towards the church. The man turned a few times and fired at Josiah, who managed to avoid the missiles and return a few of his own.
The figure ran up the stairs and, to Josiah's surprise, quickly slipped into the front door. A key, he realized; that guy had the key to the front door. Then, the preacher reasoned, he must be the one who bought the land, saying he was named Shannon. A slight anger stirred through Josiah's heart; this was the man who had taken the church from him, who had tried to deny the town and Josiah its potential healing power, all for the purpose of greed and sin.
Well, Josiah thought as he raced towards his church, he might have the key to the building, but he doesn't have its soul. And he sure doesn't know as much about that old place as I do.
Like that lock on the side door that never did work right...
Parker gasped for breath as he slammed the front door closed, locking it securely behind him. Whew, he thought, straightening and looking around, made it. Now all I have to do is wait 'til the others come out, and we'll ride out of here nice and rich.
He turned and surveyed his dim surroundings. The church was cold and bare, its half-finished wood dull and bare in the feeble light. A thick, dusty odor hung in the air, mingled with the scent of fresh paint. A muted sense of anticipation pervaded the room, its silent walls seeming to wait patiently for the unfulfilled promise lingering in its interrupted rebirth.
To Parker, however, it was an old, dark, empty room, and he hoped he wouldn't be too bored waiting for the others to finish looting the jewelry store.
One hand still tightly gripping his gun, Parker wandered around a bit, going up to the altar and loudly tipping it into the light to see if anything was hidden inside. Seeing that it was empty, he let it thump back to the ground, disappointed, before making his way over to a few boxes perched on one of the nearby wooden pews. He picked up one, shook it, frowned, and dumped it out onto the dusty wooden floor. Several dozen candle stubs rolled out, clattering to the ground in a spray of dry wax and burned wicks. Grunting, Parker tossed the box away and picked up the second one, hoping to find something at least slightly valuable.
"I'd sure appreciate it if you'd put that down, son."
Shocked, Parker dropped the box and spun around, bringing his gun up with lightning speed. At a door to the side of the sanctuary stood an older man, with salt-and-pepper hair and very serious blue eyes. And a gun, pointed right at Parker's heart.
The sandy-haired outlaw studied him for a minute, then smirked. "You must be that ol' preacher, Sanchez."
"An' you must be Shannon," was the even reply, as Josiah took a step into the room. "Though I have my doubts that's your real name."
"No concern of yours, ol' man," Parker snarled, pushing his gun forward. "How'd you get in, anyway?"
"Oh," the preacher said casually, jerking his head behind his shoulder, "side door. Never did lock right. Now, me an' God would be mighty grateful if you'd respect His house an' drop that gun."
"I don't care what no God wants," was Parker's snide response, "an' this here's my house." He paused, then laughed a little. "Guess you're trespassin' against me, huh? Heh!"
Josiah didn't seem to appreciate the humor. He sighed, his gun hand steady. "I don't want to shed blood in this place, son. Now why don't you just drop that gun?"
Parker grinned a little and said in a jaunty voice, "An' why don't you just go to Hell?"
He lifted his weapon, and the sound of a gunshot rang through the old rafters of the aged church.
Parker cried out as the bullet from Josiah's gun wrenched his weapon from his hand and creased the skin of his fingers. As the young man fell to his knees, grasping his bleeding hand in pain, Josiah was on him in two steps, his huge hand closing around his collar.
"Been to Hell already, son," he grunted in a dark voice as he pulled Parker to his feet, "an' I just hate goin' to the same place twice."
Parker struggled mightily, pulling far enough away to take a swing at Josiah with his uninjured hand. The fist just clipped Josiah's chin; the preacher's head snapped sideways for a moment, then he recovered and gave Parker a glare of such fury that the outlaw could not help but cringe away and regret his rashness.
One instant later, Josiah reared back and sent a crashing blow across Parker's jaw, a blow powered by the memory of the anger, the sorrow, the heartbreak over the loss of his home and possible salvation. The outlaw spun to the floor with a crash and lay there, stunned, while Josiah stood over him, his blue eyes smoldering with rage.
Finally Parker stirred, one hand going to his now-bleeding mouth as he stared at Josiah with amazement and fear.
Josiah's breathing was heavy, his expression still seething. "Now I reckon we'll both have to pray for forgiveness," he said, and pulled the shaken outlaw to his feet.
Parker still struggled, but his efforts were decidedly more feeble. "What kinda preacher hits folks an' shoots at 'em?" he demanded through rapidly swelling lips.
Josiah sighed as he took a length of rope from a nearby pew and began tying Parker's hands. "The sinnin' kind, young man. The kind that needs this ol' place even more than you do. But for now, I'm thinkin' the jail might suit you better. C'mon."
He pulled the young outlaw out towards the side door, and soon the building echoed with the sound of the church being once more closed to the outside world.
"Okay, I think we got plenty!"
Roy's rough voice caught the attention of Tyler and Jack, whose saddlebags were now bulging with the wares of Mr. Hofmann's store.
"Sho-ee, we got enough here t'go down to Mexico in high style!" Jack exulted as he studied the contents of his bag before closing it up.
"We gotta get out of this damned town first," Roy reminded him in a brusque manner, frowning as he tied his saddlebag shut and slung it over his shoulder. "Tyler, you an' Jack go out the front, I'll take the back. It'll be harder for 'em to get us if we're split up. We'll meet outside of town an' head off to Mexico from there."
"What about Fredericks?" Tyler inquired as he pulled out his guns.
Roy snorted. "That old fool had his chance-the desert or the law can have 'im. Same goes for anyone who ain't with us when we ride out of here."
Jack chuckled. "Sounds great to me, Roy. Just means more for the rest of us!"
"Right," was Roy's stern reply, and after a brief check of their weapons, the three men parted, Jack and Tyler heading out the front door while Roy hastened towards the back.
JD pressed his lips together in concern as he studied the chamber of his Colt Lightning. His ammunition was running low, and the fight was far from over.
The door to the jewelry shop suddenly burst open, and JD's head snapped up as gunfire began pouring in his direction. Two men ran out, saddlebags slung over their shoulders, their weapons fully trained on JD. The third man, who had been hiding nearby, leapt into sight with a whoop and joined them as they began to dash for their horses.
The young man fired back instantly, galvanized by the sight of the thieves carrying away Mr. Hofmann's prized merchandise. One bullet found its mark; the man who had been waiting for his two comrades gave a cry and fell to the ground, blood pouring from a wound in his chest. The other two, however, were already mounting their horses, giving not a moment's glance to their dead colleague.
JD ducked the bullets flying his way as he jumped into the street, determined to stop their flight even if he had to use his last bullet to do it. Suddenly the loud report of a rifle sounded from somewhere above him, in the second story of the boarding house, and JD saw the startled robbers jerk their heads upwards. They fired a few shots in that direction, then grabbed the reins to their mounts and prepared to ride away.
JD had no time to see who was assisting his efforts; he simply aimed and fired, his shots echoed by the marksman behind him. One of the outlaws suddenly choked and slid off the saddle, landing on his face in the dirt.
Seeing this, the last surviving thief sawed his horse around and began tearing down the street. JD jumped into the street, aimed carefully and fired; at the same moment, a shot exploded from the building behind him. The horseman's body jerked violently, slumped to the right, and fell off into a pile of empty barrels, landing with a tremendous crash.
Panting, JD stepped farther into the street, a wave of warm relief flooding through him. He glanced behind him at the boarding house; one of the windows was open, its plain white curtains fluttering in the warm spring evening breeze, but there was no one there.
JD swallowed, suddenly realizing he was very thirsty, and walked quickly over to the two fallen outlaws who lay nearby.
Both of the robbers were dead. As the young man studied their faces, recognition swept over him; he had seen them on posters back at the jail. They were wanted men, both of them, and the one who lay dead up the street probably was, too.
As he stooped to pick up the fallen saddlebag of loot, he heard a familiar, rhythmic thumping behind him, and a voice call out to him, "Mr. Dunne!"
Surprised, JD stood and turned. Mr. Hofmann was coming out of the boarding house towards him, one hand grasping his silver-headed cane which rapped the boardwalk with his every step. In the jeweler's other hand was an 1861 Springfield rifle.
JD's hazel eyes widened a little, and he couldn't suppress a grin of amazement. "So that was you, Mr. Hofmann!"
The older man's handsome face was wreathed in a proud smile, his long golden curls slightly disheveled. He gestured with the rifle towards the boarding house. "I am living here until the second floor of my store is built, and managed to get up to my room without them noticing me," he said in bright German tones. "I doubt these scoundrels knew they would be dealing with you, the best shot in the West, *and* myself, the best shot in the 107th Ohio!"
"I'll say!" JD agreed with a shake of his head as he rose. A bang came from the back of the jewelry store, and JD's head whipped around.
"Um, Mr. Hofmann, maybe you better go back inside," JD said quickly, not taking his eyes off the store. "I don't think we got 'em all yet."
Without waiting to see if his suggestion was adopted, JD ran off, but he was satisfied to hear the rapid thumping of the merchant's cane on the boardwalk, and the slam of the boarding-house door. Relieved that Mr. Hofmann was safe, JD gripped his Colts and hurried off to see if he and Chris could end this ordeal once and for all.
Roy grinned to himself as he shifted the heavy leather saddlebag slung over his shoulder and reached for the shop's back door. A quick ride out of town, then to Mexico and a life of wealth.
The rapid popping of gunfire reached his ear, and he ducked, his dark eyes turning to the front of the store. Tyler and Jack were getting shot at, and Earl too. Roy paused, listening, and frowned when he realized his men were getting the worst end of the battle. Little sentiment mingled with his thoughts, however; his main objective now was escape, and he knew he stood a better chance of it if the lawmen were occupied elsewhere.
He pulled open the door and hurried into the back alley.
The area behind the store was dusty and vacant, occupied only by small heaps of wooden refuse stacked up against a high fence that ran the length of the alley, facing the store. Roy paused, cursed, then hefted the bag on his shoulder; if he could get to his horse-
"Goin' somewhere?"
Roy's gun came up in a heartbeat, and he skidded to a halt as he looked around for the source of that voice. Chris Larabee stepped out of the shadows, his gun aimed at Roy's head, a slight smile on his face.
Roy took a step back, fully aware of Larabee's reputation as a deadly marksman.
"I don't think that's yours," Larabee continued in a quiet, icy voice, nodding at the bulging saddlebag. "Why don't you drop it an' save me the trouble of drillin' a hole through your skull?"
Roy scowled. "Why don't I drop you instead, Larabee?"
More gunshots sounded from the front of the store; there was the thunder of hoofbeats, followed by another round of fire and a loud crash.
Larabee smiled a little wider. "Wanna see if I can kill you fast as you can kill me? I'm game." He lifted his gun, his trigger finger twitching.
"Now wait!" Roy cried, raising his own gun but unwilling to fire and assure his own death. He swallowed. "Look, Larabee, I'm willing to cut a deal, here."
"No deals," Larabee snarled. "You're breakin' the law."
"Why the hell not?" Roy asked in a tone of exasperation. "What do you care? Bustin' your ass to protect this place...I know what Wyatt wanted to do here, get on everyone's good side an' drive all you hired guns out of town. From what I heard, it worked pretty good, didn't it? Not a whole lot of 'em stood behind you, did they?"
Larabee stared at him and said nothing.
"Okay, look," Roy said quickly, his free hand reaching up and patting the saddlebag. "There's plenty here for both of us, an' it sounds like I got no one else to split it with-" he chuckled a little- "we can both get out of this damn town with what I've got in here. These people don't like you guys, don't trust you. You got no reason to do them any favors."
He paused and regarded Chris closely, an oily smile sliding across his bearded face. "I know you, Larabee, you were like us, not too long ago. None of you were meant to be lawmen, an' this place don't want you. You let me go, an' you won't have to put up with this town's shit for another minute. What d'ya say?"
Several long, silent moments crept by, as Larabee stared down the barrel of his gun into Roy's face. Roy felt encouraged; he'd made pretty good sense. This town had spat in Larabee's face and told him and his men to take a hike-why would he want to do anything but take what he could and go?
Finally Larabee took a deep breath and pulled back the hammer of his weapon. "I say you got two seconds to drop your gun," he replied.
Roy's eyes widened.
There were two loud gunshots as both men fired, one slightly later than the other. Their thunderous reports rolled and echoed down the alley and into the clear night air.
As JD came running around the corner, he saw Roy fall soundlessly to the ground, blood seeping from the hole shot neatly through his chest. As the outlaw hit the dirt, his saddlebag burst open, its glittering contents spilling out a little into the dust and sparkling in the spring moonlight.
JD paused, then walked up slowly, panting from his run and regarding the dead outlaw. "He the last one?"
"Yup," Chris said, shoving his gun back into its holster.
"Huh." JD took off his bowler, wiped his brow and glanced at Chris. "Hey, Chris, you're hurt. Your shoulder."
Chris looked over at his left shoulder. Roy's bullet had creased the skin there, cutting through his black duster and blue shirt.
"It's all right, JD," he muttered, his voice tired. He looked back at JD. "How're things out front?"
"Oh-" JD waved his hand towards the front of the store. "All taken care of, Mr. Hofmann even helped out. He's a great shot with a rifle."
Chris bent down, scooped the spilled jewelry back into the bag, then stood and handed it to JD with a slight, weary smile. "Guess we better give this back to 'im, then."
Footsteps pounded around the side of the house, and Buck appeared, panting and covered with sweat. His expression was grim.
Chris instantly went on alert. "What is it, Buck?"
"T'start off," Buck gasped, "Vin's down, got shot through the shoulder."
JD's eyes widened, and Chris took a step forward, his green eyes ablaze with a murderous light.
Buck quickly held up a cautioning hand. "He'll be okay. Mrs. Potter's tendin' 'im, an' the guy who done it ain't our problem no more. An Josiah an' me put two of them outlaws in the jail."
Chris sensed more was coming. "What else?"
Buck sighed. "Seems that eel Wyatt's slithered off again. Went to take him off to the jail an' found the shed empty an' a board missin' from the wall."
Chris took a deep breath, spat "Damn!" and shoved the saddlebag into JD's hands before stalking away.
Buck hurried after him, looking at JD as he passed. "Hold down the fort, kid, looks like this ain't over yet." Then he ran after his friend, who was moving with angry strides straight towards the livery.
