Chapter 3

I awoke with a jerk, unsure of how long I'd been out. The girl hovered, wiping my face with a wet cloth, keeping the makeshift bandage bound tightly about my chest. My back was on fire but there really was nothing she could do to help me.

There was more than just pain now. There was an awful feeling, deep inside, that something was very wrong. I was getting worse by the minute and it scared me. Pain I could handle, most of the time, but this was so much worse than physical agony. I was useless to my brother and to those people out there in the dining room, waiting to be killed. I was overcome by a sense of utter helplessness and despair. Not for my own situation – I was sure now that my own time had come, or it'd arrive real soon.

Without a weapon, Scott stood no chance against those killers. They must have wanted him alive or they'd have done away with both of us on the spot. There was little doubt that he'd end up with a bullet in the head as soon as they had used him to complete their business.

The room next door was as remote to me as if it had been a mile away.

I yelled out my brother's name, knowing it would do no good. "Scott!" My voice cracked but it was surprisingly loud. The girl tried to calm me, but I would have none of it. They had my brother right where they wanted him and they weren't about to let him come back in here again, but I called out anyway, nearly sobbing in defeat. "Scott! Scott!"

The girl looked scared and ran from the room, but I didn't care. Suddenly, Scott was there at my side, holding my arm, checking my wounds. "Yeah, Johnny, I'm right here."

"Scott!" I could hardly believe he'd made it back. "What's going on out there?"

He sat by my side, keeping an eye on the doorway. "Looks like we're sitting on a bit of a powder keg."

"I guessed as much." Joey looked like the kind of guy who was being held on a short leash, and was ready to break free at the slightest chance. "There are no guns anywhere? No weapons of any kind?"

"I haven't had a chance, but I'll try to get a look under the bar."

"D'you know what they want?"

"Those two guys out there are planning on interrupting old Victor Montgomery's Christmas Eve supper," Scott explained. "Looks like he reserved a special table for himself and a lady friend, for midnight. Lockley said something about how Montgomery won't step off his ranch without his bodyguards. Someone's been taking potshots at him. But tonight, for some reason, they figure his men won't be with him."

"Maybe he wants to be alone with his lady friend. These hired guns got some inside information, you think?"

"Maybe. They're the kind to take orders, not give them. Not regulars. Hired for the one job." He sat next to me, but I could see his mind was working on how to get us out of the trouble we were in.

"Why'd they want you out there?" I asked. "Why didn't Joey finish me off?" Scott raised his eyebrows and I quickly added, "Not that I'm complainin'."

Slowly, he said, "I think they want a familiar person out there to greet Montgomery. Good old Scott Lancer, sitting right smack in the center of the cantina, eating a late supper, would give the place the appearance of safety. Montgomery will walk right in at midnight and they'll gun him down, easy as pie. There won't be much time for me to warn him once he's in the door. And I'll probably get caught in the crossfire."

Another round of thunder crashed overhead and the rain didn't seem to be letting off at all. I asked, "What time's it now?"

"Eighteen minutes to the hour."

Not so good. "I seem to recall there was a sheriff in this town last time I came through. Where is he?"

"There's no sign of any law. Maybe he's been paid to look the other way. It could be that nobody knows what's going on out here. This town is mighty quiet."

"Good cover."

"What?"

I coughed again and it sapped my energy. "Can't hear . . . gunshots over . . . storm."

"And when they're finished with him, we're next."

"You really know how to cheer a guy up, don't you? I need a drink."

Scott smiled as he poured water over a cloth. "I do my best. It's my Yankee practicality. Here, suck on this."

When he held it to my parched lips, I turned my head slightly and rejected it. What I needed was a real drink.

"Okay," he acquiesced.

A minute later a mug was held to my lips and I was able to take a few sips of water before exhaustion overcame me and I fell back, gasping. After a moment I asked, "So what're we gonna do?"

"Can you synchronize your watch with mine?" He pulled out his timepiece, a scarred regulation Army watch that he always polished, cleaned and wound up with regularity.

I was lying on my pocket watch and couldn't get to it. Although I could feel it under my hip, I couldn't make my arm move to retrieve it, even though I worked up a sweat trying. My entire right side was numb and it felt like the muscles of my arm had turned to jelly. Chances were, even if I'd been able to get it out I couldn't have focused on its small hands.

Scott saw me struggling. "Oh, hey, Johnny ," he said remorsefully when he realized the poor state I was now in. He unbuckled my gun belt and removed it.

"It's all right," I comforted. Last thing I wanted was my brother to feel guilty, especially if he somehow managed to survive this situation. "I guess this'll teach me I should've gone straight home."

Scott looked devastated for a moment, but he collected himself, carefully dug his hand into my pocket and dragged out my watch. He gently placed it in my left hand, reminding me of the first time I'd held it.

The watch was slightly more battered than when the Old Man'd handed it to me a few months back. I think my father had figured that giving me his watch would get me to conform to the schedule of the ranch. Even now, I smiled at the idea. Owning a watch hadn't been enough to make me run with the herd, but sometimes I would be on time. Sometimes. The timepiece was warm in my left hand. How I wished it were my gun. I sighed, "What do I do with it?"

"All right, this is my idea. It's a long shot, but it's the only chance we've got right now. Joey, the wild man out there, he's wound up tighter than a drum. He's likely to explode at any minute."

"Tell me," I said, trying to focus on the plan. My vision was going downhill, too, 'cause the little hands on the face of the watch were all fuzzy. I could see Scott clear enough; his face was all lit up with anticipation. He was good at planning. You could almost see the cogs turning in his head when he worked out things.

"Think you can handle this?" he asked, holding up the pitcher. "Heave it against that wall?"

I chuckled, which wasn't a great idea as it started off a coughing fit again. I ended up choking. This time, I felt something in my back shift, a brilliant shaft of agony careened right through my chest, then nothing. My right arm was dead but, miraculously, the pain had gone. Some trade-off. "I'll give it my best shot. Just give it to me," I said impatiently, my voice sounding all raspy.

He set the pitcher in the crook of my arm and I cradled it, hoping that when the time came, I could hurl it with the strength needed. Be funny if it just dropped out of my left hand, which was going numb even as we spoke, and went clunk on the floor.

"When you do it, you have to make a lot of racket." Scott looked at me a little bit skeptically. I'm guessing I wasn't looking all that healthy, so who could blame him for wondering if he could rely on me now?

"Racket. Okay. I got it. I got it. Hey, you got any plans after this is all over?"

"It's up to you."

"After we get this all wrapped up–." I swallowed hard, wanting a drink real bad. "We go and knock off a couple of banks in Bolivia. . ." At least I got him to smile. I squinted at the watch's face, damning the numbers for being too small. "Okay tell me when I'm gonna pitch this."

"Five minutes. That'll give me enough time to get back to the table and in position and Joey and Lockley won't know anything is about to happen. It's fourteen to twelve now."

"What if Montgomery doesn't have a timepiece and just comes traipsin' in early?"

Scott didn't hesitate. "Then we're screwed."

As my brother left the room, giving me a last, anxious look, I called out to him- a plea. "Hey, Boston! Next time you want to get the Hell home, don't let me talk you out of it."

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