Страница 45 из 52
There were no men in Ma
Gelvin would, if he was there. But Gelvin had only courage, and no six-gun skill, and the one needed the backing of the other.
CHAPTER FOUR: Six-Gun Return
It was an hour after daylight when Packer mounted his paint gelding and started off for town. Ward watched him go, his eyes narrow. He had resolved upon his own course of action. It was no elaborate plan. He was going to slip into town and at the right moment he was going to kill Jim Yount, and if possible, Red Lund.
The cigarette tasted bitter, suddenly. Ward McQueen was no fool. He knew what tackling that bunch meant. Even if he got the two, he would go down himself. There was no alternative. Yet if he succeeded and Kim Sartain came back, Kim might ride in and drive the others off Ruth’s ranch. The girl would have her own back.
Thoughtfully, he saddled the buckskin. As always the little horse was eager to go. He checked his six-guns again. Then, his lips thin, he swung into the saddle and started working his way down through the greasewood and mesquite to the valley floor.
He had gone but a few hundred yards when he saw Jim Yount and the girl ride away from the ranch. A few feet behind them was Red Lund.
Pete Dodson, mounted on a sorrel horse, had taken the southerly trail and was skirting the town to approach from the other direction. Ward saw this, too, and his eyes were grim. Jim Yount was taking no chances. . . .
The dusty street of Ma
Gelvin’s store was still closed. That was unusual for this time of the day. Abel glanced at Rip, and his brow puckered. Rip was wearing tied-down guns this morning.
Abel put the glass down and glanced at Packer who was sitting over a drink. Suddenly, Packer downed the drink and got up. He walked carefully to the door and glanced up and down the street. All was quiet. A man came out of the post office and walked down to the barber shop. The sound of the door closing was the only noise. Packer stared at Rip, noting the guns.
He saw Pete Dodson stop his horse behind Gelvin’s store, and his eyes sharpened. Pete was carrying a rifle.
Packer turned suddenly, staring at Abel.
“Give me that scattergun yuh got under the bar!”
“Huh?” Abel’s face paled. “I ain’t got—” he started to reply, but Packer cut him short.
“Don’t give me that,” Packer snarled. “I want that gun!”
When Abel put it on the bar, his tongue wetting dry lips, Packer picked it up with satisfaction. Then he walked back to the window and put the gun beside it. Carefully he eased the window up about three inches. His position covered Rip’s side and back.
Jim Yount rode up the street with Ruth Kermitt beside him. Her face was pale and strained. Her eyes seemed unusually large. Red Lund trailed a few yards behind and reined in his horse across the street. Then he swung down.
From the bar, Abel could see it all. Jim Yount and the girl were approaching Rip from the west. North and west was Red Lund. Due north, in the shadow of Gelvin’s store, was Pete Dodson. In the saloon, southeast of the express office porch was Packer. Rip was boxed. Signed and sealed. All but delivered.
Jim Keane, Logan’s much older brother, was express agent. He saw Jim Yount come, and his face paled as he glimpsed Red Lund across the street.
Rip got up lazily and smiled as Ruth Kermitt came up the steps with Jim Yount.
“Come for yore package, Miss Kermitt?” he asked politely. “While yuh’re here, yuh might answer some questions.”
“By whose authority?” Yount demanded sharply.
Ward McQueen, crouched behind the saloon, heard the answer clearly.
“The State of Texas, Yount,” Rip replied, “I’m a Ranger!”
Jim Yount laughed shortly. “This ain’t Texas, and she answers no questions!”
McQueen jumped inside his skin. A shotgun barrel was easing over the window sill of the saloon! Wheeling, he slipped to the back door. There was no reason now to be quiet. In fact, noise would help. He jerked open the door and jumped inside.
Parker, intent on the tableau on the porch, and getting Rip lined up with the shotgun, heard the door slam open. Startled, he spun on the balls of his feet. Ward McQueen stood just inside the door, and Packer’s face blanched. Somehow his hand was dropping for a gun, but even as his hand moved, he knew it was hopeless.
Ward McQueen palmed his six-gun with a gesture deadly as a striking snake. The shot sounded flat and dead in the empty room.
Packer’s gun slid from helpless fingers and he pitched forward on his face.
Outside, all perdition broke loose. Ruth Kermitt, aware of the danger Rip was in, had been tense and waiting. She knew she could not help him, only handicap, so when that shot sounded suddenly from the saloon, she dropped flat on the porch and rolled off into the dust by the steps.
Rip went for his gun, stepping quickly to the left as he did, trying to get Yount between him and Red Lund. Their guns all began barking at once, and even as the first shot sounded, Ward McQueen plunged through the saloon doors and caught himself with one of the posts on the edge of the saloon walk. He fired at Lund, and a bullet from Pete Dodson’s rifle clipped slivers from the post, spitting them into his face.
Ward hit the dust on both feet and started toward Lund, both guns ready.
Red had wheeled away from Rip, his face snarling, and Ward held his fire, stepping quickly and carefully. The steps carried him forward, and Pete Dodson had to get out from the side of the building to get him in his sights again.
Red fired and fired again. Ward felt something hit him a savage blow and his knee buckled under him. He fired from one knee, taking his time and lining the sights as in a shooting contest. Red staggered back and sat down hard, then rolled over and got up.
Ward fired again, then again. Red Lund got up again and, his face bloody, started toward McQueen. There was firing from the stage station porch and firing from behind Gelvin’s store, but through the dust and smoke, Ward McQueen saw Red Lund go down again. He forced himself up and turned his head, stiffly, seeking Jim Yount.
The frock-coated gambler was clinging to his saddle-horn with his left hand, still gripping a gun in his right. Rip was down on the steps, crawling toward his own gun which had been knocked from his fingers. Yount, seemingly injured, was trying to get up a gun to kill Rip.
Bracing himself in a teetering, rolling street, Ward McQueen lifted his gun, his eyes intent on Yount. A rifle barked somewhere behind him or off to his right, and he felt a bullet whiff by his face. He blinked his eyes, steadied the gun, and fired.
Yount’s gray horse lunged, breaking the bridle that tied it to the hitchrail. There was a thunder of hoofs down the street, and Ward saw a dark, flashing figure crouching low over a flame-red horse come sweeping into the street. He clung low like an Indian, and as he rode his six-gun was blazing from under the horse’s neck. He seemed to be shooting at something off to the right.
Yount was down in the dust and trying to get up. Suddenly, Ward saw that the gambler had a knife and was crawling toward the girl who was crouched against the steps where she had dropped to clear the field for Rip. Yount’s knife was gripped with the blade up in his right hand, and his face twisted viciously as he edged toward the girl.
McQueen knew he couldn’t walk that far. He forced his six-gun up. He pulled the trigger, and it clicked on an empty chamber.