It turned out to be a day to remember. When the town of Wishbone experienced its one and only, genuine gunfight, and as with most confrontations of its kind it was short, though decidedly not sweet. As the retelling had it and the facts were embellished, the legend grew each time it was related—yet even if it had been reported strictly it would have been enough…
…Brand found himself moving down the center of the street, eyes seeking movement in the alleys between buildings. He had slowed to a walk, wanting to be in control if he had to shoot.
He sensed a shadow of movement as Bodie stepped into view from the doctor’s office. One of the office’s window had been shot out. Across from Bodie a figure lay sprawled in the street, a bloody patch staining the back of his shirt. A ragged exit wound. The manhunter saw the expression on Brand’s face.
‘He wouldn’t back off,’ Bodie said. ‘Nobody hurt inside.’
Canby stepped into view. He approached them.
Bodie had been checking out the rooftops. He caught a glimpse of a dark figure showing himself above the false front of the saloon. Early sunlight gleamed on the barrel of a rifle.
‘Roof of the saloon behind you,’ he said. ‘Rifleman.’
Brand turned, caught a glimpse of the hiding man.
‘I see him,’ Brand said. ‘Let him show himself…’
‘You any good with that?’ Canby asked.
Brand didn’t say a word. He waited until the man moved to get a better shot. As soon as he did Brand brought the Winchester up in a smooth motion, held, squeezed the trigger. The crack of the 44-40 broke the silence. The distant figure slipped sideways, then flopped forward to hang over the edge of the saloon roof. His rifle dropped from his hands and spun to the street below.
‘Guess that answers my question,’ Canby said.
A figure burst into view from where he had been concealed behind crates and barrels stacked outside a dry goods store. He held a massive .44 caliber Walker Colt in his left hand, the muzzle belching thick black smoke as he triggered a shot. The sleeve of Canby’s jacket flapped as the ball passed through it. Wishbone’s lawmen turned at the waist, the Greener recoiling as he fired. The shot caught the shooter in the stomach, shredding clothing and flesh. The force of the shot shoved the man back, bouncing him off the solid wall of barrels and crates. He went down hard in a welter of bloody flesh, kicking away the remainder of his life on the sun-bleached boardwalk.
‘Damn,’ Canby said, ‘nothing I hate worse than a sneaky backshooter.’
‘Talking about backshooters,’ Bodie said. ‘There’s my man.’
He had seen more armed figures moving out from the cover of the big livery barn next to the cattle pens. He made out seven of them. All armed.
Led by Nathanial Monk.
Bodie’s attention was drawn to the broad shouldered, scar-faced figure of the man he had come searching for.
Thad Monk himself.
‘He’s mine,’ Bodie said.
‘You got to catch him first,’ Brand said.
‘Yeah? Well watch and learn, pilgrim. Watch and learn.’
~*~
‘Listen to me,’ Nathanial Monk called, his voice deep and loud on the quiet street. ‘Give me the girl and the lawman and we’ll leave peaceable like.’
‘Too late,’ Brand said. ‘They already told us about your damn mine. Killing them won’t change that. The telling is out now. You need to put down your weapons and surrender.’
‘The hell you say. Damn you, there needs to be a reckoning. A price to pay for those of our kin you bastards killed and wounded.’
‘I had a feeling he was going to reason things like that,’ Conway said. He was thumbing a fresh load into the Greener as he spoke. ‘There goes a quiet day in town.’
The first shot came from one of the Monk rifles. Fired in haste and well off target. The slug kicked up a spume of dust to one side of Bodie’s advance. He maintained his course, ignoring the opening shot, and breaking off to the left. His rifle snapped to his shoulder and he aimed briefly, but with enough accuracy to place his shot into the shoulder of the errant shooter. The impact pushed the man off balance and a second shot from Bodie hit him in the chest, kicking him backwards.
Brand picked up a tall, lean figure raising a worn, 1873 Trapdoor Springfield carbine. He didn’t hesitate. He brought the Winchester round and let go a shot from the 44-40, levering the next round into the breech before the first brass casing hit the ground. The distant figure let out a coarse grunt as the lead slugs hammered his chest. He fell back, finger jerking on the carbine’s trigger, sending the 45-70 caliber shot skywards.
Brand watched as the monks retreated. Backing to the cover of the barn. They hadn’t been expecting such fierce opposition. He saw them pull into the shadows of the building while they considered their next move. There was one certainty—the Monks would not be quitting anytime soon.
‘Keep them pinned,’ Brand said.
Brand skirted the corral. The man who had been forking out feed had already taken himself away from the scene. Brand pushed himself hard, angling around the rear corner of the barn and reaching the rear doors. He could hear the muffled sound of voices. The crackle of gunfire. Bodie was keeping the Monks well occupied.
Flat against the wide doors Brand used the end of the Winchester’s barrel to ease open a way in. The doors swung slowly apart.
Brand hoped his luck would hold long enough to let him get inside. That might have happened if one of the doors hadn’t issued a loud squeal of dry hinges.
‘Somebody comin’ through the back door,’ a man yelled.
‘Go deal with it, Turk,’ a deep voice ordered.
As the door swung wide, letting light fall across the straw littered floor inside, Brand saw a dark figure detach from the group at the front of the stable. A rifle snapped out a shot. Brand heard the thud as the slug hit the door on his left. In the brief moment before he moved he saw a bulky figure pounding in his direction, the man muttering as he triggered more hasty shots at Brand’s shape framed in the patch of light from the open door.
Even with all the noise Brand heard Turk’s rifle click on an empty breech. The man kept coming, stepping into light as he closed on the rear of the livery. Heavy shouldered, with a thick, dark beard, he laid a hand on the revolver tucked in his belt.
‘I remember you from the house,’ he said. ‘We had you locked up with those other two.’
‘Then you’ll know I don’t give in easy. I’d advise you to quit now. Before I put you down.’
The look in Turk’s eyes as he stared at the leveled rifle in Brand’s hand revealed his thoughts. He wanted to draw and fire. The need was strong. He licked at his lower lip, savoring the taste and the hunger in him was so clear. His face was shiny with sweat.
‘You killed them,’ he said. ‘They were kin. Can’t forget that.’
‘They pushed it,’ Brand said. ‘You’ve all been pushing. Couldn’t let it lay. They made their choices…same choice you have.’
‘Damn your eyes, you murderin’ son of a bitch.’
‘Right now,’ Brand said, ‘I can see it in your eyes. You figure to take me? Go ahead because I won’t walk away and show my back. Way I heard it that’s the way you Monks prefer to do business.
It was one jibe too far.
Turk uttered a wild, savage scream and went for his gun.
It was barely halfway drawn when Brand shot him.
Turk dropped to his knees, face registering the shock from the 44-40 slug that had burned its way into his body. He made another attempt at pulling his gun, so Brand put a second slug into him. The lead pellet struck directly over Turk’s heart and he toppled onto his back.
‘It’s over,’ Brand called out, taking cover behind a wooden stall. ‘You’re covered front and back. Give up.’
Nathanial Monk’s powerful voice yelled back.
‘I’d sooner die than surrender…’
Brand sighed.
This, he thought, is going to end messily.