Although the Texas Rangers did not have the facilities which would be available to their jet-age counterparts, vii their ‘Bible Two’—the annually published list of wanted men and fugitives from justice, so called because it was said that peace officers read it far more than the original Bible—offered much useful information. It gave the descriptions and, as far as they were known, habits of the men who found their way on to its pages.
The entry regarding Orville Damon ‘Spit’ Merton had mentioned his habit of chewing tobacco. It had also given a warning of how he made use of the juice in times of emergency.
While Brady was still undecided whether the gaunt man was Spit Merton—who had been instructed in how to carry out a bank robbery in a very efficient manner—or not, he had thought back upon all he had read about the particular member of the owlhoot fraternity. Seeing the wad of tobacco bulging the man’s cheek had implied that he really was Merton.
So Brady had not been unaware of his danger.
Alert for the first warning motions of the gaunt face, Brady had been ready to respond. When the jet of juice left the man’s mouth, ejected with the speed and force of long practice, Brady took effective evasive action.
Bending his torso rapidly to the left, like a fist-fighter weaving to dodge a punch, Brady allowed the brown liquid to pass without touching him. As he did so, aware that the other was drawing on him, he flashed his left hand across and under the right side of his jacket. Grasping the butt of the Thunderer, he tugged sharply at it. The press-stud separated into its two segments, allowing the revolver to slip free.
Watching the ‘undertaker’, Brady knew that he was both fast and dangerous.
Only a fool would take chances at such a moment.
Brady Anchor was no fool.
Chairs pitched over as the occupants of the table rose and flung themselves hurriedly out of the line of fire.
With his Colt clearing leather, the ‘undertaker’ watched the short-barreled gun appear in Brady’s left fist. The owl-hoot felt surprised at the remarkable speed and ability the other man was displaying. It was almost as if a stone cherub had come to life and attacked him. For all that, the sight did not impede the way his own hand was moving.
Flame blossomed from Brady’s Thunderer an instant before the ‘undertaker’ was ready to cut loose. The smoke and red glow was the owlhoot’s last living sight. Brady had shot to kill and the .41 bullet passed into the centre of the ‘undertaker’s’ forehead, rendering him a candidate for the services of a genuine member of that profession.
At the sight of Brady confronting their leader, the ‘rancher’ had once more reached towards his gun. Again his companion did not allow him to complete his draw.
‘Let’s see how it goes,’ the ‘drummer’ had advised, having noticed the absence of chips in front of the ‘undertaker’. ‘I’d say Spit’s lost all the money.’
‘Could’ve put it away,’ objected the ‘rancher’, being more loyal and possessing a greater faith in their leader. ‘Anyways, ole Spit’ll take him easy. I’ve never knowed it to fail when he let’s go into the other feller’s fa...’
At that moment, the ‘undertaker’ had made his double play—and failed to justify his follower’s faith.
‘Run for it, Benny!’ snarled the ‘drummer’, as the ‘undertaker’ took lead and sprawled backwards. He gave the ‘rancher’ a gentle shove to emphasize his meaning. ‘Get the hell out of here.’
Snatching out his Colt, the ‘rancher’ went bounding down the stairs. He expected his companion to follow. If he had looked around, he would have received a surprise.
Instead of accompanying the ‘rancher’, the ‘drummer’ retreated in the direction from which he had come. Crossing the balcony, he entered the room in which they had been entertaining the two saloon girls. It was empty and presented a far safer avenue of escape than the descent of the stairs and crossing of the bar-room offered.
Quicker witted than the ‘rancher’, the ‘drummer’ had sensed danger; and not merely from the fast-moving, yet harmless-seeming man who had shot their leader. There were likely to be other enemies present, especially if the posse from Rocksprings had ignored the various counties’ boundaries and continued with the pursuit. So he was taking steps to divert the peril from himself.
Shots crashed from the ground floor as the ‘drummer’ unfastened and raised the sash of the window, intermingling with startled yells and feminine screams. He swung himself swiftly on to the outside balcony and darted along it to the front corner. Climbing over the wooden guard rail, he paused and then leaped to the ground. Stumbling as he landed, he picked himself up to run to the waiting horses. He tore free the brown’s reins and vaulted into the saddle. Drawing his revolver, he started to guide the animal around ready for his departure.
‘Aw, come on, Jeff,’ the saloon girl was prompting when Brady’s Thunderer bellowed. ‘Let’s whoop her...’
‘She’s whooped!’ Jeff stated and, ever polite to the opposite sex, went on. ‘’Scuse me, Winnie-gal!’
Saying the latter words, the red-head plucked free his right arm in such a manner that he sent the girl staggering. Taking no notice of her startled and furious squawk, he fanged his right hand under the flap of his jacket. Out came his Peacemaker, the hammer clicking back to full cock. He was moving forward when he heard the clatter of hurrying feet.
Bounding downstairs as fast as he could, the ‘rancher’ came into Jeff’s range of vision and was identified. However, he clearly was unaware of the new menace to his safety. In fact, he appeared to have eyes only for Brady and the way in which he was handling his gun warned of his intentions regarding the stocky man. ‘Hold it, mister!’ Jeff ordered.
At the sound of the challenging words, the ‘rancher’ realized that he had acted impulsively and without due attention to the basic precautions. Hurtling down the last of the stairs, he contrived to alight facing Jeff. Instantly his left hand started to fan the Colt’s hammer, its heel catching and forcing the spur rearwards to cock and operate the mechanism while the right forefinger held back the trigger. Fanning was a very fast method of firing a single action revolver; but, except when performed by a man of greater ability than the ‘rancher’, it was not an accurate way of shooting.
When the gun bellowed out its first load, it had been fired without its user attempting to take careful aim. At a table some feet to Jeff’s left, a customer yelled and tripped over his chair as the bottle of whisky he had just purchased was shattered by the wildly-flung lead.
Adopting the gun fighter’s crouch, without any need for conscious thought, Jeff thrust forward his Peacemaker at waist level. It had been his intention to carry up the weapon to where he could sight along the barrel and try merely to disable the owlhoot. Seeing the way in which the other was acting, he knew that he did not dare take such a chance. The ‘rancher’ was shooting recklessly and might easily kill some innocent occupant of the room.
So Jeff cut loose, not trying to hit the shoulder and wound, but at the largest target offered by the ‘rancher’.
Caught in the centre of the chest by the .44.40, flat-nosed bullet, the owlhoot reeled backwards. Catching against the bottom of the stairs with his heels, he sat down. However, he still did not release his hold on the revolver..
While aware of what he should do under the circumstances, Jeff refrained from shooting at the stricken man. Recollecting that three members of the gang had escaped from the posse, the red-head made a rapid mental calculation and came up with a disturbing answer. Uncle Brady had downed the ‘undertaker’, the ‘rancher’ slumped limply at the foot of the stairs, which left one more owlhoot to be accounted for.
Even now, the ‘drummer’ could be lining his sights on either Jeff or Uncle Brady!
Or the man might be escaping!
‘Up here, Jeff!’ called a feminine voice from the balcony.
Looking upwards, the red-head saw a pretty blonde girl staring in his direction and pointing across the balcony.
Although Jeff knew that he should disarm the wounded ‘rancher’, he also realized that the situation regarding the ‘drummer’ was urgent. Certainly the ‘rancher’ did not look in any way dangerous, despite the fact that he was still grasping the butt of his weapon. Concentrating on the head of the stairs, Jeff ran by the owlhoot and started to ascend in rapid bounds.
Having watched his chance, the ‘rancher’ sat up and twisted around slowly. He was badly wounded and knew that he could not hope to escape. So he intended to take his revenge upon the man whose bullet had caused his downfall.
Satisfied that he need waste no more time and effort upon the ‘undertaker’, whose lifeless body was sliding down the wall until it sat on the floor, Brady turned to discover what was happening to his nephew. He decided that Jeff was behaving in a typically impulsive manner.
‘Behind you, Jeff!’ Winnie screeched, as the owlhoot brought up the revolver in the red-head’s direction.
Being uncertain as to whether his nephew could react quickly enough, Brady thrust up the Thunderer. At that distance, shooting from waist level would not be sure enough for him to use it. Instead, he raised his right hand to cup under the left. Taking aim fast, with the iron knife-blade front sight centered in the ‘V notch milled into the top of the frame as a back sight, he squeezed the trigger. That set the double-action mechanism into motion. Twice the stubby .41 revolver cracked, the sounds merging into the single, deeper bark of Jeff’s Peacemaker.
Hearing Winnie’s warning, Jeff had swung on his heel and cut loose with deadly speed.
All three bullets found their intended marks.
Any one of them would have been fatal.
Jerked savagely by the combined impacts, the ‘rancher’ flung away his weapon. He pitched sideways from the stairs, sprawling face down on the floor.
‘The other one’s up here, Uncle Brady!’ Jeff called, swinging back towards the top of the stairs and resuming his interrupted ascent.
‘Sorry to bust up your game, gents,’ Brady told the players.
“That’s all right,’ answered the burly townsman, to Brady’s departing back. ‘He’d lost all his money.’
On the point of following Jeff, Brady remembered the layout of the saloon’s upper floor. If the last of the gang had entered one of the private rooms, he could leave by a window and reach the front of the building.
Pivoting around, Brady darted across the room. Its occupants were on their feet, or rising from the places of concealment into which they had ducked when the shooting started. None of them offered to interfere with him. Before he had reached the front door, he knew that he was going to be too late. Hooves drummed on the street as a horse moved away and built up speed.
Brady flung himself through the batwing doors. Landing on the sidewalk, he sprang across it to the street. Much to Brady’s annoyance, there was considerable movement along the main thoroughfare, with people walking or riding in either direction. They would be a serious hazard for him, if he started throwing lead after the fleeing owlhoot.
Urging his brown onwards, the ‘drummer’ was equally aware of his advantage in the matter. While the people stared at him, they did not offer to try and bring him to a halt. In fact, they started to take the sensible course of scattering before him. Looking ahead, he saw a shortish, white-haired figure in range clothing running from a building. There was a lawman’s badge on the wiry old timer’s vest and he carried a double-barreled shotgun.
That would be Marshal Whip Staines, the ‘drummer’ decided. He had a reputation as being a tough, salty peace officer with a penchant for using his ten gauge scattergun as a means of enforcing the law. Trying to ride by him, while holding a gun and fleeing from the scene of a shooting, would be dangerous in the extreme. It could also prove to be fatal.
So the ‘drummer’ started to swing his horse towards the mouth of an alley. By passing through it, he hoped to evade the marshal’s attentions. Just too late, he discovered that the way he had chosen was occupied.
A tall, wide-shouldered man in the dress of a brush-country cowhand, had been watching the ‘drummer’s’ flight. Seeing the other drawing near, he had drawn the ivory handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker from the tied-down holster of his buscadero gun belt. As if guessing the other’s intentions, he had moved into the mouth of the alley.
Everything about the tall man—who wore a low crowned, wide brimmed, tan colored Stetson, dark blue shirt, multi-hued bandanna, calfskin vest, Levi’s pants, leather chaps and high heeled boots—implied that he was a competent and efficient pistolero. Sufficiently so for the ‘drummer’ to be disinclined to engage him in conflict at such a moment.
Dragging sharply on his left hand rein, the owlhoot attempted to change direction once more. Squealing a protest at the rough treatment, the brown gelding reared on its hind legs, arched its neck and fought against the bit in a way that made it difficult to handle. Certainly its rider was in no position to offer resistance, or pose a threat to the brush-popper’s safety.
For all that, the tall cowhand did not hesitate. Carrying his gun to waist level, he fanned its hammer twice with his left hand. Unlike the ‘rancher’, he possessed the necessary skill to turn ‘fanning’ into a reliable fighting method. Both bullets found their way into the right side of the ‘drummer’s’ chest, ranging across and through his heart to emerge at the rear in an eruption of torn flesh, spraying blood and flying slivers of bone. Thrown from his saddle, he smashed to the ground and his horse went buck-jumping along the street.
Holstering his Colt with a twirling flourish, the brush-popper swung on his heel. Oblivious of the shouts which arose and sounds of people converging on his victim, he strode rapidly along the alley. He had disappeared around the end of the right hand building before the first of the people arrived.
Running forward, still holding his Thunderer, Brady dead-heated with the wiry old town marshal in reaching the dying owlhoot. Already a number of citizens had gathered, but they parted to allow the two armed men unrestricted passage.
‘Howdy, Brady,’ drawled Marshal Staines, eyeing the stocky man in a quizzical, wary manner. Then he glanced into the alley, started to look back and stared harder. ‘Where’s ye nephew?’
‘Back in the saloon,’ Brady answered, having followed the direction of the other’s gaze. ‘I don’t know who dropped this jasper, but it couldn’t have been young Jeff.’
‘Best take a look and see who it was then,’ Staines suggested. ‘He ain’t going no place’s I can see.’
Walking along the alley at Staines’ side, Brady returned the Thunderer to its holster. They looked in both directions on reaching the rear end, without seeing the man who had shot the ‘drummer’ from his saddle.
‘Kind of a shy sort of cuss,’ Staines commented dryly. ‘I reckon he don’t want anybody to thank him for stopping that feller.’
‘Looks that way,’ Brady agreed.
‘Let’s go back and take a look at that miserable sinner, shall us?’ the marshal suggested.
‘Sure,’ Brady drawled, throwing a last look around in the hope of discovering where the mysterious man had gone.
‘You wouldn’t know who this feller in the alley might have been?’ Staines inquired, allowing Brady to precede him towards the main street. ‘Would ye?’
‘Nope,’ the stocky man replied.
‘Seems a mite peculiar, him gunning down that feller. Almost like he knowed he was an owl hoot on the run,’ the marshal went on mildly. ‘It wouldn’t’ve been Mr. Barnstaple, you reckon?’
Looking back over his shoulder, Brady saw that Staines cradled the shotgun with its yawning muzzles aimed directly at him. A man with the marshal’s knowledge of firearms did not do such a thing by accident.
‘What do you know about Mr. Barnstaple?’ Brady asked, turning slowly and holding his hands well clear of his sides.
‘Not much,’ Staines admitted. ‘There’s a warrant out for you, young Jeff and this Barnstaple jasper. Sent by the sheriff of Edwards County. He wants you for breaking out of jail, assaulting a duly appointed officer of the law and being part and party to the robbing of the bank. Sounds tolerable keen to have you catched. The telegraph message he’s been sending ’round says Edwards County’ll pay a thousand dollars on each of you... dead or alive.’