Clay Nash was a big man, tall, lithe, keen-eyed, and it was hard to tell whether he was young or old. He was actually somewhere around thirty but he had lived hard. There was a healthy air of fitness about him that showed in the way he moved. He had the appearance of a man who could spring into violent action in a split-second ... and walk away from it.
As he swung down the boardwalk in El Paso, he carried a Winchester ’73 rifle, and one side of the blued-steel receiver was engraved with the words: Presented to Clay Nash by a grateful Wells Fargo Express Co. for duty well done. A similar legend was engraved in the brass back strap of the Colt Peacemaker that hung in the cutaway gunfighter’s holster on his right thigh. Passersby gave him barely a second glance for he was dressed like any cowpoke of that day and age, in tough work clothes and, apart from his icy gray eyes, he looked just like any cowboy in town for a spree.
He turned into the Wells Fargo office, made a couple of enquiries and identified himself before being shown through to the rear office where his boss, Jim Hume, Chief of Detectives for the Wells Fargo Company, waited. They shook hands and Hume introduced Nash to the Ranger captain sitting beside his desk, a leather-faced man in his fifties, named Hammond.
They seated themselves again and Hume passed around the cheroots. When the office air was tinged with a blue haze of tobacco smoke, the Chief of Detectives spoke, looking at Nash.
“Guess you know why I pulled you off that assignment up in Kansas?”
Nash shrugged. “I can guess. The Alamogordo train robbery?”
Hume nodded. “I won’t go over the details. You know ’em and, to get right down to it, we don’t have a lot of time to waste.” He gestured to the Ranger. “Captain Hammond here has had his men workin’ on that robbery ever since it happened, cooperating with the New Mexico people and us, too. It’s the third such robbery and a lot of men died each time.”
“No idea which gang it is?” Nash asked.
“We suspect a couple of brothers named Forrester,” Hammond told him, “but we don’t have a speck of proof. I’ve had undercover men on the job for quite a spell, but they’ve all turned up dead one way or another. Sometimes it looked like an accident, others, they were just found with the backs of their heads shot off.”
Nash pursed his lips. “Tough bunch.”
Hume nodded. “And the last undercover Ranger was gunned down in Ojo Medina only a few days ago. Shot by the local sheriff, of all people.”
Nash looked at Hume sharply. “How come?”
Hume glanced towards Hammond, and the Ranger sighed. “Too good a cover, I guess. He was playin’ the role of a hardcase and apparently stepped out of line and the local law had to draw on him. He wasn’t fast enough, either with talk or gun, I guess.”
“How about the law? Was that sheriff put up to it by the Forresters, you figure?” Nash asked.
Hammond looked dubious. “Not likely. Man named Luke Bray is sheriff in Ojo Medina. Man about my age. Knew him years ago. He was a square shooter then.”
“Men can change in a few years, specially along the border,” Nash pointed out quietly.
Hammond’s eyes bored into him. “I know. But not Bray. I’d bet on it. Point is, last word I had from my man was that he was getting onto a lead down there. He didn’t say what, but he was convinced he was starting in the right place.”
‘‘Now he’s planted there, permanent.”
Hammond merely stared at Nash with hard eyes. ‘‘That’s the way it goes, Clay, you know that,” Hume said, getting Nash’s attention again. ‘‘But some of our own men have got hints that around Ojo Medina is the place to start. Nothing that you could file a report on, but hunches, impressions, you know how it is when you kind of get a ‘feel’ for these things.”
Nash knew. His hunches and ‘feel’ for a situation had saved his life on several occasions and yet, afterwards, he had been unable to say just exactly what had dictated his course of action. Instinct, self-preservation ... maybe.
‘‘Now, Clay, we’ve hardly anything else to go on, except this vague idea that Ojo Medina is somehow involved,” Hume went on. ‘‘The way this gang operates is to block the line on a section of track where the engineer will see the barricade in plenty of time to stop. Now, don’t ask me why, but whenever there’s a barricade across the tracks, every engineer will edge his locomotive right up to it before stopping completely. That gives a good starting-point for anyone wanting to measure a distance back along the track. If they know how many cars back the express van is, all they’ve got to do is pace it out, plant the dynamite and they know damn well that van’s gonna stop right smack on top of the explosive.”
‘‘Then ... ‘boom’! The guards are out of commission and the van’s blown apart all in one hit,” Nash added, mouth grim. ‘‘Cold-blooded, but smart.”
‘‘Yeah. I’ve recommended that the company stop painting up the express cars in their own colors so they can be picked out so easily. I want ’em painted the same color as other cars on the train, even rigged to look like passenger cars if possible. But that’ll come later. Thing is, all the robberies were done in the same way and ...” He paused and looked levelly at Nash. ‘‘Not one speck of the gold bullion has ever appeared again!”
“Which makes it kinda hard for us to track down the men who pulled those robberies,” Hammond said, unnecessarily.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Nash said slowly. “Nowhere to start back-tracking.” His frown deepened and he looked from the Ranger to his chief. “What d’you reckon’s happening to the gold, Jim? Smuggled out of the country?”
Hume glanced at Hammond. “That’s Captain Hammond’s theory. Figures it could be getting hustled across the Rio to finance the bandits and rebels down that way.”
“Against that,” Hammond spoke up candidly, “is the fact that we’ve tightened up searches the full length of the border. Every border town lawman along the Rio and all States bordering Mexico have had the word: search every man, woman and child, animal or vehicle that crosses into Mexico, and search ’em damn good! We’ve offered an incentive reward if anything’s detected but so far nothing from those three robberies has turned up.”
Nash shook his head slowly. “Must be getting rid of it here somehow, then.”
“Damn it, they have to be!” Hammond said edgily. “They sure ain’t going to sit on that much gold after the trouble they took to get hold of it. But we’ve had the word out and there’s nothin’ come back. Unless we can get a sniff of the gold itself, I don’t see us breaking this case easy.”
“It’s never easy,” Nash pointed out quietly. “But it can be done. Might take a spell, but sooner or later it can be done.”
“This one’s got to be sooner, Clay,” Hume told his top operative. “And it’ll have to be done undercover. We need a man to get into that gang.”
Nash met his gaze levelly. “Me?”
“You. Now, Captain ...” Hume gestured to the Ranger to have his say and Nash watched as the big Ranger crushed out his cheroot in an ashtray on Hume’s desk.
“Ever heard of a fellow named Matt Dundee?” he asked Nash.
“Sure have. I put him in San Angelo Penitentiary. He was blowing Wells Fargo safes clear across the country.”
“He busted out a week ago.”
Nash straightened. “Hadn’t caught up with that. You figure he’s in with this gang? He sure knows explosives.”
Before Nash had finished speaking, Hammond was shaking his head and lifting a hand to stop Nash going on. “Nothin’ like that, but I guess he’s the kind of hombre a gang that operates the way they do could use. And the reason you didn’t know he’d busted out of San Angelo is because we didn’t publicize it.”
Nash frowned, eyebrows raised.
“He blew up the powder magazine and brought down most of the stockade,” Hammond continued. “Some other convicts tried to get away but they were caught or shot. Dundee made it down to Del Rio, a few miles north of the border. No doubt he was headed for Mexico.”
Nash waited as Hammond paused. “What happened after Del Rio?”
The Ranger captain looked at him squarely. “We gunned him down. Last night. Outside of town. In a lonely place.”
Nash frowned, puzzled. “Well, fine. That’s the end of Dundee and I can’t say he’ll be missed. But what’s it got to do with this gang of train robbers and getting the gold back?”
“Only a half-dozen people know that Dundee’s dead, Clay,” Hume answered. “And like Captain Hammond said, he was the kind of hombre who’d be welcomed by this gang with open arms.”
Nash nodded slowly. “I get it. You want me to take Dundee’s identity and hightail it to Ojo Medina? That it?”
“That’s it.”
“Only thing is, I don’t look anything like Matt Dundee.” Hammond took a wanted dodger from his pocket and handed it across to Nash silently. The agent took it, unfolded it and read. He looked up sharply at the other men then returned to the dodger.
“Well, it sure sounds like me and that sketch could be me with a couple of days’ beard. Ink’s fresh, too.”
Hume smiled crookedly. “Only an hour since it came off the press. There’s a hundred of ’em already bein’ distributed along the border. You’re wanted for escape from prison, but it’s the other things that should interest the gang: blowing safes, blasting express vans on trains, murder and so on. You’ve got a ready-made reputation, Clay. And you’re tough enough to live up to it.”
“I’d better be!” Nash said with a faint grin. He laid his Winchester and Peacemaker on the desk. “Can’t use these if I’m going undercover ... that engraving’s a dead giveaway.”
Hume nodded as he took the weapons and locked them in a wall cupboard. He took out a new Peacemaker Colt and a ’76 Winchester rifle, and handed them to Nash.
“Both just in from the gunsmith. You’ll find they’re finely-tuned, Clay, accurate as all get-out. I’ve had the triggers set the way you like ’em.”
Nash nodded examining the weapons closely. “And when do I start out for Ojo Medina?”
“You’ve got time for lunch,” Hume told him soberly.
Nash stood up, holstering the Colt, hefting the rifle in his left hand. “I’d better move then. I sure am hungry.”
Hammond stood, too, lifted a hand to stop Nash leaving right away. “The knowledge of explosives will be an important part of your assignment, Nash. You sure you can carry it off?”
“I reckon,” Nash said with a crooked smile. “I had an assignment one time to track down the feller responsible for working his way across the country, blowing open every Wells Fargo safe he came across. He taught me a lot about explosives before I arrested him and put him away.”
“Just so long as you’re sure, because those hombres play for keeps,” the Ranger pointed out.
“I’m sure,” Nash said. “The fellow who taught me was Matt Dundee.”
~*~
Ellen Bray lived in a house near the top of the hill on the north side of Ojo Medina, with her uncle, the town’s lawman.
She was small and petite, neat in her dress and habits and her big dark eyes had filled with tears when Brad Burns broke the news to her about her brother’s death. Ho had not gone into all the details, but had simply said that Larry had died in a stampede out on the Pecos. Those few words had conjured up for him the terrible vision of Larry’s death: his terrified face as his horse had thrown him directly into the path of the panicked steers, the tumbling body being tossed from glinting horns before disappearing amongst the heaving red hides and, finally, the mess of bloody rags lying trampled into the churned-up earth after the steers had passed on. They had, literally, scraped Larry Bray up with a shovel, dumping the remains into a packing case before a brief burial on a windswept knoll overlooking the river crossing.
Her uncle, Luke Bray, the sheriff, middle-aged, rheumy-eyed and a hefty drinker, had taken the news silently, then used the boy’s death as an excuse to open another bottle of bourbon. He had been no comfort at all to the sobbing girl and Burns had surprised himself by making an effort to ease Ellen’s grief. His approach, spontaneous and sincere, had worked, and when the girl learned that he had been on the trail-drive to gain experience for a book, she insisted that he take over her brother’s room in the big house and gave him the run of the place and use of the den for working in.
“Well, I dunno that I can take advantage of your fine offer, ma’am,” Burns had said at first. “I mean, I got enough money to pay for a hotel room for some weeks ...”
“Nonsense! You were Larry’s friend and you were kind enough to bring us his belongings,” Ellen said. “You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like. And I’m sure you’ll find it much quieter working here than in a hotel room.”
“We-ell, that’s likely true. Will it be okay with your uncle?”
Burns had glanced towards the sheriff who was downing another glass of whisky. He paused and looked at Burns. “Hell, yeah,” the lawman said. “It’s Ellen’s house, anyway. Legacy from her mother. You ever written anythin’ before, young feller?”
“Sure. Had a few articles published in magazines back East. And a serial about the capture of a gang of road-agents by a Wells Fargo man. I was there, so it was an eyewitness account.”
He spoke so feelingly that the girl looked at him in surprise.
“Didn’t it pay well?” she asked.
“Mmm? Oh, yeah, paid well enough. What made you ask that?”
“The way you spoke ”
Burns nodded abruptly. "Well, there’s a kind of story behind that but I don’t have to go into it.”
“Do tell!” exclaimed Ellen, genuinely interested. "And tell it just the way it was, Brad Burns! As an English teacher, I’m very interested in writing and especially in true experiences.”
“Well, it was a case of mistaken identity, you see,” he began, unable to keep the tautness out of his voice. He clenched his hands between his knees. “Seems I looked like a road-agent this Wells Fargo man, Clay Nash, was lookin’ for. In fact, I’d been slugged and robbed by that same man and because I was where Nash expected him to be, he arrested me and I was sentenced to hang.” 1
He had the attention of them both now, the lawman holding a fresh drink untouched.
“They put me in with a couple of hardcases, enemies of Nash,” continued Burns, “and they busted out and took me with ’em.”
“You broke out of prison!” exclaimed Luke Bray.
Burns nodded. “I was going to hang otherwise. Anyway, in the meantime, Nash had discovered I wasn’t the man he wanted, and the other two hombres set a trap for him and took him prisoner. They’d told me I’d have the chance to square-up to Nash in a shoot-out, but seems they were only usin’ me, and they aimed to torture Nash worse’n the Apaches before killin’ him.”
“You—you were a party to that?” the girl asked in disbelief.
Burns shook his head swiftly. “No, I didn't want that, I wanted to square away with Nash in a fair shoot-out. The superintendent had given me a pretty bad time in that prison. He figured I had a lot of gold stashed away and he worked me over some. Which is why I wear my nose kind of crooked now and why I’ve got teeth missin’.”
Ellen winced. Burns went on, “Anyways, I couldn’t let ’em torture Nash so I cut him loose and there was a gunfight and we downed the two hardcases. Nash was wounded or else I’d have squared up with him then and there. Wells Fargo paid me a reward for my part in the deal and I never saw Nash again. But we’ll meet some day and I’ll get even with him, all right.”
“Did you put that in your story, too?” Ellen asked, her disapproval plain.
“No, but maybe it showed through that I hate the man’s guts ... if you’ll pardon the expression, ma’am. I had to change his name in the story, of course, so I wouldn’t give away his cover for other assignments for Wells Fargo, but I haven’t forgiven him, nor will I, till I get my chance to face him down.”
“But surely the man took the trouble to clear your name while you were in prison!”
“Just luck that he located the other hombre who looked like me. He was dead, anyways. No, I went through too much in that prison because Nash wouldn’t believe my story in the first place. If ever we meet again, I’ll have my reckoning with him!”
His grim face told the girl that there was nothing she nor anyone else could say to change his mind.
“Well, I hope your book is successful,” she said finally, smiling tentatively at him. “As I said, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like. And if there’s anything I can do to help with your book, just let me know.”
“Thanks, ma’am, I will.”
“And the name is ‘Ellen’.”
Burns smiled. “Thanks, Ellen.”
Luke Bray glanced from his niece to Burns and downed his drink. “Well, I’d best start my rounds. I hear there could be a ruckus tonight. The Forrester brothers are in town with another load of gold nuggets from their mine and whoopin’-’er-up ...”
The girl looked immediately worried. “Uncle Luke, be careful. They’re wild men, especially that terrible Zack Forrester.”
Bray smiled crookedly. “Don’t you worry none, Ellen. I can handle the Forresters. I’ll give ’em a little rope and when they get drunk and look ready to really cut loose, I’ll move in on ’em and put ’em in a cell overnight. I always do that and they come quiet enough.”
“Yes, but ... well, be careful, Uncle. There’s always the night when they might not feel like going quietly.”
Bray slapped a hand against his gun butt. “That’s why folk pay me to wear a badge, Ellen. To handle the tough ones. See you tonight then, Burns.”
“Sure, Sheriff. Adios.”
The lawman went out and Burns saw that the girl still looked uneasy.
“You worried about him?” he asked.
Ellen started. “Yes, I am, a little. He's drinking rather heavily these days—much more than he used to. He has a good reputation as a lawman, tough and fair and honest, but ... well, the Forresters are really hard men. They work a mine somewhere back in the hills, turn up in town occasionally with some nuggets and stick around a while, getting drunk and fighting. Uncle Luke seems able to manage them, but I’m not so sure he’ll always get them to cooperate and if he’s—well, been drinking …”
“You figure his gun arm might be kind of slowed down, by liquor?’’
Ellen sighed and nodded. “He’s getting on now. But come along, let me show you your room and the den where you can work.”
Burns followed her out and though she chattered on almost non-stop, pointing out things that had belonged to her brother, recalling old times, showing him tintypes of her mother and father, Burns could tell she was still worried about her uncle. As she showed him the roll-top desk he could use, and the drawer that held ink and blotters and pens, Burns said quietly, “I’m not such a slouch with a gun myself.”
She turned slowly and closed the drawer without looking at it. She studied Burns’ face.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I mean I’m pretty fast with a gun. In fact, Nash offered me a job with Wells Fargo because of my gun-speed. And what I mean, Ellen, is that if you want me to, I’ll kind of mosey on down to the saloon and stay in the background but be close on hand if your uncle should need help when he braces these Forrester brothers. What do you say?”
Ellen frowned. “Why would you do that? For a man you don’t even like very much ... Oh, don’t deny it, Brad. I saw your disapproval of Uncle Luke in your face.”
He moved his feet a little awkwardly. “We-ell ... Nothin’ to do with me, really, whether he drinks too much or lot, I guess. But, that makes no never-mind. Do you want me to back him up if he needs it? Or does he have deputies?”
She shook her head. “No deputies. The town's not big enough, folk say, and Uncle Luke manages quite well to keep law and order here. But—thank you, Brad. I’d be grateful if you were sort of—just around.”
“Glad to help out,” Burns said, hitching at the gun-rig round his waist. “I’ll stroll down town and hang around the bar for a spell. If your uncle looks like he needs someone to back him, well, I’ll step in.”
She saw him to the front door, lifting a hand slowly as he walked away down the hill towards the town.
~*~
Clay Nash rode the train from El Paso to Sierra Blanca and dropped off just outside of town when the locomotive slowed to a crawl for the grade. He preferred his own saddle rig but had had to leave it behind in El Paso with his firearms: a man on the dodge would be loco to tote a heavy saddle rig around with him.
It was nearing sundown when he hit Sierra Blanca, walking in from across the railroad tracks, but well down from the depot. There was plenty of bustle going on in the railyards and he was sure no one paid him any attention. The Ranger in town would have been notified by now of the plan, but Nash figured to keep well away from the Ranger offices: it wasn’t all that far now to Ojo Medina and he didn’t know who might see him coming or going in the law building.
He had to make his own plans from here on in and he would have to improvise to suit the situation. At present he was on foot and needed a horse to take him to Ojo Medina. There was no connecting train to the town, though a stage line, one of Wells Fargo’s, linking Sierra Blanca with Ojo Medina. He figured it would be too risky riding the stage. He was just as likely to run into a shotgun guard or a driver who knew him and would give the game away.
By now, the fake ‘Wanted’ dodgers would be appearing along the border and, as he approached the rear of the rail depot, he saw one tacked to the wall. That was good. Likely there were other dodgers around town and it wouldn’t hurt any for him to be seen. Likely the citizens wouldn’t figure he was supposed to be the ‘Matt Dundee’ on the dodger right away, but, later, when they had cause to recollect, they would remember seeing him.
And he aimed to give someone in this town cause to remember him. It would be good for his cover, for word to run ahead to Ojo Medina that he had tangled with the law in Sierra Blanca, right under the noses of the local Rangers.
It was simple enough: he needed a horse, so he would steal one. That would be in keeping with Matt Dundee, escaped convict, and he would make sure he was seen. Then, if the Forresters or anyone else in Ojo Medina were involved in these hold-ups, they would be more likely to accept him a little easier if he turned up on a stolen horse, with the prison escape to back him up.
Once past the depot, Nash, carrying his Winchester in a plain scuffed-leather scabbard, swung down the boardwalk into the main part of town. Shadows were lengthening and he kept to them as he moved along, drawing a couple of curious glances from passers-by. That suited him, but he would have to be careful that someone didn’t recognize him right away from his likeness on the Wanted dodgers and call in the Rangers ... he wasn’t sure if all the Rangers in town had been notified, or just the officer in charge. It would be ironic if he were shot down by some eager badge-toter, thinking he was doing his duty and ridding the West of a desperate character.
He passed a diner and the savory smells made his nostrils twitch. He wondered whether to risk going in for a meal, but it was a chance he didn’t have to take. The big man sitting at a rear table, his back to the window, was wearing a drab khaki shirt that looked like it could be part of a Ranger’s outfit. No sense in pushing his luck, he figured, and swung on past, stomach rumbling.
He deliberately knocked into a middle-aged couple outside the general store, where the store man was lighting a lantern under the awning. Nash picked up the woman’s parcels and touched a hand to his hat brim, mumbling an apology, trying to look shifty. When he saw the store man looking at him closely, he let the light wash over his face a moment before he ducked his head so that the brim of his hat cast its shadow across his features. Then he hurried on and could almost feel the stares of the people watching him go. He hoped one of them would recall him later.
Nash figured he had established his presence in town. He wasn’t willing to risk any more. So he headed for the livery and went down the alley beside the big building, coming out near the corrals at the rear. He walked to the rear door and leaned against the frame, looking into the lantern-lit interior. He could see only one stable-hand forking hay at the far end and he figured the others were at supper, which suited him fine.
He walked in, carrying his rifle in its scabbard, and the stable-hand, a lanky youth in bib-and-brace coveralls, glanced up and nodded civilly.
“Howdy,” he greeted, leaning on his pitchfork.
Nash didn’t return the greeting. He stood in the lantern light and looked at the youth with hard eyes.
“Come for a hoss,” he said shortly.
The youth stirred uneasily but said readily enough, “Sure. Just tell me which one it is and I’ll throw your saddle on him.”
Nash grunted, suddenly shook the rifle free of its scabbard and pointed the weapon at the wide-eyed stable-hand. The youth sucked in a noisy breath as Nash notched back the hammer to full cock. His knuckles were white where they gripped the handle of the pitchfork.
“The fastest bronc in the place, that’s mine,” Nash said curtly. “Got it, button?”
The youth’s lower lip trembled as he nodded. He looked around wildly but there was no one he could call for help.
“Look, mister, see here—” he stammered.
“You better saddle a hoss faster’n you talk, sonny, or you’ll be wearin’ an extra navel!” growled Nash.
“Y-y-yessir!” breathed the youth, leaving the fork standing in the hay pile and sliding along the wall, his bug-eyes watching the muzzle of the rifle follow his every movement. “I—I reckon Mr. Linton, the storekeeper, has the—the fastest bronc ...”
“Get it!” Nash snapped and followed the stable-hand down the passage. In minutes, the youth had the horse saddled and ready.
Nash quit Sierra Blanca before it was full dark, forking Linton’s big bay gelding, riding fast for Ojo Medina. He had left the terrified stable-hand bound and gagged in a rear stall and figured he would have worked himself free in about a half hour. That would give him plenty of time to cover his tracks and for the word to be telegraphed on ahead.
He just hoped that someone from the gang would get to hear about it before some trigger-happy lawman who hadn’t been warned spotted him and tried to do his duty!
~*~
As soon as Brad Burns walked into the big saloon in Ojo Medina, he knew it was already too late. He shouldn’t have stopped on the way in to buy that supply of writing paper at the store, or the box of candy for Ellen Bray. He should have gone straight to the saloon.
Burns entered the saloon with his packages under one arm and stopped dead. Men were getting up from tables and moving back around the walls, all staring towards the bar, which was deserted except for Sheriff Luke Bray and two big men. They were twins, no doubt about it. Except for their clothes, it would have been difficult to tell one from the other, Burns figured, seeing the same cast of brutish features, the same cruel twist to the mouths, the same drunken, reckless mood reflected in their glittering eyes.
These were men out for trouble; it stuck out a mile. He walked quietly to a nearby table and set down the package of paper and the wrapped box of candy. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and made his way unobtrusively to the bar.
“Look, fellers,” the sheriff was saying, a tight edge to his voice, “you’ve always played along before. Now come quietly before we have trouble that won’t do any of us any good. A night’s sleep in the cells and I’ll let you out come mornin’, as always. No fines, no hassles. What d’you say?”
“We say keep your nose outa our business, Sheriff,” snarled Lem Forrester, swaying a little. “This time we’re really gonna howl, so you go hide your head some place and leave us be, huh?”
“Can’t do that, Lem. Now, be reasonable.” The sheriff was getting desperate and he put a hand on Lem Forrester’s arm. Lem swore, shoved the lawman back violently and reached for his gun.
“Hold it!” yelled Burns from halfway down the bar. Zack Forrester spun towards the sound of Burns’ voice and Luke Bray also looked in that direction, startled, but Lem Forrester was concentrating on the sheriff and his draw. His Colt freed leather and blasted in a flash, the thunder slapping through the room and sending the watching men diving for cover.
Luke Bray coughed as the lead slammed into his chest and drove him back. He fell against a chair and splintered it. He lay there, coughing blood, staring up with glazing eyes.
Brad Burns’ Colt blurred out of his holster an instant after Lem Forrester fired and his hammer dropped a split-second before Zack Forrester commenced his own draw. Lem staggered as Burns’ lead smashed into his body and he snarled, brought around his own Colt and got off a shot as Burns hurled himself to one side. Zack fired, crouching, and his lead tore a white scar in the counter front as Burns lit on his shoulders, somersaulted, spun on his knees and came around with gun blazing in a spectacular move. Lem Forrester lifted to his toes as a bullet took him under his tilted jaw and he went over and down, jerking and twitching his last few seconds of life away.
Burns got off another shot as Zack fired again and the yellow-haired trail-driver felt the burn of lead past his cheek. Zack staggered as Burns’ bullet struck him somewhere in the upper body and he spun along the bar, an outstretched arm sweeping bottles and glasses to the floor. He reached the end of the bar and went down, but he rolled and when he lunged upright, Burns had to hastily tilt his gun barrel and fire into the ceiling, for Zack Forrester had grabbed the cowering barkeep, an arm around the man’s neck, his smoking gun-muzzle under his ear.
“Back!” Forrester yelled. “Back, or I’ll blow his head off!’’
Burns froze and the others in the room made not a sound as Zack Forrester, breathing hard, backed up towards the rear door of the saloon, dragging the sweating, terrified barkeep with him. Just before he dodged through the doorway, he brought his gun down from the man’s ear and fired at Burns. The yellow-haired man staggered as lead clipped the point of his left shoulder and he spun completely around, going down to the floor and squirming around on his belly, gun blasting as Forrester flung the barkeep from him and dived out the door. The barkeep screamed but he was safe, only stung by flying wood-splinters as Burns’ lead clipped the doorframe.
Brad Burns leapt to his feet, lunged towards the batwings, but was hampered by the crowd. By the time he had slammed and cursed his way out into the street, he could hear the rapidly fading hoofbeats of a fast-moving horse quitting town and he knew Zack Forrester had made good his escape.
He holstered his gun and, holding his bleeding left shoulder, went back into the saloon. There was a crowd gathered at the far end of the bar but they fell back as he approached and he saw a man kneeling beside Luke Bray. No one bothered to check Lem Forrester for signs of life. There was a hole in his head as big as an apple.
“Bray gonna pull through?” Burns asked.
The doctor glanced up and shook his head. “He's dead. It got him through the lungs.”
“God help us,” said Brad. “Ellen Bray was worried about him facin’ up to the Forresters and I said I’d keep an eye on him. But I got here too late.” He swore briefly. ‘‘Already had to tell her her brother was killed in a stampede out on the Pecos, now I got to give her more bad news.”
‘‘Hell, mister, don’t go blamin’ yourself,” a man said, “you done more’n enough. I ain’t seen anyone get a gun out so fast since Hickok passed through here.”
There were murmurs of agreement from the others. ‘‘Well, that's fine, gents, and I thank you for the compliment,” Burns said, ‘‘but the fact remains I still got to tell Ellen Bray her uncle’s dead and I didn’t get here soon enough to stop them.”
‘‘No one could’ve stopped ’em tonight,” the shaking barkeep said, holding the whisky bottle he had been drinking from. ‘‘The Forresters were in a proddy mood, just spoilin’ for trouble. Luke came in at the wrong time, is all.” He nodded at Burns. ‘‘Mind you, if you’d been the sheriff, I reckon both them Forresters would be lyin’ dead on the floor!”
‘‘That’s likely true, mister,” the doctor said, looking Burns up and down. ‘‘You staying on in our town a spell?”
‘‘Well ... yeah, a spell. I’m writing a book about a cattle drive. I came in with Longhorn Tommy Loveless’ herd.”
‘‘Well, now, that’s mighty interesting,” the doctor said, hand cupped around his chin as he studied Burns closely. “You’re a fine figure of a man and mighty fast on the draw … and this town no longer has a lawman.”
Burns stiffened as he got the drift of the doctor’s words and the rest of the room understood what the sawbones was getting at, too, and there were cries from all around the barroom.
‘‘Hey, yeah! How about this hombre for sheriff?”
‘‘Pin a star on him!”
‘‘Man can draw fast as that better be on the side of the law!”
‘‘We could sure use him for a lawman!”
And other things of a similar nature. Burns was stunned and couldn’t make a reply right off.
‘‘Could be you’ll sell more books if you can put ‘sheriff’ in front of your name on the cover,” prodded the doctor. “That appeal to you?”
It did appeal to Burns and he nodded slowly.
“I guess I might take it on ... for a spell,” he said quietly and there was a cheer from the crowd.
The doctor held up his hands for silence then took the tin star that the barkeep had unhooked from Luke Bray’s shirt. He pinned it onto Brad Burns’ vest and shook the young man’s hand, smiling.
“I reckon you’re hereby elected sheriff of Ojo Medina, young feller!’’