Tin Badge (Searcher Western #2)

The lights of Petie twinkled in the distance as Deke Casey and his men gathered on a hill west of town.

“We seen him and we know his routine pretty good,” Casey told them, unfolding a map he’d drawn of Petie. “All we have to do is ride into town and shoot the son of a bitch.” He pointed to the sheriff’s office, and moonlight cast dark shadows over his unshaven face as he spoke. “He works out of this buildin’ here and patrols the town back and forth, so he won’t be hard to find. We’ll just ride into town and track him down. When we find him, Schuler here’ll face off with him.”

“We’ve all been around a long time,” Casey told them, “and we know that sometimes things don’t go the way we want. If Schuler don’t git Stone, then the rest of us’ll draw on him together, and we won’t stop shootin’ until he ain’t movin’ no more.”

“After Stone’s dead,” Casey continued, “we’ll ride over to the bank, blow down the doors, and take the money. Then we’ll head south toward Mexico, and have us a good time with the senoritas. Any questions?”

Tom Hurley raised his hand. “It all sounds real good, but what if Rawlins horns in?”

“We all know what we gotta do,” Casey said. “From here on out, keep yer eyes open and be ready for any thin’.”

Schuler quick-drew his pistol, and before anybody could blink it was pointing at them. “John Stone is as good as dead,” he said. “You fellers just stay out of my way, understand?”

Casey climbed to his feet and walked toward the horses. His men followed, their pistols loaded, their gunbelts loaded with cartridges, and more cartridges were carried in their bulging pockets. They climbed onto their saddles and Casey led the way down the trail that led to Petie, glowing far away in the midst of the vast black prairie.

John Stone stood in Miss Elsie’s backyard, his legs spread apart and his hat low over his eyes. He faced a row of bottles and cans propped on the fence twenty-five yards away, illuminated by light emanating from the rear windows of Miss Elsie’s kitchen.

He tensed, then whipped out both his Colts and pulled the triggers. The night exploded as the cartridges fired, and on the fence in the distance the bottles were smashed apart and the tin cans went flying into the air. Stone, in his gunfighter’s crouch, continued triggering his pistols until the bottles and cans were gone, and only a few shards of glass remained.

He holstered his Colts and turned back to the building. He’d been shooting bottles and cans for the past half hour and now his supply was depleted. Climbing the stairs, he entered the kitchen and saw Beatrice, Miss Elsie’s cook, pull a tray of cookies out of the oven.

“Want one?” she asked.

She flipped one off the tray, and he caught it in his hand. Winking, chewing, he passed through a hallway and opened a door.

This was the part of the building where Miss Elsie lived with Beatrice. It also contained storerooms for food, liquor, sheets, and blankets. He passed a stack of old newspapers, and then the light became feeble as he ascended the final flight of stairs to the attic. Stepping carefully, he came to the attic door and flung it open. A musty fragrance came to him, and he lit a match, touching it to the wick of the lamp on the dresser nearby.

The attic became bathed in the golden glow of the lamp, and Stone saw stacks of suitcases and old trunks jumbled together against a wall. Gowns, coats, and wraps hung from pegs on the walls, or overflowed out of boxes and crates, a profusion of gay colors and fabrics that once had graced the figures of beautiful ladies, and now were growing moldy and moth-eaten, forgotten vestiges of wild nights filled with laughter, whiskey, and naughtiness.

Chairs, tables, sofas, and beds with broken legs or cracked surfaces were stacked everywhere, and cheap old jewelry glittered faintly in boxes and baskets. Stone carried his lamp toward a wide brass bed set up at the far end of the attic next to a window that overlooked the backyard.

Stone placed the lamp on the dresser. He opened a drawer and pulled out a box of ammunition, reloading his pistols and pushing fresh cartridges into the slots in his gunbelts. Across the room, he could see his reflection in an old yellowing mirror, a tall figure with his face hidden by the shadow cast by his wide-brimmed cavalry hat.

It was time to go to work. He walked out of the attic and climbed down the stairs to the kitchen, where Beatrice was preparing a haunch of beef for the oven.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“A little.”

“Have a seat.”

Stone took off his hat and sat at the long table where the girls usually dined together, but now they were working in the front of the house, entertaining men. Beatrice was a hefty middle-aged woman wearing an apron and a long dress. She placed half a cold chicken in front of Stone, along with a bowl of potato salad and a loaf of bread. Then she brought him a pot of coffee and a cup.

He picked up the chicken in his hands and tore a chunk off it with his teeth, glad that he didn’t have to mind his manners, as in the Randlett home. If his mother had seen him eat with his hands, she’d smack him across his face, but times had changed and good table manners didn’t account for much on the frontier.

“How do you like yer room?” Beatrice asked, sprinkling the haunch of meat before her with salt.

“I like it fine.”

“A few of the girls have kinda mentioned to me that they wouldn’t mind keepin’ you company up there, if you’re interested.”

“Tell them I’m engaged to git married.”

The door opened and a young blond woman entered, wearing a pink dress with a low bodice. “I need some coffee,” she said, and then noticed Stone. “Well, look who’s here—our deputy sheriff.”

“That’s Veronica,” Beatrice said.

Veronica poured herself a cup of coffee and sat opposite Stone. She had long blond hair and so much makeup on her face she looked like a painted doll. “How do you like living in a whorehouse?” she asked.

“Can’t beat the food.” “We’re famous for a lot of things here, but food ain’t one of them. Maybe you ought to try some of our other attractions.”

“Where you from, Veronica?”

“Mississippi.”

Stone took out the picture of Marie and showed it to her. “Ever see this woman?”

“This the one you’re supposed to be gittin’ married to, only nobody knows where she is?” Veronica wrinkled her brow as she looked at the picture. “She’s real purty, but I don’t think I ever seen her.”

Stone returned the picture to his shirt pocket. Veronica sipped her coffee. “God, I’m ready to go to sleep and the night ain’t even started yet. The house is full of crazy cowboys and I’m afraid they’re just gonna wear my poor old body out.”

The door to the kitchen opened and Miss Elsie walked in. “Get out in the parlor,” she said to Veronica. “It’s full of customers.”

Veronica frowned as she lifted her cup of coffee and moved toward the door.

“See you later, Deputy Stone,” she said. “Be careful where you put yer gun tonight, hear?”

Miss Elsie picked a cookie out of the bowl. “My girls have been in a tizzy ever since you moved in here, Deputy Stone. One of them’s liable to ambush you in the middle of the night when you’re on your way to the attic. What’re you going to do then, John Stone? Show her the picture of the girl you’re supposed to marry?”

“I’m sure your girls have better manners than to attack a man in the dark unawares.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you.”

Sheriff Rawlins sat on his bed, drinking a glass of whiskey. Rosie had gone to work, and he was alone. A lamp on the night-table next to the bed cast a wan light on his mustache and deeply lined face. He still was wondering what to do about John Stone.

He was pretty certain that Deke Casey and his men would try to kill John Stone that night. One part of him thought he should save John Stone’s life, and the other part said he should let John Stone die.

He was leaning toward the latter position, because he didn’t like John Stone one bit. If Stone thought he was good enough to be a lawman, let him take a lawman’s chances. It’d be a good thing for the people of Petie to see John Stone die. They’d realize he wasn’t the great hero that they’d imagined.

Rawlins thought it was sickening the way everybody in town was playing up to John Stone. Even Rosie spoke of him as if he was something special, and he was nothing more than another saddle bum who happened to get lucky one day. Women were wild about Stone, the way they’d been wild about him in the old days. Rawlins touched a hand to his stomach. He was getting a paunch, and didn’t like it. His face looked like a road map. He had a few gray hairs on his head. And John Stone was in the prime of youth, flat-stomached, clear-eyed, and strong. Rawlins grit his teeth in frustration. Everybody loved John Stone, and everybody was embarrassed by Buck Rawlins.

I’ll let them kill him, he thought. He raised his glass of whiskey to his lips and drank. Let him take care of his own ass, if he thinks he’s so goddamned smart. He lit a stogie, pulled off his boots, and lay flat on the bed, a smile on his face. He’d made his decision and now he could relax. Maybe he could even fall asleep. Later on they’d come and tell him some men had shot John Stone, and he’d go out and see Stone bleeding in the middle of a street somewheres. That’d be the end of a man who’d thought he was better than he really was.

Rawlins’s head was propped up by the pillow, and he puffed his stogie calmly. Facing him was a portrait of Bobby Lee hanging on the wall. The wick of the lamp flickered, making the features of Bobby Lee’s face move, as if he were alive. Bobby Lee seemed to be looking at Rawlins reproachfully, as if he disapproved of what Rawlins was doing. Bobby Lee shook his head and pursed his lips.

Rawlins recalled the rumors he’d heard about John Stone’s service in the war. Stone had fought in the cavalry under Jeb Stuart and had come out a captain. They said he’d seen a lot of action.

Rawlins had been in the war too, and also had been in many battles. From Georgia originally, he’d deeply believed in the Southern cause. He already was Sheriff of Petie when the war broke out, but he quit and went east to sign up, fighting Yankees for four long years. Then, when the war was over, he made his way back to Petie, and they’d gladly given him his old job back. A detachment of Confederate infantry had been stationed near the town during the war, and they’d provided protection, but they’d been gone for some time and the town was having problems with rowdies and gunfighters again. Rawlins quickly asserted himself and restored law and order.

But it wasn’t the same, because the war had embittered him. He began drinking more than usual to forget the horrors of frontline combat, and he had contempt for the men of the town who’d never gone to war. He considered them slackers and cowards and hated their guts, and never bothered to hide his feelings about them. They in turn became increasingly disenchanted with him, and his relations with the townspeople had been deteriorating steadily ever since he returned.

But John Stone hadn’t been a slacker or a coward, Rawlins had to admit to himself. Stone had fought for Bobby Lee and the Confederacy too, and they’d all gone down to crushing defeat at the hands of the Yankees.

Rawlins still got angry when he thought about the war. He’d loved the Old South, and now it was gone forever. He remembered Jeb Stuart, who’d been one of his heroes. He’d actually seen Jeb Stuart at Chancellorsville. Jeb Stuart had come to Stonewall Jackson’s headquarters, wearing his great plumed hat, and Rawlins had been in the vicinity. He’d cheered Jeb Stuart along with the rest of the men, and later Jeb Stuart’s cavalry had provided the screen for a roundabout twelve-mile march to the front by Stonewall Jackson’s artillery and infantry, of which Rawlins had been a member. That’d been in sixty-three, when Rawlins had been a sergeant, and they’d hit Joe Hooker’s right flank hard.

Rawlins remembered how he and the rest of Stonewall Jackson’s men charged through the woods on a two-mile-wide front, three divisions deep, screaming at the tops of their lungs, and the Yankees ran for their lives. Rawlins realized he and Stone evidently had been there at the same time.

He remembered how the battlefield had been covered with bodies afterward. The Yankees lost seventeen thousand men, and the Confederacy lost thirteen thousand in five days of fighting. Stonewall Jackson had been wounded, and died eight days later, but Chancellorsville had been a great victory for the Confederacy, and John Stone had been there.

In fact, during the shifting tides of battle, Jeb Stuart had taken command of Rawlins’s unit for a while, and they’d faced a Yankee force that outnumbered them three to one. It had been a bloodbath, but the Yankees, under John Sedgwick, finally retreated across the Rappahannock during the night, and the battle was substantially over.

Rawlins sat up in bed. He realized that Stone and he had served in the same sector, under the same commander, fighting the same fight! He recalled seeing Confederate cavalrymen charge John Sedgwick’s position, and John Stone might’ve been one of those cavalrymen. Since Stone had been an officer, he would’ve been in front leading the way. Rawlins recalled how brave those cavalry officers had been, and how dangerous it was to be in front of a cavalry charge, an easy target for Yankee sharpshooters.

In the confusion of battle, infantry and cavalry sometime had gotten intermingled. Rawlins realized he and Stone might’ve been in sight of each other during the fight, perhaps actually had even seen each other, although they didn’t know it.

Rawlins puffed his stogie nervously. The terror and thrill of the war came back to him. He recalled the charges and retreats, the hand-to-hand struggles with the Yankees, the explosions of artillery, his company commander shot in the head, and old Jeb Stuart urging them onward to the victory that was finally theirs.

John Stone was there, Rawlins said to himself. He realized that he and Stone had been members of the brotherhood that fought shoulder to shoulder against the Yankees at Chancellorsville, and at least that time they’d prevailed. Rawlins and the other soldiers on the Confederate side had felt like great warriors, and now, sitting on his bed, Rawlins remembered how wonderful the taste of victory had been.

Stone had been there. Rawlins chewed on his stogie and frowned. He swung his feet to the floor and pulled on his boots. Strapping on his gunbelt, he reached for his shotgun, cracking it open and loading both barrels.

He didn’t like Stone much, but knew what he had to do. They’d fought together at Chancellorsville under Jeb Stuart and Bobby Lee, and by Christ they’d fight together again.

In a column of twos, the remaining members of the Deke Casey gang rode into Petie. They looked like a group of cowboys coming to have a good time, and nobody paid any special attention to them. Light from windows of saloons, restaurants, and private homes illuminated their faces as they passed the Petie Savings Bank, and they gazed at it with desire in their eyes. They knew it was full of money, and soon it’d all be theirs. Casey rode in front, with Schuler beside him. Schuler held his reins with one hand while resting the palm of his other hand on his thigh, sitting tall in his saddle, excited about the gunfight that lay ahead.

He had complete confidence in himself. Maybe the most famous gunfighters of the frontier were faster than he, but not John Stone, a two-bit deputy sheriff that nobody ever had heard of before.

Ahead was the Paradise Saloon, its bright light spilling onto groups of men having conversations on the sidewalk and in the street. The sound of the saloon’s piano could be heard clearly. Casey angled his head toward the Paradise, and his men followed him to the hitching rail. They dismounted, tied up their horses, and hitched up their gunbelts.

Casey turned to Schuler. “You ready?”

Schuler nodded, a cocky smile on his face. He climbed onto the boardwalk and advanced toward the doors of the Paradise Saloon. The others followed him, and Schuler pushed a drunk out of his way. The drunk went flying into a wall, striking it with his face. Schuler threw open the doors to the Paradise Saloon and stepped inside. His skin tingled with excitement and he wiggled his fingers, keeping them limber. Scanning back and forth through the thick smoke, he saw the Paradise full of men, but John Stone was nowhere in sight.

“I don’t see him,” Schuler said to Casey. “Lemme take a better look. He might be hidin’ behind somebody.”

Casey and the rest of his men stood by the door as Schuler made his way toward the bar. Schuler felt alert and intensely alive, ready to gunfight. He wished John Stone would appear in front of him, so he could gun him down.

Schuler reached the bar and leaned back against it, scrutinizing the people in front of him once more. Stone wasn’t sitting at the tables or standing at the bar.

“What’s your pleasure?” asked the bartender.

“I’m lookin’ for John Stone,” Schuler replied. “Know where he’s at?”

“Ain’t seen him all night.”

Schuler returned to Casey and the others standing beside the door.

“He ain’t here.”

“I can see that,” Casey said dryly. “Let’s check the Acme.”

They turned around and walked out of the Paradise, crossing the street, heading for the Acme Saloon. Casey led the others, with Schuler beside him, wiggling his fingers, working his shoulders, trying to stay loose.

I’m ready, Schuler said to himself. Where the hell is he?

John Stone walked down the middle of the street at the other end of town. It was dark and peaceful, and no stores or other businesses were open. He hoped it’d be an easy night.

Angling toward the sidewalk, he checked a few doors to make sure they were locked. He looked into alleys and glanced up at rooftops. He didn’t think he’d ever walk through a town again without checking the rooftops.

Approaching another alley, he stopped and looked into it. A dark form lay there snoring. Stone walked into the alley and dropped to one knee. Before him lay an old geezer with a gray beard, wearing a ruined narrow-brimmed hat, snoring away. Stone decided he’d better lock him in jail and let him sleep it off, otherwise somebody was liable to rob him in the alley.

Stone lifted the old geezer and threw him over his shoulder, and the old geezer grumbled something, then continued to snore as if nothing had happened. The strong odor of fermented spirits came over Stone, and he coughed as he walked out of the alley. He crossed the street and headed toward the sheriff’s office.

The sound of an out-of-tune guitar came to him. Stone saw a figure on a bench straight ahead, strumming lightly. It was Toby Muldoon, who looked up as Stone approached.

“What you got there, Cap’n.”

“Somebody who needs a place to sleep. What’re you doing out here all by yourself?”

“Just playin’ me old guitar. Buy me a drink?”

Stone tossed him a few coins. Toby reached out and caught them in midair. “Watch yer step, Cap’n. You never know who you’re liable to run into on a dark night.”

Stone continued on his way to the sheriff’s office. He unlocked it, glancing at the reflection in the glass of the roof across the street, but this time there was no head showing at the peak.

He entered the office, unlocked the jail area, and dropped the drunk onto a cot. Then he returned to the main office and lit a lamp. There were no instructions for him. Rawlins was ignoring him as usual, but he didn’t care. In another few weeks Stone would be long gone and Rawlins could have Petie all to himself.

Stone sat at Pritchard’s desk and rolled himself a cigarette. He blew smoke into the air, took out his pistols, spun the cylinders, and dropped them back into their holsters.

Now what? He wished he had a book or a newspaper, but there was nothing to read except official correspondence and that didn’t interest him. Tomorrow he’d have to see about finding some reading material. He thought maybe the girls at Miss Elsie’s had books, those who could read, although their taste probably would be different from his. He’d be willing to settle for a recent newspaper, to find out what was going on in the world.

He leaned back in the chair and placed his boots on the desk. After I finish this cigarette, I think I’ll check the saloons.

Fritz Schuler stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the Acme Saloon and moved toward the doors. He was aware that the other members of the gang were watching him, relying upon him to outdraw John Stone, and that made him feel important. He liked to feel important, and hoped someday to take over the gang from Casey, who was getting old and tired, and wasn’t so fast with a gun.

Schuler pushed the doors open and stepped inside the Acme, which was smaller than the Paradise, and the waitresses were said to be prettier. Schuler would like to shoot Stone in front of pretty waitresses, so he could impress them with his shooting skill. He wanted to see the horror on their faces, and then their admiration when they realized he was a great gunfighter. Maybe someday, if he kept on the way he was going, he could become famous, and even newspapers in the East would show his picture and tell the story of his courage and fast hand.

He scanned the Acme from side to side, looking for John Stone, but the tall man wasn’t there. His shoulders went limp and his fingers felt like putty. He’d been keyed up for the fight, but now the tension was leaving him and he felt perturbed. Where the hell is the son of a bitch?

“Looks like he ain’t here,” Casey said.

“How’s about a drink?” asked Hind, the shortest member of the gang, only five feet four. His shirt, pants, and hat were all too big for him, and he looked comical, but he had the soul of a killer and there was nothing funny about him.

“Might as well,” Casey said. “What the hell.”

They walked toward the bar, Schuler leading the way. Schuler pushed a cowboy to the side, because he was feeling mean and looking for trouble. The cowboy caught his balance and said, “Hey!”

Schuler turned and faced him, his legs spread apart and his fingers hanging loose. “You got somethin’ to say to me?” he asked the cowboy.

The cowboy looked at Schuler, saw his tied-down holster and his gunfighter’s stance, and decided he wasn’t ready to push it to the limit.

“Nothin’,” said the cowboy.

“It’d damn well better be nothin’, otherwise I’ll blow yer fuckin’ head off.”

The cowboy sulked off into the darkness, and the Deke Casey gang moved toward the bar. Men got out of their way; the citizens of Petie generally tried to avoid trouble. Schuler pounded the heel of his fist on the bar. “Whiskey!”

The bartender came running with glasses and a bottle, setting them up before Schuler and the others. Schuler poured two fingers of whiskey into his glass and passed the bottle to Deke Casey, then Schuler looked into the glass and saw the reflection of light against the surface of the amber liquid. The light danced and jiggled, and Schuler wished John Stone would walk into the Acme at that moment, so he could gun him down before the large audience that was assembled there.

Casey raised his glass in the air. “To Bloody Bill,” he said.

The members of the gang drained their glasses. Schuler turned around and saw a waitress passing by, carrying a tray covered with empty glasses. Schuler reached out and grabbed her arm, upsetting her balance, and the glasses went crashing to the floor.

“What’s yer hurry?” Schuler asked.

“Git yer hand off’n me!” the waitress replied, a young brunette with freckles on her face, struggling and squirming.

Schuler laughed, pulled her toward him, and kissed her lips, then pushed her away.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and glowered at him. Schuler hoped someone would step forward to defend the waitress’s honor, but no one moved. A little old man with a broom, wearing a stained apron, came to sweep up the broken glass. The waitress stepped back into the crowd. The atmosphere in the Acme had become tense, and some men drained their glasses, heading for the door.

“Where’s that son of a bitch, John Stone!” Schuler shouted. His voice echoed across the Acme, and no one answered him. Schuler spit on the floor and looked at Casey. “Should we wait for him here, or go out lookin’ for him?”

“Let’s go to his office. That’s probably where he is.”

Schuler felt himself getting angry. He was ready to fight but there was no one to fight with. Walking toward the door, he lashed out with his foot and kicked a table over onto the two men sitting at it, and the men raised their hands to their faces to protect themselves.

“I never seen such a yeller bunch of bastards in my life,” Schuler growled as he walked toward the door.

He stepped onto the sidewalk, and the other members of the gang coalesced around him. Grim-faced, they marched down the street toward the sheriff’s office.

Stone threw his cigarette butt into the cuspidor, where it hissed and went out. He stood, readjusted his gunbelt, and walked toward the door. He thought he’d get a drink and check out the town.

He locked the office and headed toward the Acme, his footsteps sounding on the planks of the boardwalk. A few drunks lolled on benches in front of stores, but the real action was up the street, where he could see the bright lights of the saloons and hear the plinking of pianos.

He saw a group of men moving toward him on the sidewalk. There wouldn’t be room for all of them on the narrow passage between buildings and hitching rails, so Stone jumped down to the dirt and veered toward the center of the street.

The men coming toward him turned and hopped into the street also. Stone thought they were going to cross, but instead they advanced up the middle, heading straight for him. There were six of them, led by a young man with long blond sideburns. Stone moved toward the sidewalk to let them pass.

“Where you runnin’ to, Stone?” asked Fritz Schuler.

Stone stopped in the middle of the dark street. “I’m not running anywhere.”

Schuler walked determinedly toward Stone, feeling the euphoria that preceded a gunfight. “I been lookin’ for you,” he told Stone.

“What for?”

The other members of the gang split up, Casey, Hurley, and Cotler moving to Stone’s right, and Ramsay and Hind moving toward Stone’s left. Stone saw the coalition form in front of him, and it didn’t look good.

“They tell me you’re a coward,” Schuler said, his arms held away from his body, wiggling his fingers.

Stone stiffened his spine and moved his legs apart. The two men faced each other in the middle of the street, staring into each other’s eyes for several seconds, then Schuler stepped forward, his spurs jangling each time his feet touched the ground. Schuler came to a halt about fifteen yards in front of Stone, and the other members of the gang advanced too, moving closer to Stone on both sides of the street.

The crowd in front of the saloons saw the confrontation and heard the words that had passed between Stone and Schuler. They moved cautiously down the sidewalks on both sides of the street, to watch what was going to happen. Schuler hoped some ladies were there, to see him in action.

“So you’re John Stone,” Schuler said. “They tell me you’re a big hero around here.”

The two men looked at each other, still as statues, their hands hanging in the air, fingers loose, ready to reach for their guns. Not far away, Deke Casey winked at the rest of his men, signaling them to get ready, and they moved their hands toward their guns. On the sidewalks, the townspeople watched eagerly, their eyes glittering with excitement.

Schuler smiled. Everybody was looking at him, waiting for him to reach for his guns. John Stone stood solidly in the wan light, a big target, and Schuler didn’t think he could miss.

Stone watched him carefully, alert but not tense, wondering whether he should draw first or let his adversary make the move. He couldn’t help wondering why this man, whom he’d never seen before in his life, wanted to kill him.

The smile vanished from Schuler’s face, and his right hand dived toward his gun, but Stone’s two Colts were already clearing their holsters. Stone held both Colts in front of him and triggered. His gunshots reverberated across the town as Schuler was pulling his pistol out of its holster. Schuler’s last thought was he’s too fast and then both bullets struck him in the chest simultaneously like two sledgehammers, knocking him off his feet. He felt himself falling through space, and spit blood as he pulled his trigger involuntarily. His gun fired wildly, and the bullet flew across the street, hitting a bystander in the shin-bone.

Schuler fell into a clump on the ground, and Stone arose from his crouch, both gun barrels smoking.

“Get him!” hollered Deke Casey.

Casey yanked out his pistol, and a split second later heard the loudest explosion of his life, but he didn’t hear it for long. Sheriff Buck Rawlins was behind him, his sawed-off shotgun in his hands, and he blew Casey’s head to smithereens. Casey’s blood and brains sprayed through the air, and Rawlins pivoted, firing the other barrel into the guts of Tom Hurley, the outlaw with the rat-like face. Hurley went flying backward, and Rawlins charged the third outlaw near him, Cotler, and slammed him in the face with the butt of his shotgun.

Meanwhile, Stone saw two men to his left reaching for their guns. He swung his Colts around and shot a barrage into the stomach of Fred Ramsay, but the last outlaw, Hind, the smallest of the bunch, had drawn a bead on Stone and was squeezing his trigger.

Suddenly, out of the shadows, a cracked violin with a string missing swung down and whacked Hind on the top of his head. Hind’s pistol fired, and Stone felt something hot and terrible punch into his shoulder. Holding steady, he fired both his Colts at Hind, and the impact of the bullets spun Hind around, blood spiraling through the air, as Hind tumbled toward the ground.

All the action had taken only a few seconds. Stone scanned the scene in front of him, holding his pistols ready to fire, but no one else was moving on him. He grit his teeth in pain, and then couldn’t hold up his left arm anymore. It dropped to his side, and his left hand went numb. His fingers lost their ability to grip, and one of his Colts fell to the ground.

He looked at Sheriff Rawlins and Toby Muldoon, the latter smiling broadly, holding his broken guitar in his right hand. The bodies of six men were on the ground in the middle of the street. The crowd of onlookers crept out of the alleys where they’d fled for shelter when the shooting started.

“Is it all over?” one of them asked fearfully.

“Yeah,” replied Rawlins, “this horseshit usually don’t take long.” He looked at Stone and shook his head in derision. “You damn fool—you walked right into them!”

Stone’s blood was soaking into his shirt, and he felt lightheaded. “I didn’t know they wanted to kill me.”

Rawlins pointed at the body lying nearly headless in the middle of the street. “That’s Deke Casey!”

“Who’s Deke Casey?”

“One of the most wanted men on the frontier, and you didn’t know who in hell he was?”

“Never heard of him before.”

Rawlins snorted. “Some deputy sheriff you are. I thought you was supposed to be smart.” He took a few steps toward Stone and saw the widening stain on his shirt. “Looks like you need the doc.”

“I’ll be okay,” Stone said, but he was reeling from side to side, blinking his eyes, trying to hold on.

“I’ll git the doc,” Muldoon said, running away, still holding onto his broken guitar.

Stone felt the black waves pass over him, but he didn’t want to let go. He took a step toward Sheriff Rawlins. “I guess you saved my life, Sheriff. I want to thank you.”

He held out his hand, to shake with Rawlins, but Rawlins sneered and took a step backward. “I was just doin’ my job,” Rawlins said. “You couldn’t handle it yerself, so’s I had to help you out.”

“Got to sit down,” Stone said weakly.

He took a step toward the sidewalk, stumbled, and fell to the ground. The big black waves swept over him, engulfed him, and carried him away.

Chapter Six