Philip Olsen’s watch read twelve twenty-five. Eying it Olsen felt a surge of elation race through him. Jim Talman should have been here by now. Obviously Howser and Jarrett had carried out their part of the bargain. Olsen cautioned himself against being too sure. Something could have gone wrong. The plan could have misfired. Olsen glanced across the saloon. The place had quietened down. Everyone was waiting now. He looked at his watch again. He’d give it until one o’clock before he made his exit. By then something would be settled one way or the other.
Through the open door of the saloon he could see out onto the dusty street. All he needed to see was Howser and Jarrett ride by. Just a simple thing. He felt in his pocket for another cigar.
Biting off the end he reached for a match. The sound of it striking and bursting into flame sounded abnormally loud. Olsen realized that the saloon had gone utterly silent. He raised his head — and held it in surprised shock; the match dropped from nerveless fingers.
Supporting himself against the doorframe was Cal Jarrett. He looked a mess. His face and clothing were dust grimed, and his left side, from the waist down was a mass of blood.
Olsen found himself turning his gaze from Jarrett to the man who now appeared by Jarrett’s side. Dusty and with a blood-stained shoulder, hatless and disheveled as he was, Olsen had no difficulty in recognizing Jim Talman. A coldness swept over Olsen. There was a look in Jim Talman’s eyes that told Olsen more than words could ever express. It was a killing look, and it told Olsen that this was one thing he wasn’t going to be able to talk his way out of.
The cards had fallen and he’d been dealt a losing hand again. Anger swept aside his other feelings — anger at himself, at Jim Talman, at everything and everybody. Yet, even while his anger rose, he was figuring what he might salvage from all this. Talman was still alive — but so was he, and while he still lived there was always another day. He hadn’t given up yet. By God no, not by a long way.
He focused his attention on the two men by the door. Talman had moved forward, pushing the stumbling Jarrett before him. His voice broke through the silence.
‘Jarrett, here, has something he wants to say.’
Swaying unsteadily, his hands clasped to his bleeding side, Jarrett muttered a few words. He turned to look at Jim. ‘You hear,’ he said loudly. ‘I need a doctor. I’m bleedin’ to death.’
‘Say your piece,’ Jim told him. ‘Say it before I finish what I started out there.’
‘All right, all right,’ Jarrett yelled. ‘Goddam you, Talman.’ He turned back so that he was facing Olsen across the saloon. ‘He done it,’ he said, pointing a bloody hand at Olsen. ‘He set up this whole deal. Fixed it so it looked like he was ready to talk peace, then paid me and Dunc to kill Talman and bury him where nobody’d ever find him.’
All eyes were suddenly on Philip Olsen, and he felt the open hostility in them. The way things were going his future was being reduced by every heartbeat. Right now all he had to concern himself with was the way out of this. If he managed to come out alive, then he could worry about his future.
Olsen got slowly to his feet. His eyes were searching the saloon for a way out. The door was effectively barred by Jim Talman. There were stairs to Olsen’s right, but he discounted these. Getting himself trapped up there was a sure way to finish himself off. As he rose to his full height, his searching mind recalled the window at his back. Beyond was the alley, running the length of the street.
Once out there he could make for the livery, get his horse. If he could reach Boxed-O he would be in the clear. His crew would back him, and with them at his command he could dictate terms. It would be an easy thing to recruit more men of the type he needed. With them behind him he might yet achieve his desires.
Jim Talman, perhaps suspecting some sudden move by Olsen, eased forward, putting up a warning hand. ‘Hold it, Olsen. You don’t walk away from this one.’
But Olsen was committed now. His course of action was decided, and he acted without pause. His right hand swept his coat aside, snaking his gun free of its holster. The hammer was back well before the weapon was leveled. Olsen snapped off two swift shots, not waiting to see if he hit anyone. He spun on his heel and hurled himself bodily through the window.
As Olsen crashed through the window, Jim, his own gun in his hand, turned and ran out of the saloon. He had a fleeting glimpse of Cal Jarrett spinning around, his face a bloody mask from being hit by one of Olsen’s bullets.
Jim hit the boardwalk and went onto the street. He paused for a moment, indecision holding him. Which way would Olsen go? The answer came swiftly, spurring him into motion. The livery. Olsen would want his horse.
He ran, his boots slapping the dust up in fine clouds. Each step caused a fresh jolt of pain to explode in his shoulder, but he kept running, ignoring the hurt. He knew only one thing — that he wanted Olsen, wanted this man who had coldly ordered his death. He wanted him and he wasn’t about to let anything get in his way.
Midway down the street Jim stopped. Somewhere along here Olsen would have to leave the protection of the buildings to cross over to the livery. The question was where? When?
Jim moved slowly on, his eyes searching each shadowed alley between the buildings. He noticed how deserted the street was, then remembered that it was always this way each day between noon and one o’clock; Garnett had always clung to the midday siesta and for once Jim was thankful for this tradition.
Movement caught his eye. Jim glanced up. A single horseman was riding down the street, coming Jim’s way. Jim watched his approach, for the newcomer was a familiar rider.
The rider drew rein some distance from Jim. He sat his saddle easy, eying Jim coldly. He wore a gun on his hip and his right hand was close to the butt. It was Curly Browning. Curiosity shadowed his face as he took in Jim’s appearance and his behavior.
Olsen suddenly appeared, coming out of a narrow alley. He was level with Curly, some way ahead of Jim. He saw both Jim and Curly the instant he emerged from the alley.
‘Hold it, Olsen,’ Jim yelled. He hoped Olsen would heed his words, but even as he spoke Olsen was moving.
Dirt streaked his face and marked his clothing. He’d lost his coat and hat. The left side of his face was scratched and bloody. He looked a different man — not scared, but becoming more desperate as the minutes passed. He’d got into something deep and now he was trying to get out, still believing he could come out on top.
‘Olsen,’ Jim called again.
This time Olsen did stop, but only to turn towards Curly. ‘Take him, Curly, take him!’ he yelled.
As if Olsen’s command had all he’d been waiting for, Curly let out a savage cry. He drove his spurs in and let his horse run free at Jim. At the same time he went for his gun, bringing it to bear and firing. His aim was upset by the moving horse. He fired twice more, his anger mounting rapidly.
Curly’s third shot was his last. Before he could pull back the hammer for a fourth, Jim, who had stood fast through the attack, leveled his own gun, took steady aim and loosed one shot. The slug took Curly directly over the heart, the force of it knocking him out of the saddle. Curly hit the ground on the back of his neck and he was dead before his body stopped rolling.
Before Curly’s riderless horse passed, Jim was moving up the street, thumbing fresh loads into his gun. He could see Olsen, now on the boardwalk, some distance ahead. Olsen had seen Curly Browning’s demise and he was doing his best to keep away from Jim.
Jim could see the livery now. If Olsen got in there it would be one hell of a job flushing him out. The livery-stable was a huge place and there were a hundred places for a man to hide. With this thought in mind he increased his pace.
Olsen turned without warning, his gun exploding with sound. The slug was close. Jim dropped into a crouch, lifted his gun and returned fire. He saw Olsen stiffen momentarily, then watched as the man supported himself against the boardwalk’s porch railing. Still unsure of Olsen’s condition, Jim rose slowly, his gun ready in his hand. He moved onto the boardwalk, advancing cautiously.
When Jim was no more than ten feet away, Olsen lifted his head. Pain was strong in his eyes and on his broad face. He was grey and sweat ran freely from him. A thin trickle of blood showed at the corner of his mouth. He stared hard at Jim as if he didn’t recognize him, then gazed out beyond the town, to the wide, empty land beyond. Only now did Jim see the great wet patch of blood on his shirt, just above the waist.
‘I could have been big,’ Olsen said then, his voice steady, still bearing the arrogant tone, though even this was quieter now. ‘You hear me, Talman? I could have been goddam big.’
‘You’re big enough,’ Jim said, ‘why not be satisfied with what you’ve got.’
‘Satisfied? Hell, man, the ones who are satisfied are ten to the dollar. They’re the little ones who grub around and just manage to survive. They never do anything worth remembering, never leave anything worth seeing.’
‘And what will you leave?’ Jim asked. ‘I’ll tell you. You’ll leave a lot of grief and misery, but I don’t think many will weep over your grave.’
Olsen’s head came round, his eyes blazing with renewed hate and fury. ‘Then I won’t go alone, by God,’ he roared, and Jim saw the gun he still held as Olsen’s hand shoved it forward, his finger pulling on the trigger. The gun went off and Jim felt a burning pain explode just under his heart. He felt himself fall, hit the boardwalk. Above him he could see Olsen aiming his gun again. Everything seemed distorted, out of proportion. The muzzle of Olsen’s gun looked enormous, the barrel incredibly long. For a moment Jim felt helpless, then he remembered his own gun. He brought it to bear, thinking all the time that he was too late, that Olsen would fire first. And then his gun went off and kept going off until it clicked on empty chambers.
Jim remembered little after that. His last clear image was seeing Olsen falling away, his face a ruined, bloody mask, bright blood pumping out of his chest. And then the whole world spun into fiery darkness and Jim, drained of everything, let go and slid into that darkness.