Fast as Koch was, Angel turned out to be faster. He barely seemed to move, yet the big Colt was suddenly in his hand. It was level and it was aimed at Koch’s chest. Koch had already fired off two shots. One smashed into the edge of the bar near Angel’s right elbow. The other tore through the log roof overhead, because Koch’s gun had tilted in that direction as Angel’s bullet took him just over the heart. Koch went over backwards, letting go with a loud scream of pain that trailed off to a soft whimper. His limp body slumped against one of the barrels supporting the bar. Koch lay with his head flopping forward, seeming to stare at the blood pumping out of the hole in his chest.
‘The hell with you, Angel!’ Duggan roared. He had started to turn even while Angel and Koch were trading shots. His gun was half-way out of his holster as Koch went down. Angel saw that Duggan was going to start shooting a little ahead of himself, so he moved, wanting to alter his position.
That would mean Duggan having to aim again and it would give Angel the precious seconds he required.
Angel dropped to the floor, letting his body roll. He heard the solid thunder of sound as Duggan fired, heard the thwack as the bullet chewed a long sliver of wood from the floor.
‘Jesus, will you stand still and fight!’ Duggan yelled. He half-turned, swinging his gun round.
Angel fired from where he lay. His bullet caught Duggan in the left shoulder, spinning the big man around. Duggan’s legs became entangled in the legs of a chair and he crashed to the floor in a bloody heap. He kicked the chair aside and staggered to his feet. He sighted Angel, in the act of rising, and brought up his gun again, triggering wild shots in Angel’s direction. One bullet burned across the back of Angel’s hand. And then Angel’s gun crashed again, and again. Duggan gave a stunned grunt, his body shuddering under the impact of the heavy bullets. Blood began to stain his shirt, soaking his pants. He stumbled drunkenly, desperately trying to stay on his feet. But his body had taken too much punishment. As his left leg lost all feeling Duggan arced to the floor. He twisted over on to his back, blood marking the worn boards. His left boot-heel drummed spasmodically on the floor. He opened his mouth, perhaps to speak, but any words were lost in the rise of blood gushing from his throat.
Angel climbed to his feet and deliberately reloaded his Colt before he did anything else.
‘Hey … Angel … !’
Angel knelt beside Koch. The man was staring at him with half-closed eyes. A slippery sheen of blood coated his chest and the hands he had clasped over the wound. A thin trickle showed at the corner of his mouth.
‘You knew damn well we wouldn’t let you take us in,’ Koch whispered. The effort of a continuous sentence left him breathless.
‘A stupid move, Koch,’ Angel said.
Koch shrugged slightly. ‘Yeah. Well ... I ... never did much thinkin’.’
‘Koch, you want to tell me where Cranford’s heading?’
‘Save my soul?’ Koch gave a hoarse chuckle. ‘Too … too … damn late … for that … Angel. What the hell ... I don’t owe that bastard a thing ... no way. Him an’ Trench … they’s headin’ … for … Marcos … ’ Koch began to cough. Mainly he coughed up blood, and when he stopped coughing he was dead.
Standing at the bar Angel eyed the red-haired man. The man picked up a bottle and a glass, gesturing in Angel’s direction.
‘Looks like a good idea,’ Angel said.
‘Personal quarrel?’ the man asked as he poured Angel a drink.
Angel fished out his badge and laid it on the bar. The man studied it for a while, craning his neck to read all the words inscribed around the rim.
‘That make you a marshal?’
‘Investigator,’ Angel told him.
The man held out his hand. ‘Name’s Loomis. Jack Loomis.’
‘Frank Angel.’
‘Anything I can do for you, Mr. Angel?’
‘Tell me where Marcos is.’
‘Ain’t nothing to tell. It’s just a scrubby little cow-town half a day’s ride east of here.’
So why was Cranford making for it? Angel emptied his glass and placed it on the bar. Loomis refilled it automatically.
‘Anything special about Marcos?’
Loomis shook his head.
‘Not a damn thing. If it wasn’t for the spur line I don’t reckon Marcos would even be there.’
Angel’s head came up with a jerk.
‘Spur line? To where?’
‘Why, the Santa Fe.’
Angel nodded. That was Cranford’s way out. He would ride the spur line to where it merged with the main Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe line. From there he could board any of the long haul express trains which ran between Chicago and Los Angeles on the west coast. Cranford could take his pick of trains. He could go east or west, even change direction if he desired.
‘Mr. Loomis, I’d like a fresh horse. Seems I got me some hard riding to do.’
Loomis nodded. ‘Come on out to the corral.’
‘How long have that other pair been gone?’
‘Around three hours.’
‘There should be money enough on that pair to bury them,’ Angel said as they stepped outside. ‘I’d stop and lend a hand if I hadn’t pressing business in Marcos.’
Loomis smiled. ‘Don’t you worry on that score, Mr. Angel. I’ll plant those two and put markers over them.’
‘Thanks, Mr. Loomis,’ Angel said. ‘You are a gentleman.’
‘There ain’t many of us left, Mr. Angel, and that’s a pure fact.’