JED GIBBON SAT in the Sundowner playing solitaire with a rifle across his thighs.
Occasionally he looked up at the three men sitting across the room, in the shadows on the other side of the ticking stove—Thornberg’s men—to make sure they weren’t drunk. They were drinking beer instead of whiskey, and they were only sipping the beer, not guzzling it like they’d guzzled whiskey last night.
Like Gibbon, they kept glancing out the window, and whenever a wagon or horseback rider appeared in the street, one or two of them would jump, then cover it with a cough or with a curse at the cards in their hands.
Like Gibbon, they were nervous. Like Gibbon, they had a bad feeling about today.
Today was a long way from last night. They knew that Magnusson was on their trail. He could show up outside the window any second now, with a posse of his own, and turn the tables a full hundred and eighty degrees in his favor.
Gibbon laid a jack of diamonds on a queen of spades and gave a start at the clatter of a buckboard. He looked out the window to see a farmer in an immigrant hat bounce down the street behind two broad-backed draft horses.
When the man was gone, Gibbon sipped his tepid coffee and peeled a three of hearts from the coffee-stained deck in
his hand. He gave a slow sigh, pooching out his lips as he released it. By now Magnusson had to know about the roadhouse killings, and Gibbon would have bet a bottle of good Tennessee whiskey that he was on his way to town right now.
But you never knew. Maybe the rancher was going to wait until Gibbon’s defenses were down, until he’d grown heavy and slack with anticipation and worry, then ride to town in the dark of night and confront the sheriff when Thornberg’s men weren’t around to back him up.
That’s what Gibbon would have done. But he was hoping Magnusson would act on impulse. He was hoping the big blond Scandahoovian would be so angered at what had transpired at Gutzman’s roadhouse that he’d head for town pronto, careless with rage.
Turning his head to glance out the window again, Gibbon saw two more of Thornberg’s riders, sitting on the roof of the livery barn across the street. They were hunkered down beneath the peak, backs to the wind, smoking cigarettes. Gibbon knew there was one more man inside the barn, and several more stationed at other locations around the saloon.
Thornberg himself was inside Delmonico’s Café, three doors down on the other side of the street, waiting by a window, out of the cold. He’d sent several of his men home to man the ranch in the unlikely event Magnusson went there first, to burn him out.
He and his six other men had ridden with Gibbon to town. Like Gibbon, Thornberg figured Magnusson. would come here first, aimed at killing the sheriff before he lit out across the Bench tearing down barns and turning up sod.
All the other ranchers in Gibbon’s posse had returned to their ranches. Homer Rinski had wanted to join Gibbon and Thornberg in town, but Gibbon had talked him into returning to his ranch and his daughter. It hadn’t been easy convincing the old Bible thumper that his duty now lay at home,
and Gibbon half expected to see Rinski ride into town with his Greener in his lap, those cold eyes fairly glowing.
The door of the saloon suddenly burst open, and Gibbon dropped his cards and swung the carbine out from under the table. The farmer who had just passed in the street entered, his little round spectacles frosted over so thickly he couldn’t see. His face was red and his scruffy beard was nearly white. The stoop-shouldered little man carefully closed the door then turned to regard the room.
Gibbon sighed with relief. “Good Lord, Asa,” he said, “why in hell did you have to pick today of all days to come to town? You haven’t been off the farm since August!”
Peering blindly through his frosty spectacles, the farmer said, in a heavy German accent, “Yah, vot’s going on? Vhere is everbody? It’s Sunday?”
“I’ve shut down main street ’cause I’m expectin’ trouble. Turn your team around and go back home, Asa. We’ll see you in May.”
“I need supplies.”
“Not today, Asa,” Gibbon said.
The farmer shook his head stubbornly. “No, I need supplies. That’s vy I come all da vay to town.”
“Sheriff,” one of Thornberg’s men said.
Gibbon looked beyond Asa Mueller to the street beyond the window and said, “Shit.”
Nearly a dozen men had ridden up. Most were typical Magnusson riders in sheepskin coats, Stetsons, and scarves, rifles in their gloved hands. They were a hard-faced, belligerent-looking bunch that looked none too pleased with what had transpired at Gutzman’s roadhouse.
In their midst was Magnusson wearing a fur coat and a fur hat, the mustaches above his grim mouth frosted white. Beside Magnusson rode the stout little man with red muttonchops who had been at Magnusson’s place when Gibbon had
gotten the shit kicked out of him. He was the only one who did not look like he’d been chomping at the bit to come to town. In fact, he looked like he’d rather be anywhere but town.
All the rest more than made up for his reluctance. Magnusson himself looked like he was about to collect the proceeds from a million-dollar bet. “Come on out here, Gibbon!”
“Go out the back, Asa,” Gibbon said tightly.
The farmer had turned to look out the window. He was mumbling something under his breath, but Gibbon ignored him as he gained his feet and jacked a shell in his rifle breech. He stood and pulled on his coat, taking his time with the buttons.
Lifting his collar, he walked to the window and looked out. Magnusson stared at him through the glass, his face expressionless. Only his eyes showed a faint amusement.
“Okay, boys,” Gibbon said.
Thornberg’s riders had put down their cards, picked up their rifles, and now followed Gibbon onto the porch. They stood in a line, facing Magnusson and his riders.
“Mornin’,” Gibbon said casually. “Or is it afternoon now?”
Magnusson said nothing. He sat his big Arabian and scowled.
Gibbon shrugged. “Well, what brings you to Caanan, Magnusson? I thought the Double X did all its business in Big Draw.”
“You know why I’m here, you pathetic old bastard. You bushwhacked my men.”
“They were resistin’ arrest.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Suspicion of murder and cattle rustlin’.”
Magnusson laughed without mirth. The smile faded. Glancing
at Thornberg’s men, he said, “Hired you some deputies, eh? Must have been expecting me.”
“Take a look behind you.”
Magnusson twisted around in his saddle, peering at the other riflemen on the roofs behind him. Gibbon heard a door open. Looking right, he watched Thornberg step out of the café and come down the boardwalk holding a rifle across his chest.
Thornberg tipped his hat and said, “Good day to you, King. I have a feeling you’re gonna lose that sappy grin of yours in about thirty seconds.” He jacked a shell and scowled.
“Mighty sure of yourself, aren’t you, Verlyn? How many men you packing today?”
“Ten, same as you, King. I’d say that’s a pretty fair fight.”
Gibbon said, “Doesn’t have to be a fight, Magnusson. All you have to do is throw your guns down, order your men to do likewise, and follow me over to the jail.”
“What are you talking about?” Magnusson scoffed. “You actually think you have any legal jurisdiction in this matter, Gibbon?”
“No,” Gibbon said. His face turned to stone. “I was just bein’ polite.”
He and Magnusson locked eyes.
Finally, a low growl rumbled up from the rancher’s chest, his lips fluttered, and his face reddened. He drew the silver-plated Bisley strapped over his coat, but he was too steamed to shoot straight. The bullet whistled past Gibbon’s ear and shattered the window behind him.
Gibbon lifted his Winchester and shot Magnusson in the shoulder just as the rancher’s horse swung around, spooked by the sudden gunfire. Magnusson yelled and clutched the wound with one hand while trying to control his mount with the other.
Magnusson’s riders lowered their rifles and Gibbon swung
his own carbine around, dislodging one man and wounding another in the thigh. He gave a shriek and fell from the saddle of his bucking pinto.
Beside Gibbon, two of Thornberg’s riders went down in the hail of bullets flung by Magnusson’s crew. The other jumped off the porch and ducked behind a watering trough and commenced firing.
Thornberg and the rest of his men were opening up across the street, dislodging several of Magnusson’s men from their saddles and scattering the others in a thunder of clomping hooves and high-pitched whinnies.
Gibbon had just taken down another man when Magnusson, who’d pinned Thornberg behind a hay wagon, swung back around and emptied his carbine at Gibbon.
The sheriff, who’d dropped to one knee behind the hitch rack, felt one of the slugs tear meat from his side, just above his belt, but he kept firing until the hammer of his Winchester clicked. He dropped the carbine and ran back into the saloon, clumsily pulling his revolver from the holster beneath his coat.
A cat-like moan sounded behind him. Swinging a look, he saw Asa Mueller curled up under a table with his arms over his head.
“Just stay there ’til I tell you to come out, Asa,” Gibbon said.
With the gun in his hand, he stepped up to the window and was about to cut loose when he saw that the street had cleared and most of the shooting was now happening between and behind the buildings across the street. Two horses and six of Magnusson’s riders lay dead. The three men that had followed Gibbon onto the porch were dead as well, spilling blood on the boardwalk. There was no sign of Thornberg.
Magnusson was retreating up the boardwalk on the other side of the street, stumbling and clutching his shoulder. Gibbon
yelled, “The fight’s back here, Magnusson!” and snapped off an errant round.
The rancher stopped, pressed his back to the livery barn, and squeezed off a feeble shot. Then he pushed himself away from the barn and ran up the street, toward his horse that stood twitching its ears at the gunfire.
Gibbon ran after him, keeping to his side of the street. He stopped when Magnusson tried to mount the jittery Arabian, and fired two shots in the air over the horse’s head. The horse bucked and ran kicking down the street.
Magnusson tried to hold on, but his left foot slipped from the stirrup and he landed in a pile, cursing and raging at the disobedient mount.
Gibbon walked up behind him as Magnusson tried to gain his feet. “Stay down there,” Gibbon said. “Throw down your weapon and hold your hands above your head.” He noted that the gunfire was dying away behind him and he wondered vaguely if anyone was still alive.
He got his answer a second later, when a shaky voice rose behind him. “H-hold it r-right there, Sheriff.”
Gibbon froze. He’d been so preoccupied with stopping Magnusson that he hadn’t thought to watch his back. Turning slowly, he confronted the man behind him. The stocky little easterner with the red muttonchops and rosy red cheeks held a revolver in both his shaking hands, the barrel aimed at Gibbon’s chest.
Swallowing, the man looked beyond Gibbon to Magnusson. “K-k-k-king, what should I d-do?”
Gibbon didn’t give Magnusson a chance to answer. He shot the little man in the chest, then brought his gun back around to Magnusson, who had turned but was not holding his revolver. Gibbon saw the Bisley lying about ten feet from the rancher, where he must have dropped it when the horse threw him.
Gibbon felt a grin shaping his mouth. He heard a gun crack and felt a bullet tear through his middle. As though clubbed with a two-by-four, he fell forward on his knees, struggling to keep his gun up.
Turning, he saw the little man lying on his side, still aiming his revolver at Gibbon. Smoke curled from the barrel. As the man thumbed back the hammer to fire again, Gibbon shot him through the forehead.
The easterner’s head jerked back with the force of the slug, then came forward and hit the ground. The shoulders quivered for only a moment.
Hearing footsteps, Gibbon turned his head forward. Magnusson was reaching for his Bisley. Gibbon squeezed off a shot but missed cleanly. His hand was shaking; he was going into shock. He thumbed back the hammer and squeezed the trigger again, but the hammer slapped the firing pin without igniting a shell.
He felt a heavy darkness brush over him like warm, wet tar. He was out of shells and out of luck. He gave an involuntary groan against the pain in his middle as he watched Magnusson straighten with the silver-plated pistol in his hand.
His lower jaw jutted angrily out from his face and his nostrils flared like a rabid dog’s.
“You bastard,” Gibbon muttered, his breath growing short. He felt drunk, and he chuckled silently at the thought. Here he was on his last leg, shot in the back by a chickenhearted little tinhorn, and sober as a Lutheran preacher.
Magnusson walked stiffly toward him, holding the Bisley out from his chest. Blood glistened on the right shoulder of his coat. He stopped near Gibbon and pressed the barrel to the sheriff’s forehead.
“You’re finished, Gibbon,” Magnusson growled.
“So are you, King,” Gibbon said before the gun barked.