Hector Diaz came out first. The battered swing doors of the saloon were smashed aside as he burst through. He was hatless, his thick black hair tangled and greasy. His clothes were soiled and wrinkled, and he was sporting a heavy growth of stubble on his broad jaw.
“Come on then, Bodie, you gringo son of a bitch! Here I am! You been waitin’ for somebody to come out — so here I am!”
Diaz rattled the long-barreled Winchester he was holding, his dark eyes raking the dusty, deserted street of Dry Fork. Silence greeted his challenge. Diaz swore loudly.
He stepped to the edge of the boardwalk, dusty boots clumping on the worn boards, his heavy Mexican spurs dragging across the wood.
“Bodie! You come out, an’ let’s get this over! I wan’ kill you! When you dead, Bodie, I’m goin’ to cut off your cojones an’ feed them to the do…”
There was a movement across the street. A mere flicker, and then a rifle barrel winked in the sunlight a fraction of a second before a shot rang out — followed by two more in rapid succession.
The bullets hit Diaz in the chest. With undiminished force they ripped through Hector Diaz’s body and out between his shoulders. Blood spewed from the wounds, spattering the boardwalk and the saloon frontage. Diaz, already dying, was driven backwards. He smashed bodily against the front wall of the saloon, twisting in a muscular spasm, and fell face first through one of the big, decorated windows. Glass shattered and filled the air around Diaz’s plunging body. It seemed to hang above him in a glittering cloud — then struck Diaz as it followed him to the floor.
The echoing gunshots were ringing across the rooftops as Bodie stepped into view, cutting across the street in the direction of the saloon. Hector Diaz had not been alone in the saloon; he’d had two companions with him when he had turned up in Dry Fork — and they were still somewhere inside the saloon. Bodie wanted to get to them before they organized themselves in the first minute or so following Hector Diaz’s death.
He reached the boardwalk and crossed it in a couple of long strides. Holding his rifle across his chest Bodie went in through the swing doors, hitting the saloon floor on his left shoulder. He rolled, twisting his long body across the scuffed boards.
There was a movement on his right. A gun blasted, loud in the confines of the low-ceilinged room. The bullet whacked a pale splinter of wood out of the floor. Sharp chips stung Bodie’s face. He kept moving, jerking the rifle round, finger easing back on the trigger as he caught sight of a dark figure stepping out of the gloom on the far side of the saloon. The Winchester jolted in Bodie’s hands as it fired. The bullet splintered one of the stair banister supports. Boots thumped on the floor as the hunched figure of a man sprang away from the shadows around the staircase.
Bodie held himself still long enough to trigger a further shot. It caught the running man in mid-stride, throwing him sideways against the bar. He hung there for a moment, struggling to stay on his feet while blood streamed from the wound in his chest.
Knowing that there was a third man somewhere in the saloon Bodie kept moving, working his way towards the staircase. He heard the soft thud of the man he’d shot slumping to the floor.
Another sound followed on. It came from a higher level, above Bodie’s head. The man hunter tried to pinpoint it but could only place it somewhere on the railed balcony running around the upper gallery. Bodie swore softly. Whoever it was up there he had a damn good edge on anyone down on the saloon floor.
Bodie realized fast that he was in the worst place he could be. He got his feet under him and thrust himself upright, heading for cover. There was a scuffle of sound from overhead. A rifle blasted. The bullet whacked a white hole in the floorboards. It was close — too damn close, Bodie thought, and reckoned that the rifleman would have him pinpointed by now. He lunged forward, knowing he’d cut it fine, maybe too fine. He was angry with himself for not allowing time to make a shot himself.
He heard a shot, tensing automatically. No bullet touched him, nor did one strike the floorboards. Bodie heard a man grunt, a hoarse, pained sound. He twisted, throwing a frantic glance towards the balcony — and saw a blurred figure topple forward over the railing to smash face down on the saloon floor.
Bodie turned around and faced the saloon door. Framed in the door was a tall, broad-shouldered figure. Bodie couldn’t see the man’s features too well because the sun was streaming in through the open doorway, leaving the figure in shadow. But he did see the smoking rifle held in the big hands.
“You want me to say thanks? Or give you a share of the bounty?” the man hunter asked.
“Don’t want either, Mr. Bodie!” The voice was deep, with a slightly husky quality to it.
“Well, hell, I’ll buy you a drink then!” Bodie snapped.
The shadowy figure gave a chuckle. “You do that and we’ll both be back in trouble!”
Bodie reached the doorway and the tall figure stepped aside to let him pass. On the boardwalk Bodie glanced over his shoulder, and a wry smile began to etch itself around the corners of his taut mouth as he stared at his rescuer.
He found himself eye to eye with the tallest, meanest-looking, full-blooded Kiowa Indian he’d ever come across.