He came full tilt around the corner, boots skidding in the dust. The street leading from the plaza was narrow. Vern Cotten stood on the porch of a Mexican saloon fifty feet away. A bottle of whiskey hung half-forgotten in his fist.
Pete Voss and the Madrid gunman called Seeley stood near their horses, facing Vern across half the width of the street. A wicked grin made a gash in Pete Voss’s tawny beard. Voss’s sixgun roared again as Stryker rounded the corner and the full bottle shattered in Vern’s grasp.
Whiskey soaked Vern’s trousers—he stood motionless in a puddle of red-eye and broken shards of glass, holding the shattered neck of the bottle in his fist. Slowly he lifted the jagged object and stared at it, uncomprehending.
Pete Voss said, “You made the wrong remark to me just now, kid. For that I’m going to kill you one bullet at a time.”
Stryker spoke barely loudly enough to reach Voss’s ears.
“Then you’ll have to take both of us, Pete.”
Voss wheeled. He took one look at Stryker’s face and his expression showed that he knew he was in a bad spot. Vern dropped the jagged neck of the whiskey bottle to the saloon porch and clawed for his sixgun.
Seeley grunted: “Look out, now.”
He raised his gun and the four men froze to stand motionless, three with guns drawn, looking at one another. Fear moved like a current between them.
Vern jeered, “Your mouth’s open, Voss. Go ahead—finish what you started. If you can.”
Stryker had not yet drawn his gun but his effect on Voss and Seeley was the same as if he had both hands filled with dynamite. His eyes roamed bleakly from face to face.
Finally he said, directing himself to Voss, “Make up your mind, Pete, before you die of indecision.”
Voss said awkwardly, “You ought to give this kid a towel, Stryker. He’s still wet behind the ears. In there drinking raw corn—he come out singing a string of cusses at me. I don’t take that from nobody.”
Stryker said, “Never mind, Pete. Back off and put it away.”
Vern started to yell. “The hell with that. We got them where we want them. I want to make the bastards crawl.”
“In a pig’s eye,” Seeley snorted.
He leveled his gun on Vern.
The edge of a fast-traveling thought seemed to strike both Seeley and Voss at the same time without the need for words. Stryker saw Pete Voss begin to turn his gun while Seeley’s weapon rose.
Stryker’s gun came free with deadly speed, trained instinct rather than thought. His thumb was on the hammer as the gun jutted forward out of his crouch. A volley of shots boomed along the street, issuing from all four guns in play. Stryker felt the hard kick of the revolver in his big fist—he let the recoil tip the weapon up under a thumb that cocked the hammer for his second shot. Echoes smacked back from the adobe walls.
Stryker held his second shot while the dust of his bullet slapped up from Pete Voss’s shirt front. The force banged Voss around in an awkward, jerking, half-circle spin. Voss’s gun went off, drilling into the earth beneath him.
Voss was out of action, falling—dead or nearly dead. Beyond him Seeley was cocking for a second try and, on the saloon porch, his first shot having gone wide of the mark, Vern Cotten stood, his gun arm dangling and bloody. Vern’s eyes enlarged and his mouth fell open to scream.
Stryker dropped the hammer. His bullet drove Seeley back against the sidewalk. The curb caught him across one shin and pitched him headlong onto the boardwalk.
Pete Voss lay crumpled in the clay of the street, eyes wide open, dead. Seeley’s boots drummed the wood in a spasm. Then his corpse became still.
The echoes died. Dust settled and Nat Stryker walked forward with deliberate strides. He nudged Voss with the toe of his boot, walked on to inspect Seeley with an expressionless, unblinking glance. Finally he turned to tramp across the street to the saloon.
His mouth still sagging open, Vern pushed himself away from the wall, leaving a red smear on it.
Stryker said, “Let’s see that arm.”
Faces began to appear in the saloon doorway while Stryker had a look at Vern’s wound. Vern stared at him, speechless.
A man pushed out of the saloon—Sam, the general storekeeper. His face was pale. He looked back and forth from Stryker to the two dead men across the street
Figures emerged from doorways along the street, hesitant and ready to pop back to cover.
Mexicans and Anglos peered around the corner from the plaza.
A squat figure burst into sight at a shambling run—Diego Cruz, his paunch and rump bobbing. He held a cocked shotgun.
Stryker let go of Vern’s injured arm.
“You’ll be all right.”
Seeley’s bullet had plowed an angry diagonal furrow across the muscles of Vern’s forearm from wrist to elbow.
Vern gaped, still stunned.
Sam, the storekeeper, said in awe, “I seen the whole thing. Two shots. He killed the both of them with two shots, just one apiece. Sweet, sweet Mary.”
Cruz was on the porch by then, lowering the hammers of his double-bore ten gauge.
“Which of you started that?” he demanded. Anger made his dark eyes gleam hotly.
Stryker gave him a quick glance and asked, “Got a doctor in town?”
Sam said, “It was them Rafter Cross boys started the shooting, Dee-go. Both of them got off their shots before Stryker fired. I seen it all. Sweet Mary, I ain’t never going to—”
“Shut up,” Cruz told him. “Anybody else see it?” Someone pushed through the crowd.
“I was in the window there,” the man said, pointing vaguely across the street. “It is like Sam says. The gringo here, he did not shoot first.”
“So,” Diego Cruz muttered. “The war. She’s started, hey?”
Stryker murmured bleakly and so softly that his words would not carry beyond Cruz’s ears, “Time for you to hunt up that fishing pole, Deputy.”
Vern piped up in a thin voice, “Where’s the damn doctor? I need a doctor. I’m standing here bleeding to death, Dee-go—”
“Yeah,” Cruz muttered. He turned, threw his head back and yelled, “Somebody go after Doc Hazard. And a couple of you get them out of here.” He waved toward the two corpses. He turned back and said to Stryker, “I think maybe you’re gonna regret this.”
Stryker met his glance. “One regret more or less doesn’t count for much with me anymore.”
Vern climbed to the seat of the buckboard, making an effort of it. His right arm was swathed in bandages from elbow to thumb. Stryker tied his buckskin by the reins to the tailboard of the wagon, had a look at the box of rifles in the wagon bed and climbed up beside Vern. He picked up the reins and kicked off the brake. A crowd of curious onlookers stood around, watching—the fight in the streets of Espanola this morning was the kind that would breed legends and in time anyone who had seen Nat Stryker’s face on that day would be part of that legend.
Diego Cruz appeared in the jailhouse door, his belly arching out over his waistband, his stem face displaying his disapproval.
Vern kept his face tight-lipped. He held his head up but his face, usually brick-red, seemed a little green. His hands were unsteady. Stryker reached out and shook the reins over the heads of the team. He clucked gently and the buckboard moved out of the plaza at an easy gait.
They were past the edge of town when Stryker said through his teeth, “I’m going to have to hang a bell on you so I’ll know where you are. I told you to stick tight to the wagon and the gunshop.”
“I don’t take orders,” Vern said. “Especially not from the likes of you, Stryker.”
Stryker gave him a wry glance.
“Gratitude doesn’t seem to be your strong point, kid.”
“All right, you’ve saved my hide twice. Thanks. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Not particularly. Not in that tone of voice.”
“What do you want from me? A signed statement?” Stryker looked at him again.
“I don’t want anything from you, Vern. Just stay out of my way from here on in.”
“You sound like you’re sorry or something. What the hell—it was worth a scratched arm to see those two bastards get dead like that. Buck Madrid’ll sit back and do some tall thinking before he comes after us, you can bet on that. Maybe he’d even change his mind.”
Stryker said, “Don’t count on anything. Those two were just Madrid’s running dogs. Two out of the big pack. Men like Madrid let a small loss like that roll off like water off a duck. He’s got plenty more gunslicks where those two came from.”
“But when he finds out what you did to them,” Vern insisted, “it’ll throw a scare into him. It’s bound to.”
Stryker said mildly, “If one of Madrid’s men killed two of your cowhands, what would you do? Pull in your horns?”
“I’d go after the bastard and slice him to pieces.”
“Which is just about the way I’d expect Madrid to react,” Stryker said. “He’d come after us like a buffalo charging. I wanted a little time to get organized but you blew that all to he’ll back there.”
Vern, bloodstained and proud of it, was unwilling to concede.
Stryker added: “They’ll come after us fast now. We can expect to be hit any time.”
“How do you know, Stryker? Nobody knows that much.”
Stryker made no answer—he only clucked to the team. He kept the pace slow and easy, favoring the injured youth. The sun hung straight overhead, firing down like a brass cannon.
Buck Madrid arrived in Espanola at noon in his victoria, a light buggy hung on heavy-duty leather springs to accommodate Madrid’s excessive weight. Riding as flanker at the side of the victoria was the little gunman, Jules Meecham.
A freight wagon drawn by ten span of oxen crawled through the plaza. Madrid had to wait for it to get across. Chains clattered in the ox-yoke rings and a fine layer of dust deposited itself on Madrid’s clothes. When the freight rig was gone he drove to the deputy’s office. The buggy tilted, squeaked and protested as he levered his bulk to the ground.
Meecham’s reptilian eyes darted around.
He said alertly, “Something’s wrong here.”
Madrid stopped on the jail stoop to swivel ponderously and sweep the square with a glance all but hidden behind the fat folds of his cheeks. He slipped a silk handkerchief from his cuff, wiped beaded sweat from his face and tucked the handkerchief into his sleeve. But a drop of sweat clung to the point of his black mustache.
Diego Cruz appeared in the doorway.
“Figured you was about due,” he said. “Got the bail money?”
Madrid’s curiously high-pitched voice snapped at Meecham, “Pay him.”
Cruz held out his hand. Meecham slapped an envelope into it. Cruz unhurriedly slit it open and inspected the contents.
“Seems about right.”
“Let him out,” Meecham said.
He seemed to strut even when he was standing still. Sunlight glittered on the ivory handles of his twin six-guns.
Cruz tucked the money away in his pocket. “You’ll have to sign for posting the bond, Madrid.”
Madrid waddled into the shade of the office. Jules Meecham took up a slouched post in the doorway behind him. He faced out, one shoulder against the door jamb and both hands on his guns.
Cruz walked behind his desk and fiddled with papers in a drawer. He selected one and laid it out for Madrid’s signature.
He said in a casual way, “Had a little excitement this morning. Nat Stryker bought himself a little massacre.”
Madrid shot him a look, finished signing the papers and straightened stiffly.
“What’s that?”
“Stryker killed two of your prize boys a couple hours ago. Pete Voss and Jim Seeley.”
Jules Meecham whirled in the doorway.
“He killed Pete?”
Madrid brushed Meecham’s question aside impatiently.
He said harshly to Cruz, “Where’s Stryker now?”
It was characteristic of him that he wasted no time asking questions or expressing emotion.
“On his way out to Circle C, I reckon,” Cruz said. “He’s working for Cotten.”
Meecham began to curse. Madrid shut him up with a wave of a fat hand.
“Cruz, let Pryor out and give him his gun. Now.”
Cruz shrugged.
“Sure. As long as he’s bailed out proper. But if he uses his gun he’s breaking the terms of his bond. You’re responsible, you know. Could get you both in jail.”
“I’ll worry about that,” Madrid said. “Move.”
Cruz shuffled through the doorway at the rear. Madrid drew a package of ready-made cigarettes from his vest pocket. He had time to light one and put the pack away before Ollie Pryor came from the back corridor, massaging the back of his neck.
Madrid dispensed with preambles.
“Get your gun on.”
Cruz handed over Pryor’s gun and stood watching with silent interest.
Madrid gave him a brief glance, said, “Outside—” and waddled out to the street. He walked to his buggy and levered himself up to the seat. He said tersely to Meecham and Pryor, “Stryker’s killed two of my men. I can’t let that stand. He’s on his way to Circle C. Stop him.”
Meecham glanced at Pryor and Pryor at Meecham, Meecham looked up.
“What if—”
“Do you need a blueprint?” Madrid demanded dryly. “Get on your horses and go after the man.”
Meecham’s shoulders moved an inch, up and down. He asked Pryor, “Where’s your horse?”