Funeral By The Sea (10 page)

He stood facing out over the rail, to the group gathered on the street and beyond to where Joe was leading the dozen dejected-looking fishermen down the sand ridge. Vic was at his side, loosely holding one end of the white rope. The noosed end hung menacingly just below the roofline of the stoop.

Six men with double-handed grips on Winchesters concentrated their narrow-eyed attention on the bright skyline at the top of the cliff. Many others could not keep their nervous gazes from wandering to the same place, aware that the sharpshooter could still be up there, not satisfied by one killing and eager for fresh targets.

‘That is the single reason why the man Gold is to be—’

‘Hal, he ain’t here! The sonofabitch has been let go!’

Kent’s shrill-voiced revelation triggered an explosion of excited talk from the crowd on the street. Which sounded as Barnaby Gold lay spread-eagled atop the upper treble rows of kerosene barrels, the height of the wagon, its load and the elevated ground on which the rig was parked keeping him out of sight of the people on the street.

‘It can’t be!’ Delroy roared. ‘I won’t have it! Find him and bring him here!’

The talk was curtailed by the top man’s enraged denial of the truth and command. But there was a din of movement which was in turn silenced by another revolver shot.

‘Hal!’ Joe snarled. ‘It must’ve been somebody...’

‘He didn’t break out or nothin’!’ Kent interrupted. ‘Doors was still shut and bolted! Somebody let him out!’

‘Or didn’t shut him in,’ another man added.

‘That’s what I’m sayin’, Hal,’ Joe went on angrily. ‘Which of the greasers was supposed to have—’

‘Round them up into a bunch!’ Delroy commanded. ‘Men and women and kids, too!’

Mexican men began to protest. Women to wail and children to weep.

Delroy shrieked louder to be heard above the awful sounds of despair. ‘Shut your stinking mouths! And keep the damn brats quiet! Move it, move it!’

Barnaby Gold had reached forward to free the reins from the brake lever around which they had been hitched. Now backed away, threading the reins under the seat. Held them in his left hand as his right fisted round the frame of the Murcott, the internal hammers cocked.

‘Hal, what are you gonna do?’ Emily demanded shrilly, across the diminishing level of sound vented by the hapless Mexicans.

‘I’m going to kill one for every second which passes without Gold showing himself!’ Delroy answered harshly. And raised his voice to roar, ‘Did you hear that, boy? One life for every second you stay hidden! And I’m going to start with the ones at the front! Whether they be men, women or brats!’

Gold used the muzzles of the shotgun to push the brake lever forward, dead-looking eyes showing nothing of what he was feeling, but teeth gritted between slightly parted lips.

‘No, Hal! You can’t! It was me...’

‘Get on!’ the black-clad young man sprawled out on top of the kerosene barrels yelled. And jerked his left hand to augment the vocal command with the reins.

The team lunged forward and the wagon was hauled out of inertia, at a crawl for a few feet, until the team and then the wheels were on the slight downslope.

The rig gained momentum, horse sense telling the team to set a fast pace to keep their burden from crashing into them. And the same horse sense, as much as Barnaby Gold’s command with the reins, veered them into a turn to stay on the hard-packed ground and away from the yielding sand of the beach.

He snatched a glance to his left as the wagon swung on to the street out front of the cantina. Glimpsed a large crowd in front of the far corner of the house, all their shocked and enraged faces turned toward him. Much closer, saw two men.

The pipe-smoker and the one named Bud who had wanted to kill him in the ravine when the wagon was halted there. Both of them with rifles aimed at the team rather than the driver. Over a range of fifty feet, some twenty feet apart.

He squeezed the forward trigger of the Murcott and saw Bud hurl away his rifle and stagger backwards, countless holes in his shirt which began to ooze blood as he sprawled out on his back.

Then the second man with the aimed Winchester was shot. By somebody else!

CHAPTER TEN

BARNABY Gold had a fleeting impression of the man dropping his rifle and falling hard to his knees, with blood spouting from a wound in his head. This as the tightly packed bunch of Americans in front of the big house was abruptly galvanized into movement. And the tightly packed group of Mexicans huddled more closely together.

Then the scene was left behind him and he let go of the shotgun to grip the reins in both hands, to concentrate his entire attention on steering the team around the curve of the street between the adobe buildings and the beach.

For horse sense had been abandoned by the animals in the traces and they raced ahead as fast as the drag of the wagon allowed, panicked by the explosion of the Murcott’s discharge only moments after the abrupt command by the man with the reins.

Other guns were fired now, but the crackle of revolver and rifle shots was almost masked by the racket of the rig’s headlong progress away from the hail of bullets.

Gold, the cape of his coat and the end of his scarf flapping and trailing in the slipstream of speed, heard the reports, the crack of bullets through the air above him and the thud as lead impacted with the wagon timber and the barrels. Was only vaguely aware of the smell of kerosene which spouted from the bullet holes to spray on to the street behind him.

He was totally unaware of a third man pitching to the ground at the front of the big house, taking a bullet in the heart from the same rifle which had killed the pipe-smoker. Knew only that no more shots were smacking into the wagon or its load although the rattle of gunfire continued unabated.

Not until the team raced clear of the final house on the street and made toward the sharp turn around the towering slab of rock at the end of the ravine. When he snatched a glance to the side, across a segment of beach behind the ridge toward the scene of confusion out front of the house.

The Mexicans were still huddled into a tight group, but had backed off to the base of the cliff. While the whores were cowering on the stoop of the house. And Delroy and his men were divided, some lunging for the stable while others triggered covering fire up at the top of the cliff.

And a third figure was sprawled on the ground, another victim of Barnaby Gold’s benefactor.

As with the killing of Eve Delroy and then the pipe-smoking man, Gold had neither the time nor the inclination to give even a passing thought to the identity of the crack marksman who was so intent on helping him escape from Oceanville.

For now he had to haul hard on the reins to slow the galloping team or risk them racing full tilt to the beach, there to bog down themselves and the wagon in the fine sand. That, or steer them into the sharp turn at a speed sure to send the rig into a crashing roll.

‘Goddamnit to hell,’ he rasped through his gritted teeth when the horses failed to respond to his initial effort.

Then had to use precious seconds and run the danger of being bounced off the pitching, yawing and rolling wagon as he altered his position atop the barrels. To roll from his belly and over on to his back, then to rotate his body so that he could brace his booted feet on the rear of the seat. Thus was able to use his aching legs to supplement the diminished strength of his aching arms to pull back on the reins.

And through eyes blurred by sweat beads of strain captured a brief impression of a man and a horse on the cliff top. Just a flash of a rider and mount moving at great speed in dark silhouette against the sun-bright blueness of the sky.

Then he snapped his eyes closed and the danger he was in acted to stretch the passing seconds in the turmoil of his mind. And in an instant of high peril - that to him seemed to last much longer - he felt light-headed with despair. He was certain the bolting horses were not going to obey his command. That in another moment they would come to an abrupt halt in the deep sand of the beach and he would be hurled from his high and unsafe position. Have the senses knocked out of him by the impact. To just lay there, helpless, until the hard men of Oceanville came to get him.

But the instant was gone and he became conscious of a slackening of pace. He opened his eyes and used the taut reins to haul his back up off the tops of the barrels. Saw the slab of rock on his right and the sharp turn around its end immediately ahead. Faintly blurred by the salt moisture of sweat, but not by speed.

He jutted out his lower lip to blow air up over his bristled face. Steered as far to the left as he dared to broaden the area available for the turn, then demanded a swing to the right. The bulging-eyed, flaring-nostril led, sweat-lathered horses obeyed the demands of the reins and made the turn around the base of the rock slab.

The wagon canted and the ropes lashing the barrels to the bed strained. The four kerosene spouts from the holed barrels sprayed across a different arc. Barnaby Gold had to let go of the reins with one hand and grip a length of taut rope to keep from being rolled off his perch by the tilt of the freight.

The Murcott banged against his side and, as the wagon came back on to an even keel, he unfolded his fist from around the rope and fastened it on the frame of the shotgun. Blinked to clear his sweat-impaired vision and raked his gaze over the rock face.

He had command of the still frightened but no longer blindly panicked team. Was certain the momentarily glimpsed horseman atop the cliff had not been a figment of his imagination. Which meant he had abandoned his sniping vantage point and now the vengeance-bent Hal Delroy could direct his men to give chase without worrying about the mystery sharpshooter. But they had to saddle their horses and ride to the end of the ravine before they could get a clear shot at their target.

So of more immediate concern to Barnaby Gold was the trio of sentries in the ravine. Who all must have heard the din of the gun battle and the headlong progress of the wagon.

And one of them ought to be on a ledge cut into the slab of rock.

And he was.

Gold saw him and recognized him as one of the two men who had given up their table in the cantina so that he could sit down to eat supper last night.

Tall and beefily built, hatless so that there was no brim to shade his face from the sun and shadow the smile of triumph that had an easy hold on his features. This as he stood on the every lip of the edge, his cheek nestled against the side of his Winchester stock. The barrel of the rifle tracking the perfect target of Barnaby Gold sitting splayed-legged atop the wagon that would pass directly beneath him, the range between muzzle and potential victim set to close to within ten feet.

A combination of over-exertion, energy-draining terror and the start of the up-grade into the ravine had slowed the team to a staggering walk as the horses completed the turn. So that the snarled words of a shrieked order were heard clearly above the less frenetic sounds of the rig’s progress.

‘Don’t kill him, Steve!’

The command came from in front of the straining team.

Steve wrenched his head around in surprise, anger replacing the smile on his fleshy face.

Barnaby Gold elevated the twin barrels of the Murcott and squeezed the rear trigger.

Countless gory wounds were torn in Steve’s flesh over his belly, chest and face. He was thrown backwards with a scream, bounced off the rock behind him and was tipped over the lip of the ledge, dead and silent.

But Gold failed to see the man’s involuntary reaction to the shotgun blast. For the team had been driven into renewed panic by the second firing of the Murcott. And lunged into a bolt.

This sudden surge in momentum caused the black-clad young man to be flung flat on to his back. This as the man on the trail countermanded his own order and exploded a wild shot from his Winchester, the bullet cracking up behind the heads of the lead horses to spray splinters of wood from the back of the seat.

Then the man powered to the side, screaming his horror as he sought to get out of the path of the terrified team. Evaded the pumping hooves, but not the wheels. His scream was curtailed by unconsciousness as the rim of the front wheel crashed him to the ground and pulped the flesh, smashing the bones of his legs just above the ankles. So that he was mercifully unfeeling as the larger rear wheel severed his lower extremities.

And he was dead from shock.

Barnaby Gold saw nothing of this as he remained sprawled out on his back, wrenching his head from side to side, searching for the third sentry in the ravine.

Saw first a billow of muzzle smoke against the dark green foliage of pine trees to his right.
And knew it was too late then to try to roll out of the path of a well-aimed bullet.

But the shot was not intended for him.

It entered the right eye of the lead horse on the right side and the animal died in mid-stride. Dropped in his tracks. The other three animals attempted to race on at the same pace as before. While the falling carcass snapped the traces. And the rear horse on the right crashed into and over the dead front one.