Funeral By The Sea (12 page)

But as a former undertaker and the son of an undertaker, Barnaby Gold had been familiar with corpses since early childhood and was totally - professionally - unmoved by these bodies and the rapidly congealing blood which had spilled from them.

Accepted this as a matter of course.

But derived a sense of satisfaction at what he felt upon seeing the men who were very much alive. A negative feeling - nothing.

Ten men he had seen before in the cantina and among the audience for the whipping of Seth Harrow. Recognized all of them but could put a name to just one - Vic with the partial beard that linked his sideburns by way of his jaw line. Men wearing a variety of wide-brimmed hats, shirts and pants of cotton or denim and spurred riding boots. With gunbelts slung around their waists. Each of them carrying a cocked Winchester in a double-handed grip.

And showing his eagerness to use the rifle by the expression on his bristled, sweat-sheened face. The group advancing up the trail in a line, glinting eyes constantly shifting in their sockets. To survey the area of the timber where they had last seen Barnaby Gold to the high point to one side of the ravine entrance where the sharpshooter had been positioned.

In pockets of cover behind the men in the open, others waited and watched in a similar state of readiness to kill. Ready, also, maybe to lunge across the open ground for the more extensive cover of the timber. The moment their quarry was known to be distracted by the group on the trail. And, once in the timber, Gold’s chance of survival would grow progressively less in relation to the number of Oceanville men stalking him.

But the prospect did not frighten him, and this is what he found satisfying - more markedly so because of his recent experiences of unfamiliar terror.

He had two fully loaded Peacemakers on his gunbelt and a carton of shells for the Murcott. Hal Delroy and the rest of the kill-hungry men did not know exactly where he was. There was not a part of his body that did not hurt, but he felt fully able to overcome this. In the knowledge that he was better off now than he had ever been since the two ravine guards had halted the mountain wagon the night before. And with the determination never to allow himself to become a prisoner of anybody ever again.

Dividing his attention between the slow walking men on the trail and those who crouched behind rocks and in clumps of brush at the low end of the ravine, Barnaby Gold’s green eyes became deadpan, his lips closed into a line of repose to hide teeth that were no longer gritted and the cracks of strain were smoothed out of his skin at brow and to the sides of his eyes and mouth.

And the calm set of his handsome face did not alter when there was a sudden flurry of frantic movement on the trail, the men lunging for the cover of the wrecked wagon to hurl themselves down behind it, out of his sight.

His eyes raked from them to those still in the vicinity of the slab of rock. But, aware of the marksman’s skill with a rifle, they needed a more intensive diversion than this to risk a dash for the trees.

And a single revolver shot signaled them to be ready. It did not seem to be so, for the bullet was exploded by a man behind the wagon into the head of the crippled horse, as if simply a humane act to end the animal’s suffering.

But before the gelding had spasmed into death, the fusillade of rifle fire had begun. To spray bullets in two directions - at the area of timber where Barnaby Gold was concealed and up at the high ground where the sniper had last been seen.

Gold went out flat to the ground and, with his face pressed into the pine needles, stretched his arms with both hands fisted around the shotgun - broke it fully open.

Countless bullets cracked close by him to rustle foliage and thud into tree trunks, counterpointing the muzzle blasts and the sounds of the repeaters’ lever actions being pumped.

The acrid taint of gunsmoke completely masked the pungent stink of kerosene and the pleasant aroma of pine trees.

Gold drew back a hand to delve into his pocket, open the carton and take out two cartridges. Which he slid into the chambers of the Murcott, Snapped the shotgun closed and cocked, unable to hear the sounds of this against the deafening barrage of gunfire. Then raised himself just enough so that he was able to reach into an inside pocket of his coat and take out the tin of cheroots and a match. Turned his head to the side to place the cheroot between his teeth, struck the match on the Murcott frame and lit the tobacco.

Completed all this and had the tin back in his pocket a full two seconds before the fusillade was abruptly curtailed.

The ensuing silence seemed to have a physical presence in the hot air, as palpable as the drifting gunsmoke that wafted more than a hundred feet up the brush-covered slope to mingle with that from his cheroot.

He was certain some of the men at the lower end of the ravine had taken advantage of the covering fire to make a run for the timber. Were even now making fast progress toward him through the trees. And was equally sure that nobody had moved from the wrecked wagon - the spray of rapidly fired lead had been too constant and blasted over too wide an arc to allow for this.

Because of his certainty about the tactics of the men who were intent upon finding and killing him, he did not risk rising from his prone position to check on the scene beyond his insubstantial cover. Listened to the silence and drew against the cheroot, relishing the taste of the tobacco smoke,

Allowed perhaps five seconds to pass like this, holding the shotgun out ahead of him, one-handed, with his index finger curled around both triggers, the whole length of the Murcott resting on the ground.

Then he took the cheroot from between his teeth and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, let out a stream of smoke. Squeezed both triggers.

CHAPTER TWELVE

PART of a second later he powered up on to the one hand gripping the Murcott and both knees. Threw his other hand forward to hurl the cheroot at a predetermined target.

Heard the double blast of the discharged cartridges and the curses and cries of shock from the tense men in the cover of the overturned wagon.

Saw the shot pattern of the twin load mark the wagon timbers and the unfeeling flesh of the two dead horses. But no sign of the men who stayed low, fearful of exposing themselves to a hail of follow-up fire from the timber.

Saw also the cheroot with the glowing end fall short of the split open barrel that had been tossed into the brush midway to the tree line as the wagon turned over.

‘Goddammit to...’ he started to growl.

But saw a flicker of flame from the kerosene-soaked brush two feet above the barrel.

Shouts of rage were vented by the men behind the wagon, quick to recover from the shock. And rifles were jutted around and above the wrecked rig to blast blind shots into the trees.

This as Barnaby Gold went flat to the ground again, as the initial flicker of flame spread a sheet of fire across the brush with a low toned
whooooosh!

‘Shit, what’s ...?’

‘The bastard’s

‘This whole pile of junk is...’

‘Get outta here before...’

‘Move!’

Rage was displaced by fear and in the second or so after the shooting was curtailed every man sought to be heard above the others.

Then there was a minor explosion as the rapidly expanding area of flames found a pool of kerosene inside the damaged barrel at which Gold had aimed the cheroot.

A spray of burning liquid and sparks and smoking chunks of wood was sent in every direction. To start fires wherever other barrels had split open to spill their contents. Fires that moments later were blazing as fiercely as the first.

Within the timber, the flames took longer to get a hold on the tinder-dry pine needles and brush which had not been soaked with kerosene.

Barnaby Gold was already clear of the area where these lesser blazes were starting - had backed away on his knees as soon as the wild shooting ceased. Was now upright and walking fast, still not trusting his aching limbs to carry him to safety if he demanded too much of them.

From behind him he heard enraged curses and screams of pain, interspersed with more minor explosions as fresh pools of kerosene were engulfed by flames. All these sounds against the roar and crackle of the fast-spreading fire.

The only smell in the air now was of the oily black smoke that rose high to subdue the brilliance of the sun.

He reloaded the Murcott on the move.

Carried it one-handed while he lit a fresh cheroot.

Cast frequent glances over his shoulder.

But for most of the time concentrated on the way ahead while he moved diagonally across the thickly wooded, steepening slope of the ravine side.

As the gap between him and the fire widened, the smoke thinned and the sounds of flames
and men diminished, and he began to rely on his ears rather than his eyes to warn him of pursuit.

Out of his sight and rapidly fading from earshot, the wagon was enveloped in fire and smoke, the spilled kerosene burned off now and the flames consuming the timber.

Close by, five men had been able to retreat without being burned by the blaze and stood staring with shock-widened eyes at another who lay at their feet - the clothes and hair seared from his body and the skin charred coal black. A moment before a running human torch, who died on his feet and collapsed with his mouth still gaping in the shape of a scream he never voiced.

Even for the hard men of Oceanvilie the corpse presented a sickening sight. And in a group they whirled away from him and started in a stumbling run back down the trail. Afraid they would not be able to subdue the threat of nausea as a new stench assaulted their nostrils. The cloyingly sweet taint of roasting meat - from the burning carcasses of the horses and the bodies of the four men who were engulfed by flames before they could even try to escape the blazing wagon.

Hal Delroy, his fleshy face crimson and cut deep with lines of rage that glittered in his eyes and pulsed in his neck, rose from behind a rock and triggered a shot into the air.

‘Go get him, you yellow sonsofbitches!’ he shrieked. ‘Go get
that bastard Gold! And the coward who killed my sister!’

The men ignored the shot and shrill-voiced orders until they crouched, breathless, in cover.

Then Vic rasped, ‘You don’t own any of us, Hal! Between them, those two guys have finished eleven of us! And I sure as hell ain’t gonna put my ass on the line until I know where the bastards are! Exactly where they are!’

‘I’m the brains for you…’ Delroy started, but let the sentence trail into infinity as he swept his gaze over the faces of the men crouched about him. And saw that their hatred for the enemy was close to being turned toward him. One of them growled, ‘Then use the brain, Hal. We been
goin’ off at half cock ever since the kid took off.’

‘Yeah, Hal,’ another added. ‘Get the rest of the men down here. And let’s get back to town. Take the time to figure somethin’ out.’

‘Sure,’ Vic said sourly as he peered out from behind a rock to make a morose survey of the dying blaze, the thinning smoke, the scattered corpses and the thickly wooded slopes to either side. ‘Way things are now
,
this ravine is workin’ against us.’

Delroy squatted back down on to his haunches and
for long moments seemed on the point of agreeing. But then he shook his head. ‘No chance. Kent, Joe, Billy and Phil are up there in the timber. And the kid and his friend do not know where. Perhaps do not even know about them.’ He smiled. ‘So we will withdraw, men. All the way back to town. And, if we are fortunate, that will lull Gold and the stranger into a sense of false security!’

His tone of voice added a note of query and he supplemented this with a questioning look at each man.

‘Sounds okay, Hal.’

‘Long as Joe and the rest don’t figure we’re pullin’ out on them.’

Others merely nodded, some with a lack of enthusiasm.

The youngest of them asked tentatively, ‘What about the bodies up in the ravine, Hal?’

A man spat forward, but short of, the shotgun-shattered corpse of Steve at the base of the rock slab. ‘Ain’t none of them just wounded as I can see, Jim. Nothin’ to be done for the dead.’

‘Except to bury them,’ Vic rasped, and whistled for his horse. ‘Let’s hope them four guys up in the timber bring us back an undertaker.’