One-Man Massacre (17 page)

The last ten minutes had given Jack Gibbons no pleasure at all, but now as the brighter glow appeared in the
distance he felt some measure of relief. Whatever the
trouble was, Riker had the situation under control. De
pendable man, Riker, Gibbons thought, making a mental
note to give him a fifty-dollar bonus for the night's work.
Something extra for Cato as well, he decided generously.

What a jolt, then, to come upon the smoldering,
fire-gutted ruins of Mulchay's house and find Riker a
casualty, dead with a bullet hole in his chest
—and not
to find the damned Mulchay. Gibbons was surveying the
perplexing scene in stunned silence when the Overlord
party broke upon him.

Billy Neale went directly to the hanging figure on the
still-burning porch, risked scorching himself while he cut
the man down.

"By God," he said, "it's a Ranger! Those dirty jackals
strung up a Ranger!"

"And shot him, both," another rider commented.

"A Ranger?" Malcolm Lord said in a worried under
tone to Gibbons. "What was he doing at Mulchay's?"

Gibbons looked at him. "I just got here myself," he
said impatiently.

"But Austin will send more. Maybe even troops . . ."

"Then we'll have help fighting Mexicans. Won't have
to do it all ourselves."

"Yes," Lord said without enthusiasm. "What is it
you're looking for?"

Gibbons stopped craning his head around.

"Looking for any more of my own men," he answered.
Apgar had already been sent to scout the immediate
vicinity; now he came back, exchanged a glance with Gibbons, and shrugged his shoulders.

Neale walked up to the group.

"They can't be thirty minutes ahead of us, Mr. Lord.

What're the orders?"
"The militia will be after them," Gibbons said quickly.
"There's nothing Overlord can do now."

Neale looked at him curiously.

"We all want to pitch in here," the cowboy said. "This
is everybody's business."

"How do you mean?"

"A neighbor's been burned out," Neale answered sim
ply. "That involves us all."

"Better to leave it to the professionals, Neale," Lord
told him, coming into the conversation when it seemed
that Gibbons was instructing an Overlord hand. "Well,
if there's nothing we can do here, Captain . . ."

"Not a thing."

"Suppose we meet in town tomorrow," Lord sug
gested.

"In town," Gibbons agreed and the Overlord men
moved out.

"Now, by God," muttered Gibbons, "let's find out
what happened here." He dismounted, strode to where Riker lay. But for all his anger there was little the dead
man could explain to him.

"Betters and him didn't get along none too well,"
Apgar volunteered. "Could've been a showdown."

"And where's the old man? What did Cato do with
him?"

"Don't know."

"Well, God damn it, we've got to find out
—and quick!
If Mulchay is around loose somewhere, shooting his
mouth off . .
."

"And the woman," Apgar said. "You got her in a safe
place, don't you?"

There was an insolence in the question that Gibbons
would have dealt with swiftly at any other time. But the
man was rattled, and wondered himself if she was where
he'd left her.

"Beat it into town and tell Ke
r
sh what happened. He
’
ll
be
able to handle it if things get out of control there."

Apgar rode off and Gibbons went to the shack for
Rosemarie.

EIGHTEEN

There
was a strange and unnatural quiet hanging over
Scotstown as Buchanan wheeled the creaking wagon
into Trail Street. It's Tuesday night, he told himself; it's a
nine o'clock town. But that explanation didn't hold for
the tension he could feel, the too-quietness, nor tell him
why there were at least a dozen armed men in view on
both sides of the street, some walking up and down the wooden sidewalks, some gathered in silent, businesslike
little groups.

Suddenly one of the armed men stepped out of the
shadows, directly into the path of the horse.

"Hold it, cowboy," he said, grabbing the reins at the bit. "What you haulin' and where?"

Buchanan considered the man, his tone of voice,
weighed it against the urgency.

"I'm taking my friend to the doctor's," he said very
softly.

"Yeah?" The gunman moved around, looked into the
floor of the wagon at the sightlessly staring, comatose
face of Angus Mulchay. "Jesus
—what happened to him?"

"I don't know yet. But he needs help." He snapped
the reins, but the other one jerked the bit again.

"Go when you're told to, ranny. Now ease that Colt
out and hand it over. Also the rifle."

"Come again?"

'This town's under martial law. No unauthorized
weapons. Let's have 'em."

Buchanan's tongue had begun to play around his lips,
a telltale sign of duress. Then Mulchay moaned, a just
barely audible sound.

"Where do I pick 'em up again?" Buchanan asked,
giving the handgun over, reaching for the rifle.

"They're stored at the sheriff's, but don't come around
for a spell. The lid's on tight."

He was permitted to go then and drove past the
familiar building that housed the dancehall, pulled in to
the rail before the Glasgow. He pushed through the doors and it was like a wake in there. Ken Hamlin
spotted him first.

"Banquo's ghost," the man said, staring.
"I need help for Mulchay. Where's the doctor?"

"That's me," Doc Church said, "but you wouldn't be remembering the last time we met."

"Mulchay?" Hamlin asked.

"He's ou
t
side and he's in trouble. Where do you want
him, Doc?"

"Terhune has a sofa in back. All right, Terhune?"

"Anything for Angus Mulchay. Bring the man in."
Buchanan did, and cradled in those arms the little
man seemed littler still. At a glance they all knew their
friend was bad off.

"Set him down soft," Church said, and in his voice
there was something very grave. "Hold his head very
still." The doctor examined him then, went over his
skull, his neck, the vertebrae of his back with knowing fingers that made diagnosis an almost positive certainty.
He went back to the neck region again, and something he
touched there crowded the dull, myopic expression from
Mulchay's eyes, replaced it for a long moment with a
look of pain that must have been exquisite. Church had
released the pressure in an instant, but still Mulchay's
face burned on with some torture he was feeling. His lips
parted and he groaned so that each man there winced,
felt a terrible thing in the pit of his own stomach.

"Whisky!" Church cried in an agonized voice. "God, bring him whisky!"

It was produced by Terhune, and the doctor saturated
his own hand with it, forced his forefinger between

Mulchay's clenched teeth. Mulchay's mouth worked,
tasting it, and his brain remembered. Church poured
some into a tumbler, laid the edge of the glass against Mulchay's lower lip and poured very carefully but un
stintingly. Mulchay swallowed, and for another sixty
seconds there was no change in his pain-wracked face.
Then, almost beautifully, peace came to him. Church
poured him another half-ounce.

"Hello, Hamlin," Mulchay said quite lucidly to the face he happened to focus on.

"Hello, Angus."

"I went up to Austin. Saw the governor himself."

"Good thinking, Angus," Hamlin said.

"Came back with a Ranger. Keroon."

"That's fine."

Mulchay started to shake his head but the movement
brought on the pain again and Church was ready with
the palliating liquor. The eyes became tranquil again.

"What was I tellin' ye, Hamlin?"

"About the Ranger."

"Gibbons killed him. Gibbons and his dogs shot him
down. Have ye seen the lass?" he asked abruptly.

"No."

"Then charge that to his account. It was at MacKay's
they struck me down . . ."

"The girl is safe," Buchanan said, trying to dispel the
awful sadness.

"Buchanan! Is that really you?"

"Keep your head still, Angus," Church cautioned, mo
tioning Buchanan to stand beside Hamlin.

"Ay, there you are!"

"He brought you in," Hamlin said.

"I was wonderin' on that. Seem to recall bein' back at
my own place . . . mean-faced fella they called Cato . . ."
The voice kept growing weaker, less intelligible. Abruptly
it strengthened. "Doc
—do you know when you're going
to die? Do you get the damnedest fluttery feelin' across
your chest?"

"Some do."

A long sigh went through Mulchay's body. No one
spoke or moved. Finally the doctor laid his ear against
Mulchay's thin chest, reached at the same time for his wrist. He straightened up, lifted the half-empty tumbler
to his own lips and finished it neat.

"He's asleep?" Hamlin asked.

"He's dead. They broke his neck."

"Ahh, what a thing!" Macintosh said in a choked
voice. "What an awful thing . . ."

"Justice!" Hamlin cried out futilely. "We'll have jus
tice for this! Are you with me? Where's Buchanan?" he
asked. "Where did the lad go?"

The big man walked through the saloon with his head
cast down, eyes studying the sawdust floor. He pushed the
doors ajar and stepped into Trail Street, colliding with a
passing gunman.

"Watch where the hell you're going, bo
y
!"

Buchanan's head came up.

"You work for Gibbons?" he asked.

"Sure I work for Gibbons."

Buchanan hit him on the point of the jaw and the
man went down soundlessly. Two others were attracted
by the brief encounter and bore down on him, diagonally. Buchanan bent over the fallen man and very deliberately
lifted the .45. The gun in his hand began swinging in a
slow arc, exploding six times with a kind of
staccato
rhythm until it was empty. He tossed it away from him,
negligently, took another from the limp fingers of his nearest victim and started walking down the middle of
Trail Street. Twenty-one times he was fired at, six times
he answered, and when there was nothing left in that
gun he borrowed a third.

On his left was the lighted window of the sheriff's
office. He turned and strode toward it behind a murder
ous stream of fire and lead that shattered the glass and
plunged the place into darkness. There had been fo
u
r
men in the office. When he kicked the door in there
were two
—one dead, one dying. Lou Kersh and the
fourth man had fled to the jail in the rear of the build
ing, closed the iron door and bolted it.

What he had seen out there had struck the fear of
God into the tough mind of Kersh. For he himself had
had his fair chance at stopping Buchanan, had knelt by
the sill, nerves under control, gun steady
—and watched
the man walk right into it, keep coming, coming, com
ing. Kersh fled.

Now he had his ear to the heavy door and he won
dered what Buchanan was doing. What he was going to
do

Buchanan had no idea what he was going to do.

He had looked deep into the dead face of his friend Mulchay and turned away, feeling the long-smoldering
rage burst into full flame. He had walked out of the
room where Mulchay died for the single, simple purpose
of repossessing his property and driving the life out of
Jack Gibbons. Nothing so far had appeased the anger in
him. Nothing short of Gibbons would.

And now he had his Colt and his rifle again. Where
then was the man? Did he have to hunt him, or would
breaking his goddam martial law bring the miserable
bastard back here on the run? That seemed the likeliest,
and if it was, it left Buchanan with nothing much to do
bat wait for him.

A sudden storm erupted across the street, from the
Hacked-out windows of the dancehall, and whining slugs
made furious crisscrosses into the walls and the floor and
&e
very desk he was sitting behind. Then a waiting,
watchful silence. Buchanan waited with them, the rifle
cradled in his arms, and when the target he had chosen
made his shoulders a part of the silhouette he took his
shot.

A harsh scream, as much dismay as pain, answered.
With that, and until they were ordered otherwise, Gib
bon’s
Militia left him strictly alone.