One-Man Massacre (7 page)

"Try that place first," Gibbons said, indicating the
noisy, brilliantly lit Armston's dancehall. He had not
missed the added absence of the shapely bargirl from
the saloon and now was guessing that she might have
taken up with their quarry for a bit of Saturday night
life in Scotstown. The five mounted men were afoot by
this time and they formed a sort of phalanx with the
other three; a tight, troublesome-looking group of eight.

"Do we take him on sight, or what?" Rig Gruber asked
when they were at the foot of the dancehall steps.

"You're entitled to the first crack," Gibbons said.

"How come?"

"He shot Leach with your gun, didn't he?"

"But this gun don't swing just right," Gruber said.
"Too much barrel."

"It worked all right for him."

"Man's got those long arms," Gruber argued. "Makes
all the difference."

"Swing mine," his buddy Kersh offered.

"Swing your friggin' own."

"Who we bucking, anyhow?" Kersh asked. "Another
Texan Thompson?"

"Go on in and find out," Gruber suggested.

"What's gotten into you?" Gibbons demanded an
grily. "I was sure you'd jump at the chance."

"Thanks all the same, Cap'n, but I pass."

"Then he's yours, Kersh," Gibbons said, but Kersh
shook his head.

"I'll brace anything that walks," he said, "if I have to.
But since we all got stakes here why don't we all take
him? Then adjourn to the oasis next door and pull the
cork."

They were thinking very much of Hamp Leach, Gib
bons knew, remembering that Leach had the rep. And the
ex-Ranger was learning, too, that for a situation such as
this he had done his work on them too well. Gruber
and Kersh had grown accustomed to the Army way, fight
ing as a group, and their individuality was gone.

"We're waiting on you, Cap," Kersh said, but the
words had a different meaning for Gibbons. They were
waiting on him and his mind traveled back one year.
He saw himself a Ranger again, imagined the man in
side the dancehall a wanted criminal. He wouldn't have
hesitated two seconds.

"What's it gonna be, Cap?" Kersh asked.

"Let's go," Gibbons said. "We'll take him together,"
and he started up the steps first, telling himself that he
could still do that, at least. A year hadn't changed him
that
much.

". . . now doe-see-doe to the left and right
—and swing
your ga
l
with all your might.'"

Buchanan took the fiddler at his word, swung Rose
marie clear off the floor, round and round, effortlessly, and the girl squealed in pretended dismay as her petti
coats ballooned above her shapely knees.

". . .
now
promenade past all your friends . . . salute
your partner as this dance ends/"

The amiable giant made a sweeping bow to the curtseying beauty and when their glances met an infectious smile passed between them.

"Never danced with a grizzly before, did you?" he
asked as they walked off the floor.

"Why, you're as graceful as could be," she protested,
and then lowered her voice confidentially. "Only not so
vigorous with the swinging, Tom. I'm sure I shocked
all the ladies present."

"And pleased all the gents, which brings you out
even."

"Evenin', Miss MacKay," interrupted a puncher of
Buchanan's own age, but clean-shaven, togged out in
a bright new shirt and reeking of bay rum.

"Evening, Billy," Rosemarie answered. "I'd like you to
meet Mr. Buchanan. Tom, this is Billy Neale."

"Howdy."

"Howdy."

The men shook hands and Buchanan stood by patiently
until Neale had gone over him from shaggy head to
scuffed work shoes. Neale switched his attention to the
girl.

"Thought you had to work tonight, Rosemarie?" he
said pointedly.

"I'm playing truant," she confessed. "I should be at
the Glasgow now."

"Apparently you're more persuasive than I am," Neale
said to Buchanan.

"No," Rosemarie answered for him. "It was I who
did the persuading."

Neale didn't take that explanation very well at all.

"Live in the Big Bend, Buchanan?" he asked.

"Nope. Just dropped down for a couple hours."

"Dropped down? From where?"

"The mountains," Buchanan told him vaguely. "Fact
is," he said, turning to Rosemarie, "I better be starting
back."

"Oh, no! There're still a lot more dances."

"My partner'
ll
be looking for me bright and early."

"But we're having such a good time! You mustn't
leave now."

"What are you doing in the mountains?" Neale asked, more nettled-sounding each time he spoke.
"Living by the skin of my teeth."

"So it looks. They tell me there's supposed to be gold
up there."

"I wouldn't say that
—"

"Psst! Laddie!" a sharp voice beckoned. "Big fella-
over here!"

Buchanan swung to see Angus Mulchay motioning to
him excitedly from a side door.

"What is it, Tom?" Rosemarie asked anxiously.

"Don't know," he said and went to the old man.

"Clear out while you can, son. Black Jack Gibbons is
coming in the front door with a gang of 'em."

"Gang of what?"

"Murderers
—and you're their meat if they corner you
in this box!"

"Oh, Tom
—look!" Rosemarie cried*at his shoulder and
Buchanan saw eight men with guns already drawn, eight
pairs of eyes scanning the room. A woman spotted them
and uttered a piercing scream. The fiddler's bow stopped
in mid-note, dismayingly, and then all was quiet.

"Run for it, Tom!" Rosemarie urged him. "They
haven't seen you yet."

"Hell, they wouldn't shoot . . ."

"You're wrong, man, wrong!" Mulchay told him.
"You're no more to that crew than a stray dog. Take
this," he said, passing over the gun, "and make a break
—"

"Over there!" Rig Gruber shouted. "By the door!"

"Move away from him, girl!" Jack Gibbons com
manded in a strong voice. "You, too, old man, unless
you
want to die beside him!"

"Hold it, mister," Buchanan called to him. "Whatever
this quarrel's about, let's get it outside."

"We like you just as you stand," Gibbons answered
harshly. "Just move out from behind those skirts!"

"No!" Rosemarie cried, throwing her arms around Buchanan. "No!" she cried again, defiantly.

Gruber had been sighting the shot for ten seconds.
Now he triggered it, and with the roaring crash of the
six-gun Buchanan felt a jarring blow at his collarbone,
a searing pain. He spun the girl out of the fire line, not
gently, and with anger sparking every new move, he
wheeled and drove three slugs into the crouching Gruber
—fatal punishment for the cynical chance the gunman
had taken with Rosemarie's innocent life.

"Watch the girl!" Gibbons was shouting above the
awful melee, and Kersh and the man beside him opened
fee heedlessly. Something burned into the flesh of Bu
c
hanan's thigh and his right arm was suddenly turning
n
u
mb.

"Run for it, man, run!" Angus Mulchay pleaded. "This
way
—" and Buchanan turned his broad back to the fight,
made it through the doorway and staggered out into the
night like some drunk. The door was slammed shut be
hind him and then it was very dark in the alley.

"Can ye move, lad?" Mulchay asked at his side. "Can
ye make it to Ferguson's house?"

"Take care of yourself, friend. Those sons of bitches
hold life damn cheap."

"I'm next, anyhow, so follow me now if ye can!"

It was such a frustrating thing. His mind was clear-
purged by the rage that was whipping it
—and his eyes
made out the slender little man moving ahead of him.
But nothing else responded to his will. From the shoul
ders down, his whole body was sluggish, tiredly disobe
dient—and with no warning at all his bleeding right leg
buckled beneath him.

"Get up, boy! Try! Can't ye hear them coming around
the front?"

Buchanan used the side of the wall to regain his feet
again, used it once more to make his way forward.

"He's in there!" shouted a voice that was becoming rag
gedly familiar. "This time," Gibbons ordered, "get him!"

Buchanan shifted the gun to his left hand, pumped
two roaring welcomes into the alley's narrow mouth,
heard two anguished groans. But Buchanan took little heart from that, for he had pulled the trigger three times
—there was no more argument left in Hamp Leach's Colt.

Mulchay was supporting him and pulling him at the
same time, his eyes closed, body rigid as he waited for the sniping bullet with his name on it. But Buchanan's
last volley had written caution into the hearts of Gibbons
& Co. and they answered it with snap shots, an uneven
fusillade that passed high and wide of the two fugitives.
At last they came to a door in the side of a house
—only
sixty feet from where they had started the journey, but an
eternity in time—and Mulchay turned the knob in his
hand.

"We're forsaken, son," he moaned. "Ferguson's is
locked against us."

Buchanan didn't have much left, but he gave it all in
a grunting lunge against the jamb. The wood splintered and the lock sprung, the door flew open and Buchanan
went on inside with it.

"Be damned and you're the man for me!" little Angus
congratulated him. "But ye got to get up, son. They're
not likely to stay put out there for long."

"You go ahead, dad," Buchanan told him peacefully.
"I think I'll wait for them here."

"If you wait, I wait," Mulchay said definitely. "We'll
go out together."

Buchanan made no sense out of that, so he made the
struggle to stand another time. Helpful old coot, but
loco, he thought irrelevantly. Wonder if he knows
Fa
r
go?

"You know Fargo?"

“
Town in the Dakotas. What about it?"

"This is a fella. Funny little guy. Talked me into busting my back against a goddam mountain."

"Godsakes, lad, this is no time for pleasant memories!
If we're going, we got to get!" The house was darkened,
v
acant because Ferguson and his family were visiting,
b
u
t Mulchay led Buchanan through it familiarly. They
crossed the kitchen, the parlor, started up a flight of steps.

“I’
m leaking blood all over the carpet," Buchanan said.

"I
’
ll pay Andy Ferguson for all damages. Oh, Harry-
here they come again!"

Gibbons had convinced his warriors that the alley was
safe by venturing into it himself, and now they were
at the sprung door, noisily cautious.

"Kerch, you and Mills get around to the front. Bo-
iand and Milton follow me in here. Everybody ready?"

Angus and his big friends were on the landing by this
time, but the words of Gibbons came to them loud and
dear, taunting them.

"I've got another plan," Angus whispered desperately.

"Anything you say," Buchanan answered, feeling light
headed from the loss of blood.