Gun (A Spur Western Book 8) Read online

  As he crossed the trail, he knew they were there. The lead started to knock up dust all around him. He crouched down, riding like a Comanche, praying they wouldn’t hit the horse, then he was across the trail and their view was cut off by the rocks below them. He turned sharp left and raced toward the stage.

  The shooting stopped. Ammunition wasn’t easy to come by and they didn’t intend to waste any.

  The animal reached the stage without mishap and came to a slithering halt. Now, near the vehicle, Ben was in the sights of the men above. Two shots came and drove splinters from the stage. Ben slipped from the saddle and crouched low. The shooting didn’t go on and he knew he wasn’t in their sights.

  He peered under the coach and saw Chad lying on his back in the dust.

  The only sound was the restive team. Silence hung over the hills above him. He knew the men were still up there and might swoop down on him at any moment.

  ‘Chad,’ he called softly.

  The prone figure didn’t stir. Ben could see the blood seeping from the fallen man’s side.

  ‘Chad,’ he tried again, ‘you alive? It’s Cusie Ben, Chad.’

  He kept on talking, saying the man’s name over and over. From above he heard the sound of metal on rock. He saw Chad’s eyelids flutter.

  ‘Chad,’ he called, ‘for crissake. It’s Cusie Ben.’

  ‘Ben ...’

  The Negro could now see that it was worth risking his neck. Chad was still alive. He ran the short distance between the rocks which had protected him and the stage, dove under the vehicle and crawled toward the fallen man. A shot came and thudded into the woodwork of the stage. One of the team nickered in fright, trod over the traces and a fight started among the animals.

  Ben was partly protected by the stage now. He looked down into the man’s face. There was pain in the gray eyes.

  ‘How bad?’ he asked.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ said Chad. ‘You tell me.’

  Ben put his hands under the man’s shoulders and started to gently pull him toward the stage. Chad gave a shuddering groan of pain. Ben gritted his teeth and continued on. There came another shot from above and the bullet kicked up dust where Chad had been lying. Ben reckoned they wouldn’t clear out till they had their hands on the strongbox. If he wanted to stay alive and get Chad out of there alive, he had to get the stage as far away as he could from that strongbox.

  He had the driver under his vehicle and he searched for the wound, his ears listening for any sound that would tell him if the road agents were coming down off the ridge.

  The whole of Chad’s right side was soaked in blood. Ben found that the wound was through the fleshy part of the back. He didn’t know if the spine was injured or not and there wasn’t time to find out. He faced the fact that any further movement might kill the man. He decided that was a chance he had to take. If he left Chad here, the man was dead for sure. So he had to take a gamble.

  He took off Chad’s bandanna and made a pad of it. Then he unbuckled the driver’s belt and strapped the pad in place over the wound. It looked a hell of a mess and made a man want to retch to look at it.

  ‘Chad,’ he said, ‘I have to get you in the stage. It’s goin’ to hurt, but I have to do it.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Chad said.

  He got a hold of the man under the armpits again and dragged him out from under the stage. This brought him into sight of the men above as he rose to his knees and opened the door of the vehicle. The firing started again. He did his best to ignore it and went ahead trying to get Chad’s heavy body into the stage without hurting him unduly. Wood splinters flew into his face, stinging him painfully. He wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand, got Chad onto the floor of the stage, propped up against the seat. The sweat was pouring from him now.

  He ducked under the stage and headed for the team in a crouching run. The animals were still kicking and fighting. He reached the far side of the team and started to cut out the fallen animal. That done he started on the odd leader. The animal was going wild. He heard lead thud into the dead animal and then a round hit the horse he was cutting loose. The horse screamed like an injured woman. Ben hacked savagely at the restraining leathers. As they parted the animal scrambled clear of his teammates and jumped out onto the trail.

  Now he began to back the team up and tried to untangle them. Something like panic was starting to ebb coldly through him now. One of those flying slugs had to find a target soon. A man’s luck couldn’t last this long.

  He had the team lined up.

  A yell from above.

  He looked up and saw the riders coming down toward him. He ran for the stage.

  ‘Ben.’

  He stopped and looked up.

  Chad’s pale face and wild eyes were at the window.

  ‘Get down,’ Ben shouted.

  ‘The box,’ Chad said. ‘You ain’t leavin’ the box.’

  ‘You bet your goddam sweet life I’m leavin’ the box.’

  ‘Don’t leave it, man. They mustn’t get their hands on that.’

  ‘It ain’t worth a life.’

  ‘It’s worth mine.’

  Ben swore. Rage and fear fought themselves in him. Of all the stupid, ornery ...

  He looked up.

  There were three of them. He cursed again, ran around the team and reached his own horse, ripping the carbine from leather, jacking a round into the breech, he stepped back and fired and levered fast. They scattered and sought cover. He rammed the weapon away in its boot, led the pony to the rear of the stage and tied it. A couple of shots came from above and they went thunk-thunk into the body of the stage.

  He tossed his rifle onto the roof of the stage and bent for the strongbox. It was full of something heavy as all get out. His back felt as if it was broken when he took the first strain. The sweat poured off him.

  A bullet kicked up dust at his feet and he asked himself: Why the hell is I doin’ this? He couldn’t find any answer, so he toted the box around the far side of the stage, laid it down while he opened the door and said to Chad: ‘Move over, you ole fool.’ Chad moved over and Ben heaved the box into the stage.

  Ben slammed the door, took a run at the stage and heaved himself up onto the seat, picked up his rifle and set it beside him. A fusillade of shots came from above. Ben grabbed for the reins, tore the whip from its rest and tore off a note like a pistol shot. The team hit their collars raggedly and for one moment were all over the place. Ben yelled like a wild Indian and they went down the trail like a mustang running from a swarm of bees.

  Ben looked back.

  The three of them were sliding their horses down the steep slope. He knew when they hit the flat they would start to overtake him.

  He glanced back again. The three riders were down on the trail, quirting and spurring their horses on. He didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. He wished Sam Spur were there. He even wished that empty-headed fool Kid was there.

  The team came to the bottom of a slope in the trail and started to heave up it. He should have slowed them and saved them then, but he didn’t. He worked that whip and his yell and kept them at it. By the time they reached the top of the slope, they were in a lather. He took them down the far side at a slower pace, a desperate idea in his head. It was simple, it might work. On the other hand, it might not.

  He slowed the team to a walk, brought them to a halt and applied the brake. They stood and blew, tossing their heads. He picked up his rifle, jacked a round into the breach and turned on the seat.

  It seemed no more than seconds before the three of them were abruptly skylined.

  He fired twice.

  The range was nothing. He saw a horse go down, throwing its rider clear.

  One man whirled his horse and went back the way he had come. The other turned to one side and raced off the trail into the scattered brush. Maybe he was circling to cut Ben off, maybe he wasn’t. Ben didn’t wait to find out. He laid his rifle down, let off the brake and urged
the team into action. This time they hit their collars as one. Chad yelled from inside the stage and Ben howled back for him to hold his gab.

  They ran on for another mile.

  Then Ben thought: Sam is sure going to have my hide for not saving his girl.

  Chapter Three

  Spur was leaning on the bar drinking. Charlie Doolittle was doing likewise.

  Charlie Doolittle drank because he was crazy over Lydia Carson, the storekeeper’s daughter, who had gotten the idea of Sam Spur into her beautiful blonde head and couldn’t see any other man. He should have wanted to perforate Spur with a few forty-fours, but he didn’t. He liked the man. It mixed him up so much, he drank. And the more he drank the more impossible it seemed that he could go on living in this world without Lydia Carson.

  Then they heard the stage.

  Spur went pale.

  Charlie Doolittle thought: He’s sparking the most beautiful Mexican girl in the country. He has the loveliest Anglo girl crazy for him and now here comes a woman who’s going to marry him. He’s just plain greedy. It’s downright immoral.

  Further down the bar, the Cimarron Kid laughed like a coyote.

  ‘Sand runnin’ out?’ the Kid said.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, sonny,’ Spur said.

  Doolittle reared himself upright and swayed.

  ‘I’ll side you if it’ll do any good, Sam,’ he said.

  The stage swept past the saloon. Shouts were raised on the street. Both men knew that they were not the usual shouts that greeted an incoming stage.

  Spur heaved himself away from the bar and headed for the door, fast. Doolittle headed after him, tripped over his own feet and nearly went down. He untangled his long lean legs and bounded drunkenly across the saloon, brushing men from his path.

  They hit the street one behind the other and saw the stage lurch to a stop outside a small building that served as a general store, the postmaster’s office and the stage station. One of the half-wild mustangs that pulled it, though it should have had the stuffing run out of it, showed that it was still full of go by trying to kick its running mate to death. It trod over the traces and a terrible tangle ensued. The driver cursed luridly and with some skill.

  Spur hastened his pace. He knew that voice and he knew that man. It was too dark to see him, but he knew it was Cusie Ben.

  Ben driving stage. That meant something was wrong.

  He reached the Negro as he stepped down into the dust.

  ‘Ben.’

  The Negro turned. Spur saw the whites of his eyes roll. Ben’s powerful hand gripped Spur’s arm.

  ‘Take a grip on yourself, boy,’ he said. ‘There’s been a heapa trouble.’

  Doolittle was there, panting.

  ‘What happened?’ he demanded.

  ‘Netta!’ Spur exclaimed, turned and wrenched open the door.

  There was a man lying on the floor clutching a box.

  ‘Where’s the girl?’ Spur demanded.

  Chad Leevitch’s voice came.

  ‘Jumped us, Sam. Took the girl. Damn nigh took the strongbox, too.’

  Spur turned and faced Ben.

  ‘Who took the girl? You mean you brought the stage in an’ lost the girl?’

  ‘Don’t git yourself all riled up now,’ Ben said. ‘I didn’t have no choice. Chad’s hurt bad. There was too many of ’em for me to save the girl. But maybe I could do somethin’ for ole Chad. He sure do need a doctor.’

  There were men gathered there now, asking questions, starting to argue about what might have happened. The only time a woman had been taken in their memory was when the Apaches had stolen a rancher’s wife. It must of been Apaches, they opined.

  ‘Whitemen—ever’ damn one of ’em,’ Ben said and that settled it.

  A man said: ‘Mrs Trevor’s right handy with gunshot wounds.’

  ‘Tote him down to my place,’ Doolittle said.

  Men crowded forward. Chad clung to his strongbox.

  ‘Go easy with him now,’ Doolittle ordered. He was a man who carried some weight in town.

  Spur said: ‘Leave go the box, you old fool. I’ll mind it.’ He turned and glimpsed a face he knew in the lamplight from the saloon—Shreaveley, the post-master. ‘Shreaveley, open up that safe of yours.’

  The man hurried back into his building, fumbling out his keys. Four men managed to pry Chad from his box and started carrying him down the street. Doolittle shouted after them to tell old Serafina Rodriguez, his housekeeper, to find a bed for the wounded man. He ordered another man to go fetch Mrs Trevor and tell her, if she was baking one of her god-awful pies, to leave it be and save her poor husband the bellyache. Ben was unhitching the fighting team and leading them to the corral back of Shreaveley’s store. Spur walked into the post-office and found the post-master opening the safe by the light of an oil lamp. He reckoned it was big enough for the box and yelled to the men outside to bring it in. Two men staggered in a moment later and it was safely stowed away in the safe. They stood around looking at each other, knowing they had just put away a small fortune in gold. It was enough to unnerve any man.

  ‘I’ll take the key,’ Spur said.

  Shreaveley, a little man with a big Adam’s apple, gobbled his objection.

  ‘No, sir. Nobody has that key but me. I’m post-master here.’

  Spur snarled: ‘The key, Shreaveley.’

  The man reluctantly handed over the key and Spur demanded: ‘Is that the only one?’ The man nodded.

  Doolittle came in. ‘What happens now?’ he demanded.

  ‘We’ll know that when Ben tells his story.’

  Shreaveley said: ‘That was high-handed of you, takin’ my key, marshal, an’ the judge’ll hear of it when he comes around.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ said Spur.

  Ben came in. By the light of the lamp he looked gray-faced and exhausted. He was covered with dust and his eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘Man,’ he said, ‘this nigger sure is surprised to be alive.’

  ‘What happened?’ Spur asked.

  Ben sat on the post-office counter and told his tale. Several more men had drifted in by this time. They listened in silence. Halfway through, Mangan Carson, Lydia’s father and the richest man in Sunset came in and stood glowering at the Negro as he talked. When Ben was through, Carson said in his pompous voice: ‘A posse of law-abiding citizens must be formed into a legally sworn posse and hunt these men.’

  There were eager shouts of agreement from the other men. Spur winced. He wouldn’t have taken a posse made up of men from Sunset to hunt down a band of rampaging papooses.

  ‘That’s nice of you, boys,’ he said, ‘but there’s no need to needlessly endanger lives.’

  He thought he heard several sighs of relief. He turned to Ben.

  ‘Could you find the spot where they stopped the stage in the dark?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Right, find yourself a fresh horse and saddle my mare. I’ll go find the Kid.’

  ‘We have enough trouble to handle,’ Ben said, ‘without saddling us’ns with that little punk.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Spur said, ‘but if somebody’s goin’ to try an’ blow my head off, they can blow his fool head off too.’

  ‘That’s only right,’ Ben agreed and slid off the counter.

  ‘Shreaveley,’ Spur said, ‘you sit on that safe night an’ day with a gun in your hand till I get back. Hear?’

  The post-master gobbled.

  ‘I’m a post-office official,’ he howled, ‘not a hired gun.’

  Spur walked out. He reached the saloon and found that Doolittle was behind him. He entered and found the Kid at the bar. He was drunk and his eyes were half-closed.

  Spur said: ‘Go put your head in the horse-trough. We’re ridin’.’

  The Kid looked at him owlishly.

  ‘Ridin’?’ he slurred. ‘She on’y jest got here.’

  ‘She was forcibly taken from the stage,’ Spur said. ‘We’re goin’ after he
r.’

  ‘We don’t include me,’ said the Kid.

  ‘Your mistake.’

  The Kid coarsely told Spur what he could do with himself. Every man there held his breath.

  ‘Sonny,’ Spur said, ‘if you ain’t outa here on the count of three, I’m goin’ to kick your butt from here to Tucson.’

  The Kid looked deadly and went into his killer crouch.

  Spur laughed.

  The Kid said: ‘That’s the lasht time you laugh at me, you bashtud.’

  Spur stepped forward.

  The Kid drew.

  Spur struck his right hand with a fist that moved as fast as the darting head of a snake. The Kid turned like a top and Spur caught him by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants. He ran him out of there so fast his feet scarcely touched the ground. His howls could be heard down in Mex-town. Spur ran him across the street and dumped him head first in the horse-trough.

  Men were running across the street to see the fun.

  Spur held the Kid’s head under the water for a long time. When he lifted it from the water, the boy’s yell went on. Spur ducked him again.

  By the time Spur dumped him in the dust of the street, the Kid looked like the half-drowned rat that he was. The crowd thought it was great.

  One of the men said: ‘You don’t look so goddam tough now, Kid.’

  Spur picked up the Kid’s fallen gun and told the fellow: ‘Say that when the Kid’s on his feet.’ The Kid stood up and took the gun from Spur.

  He looked around at the crowd.

  ‘Anybody wanta laugh now?’ he asked.

  They looked at the deadly eyes in the pimply face and if they had seen anything amusing in the situation, they had forgotten.

  The Kid said: ‘When the men horse around a little, leave the boys stay outa it. I’ll go saddle my horse, Spur.’

  He swaggered off in the direction of the corral.

  Spur turned and found Charlie Doolittle behind him.

  ‘I sent word to that Basque of mine to have the guns and horses ready,’ Doolittle said. ‘You goin’ to need friends out there. From the sound of things, it’s going to be a tough proposition.’