Not ten seconds had elapsed since they had reached the opening, and now I waited for what would come next.
The minutes ticked by slowly. Neither one of the men moved, but I was not concerned with them. Desperately, I was hoping my enemies would come into the open. My eyes went to the back of the passage, then back again to the street opening.
When nothing happened, I stepped out of the opening with my Winchester slung back to my shoulder, muzzle down, my hand hanging beside it. The street was empty.
Stepping away from the opening, I strolled up the walk … and suddenly they were there.
Caxton Kelsey came out of the hotel door and walked three steps toward me. I could hear the faint jingle of his spurs, the creak of the boards. The sun was down now, but it was still light enough to see. He stood on the edge of the boardwalk, smiling at me. He was a handsome man, standing there like that. It was no wonder Queenie was taken by him.
At that moment there was a rustle of movement above me, and I automatically glanced up. Andy Miller was on the balcony right above Kelsey, but a little to the left. And if LaSalle Prince was still in that saloon, he would be almost behind me. So they had me boxed, after all.
There was a great stilhiess in the street. The slightest sound could be heard. I was conscious of the coolness of the breeze, drying the sweat on my forehead; I was conscious of the deepening shadow under the awning behind Kelsey. Somewhere a dog yelped … a horse at the hitch rail stamped a foot.
Caxton Kelsey stood there calm and confident. “Well, Chancy,” he said, “we’ve had to wait a while, but we’ve got you.”
Kelsey was the one I had to get. I couldn’t shoot at both at once, and Kelsey was the more dangerous one. Also, I knew that shooting downward, as Andy Miller would have to do, was a chancy thing. Many a shot has been missed by a man shooting downhill. Kelsey was the one I had to take, and then Miller, if luck was with me.
“Now, Mr. Kelsey,” I said, “you boys sure enough came a long way hunting for something most folks try to avoid. And I figure you’re seeing things from kind of a one-sided viewpoint. You say you’ve got me boxed, but are you right sure the shoe isn’t on the other foot?
“Take Andy up there—I never did see a man more anxious to be a target. He’s standing right up there in front of everybody.”
I was playing for time. I wanted the jump on them the way they had tried to get it on me. That I had friends in town was true, but I had no idea any of them were within blocks of me right now. But these two surely didn’t know that, and I had to put a burr under their saddle just to worry them a mite.
“And don’t you expect help from LaSalle Prince, because he’s going to have problems of his own in just about a minute. So it looks like you and me, Kelsey—and how about now!”
His hand slapped his gun butt, but my Winchester barrel lifted in my left hand, my right hand fired the rifle from belt-high, and my bullet caught Kelsey on the belt buckle, glancing up to strike his chest.
The blow knocked him back, and I tilted my rifle just as Andy Miller fired, taking a step forward and triggering as my foot hit ground. His shot missed, and my rifle shot truer at that range. He toppled forward, hit the edge of the roof, and rolled over, falling to the street.
Behind me in the saloon I heard a hammering of gunshots, but I could not think of those, for Kelsey was getting up, bloody and savage. He swung his gun on me and we both fired. Something hit me a wallop that staggered me, but I worked the lever on the Winchester again, and fired again. He was leaning against the water trough, with one leg spraddled out, and there was blood on his chest and his face.
The shooting behind me ceased. Rifle held waist-high, I circled into the street. Caxton Kelsey was still a fighting man, and he was grinning at me. “Why, I didn’t think you had it in you, Chancy,” he said. “Too bad you have to die.” He was bringing his pistol up.
I could see the silver belt buckle bent out of shape, and the blood on his chest, but it didn’t look as if he was badly hurt. My bullet, in glancing upward, might have just cut the skin on his chest. Where the other two bullets had hit—and I was sure they had—I did not know. He seemed to be half supporting himself against the water trough.
We were not over sixty feet apart, and I was crossing the street in a sort of half-circle, swinging away from him. At that distance my rifle was considerably more accurate, but he was a noted shot, and at sixty feet could do terrible destruction with the gun he held.
He watched me, gun balanced in his hand, waiting to make the killing shot. To pause, to sight along the barrel at him, would give him just the moment he needed, so I kept moving.
There was no sound on the street. The evening light seemed to hold, and the sun touched only the roof tops. I was conscious of the silence, of the dust, of the sense of waiting. We were alone … as alone as if we stood in the desert each of us playing for time, each wanting the next shot to be the last.
There had been shooting in the saloon—had Handy Corbin killed Prince? Or was Prince even now nearing a door to take a shot at my back? Above all, where was Queenie? In the restaurant I heard a subdued rattle of dishes.
Kelsey had gradually eased himself around the corner of the water trough on which he had leaned. One knee had lowered to the ground, and on his left side the hitching rail and the post were a partial shield.
“I have no pity for you, Kelsey,” I said. “No more than you had for Noah Gates and his men.”
“What were they?” he asked contemptuously. “Just old men, worn out with years and trouble.”
“But,” I said, “they were men who did what they could to make a living, and not to steal it from other men. What have you done, Kelsey? Have you done an honest day’s work in ten years?”
“Work is for the sheep,” he said. “I run with the wolves.”
His gun barrel seemed to be lifting, ever so little, but if I were farther to the left he would have to shift his gun around the post to be in line for a shot.
Suddenly I ran. Three quick steps to the right … I stopped, and he shot. He had shifted the gun to line on me, but he fired too quickly. The shot bellowed against the wooden wall of the building, and missed. I felt the whip of it as I fired my rifle.
My bullet spat slivers from the post. I worked the lever, dropped quickly to one knee, and fired again. I saw the dust leap from his jacket, and his bullet threw dust in front of me. I started to lunge to my feet, but went suddenly weak and sprawled in the dust, still frantically working the lever.
Caxton Kelsey was up. Bloody and staggering, he was on his feet, lining his pistol at me as I lay there. Rolling over, I came to one knee and fired into him. His bullet hit the top of my shoulder, and I felt the sharp, angry burn of it. Then I fired again.
He stood an instant, the gun dangling from his fingers, then he sat down abruptly, staring at nothing. And then he simply lay down and rolled over.
Crouching there, I held my rifle ready, watching him. In a moment, using the rifle for a crutch, I pushed myself to my feet and took a step to the edge of the walk, where I sat down hard, gripping the rifle, still watching Kelsey.
People began to appear on the street, and Handy Corbin was suddenly pushing through them. He crossed the street to me.
“You got him! By the Lord Harry, you got him! They were offerin’ ten-to-one odds and no takers that he’d gun you down!”
“What about Prince?” I asked.
Handy Corbin shrugged, and looked away uncomfortably. “You got to understand that, boss,” he said, almost apologetically. “He was one of our own, and it was up to me to do. We’re good folks, mostly, and we aim to do right. LaSalle was no good—right from the start there was something cross-grained about him. He was forever a-tryin’ to lead us boys into trouble. Two, three times as he was growin’ up pa got him out of trouble, but it seemed like he got wilder and meaner.