‘All three?’
‘Nothing else to do under the circumstances.’
‘Holy Mother/ Paddy Costello whispered in horror.
Rogan stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and leaned down to light it with a splinter from the fire. In the brief moment that his back was turned, Morgan seized his chance, pulled out the revolver and extended his arm.
‘I could blow your head off right now. Make a wrong move and I will.’
Rogan turned slowly, hands held well away from his body and Morgan called, Tope, get out here fast!’
There was a quick movement in the passage and Pope appeared in the doorway. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Hello, Jack,’ Rogan said. ‘Fancy meeting you here?’
‘Get a grip on those two mailbags,’ Morgan said, ‘and don’t let them out of your sight. Jesse, get his gun.’
Fletcher came forward slowly, his ugly face splitting into a delighted grin. He stood looking at Rogan for. a long moment and then quickly searched him. He frowned and turned.
‘He hasn’t got it on him.’
‘That doesn’t make sense/ Morgan said, suddenly wary. ‘Look again, but watch him. He’s a foxy bastard.’
‘We can soon take care of that/ Fletcher said.
He turned back to Rogan and his fist swung in a short arc, catching the Irishman on the right cheek. Rogan rode the punch, allowing himself to stagger back. He went over the armchair, landing on his shoulders and pulled the automatic free at the same moment. He loosed off one quick shot that chipped splinters from the table and Morgan gave a cry of alarm.
‘Get out of it, quick!’
He fired hastily and Rogan rolled for the shelter of the old horsehair sofa that stood against the wall. As he reached it, Morgan pushed Fletcher and Pope into the passage.
Rogan fired through the door, the bullet tearing its way through the flimsy woodwork and ricocheting be-
tween the stone walls of the passage.
Costello gave a cry of alarm, ran to the front door and wrenched it open and Pope went after him, the mailbags banging against his knees.
Morgan gave Fletcher a shove. ‘Get after them, Jesse. We’ll have to make a run for it in the truck.’
He fired through the door into the living room, keeping his back flat against the wall, then turned and ran after Fletcher. The big man was halfway across the yard and Pope and Costello were already vanishing through the open double doors into the half darkness.
As Morgan started to run a chair came through the window behind him. He turned and fired a wild shot that chipped stone from the wall ten feet off target, then ran, zig-zagging from side to side. A single shot chased him into the barn, ploughing into a bale of hay at the rear.
Fletcher and Pope had already got the mailbags into the back of the cattle truck and Morgan shoved Costello up behind the wheel. He followed him into the cab, pushed in the ignition key and switched on.
‘Get this bloody thing moving.’
The old man’s face was grey with fear and spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Morgan slapped him heavily across the face. ‘Get moving,’ he cried.
Rogan was halfway across the yard and he dropped to one knee behind the water trough, aimed carefully and fired. As Morgan and Costello ducked, the bullet drilled a neat hole through the windscreen. Costello gave a cry of fear. He pressed the starter and slammed the stick into first gear.
The old cattle truck roared through the entrance, knocking one of the half-open doors off its hinges and they bounced over the potholes towards the gateway. Morgan fired in the general direction of the water trough to keep Rogan’s head down and then they were through with a crunch of metal as the right wing crumpled against one of the stone gateposts.
Costello changed into top gear and rammed his foot hard against the boards, his hands tight on the wheel and Morgan looked back and laughed harshly as Rogan came through the gateway and started to run down the road after them.
‘A fat lot of bloody good that’ll do you.’