“If you hadn’t started it, the men would have,” I told her honestly. “They thought the world and all of that boy.”
We did not speak for a few minutes, but sat listening to the tick of the clock on the roll-top desk. Outside in the street it was still. “Conn, I want to go home,” she said presently.
“All right.”
“I want you to take me home – to our home.” It was as simple as that, after all the years we’d spent together. My throat felt tight and I got up quickly and walked to the door. Then I turned toward her. “I wanted that,” I said. “I’ve always wanted that.”
“It had to come by itself, Conn. Just all of a sudden, it seems so right.”
“Sure,” I said, and listened to the horses coming up the street. I heard them for several minutes before the sound really got through to me – horses coming nearer and nearer, until suddenly it reached me.
Riders were coming, a lot of riders.
And then I saw John Blake standing alone in the street, standing there in his black suit, facing up the street toward the west, and those riders coming on, closer and closer.
When a voice spoke, it was Aaron McDonald’s.
“Get out of the street, John Blake. We know they’re here, and we want them. They’re both fit for hanging, and we’ll win this fight after all.”
I could see them – Aaron McDonald and thirty-odd riders, but there were riderless saddles with them, too, and bodies hung over saddles, and there were men among the thirty who were in no shape for any kind of a fight. This was a well-whipped bunch – or they had been until that minute. Now they only had one man to stand against, and he was in plain sight before them.
“You’re all alone,” McDonald persisted, “and when the report of what happened goes in, we’ll write it… unless you step aside.”
With one step I was out on the boardwalk, in sight of them all. “He’s not alone,” I said. “I’m here, and I stand ready.”
“Leave it to me, Conn,” Blake said in a quiet voice.
“There’s a couple there that I want,” I said clearly.
But nobody was listening to me, or even looking at me. They were looking over John Blake’s head and up the street to the east, and I heard horses walking … a lot of them. When I looked over my shoulder, it was Red Mike I saw – Red Mike and a dozen others, all with rifles. They were the men he had brought up from Texas.
Then something moved between the buildings across the street, and I saw Meharry standing there with a shotgun in his hands. On the roof near him was Battery Mason with a rifle.
The others showed up then, and we had them surrounded. “John,” Red Mike said conversationally, “you just step out of the street. We’ll take it from here.”
From down the street behind them Gallardo spoke. “Keep your fire in the center of the street, boys. I’ll pick off any who try to get away – me and Frenchy here.”
Standing there on the boardwalk, I could see the faces of McDonald and his men plain, and there were some almighty sick men out there. They were boxed – nothing left but to nail the top down.
Darrough was there, and he was standing pat, as I knew he would. He was the kind you’d have to salt down with a peck of lead before he’d stay down. I almost liked the man, but he was the man I was going to shoot first, because he was the best fighter of the lot … and there were some other good ones in that bunch.
“You call it, Aaron,” Darrough said coolly, “and let me have Dury, over there.”
“There’ll be no shooting here.” John Blake’s voice was not loud, but it was clear as a bell, and every man-jack of us heard it. “Aaron McDonald, you’re under arrest!”
The banker laughed. “Under arrest? On what charge?” He was smiling that thin little smile with his tight mouth.
“Attempted murder,” John Blake said, in that same tone. “You tried to kill Kate Lundy.”
For the first time it dawned on me that Aaron McDonald was wearing that black and white cowhide vest.
His face turned livid, then slowly paled, but I was scarcely noticing. For knowing western men the way I did, I was looking at the others. And I was looking at Darrough in particular.
“Have you got proof of that, Marshal?” Darrough asked.
“Mrs. Lundy is in the doctor’s office. She told me in front of the doctor that she was shot by a man wearing that vest. Conn Dury heard her say it. That vest belongs to Aaron’s daughter – but he’s wearing it.”
Darrough dropped his rifle and reached for his belt buckle. “I’m out of it, John,” he said. “I’ll have nothing to do with a man who’d shoot a woman.”
Guns thudded onto the ground.
“Do you want us?” Darrough said to Blake.
“No,” Blake answered. “Just go to your homes and stay there.”
“Hold it, Marshal,” I said. “Keep Tallcott here. I want his house searched. Kate Lundy’s gold was stolen in that raid.”
Darrough swore. “Whoever stole that gold,” he said, “needs a rope right alongside of McDonald’s, and I’ll tie the noose!”
Aaron McDonald had been standing his horse right there, without moving. Suddenly, almost beside me, there was a slight movement, and turning my eyes, I saw it was Linda, and she was looking at her father.
My eyes followed hers, and I saw what she saw.
No man on earth was ever more alone than Aaron McDonald at that moment. Almost without noticeable movements everyone had drawn back from him. Only Tallcott remained near, and he was isolated, too. But neither one was thinking of the other at that moment.
Tallcott wanted to run. He looked like a whipped cur.
Aaron McDonald just sat there, because he had no place to run to. Had he been any man but the man he was, I’d have been sorry for him, for he had to stand alone before you realized how really small he was.
Money and arrogance had bought him, for a time, a certain measure of power and authority. He still had the money, but there wasn’t any store, anywhere, that would take it in exchange for what McDonald needed now, nor was there any store that could supply it.
When I looked at Linda again, she was staring at her father with a positive hatred in her eyes, hatred and contempt.
“You are worse than he is,” I said. “You got that boy killed, and you knew what you were doing.”
She didn’t even hear me. She just turned away and started back up the street. She didn’t look around – not once.
Chapter 12
The street was deserted when day came again. Not even a lone cur dog trotted down the dusty alley between the false-fronted buildings.
The bank was closed. McDonald’s Emporium was closed. Hardeman’s office had been abandoned days ago, as had Bannion’s saloon.
Behind three of the buildings people were loading wagons. They were silent, and if they saw me they were paying me no attention.
Howdy Lynch had rolled in after midnight, his face black with powder smoke, grinning and happy despite a couple of minor bullet wounds … mere scratches.
He had been attacked about twelve miles out by a war party of young Kiowa bucks, and he’d had the time of his life. There had been about twenty in the lot, but Rowdy, though he was alone, had more than sixty loaded weapons, most of them repeating rifles.
He had water and he had plenty to eat, and when he saw them coming he ran into a big buffalo wallow and waited for them to come to him. By the time they got there he had the wagon positioned and the horses unhitched. The Kiowas were anxious not to kill the horses, for they hoped to have them for their own.
Rowdy was a good shot, and he had no worries about ammunition, for even if he emptied his guns he still had over a thousand rounds in the wagon … and he was a man who liked a good fight. But the young bucks thought they had a man alone who would be an easy scalp.
They started for him, and he took a Winchester ’73 and emptied seventeen shots at them. Then he dropped it and opened fire with a .56-calibre Spencer.
With one man and one horse down, the Kiowas drew off to consider. They had seen only one man, but nobody in his right mind threw lead like that. After a bit, they tried again. Three of them came at Rowdy from one side; the others waited, then rushed in a body from the opposite side.