One-Man Massacre (19 page)

"I'm fighting a war," Gibbons told him. "In war you
take prisoners. Some prisoners become hostages." He
drained the glass, set it down on the bar sharply. "You,"
he said, pointing to Macintosh. "Walk up to the sheriff's
office. Tell that Mex-lover in there that a man who hates
his guts is with the girl right now. Tell him to come out
of there with his arms raised or he'll be able to hear her
screams. And tell him that Jack Gibbons has never made
an idle threat in his life . . ." Gibbons swung around at
the sound of the doors swinging open. Malcolm Lord,
haggard-faced and haunted-looking, stood there.

"What brings you here?" Gibbons asked brusquely.

"We're through," the rancher said in a toneless voice.
"Take your men and ride out."

"Through? I've just begun my work here, partner."

"You're no partner of mine."

"That will be for me to say, when the time comes.
What I want you to do is move o
ur herd down to the river grass
."

"Our herd?"

"I told you I'd get mine," Gibbons reminded him.
"One way or another."

Lord turned then to the ring of accusing faces.

"I was hard pressed," the man said to them, trying to
explain. "I needed grass or lose my stock
—"

"And you decided to grab Mulchay's," Terhune said.
"A fine neighbor, Malcolm Lord."

"I was wrong," he admitted. "I acted badly." He
looked at Gibbons again. "But I never condoned the
actions you took. Now we're done, Gibbons. Ride out!"

Gibbons was smiling at him.

"I do as I damn please," he said, and suddenly the rancher made an awkward, unfamiliar attempt to clear
the gun beneath his coat. Gibbons drew before him, beat
him with ridiculous ease and fired two bullets into his
body. That brought three of the gunmen into the place
and their menacing-looking Colts prevented any more
action against Gibbons.

He holstered his weapon, looked around for Mac
intosh.

"Tell Buchanan to give himself up," he said and the
other man went out of the Glasgow.

His stronghold was now his trap
—for hardly had
Buchanan seen the girl in Gibbons' hands but he guessed
the leverage that would be brought against him. And
from a frame of mind where he didn't much care what
the hell happened so long as Gibbons got his, now he
felt the need to plan beyond that.

The important thing was to get out of here, to find room to maneuver. The metal door behind him was
locked tight. The open doorway was being guarded al
most jealously by half a dozen snipers across the way.
Fifteen minutes ago, if he'd wanted to get out badly enough, he knew he could have made it. But now that
the need was here, the cards were abruptly running
against him.

Then he heard the footsteps coming along the sidewalk
outside.

"Buchanan? Can you hear me, son?"

"Yeah."

"It's Macintosh, a friend of Mulchay's."

"What's the proposition?"

"A pretty poor one. He's holding MacKay's niece, says
the man with her is no friend of yours."

"That covers a lot of sons of bitches now."

"He promises harm to the lass unless you step out
with your arms raised
—"

"Come on out of your hole, gunfighter!" the shouting
voice of Gibbons broke in. "Let's have a look at you!"
The shooting of Malcolm Lord and the third jolt of whisky made Jack Gibbons treetop tall. He had it all
for himself now
—everything.

"Get out of the way, Macintosh," Buchanan said
softly.

"But, man, remember MacKay's niece . . ."

"They're going to open up when I step through. Get
yourself clear
..."

"You've got ten seconds, by God!" Gibbons raged from
across the street. "Cato's waiting to cut loose!"

"Not any more he ain't!" cried another voice, and the
sound of it made Buchanan blink his eyes.

"Fargo?" he called back.

"The girl's in good hands now, bucko. Just sit tight
and wait for a new deal . . ."

"Get that man!" Gibbons bellowed. "On the porch there! Get him
—shoot him down!"

A shotgun went off. First barrel. Second barrel. That
jay
hawk of a Fargo was defending himself, Buchanan
thought and started through. Then, from the very corner
of his eye, he caught a movement. He whirled with the
rifle cradled on his arm and caught Lou Kersh furtively
opening the big door. Kersh fired from the hip and the
rifle's answer was instantaneous. Kersh dropped dead,
but the magic that had been like a coat of armor for
Buchanan this night had lost its power. His rib was
bullet-grazed and his left side felt numb from the impact.

"Rush the office!" he heard Gibbons ordering outside.
"Pour lead in there, you bastards!" And being led again
they found their courage again. Across Trail Street they
came, ten abreast now, and the rifle that had held them
at bay was not going to prevail any longer. Buchanan
prudently ducked through the door Kersh had opened,
and found himself in the jail. He bolted the door behind
him.

It was a large room and contained four separate cells.
A dozen Mexicans awaiting execution filled three of them
and in the fourth was Tompkins.

"Oyez, caballeros/ Quereis pelear?" Buchanan invited.
"Hey, boys! You want to fight?"

The prisoners did
—
con mucho
gusto. Buchanan took
the keys from a peg, began opening cell doors. Outside,
bullets were beating a tattoo against the metal door.

"I'll fight, too!" Tompkins said. "Just give me a gun!"

A boy of seventeen took Buchanan by the arm, jabbering excitedly and pointing to a locked cabinet. An
other key unlocked it, revealing a good size arsenal, and
in seconds the eager bandits cleaned it out. The alley door
was opened and they poured into the night with a great
deal of cheering.

And a cheering sight they were to Fargo and the
handful of Scotstowners who had mobilized on the spur
of the moment. There was another Greener besides
Fargo's, four single
shot Remington pistols and one muz
zleloader
—and though they diverted six gunmen from
the main assault their battle at the hotel was a hopeless
one.

Buchanan's bunch hit Gibbons' main force on the
flank. Three Mexicans, Tompkins and two militiamen fell
in the first exchange, then there was a regrouping, a
scattering for protective cover. The six engaged at the
hotel hesitated briefly, then turned to add their firepower
to the major fight.

But they had reckoned without Fargo.

"Now we got 'em!" he yelled and bounded down the
porch steps. Hamlin, Macintosh and Terhune came
scrambling after him, as their Highland ancestors would
have done, and if their shooting was only sporadic, in
effective, it was still noisy enough to give Gibbons'
downstreet group the panicky feeling they were in a vise.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" someone shouted and
that did it for them all. They broke and ran in four
directions for their horses.

"Cuidado! Cuidado!"
Buchanan shouted, worried that
the crossfire would hit as many friends as foes. "Watch
it!" He himself had crossed to the dancehall, still
cradling the rifle, taking his targets as he found them
—
looking for one in particular.

But it was pandemonium out here now, completely
disordered. Something on the ground caught his glance
—Gibbons' showy white Stetson. He crushed it with
his foot, moved on down an alleyway. There was a burst
of gunfire up ahead and he hurried that way. Two of
Gibbons' men had a Mexican pinned in a corner,
wounded and fighting from one knee. The rifle cut the
odds in half and the other one fled.

"Como
esti, amigo?"
Buchanan asked. "How you doing,
friend?"

"Bueno," the fellow whispered, "bueno," and lowered
himself all the way down to die.

Another spate of shooting beckoned Buchanan and he
went that way expectantly. Now it was a pair of Mexi
cans trying to keep a militiaman from his horse
—but not
Gibbons, and Buchanan left them to settle it among them
selves.

A man's agonized scream split the air, rose grotesquely
above the flat sound of guns, made everything curiously
personal, somehow. Buchanan was attracted to it, for no
reason he could explain, and found himself at the half-opened side door of the Glasgow. He stepped into the
darkened storeroom, crossed it and went through a
second opened door that brought him behind the bar.

Along the bar stood three uncorked bottles, half-a-
dozen half-full glasses, a cigar still burning
—a kind of
peace that awaited Hamlin and his friends when the
warring was done . . .

Someone groaned, from the direction of the private
loom, and Buchanan moved around the bar and toward
it. He crossed the threshold. Angus Mulchay lay on the
couch where he had died
—but Buchanan was completely
unprepared to find Jack Gibbons sprawled on the floor
within arm's length of the man he had murdered. Buried
to the hilt in Gibbons' back was a stiletto, and Buchanan
admired the nice little irony of that.

"Up Scotstown!" cried a voice from the saloon, star
tling him out of his thoughts.

"Ay, it's all over but the shoutin'!"

"Drink hearty, lads, Terhune is buyin'!"

Buchanan eased over to the door, looked in at the
bar. They were all there, the Scotstown Regulars cele
brating the victory over Gibbons' Militia, and in their
midst a fitting replacement for Mulchay.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he heard Hamlin
say.

"I'm called Fargo. Fargo Johns."

"You happened by at a fortunate time."

"Happened, my eye! I came down off the mountain a'purpose."

"From the mountain? Then you're partners with Bu
chanan."

"Was. Anybody seen him?"

"Most likely gone to the hotel to comfort the lass."

"He'll have to get in line then," Fargo said. "When I
left her Billy Neale was doin' a fine job."

"Tell me somethin' out of curiosity," Terhune said.
"Was it you got her loose from the gunman or Billy?"

"It was him all the way. All I did was get him loose
from the fella holdin' him."

"They'd make a good family," Hamlin said. "MacKay's
niece and the Neale boy."

"Once she gets over her notions about Buchanan. Say
—
didn't somebody mention a drink? Or was I hearin'
things?"

Buchanan grinned, turned from his place at the door
and moved across the room. He opened a window and let himself out into the dark night, began walking in
search of a stray horse he could borrow. If he rode steady
he'd be in Lajitas by tomorrow sundown. Get himself doctored there and push on.

And this time he was going all the way to San
Francisco.