A Colt for the Kid (13 page)

‘Whoever you are, skulking there, you’d better shout out before I fill this place with lead.’

Johnnie steadied the Colt in the direction of Donovan’s
voice. ‘Johnnie Callum, I’ve come for you, Donovan.’

Donovan’s gun flashed red flame and Johnnie dropped to the floor, pulling the trigger as he went down. There was a click from the hammer but no explosion, then Donovan’s gun spattered lead all around him. He counted the shots mentally and after the sixth came up from the floor and charged in the direction he had seen the gun flashes come from. He had a blurred impression of Donovan moving quickly towards an oblong of lesser darkness that he knew must be the door, and a moment later they were both outside and moving blindly through the sheeting rain.

Donovan’s movements were in the vague direction of the bunkhouse and help. He was sloshing through ankle-deep mud and cursing his luck at not being able to hit Callum with one of the six shots fired in the comparatively small space of the hall, cursing also what he believed to be a fact. Callum, for all his inexperience as a gun fighter, had held his fire until he was certain of a killing shot.

Johnnie floundered through the mud without a plan in his head. He guessed that Donovan would make for the bunkhouse but had no idea of its direction. The thunder began to roll again, blanketing the small sounds made by both men. Then a flicker of lightning gave momentary illumination. It was gone before Johnnie could get any advantage from it, but it showed Donovan that he himself was progressing towards one side of the bunkhouse rather than to it. He moved in the new direction and, as he did so, thunder crashed and reverberated directly overhead. With it came both sheet and fork lightning showing everything in sharp brilliance. It showed Donovan that Johnnie, gun in hand, was nearer to the bunkhouse than he was himself. It also gave him a sharpened view of a black horse, already saddled and trembling with fear of the storm. Donovan ran with mud-laden feet for the horse, expecting that the gun in
Callum’s hand would blast at any moment. Darkness and silence, except for the lashing of the rain, came again. Johnnie had seen all of the big ranger’s movements, he had also seen a corral with thirty or forty horses milling about in an effort to find shelter. He found the sliprail by some stroke of luck and throwing it to one side grabbed at one of the darkly moving forms in the corral. The horse, half mad with fear, streaked out of the place with Johnnie hanging to its mane and neck. He gave several swings before he reached its back then could do nothing but cling like a burr until the animal ran off its terror. For minutes the horse kept up a maddened pace, with Johnnie having no sense of the direction it was taking. He was on the point of throwing himself from its back as being useless to continue when the sheeting rain ceased as suddenly as if it had been turned off at a tap. Seeing became possible and less than ten yards in front of him was the big gate, flung wide open. It had to be Donovan who had left it like that, yet he wondered why when he and the horse hurtled through it. A man of Donovan’s sense would surely have stopped his mount the moment he was covered by the darkness, reloaded his gun and stayed nearer home where there was a possibility of help coming to him. Then Johnnie remembered something that had happened in the hall. As he had come up from the floor after Donovan’s last shot something had whirled past him and thudded against a wall. That could have been Donovan’s gun, thrown in a last attempt to stop Johnnie himself. The idea brought a warming glow to his shivering body. When he came up with Donovan it would be hand to hand for he had no idea of how to make his own Colt useful again quickly.

With the cessation of the rain, Donovan pulled up. Hatless and coatless and with the rest of his water soaked clothing sticking to his body, he cursed himself for having run so far. Although he had been fool enough to leave himself without
a gun, at least he had what must be Callum’s horse. Now that the sky was clearing a little he could swing away from the trail and come back to his own fence somewhere near the bunkhouse, leave his mount and climb through the fence and rouse the sleeping men. Even if Callum did sight him it would be easy to keep out of gun range seeing that Callum was on foot. Donovan swung his mount to leave the trail then quickly turned it again at the sound of horse’s hoofs. He got one glimpse of Johnnie, head down over his mount’s neck, then rammed spurs at an already blowing horse and sent it streaking towards the main trail and the town.

He needed a gun, needed it desperately, and the only place he could think of was Judge Bohun’s house.

With the last of the rainstorm a sheepherder crawled from underneath the rag of canvas that served as a tent. It was Josh Manders, the man whom Johnnie believed he had killed. Manders stared about, bleary eyed from last night’s whiskey, and in the light of pre-dawn saw little but water. It was everywhere. Running in new river courses between the rocks, making depressions into small lakes and turning any soft ground into oozing mud. All would be clear in a few hours, but in the meantime, sheep that had not already drowned were crowding each other for what little dry land remained. Manders knew that if he were to save the rest of his flock he must drive them uphill towards the main trail some three miles distant, then through the town and out on the other side. He disliked the prospect. Gathering and driving sheep in the half light would be bad enough, but moving them along the trail would be dangerous. There were Donovan’s men, for one thing. He knew he could expect no mercy from them. Then there was this kid, Callum. Suppose he should meet with him in the town? Unlikely, because it would barely be dawn when he reached the place, but he had heard that the youngster had become tough and something of a fighter. Manders scowled. There was only one way of dealing with tough youngsters. He rolled up his piece of canvas, stowing
the dirt-grimed blankets and cooking gear in the roll, drained the whiskey bottle, then saddled the sway-backed horse he owned. Before mounting he spent some time in cleaning and loading his shot-gun.

Working the sheep was even worse than he had expected. The main trail had become a quagmire with the wheel ruts a foot deep and yard-wide rivers. Sheep bogged down frequently and his horse did little better, so that the town was fully astir when he reached it. There, on the better drained ground, the flock broke and scattered, running between shacks and trampling down vegetable patches and bringing their owners cursing and shouting to the scene. Somehow, the flock was reformed in front of the Silver Dollar and Manders started to harry them forward again to the accompaniment of curses from half the population. He turned in his saddle to give answer to one more than ordinary lurid oath and as he did so his spine went rigid with fear. Donovan, pushing a
mud-spattered
black horse to its uttermost was not more than thirty yards behind him and distant by another twenty yards was young Callum. Manders put the only construction his half frozen mind would fit to the scene. The pair had ganged together and were coming for him.

Donovan had halved the distance to Manders and was cursing at the flock of sheep between himself and safety when he saw the shotgun go up to the sheepherder’s shoulder. He made a desperate effort to send the horse into a swerve and the moment before the gun roared, glimpsed Hennesey, among others, on the saloon veranda and Bohun on his own porch, then his horse floundered and rolled sideways. Donovan hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash but, conscious of the peril behind him, was up instantly and running towards the saloon. He saw Manders fire again, then Hennesey rush at the man and wrest the gun from his hands. In the next second sheep seemed to be all about him, their
smelly bodies pressing against his legs and hampering his movement. He gave a glance over his shoulder and saw Callum, sliding from his horse’s back, his passage blocked solidly with the sheep. Callum was a bare twenty yards away but his gun was still in its holster. The fact spurred Donovan to greater effort. Evidently the youngster could not trust his marksmanship at even this range. The way to Bohun’s house suddenly cleared and he took it at a panting run. He grabbed the astonished judge by the shoulder.

‘Your gun, man. Quick!’

Donovan’s hand darted beneath the long skirts of Bohun’s coat and wrenched the .45 from its holster. He made a quick check on the loading and stepped to the middle of the street.

Johnnie saw the whole of the business and ceased his struggling to get forward. He stood, hemmed in by hundreds of bleating, struggling sheep, and suddenly he felt very tired. Hennesey, who was still holding Manders and had dragged him to the side of the street, looked very small and distant. Belle, his father and Carter, on the veranda of the Silver Dollar were puppets, still and lifeless. Only Donovan was real as the sixgun in his hamlike fist.

Donovan’s voice came booming. ‘Callum, pull that gun, damn you. I’m not going to have it said that I shot you down without giving you a chance.’

Johnnie hesitated momentarily then slowly drew the Colt. He stood for a fraction of a second with the useless weapon pointed at the ground. In the moment of time he imagined was left to him he still thought of somehow getting Donovan and making the world safe for Lucy. He raised the muzzle of the gun and in that instant, Donovan fired. The slug slammed into Johnnie’s left shoulder and spun him half round, the movement of the sheep about his legs dropping him floundering amongst them. He was aware of a burning pain and of the close contact of warm, wool covered bodies. He got
half to his feet and Donovan’s gun roared again, three times. Hot blood spurted over him but somehow he got to his feet. Donovan, he thought, had not yet succeeded in killing him. If only he could stay alive until he got his hands on the man. Like he had got them on Manders. But Manders wasn’t dead. Queer about that, he’d been scared about what he had done to the sheepherder and there wasn’t any reason for the scare. No reason either why Donovan shouldn’t kill him with one of the two remaining shells that were in his gun. A woman screamed loudly as he pushed slowly through the sheep, and Johnnie grinned to himself. He must look one hell of a sight with all this smother of blood on him. But now he knew that most of it was sheep’s blood. All of it in fact except that coming from the hole in his left shoulder. Only a small hole, and it didn’t burn very much now. Sheep! Hell take the stinking things. They seemed all over and Donovan’s gun was levelled at him again. Fifteen paces. There could be no miss at that distance. The bang and the spurt of flame came but no shock of the slug smashing into bone and flesh. Donovan had missed and he might do so again with those woollies bumping against his legs. Now he was backing up, trying to get clear of the sheep for a steady shot. The last one in the gun. It was enough to make anyone laugh. This great giant of a man, gun in hand, backing away from an unarmed man. But no one was laughing. From the corner of his eye he could see those on the saloon veranda, all frozen faced except Belle, and hers was working spasmodically, as if she were trying to shout something. Donovan had stopped backing up, was glancing about to see that he was clear of sheep. Belle’s voice screamed.

‘Johnnie! For Chris’sake. The gun! Shoot, blast you.’

Johnnie’s memory jerked to the fact that the Colt was still in his hand. No wonder Donovan was backing from him. He raised the gun with a sudden swing and sent it hurtling. It smashed straight into Donovan’s face, who at the very
moment, triggered off his last shot. Half stunned and almost blinded by a flow of blood from his forehead he staggered about, tripped and went down. As he got to his feet, Johnnie was upon him, hands clawing for, and finding, a hold on the rancher’s massive neck. Donovan’s big hands grabbed at Johnnie’s wrists in an effort to break the hold and for seconds the pair rocked on their feet in the fierceness of their combat. The silence that had held the watchers broke and men and women surged forward from every angle. Sheep scattered with frightened bleats, collected again in small bunches, then suddenly the whole flock broke in one direction and left a cleared space to the struggling men and the yelling, cheering onlookers.

Bohun found himself in the front line of the crowded circle and apprehension grew in his mind as he saw that Donovan, despite his giant stature, was unable to break the hold that Callum had on his neck. Suppose the fight ended in the death of the big man, how would things go for himself? Already, he was an outcast in the town. If Donovan should die he could see himself being hounded out of the town. There was a sudden surge forward of the crowd as Donovan, using all his strength and extra height, whirled Callum off his feet but, failing to break his hold, crashed with him to the ground. Bohun found himself isolated. He craned his neck to see who was uppermost of the pair and at that moment felt something hard in the mire at his feet. He knew instinctively that it was a gun and with a quick stoop for one of his bulk he snatched the weapon up. A hasty glance showed him that it was not the gun Donovan had wrenched from him, so it must be Callum’s. The weight of it told him it was loaded, yet Callum had not tried to use it. His fingers clawed mud from around the action of the Colt, and as a roaring cheer went up from the crowd, he managed to make the chambers spin. He got a narrowed view of the struggling men. Callum was
uppermost, his hands tightly on Donovan’s throat. The big man’s eyes were bulging, his tongue half out. Callum gave a mighty heave that jerked Donovan’s shoulders from the ground and at that moment Bohun pulled the trigger then dropped the gun and rammed it into the mud with his foot.

It was a good enough shot from hip level but had not taken into account the movement of the two men. A movement that had suddenly ceased. Movement had ceased in the crowd too and silence had come.

Johnnie still had Donovan by the throat, but it was in a slackening hold now. He was staring at the big man’s face and it was a moment before he realized that Donovan was dead. With the knowledge came revulsion and a feeling of great weakness. Slowly, he let the dead man’s head drop to the ground, then got unsteadily to his feet. He had a feeling of being alone in spite of the crowd that surrounded him. Alone and unspeakably filthy with mud and blood, his own and Donovan’s and that of the stinking sheep. He took a step away from the dead man and felt himself reeling. Then men were all around him, hands were supporting him, cheers sounded, but somehow they were very far off.

‘Get this down you.’ He recognised the voice as Belle’s, the smell under his nose as whiskey, and drank from the glass that was pushed to his lips. He spluttered a little and gradually his eyes focused. He was at the top end of the saloon. The gaudy end, on one of the plush covered chairs, and Belle was grinning at him. A bowl of water was on the floor with a towel beside it. He felt clean again, strong too, except for the pain in his left shoulder. He made to stand up but a voice said:

‘Not yet, son. You ain’t fit to stand by a long way.’ That was his Paw. The man he scarcely knew yet.

His eyes went from Belle’s face to Carter’s. Carter nodded and grinned. ‘Belle’s going to fix up the best room we’ve got so
as you can rest up and get that shoulder wound of yours healed.’

Johnnie’s mind went back to the fight. ‘Who shot Donovan?’

‘It’s not been figured out yet. Hennesey’s among the boys asking questions.’ He gestured to where the marshal was talking to men at the bar. ‘I guess most of us are hoping he won’t get any answers.’

‘Why so?’

‘Well, I suppose it amounts to murder.’

‘Would it have been murder if I’d killed Donovan myself? I was trying to hard enough.’

‘You were fighting for your life, Johnnie. That’s different.’

‘Huh! I can’t see any difference. Maybe the shot was intended for me. Maybe for Donovan. Whichever way it was, it saved one of our lives.’

Belle laughed. ‘You should have been a lawyer, Johnnie. Now how about climbing into a bed?’

Johnnie shook his head. ‘I want to talk to Hennesey. It ain’t right for him to be huntin’ the feller that saved my life.’

He got to his feet, brushing aside the hands outstretched to detain him. Hennesey swung round as he reached the bar.

‘Johnnie, you oughtn’t to be on your feet.’

‘I’m OK. That looks like my Colt you’ve got in your hand.’

‘It’s yours, all right. Someone used it to fire the shot that killed Donovan.’

‘Used that! It wouldn’t shoot when I tried it. Anyway, I guess maybe I ought to be thankful to whoever fired it.’

‘Feller deserves a medal,’ a man observed.

‘Or a rope around his neck,’ Hennesey snapped. ‘Anyone thought about who was doing best when the shot was fired? In any case it was plain murder.’

Sam Stevens pushed towards Hennesey. ‘Ed, I wasn’t going to say a word about what I saw, but you’ve got me thinking the shot wasn’t intended for Donovan. I saw Bohun stoop
and pick up a gun. It could have been that one. I don’t know, I didn’t see him use it.’

‘We’ll ask—’ Hennesey began, but the rest of his words were drowned in an uproar of shouts to get Bohun and hang him.

In the concerted rush towards the batwings a voice yelled: ‘Let’s tar and feather him an’ ride him on a rail. He’s too darned heavy for a rope.’

Hennesey made a move to stop the ringleaders, but dozens of hands fended him roughly off and the yells to tar and feather Bohun outdid those in favour of hanging him.

Hennesey stood irresolute as the men poured into the street. He looked at Stevens as if for guidance or help, but Sam shook his head.

‘You’ll have to let them have their way, Ed. If you go out with a gun in your hand, you’ll have to use it. Bohun isn’t worth a lot of dead men. In any case, they aren’t set on hanging him.’

‘Ever seen a man tarred and feathered?’ Hennesey asked grimly.

‘No, I don’t reckon I have.’

‘It’s worse than a hanging and usually the guy doesn’t live to get over it.’

Johnnie’s eyes went from one to the other. ‘Then we’ve got to stop it.’

‘How?’ Hennesey snapped the word.

Johnnie grinned at him. ‘I’ve been learnin’ a feller can fight better without a gun than he can with one. Most guys won’t draw on a feller who hasn’t a gun. They won’t lay hands on an injured man either.’

‘They’ve got Bohun,’ Sam cut in as a yell of triumph sounded from the street.

Johnnie moved towards the batwings. ‘You fellers keep yourselves an’ your guns out of sight,’ he flung over his shoulder.

‘I’m taking that order,’ Hennesey growled to Stevens. ‘The feller’s a sight better man than I ever was, but just the same, a couple of rifles near the batwings might be handy.’

Belle, Carter and Seth Callum came hurrying forward.