Trigger Gospel (23 page)

Apparently taking it for granted that the enemy was posted on the roof, they spattered it with lead.

“Let her hum,” Bill cried, “and make her count!”

As they pushed their rifles over the edge of the roof they discovered that the fire cast a highlight on the front sights that made it difficult to draw a fine bead on anything. They fired, however. A shot or two, and they had the range.

“I dropped one of 'em!” Flash yelled. “D'yuh see him pitch out of his saddle?”

“It looked like Shorty Pierce!” Link muttered. “I made one of 'em grab his belly! Be damn strange if we didn't muss up a couple of 'em!”

Bill and Luther were centering their fire on Smoke and Grat, but the two Sontags seemed bullet-proof. Both had slid to the ground and were firing over their saddles.

A second or two later another one of their men threw away his gun and clutched his saddle horn to steady himself. It decided the issue temporarily in Smoke's mind. With agility, remarkable in a man of his size, he flung himself into his saddle and headed for the ridge, the others pounding along behind him.

“Finally tumbled that he wa'n't gittin' anywhere, I guess,” Flash chuckled. “This fight is gittin' down to where it's man for man.”

“Yeh, and without any help from me!” Bill raged. “I never put a mark on either one of the Sontags, and you didn't do any better, Luther!”

“I know it,” Luther grumbled. “I ain't got no excuse to offer. I sure was holdin' on 'em dead center …. But this shindy ain't over; they won't be so lucky the next time.”

Ten minutes passed without the attack being renewed.

“Waitin' for the fire to burn out,” Link observed.

“No, they won't wait that long,” said Bill. “The fire is some advantage to 'em, and they'll use it. The thing for us to do is to git downstairs. When they come at us it will be front and rear. You see if they don't.”

“I hope they try it,” Link rasped. “There's light enough out in front for us to see 'em for three hundred yards.”

“That's what they'll figger on,” Bill argued. “They'll hope to make us think that's the direction the fight is comin' from. It'll be just a bluff to draw us away from the rear. That's where your real fight will be!”

Downstairs he found only Bitter Root and Tonto in the store proper; Latch and the others were in the back. They had broken out the windows and piled sacks of flour shoulder high in front of them.

“How does it go?” Cherokee asked.

They hung on Bill's words as he gave them a brief account.

“Then they can't have over nine or ten men left,” Latch declared.

“Not unless Beaudry shows up with a bunch,” Luther volunteered.

“I hope he does!” Bill ground out. “I'm just afraid he's pulled out of this fight. If yuh don't see him when they come at us this time yuh can take it for granted that he's gone.”

“He may be smart at that,” the Kid drawled. “The way things are goin' there won't be much left of the Sontag gang by daylight.”

The prospect seemed altogether to his liking.

“There'll be plenty of it left as long as Beaudry's alive!” Bill muttered tonelessly.

A warning cry from Bitter Root stopped him from saying more.

“They're comin' this way!” the old man yelled. “We see one or two of 'em!”

“I'll be back directly!” Bill exclaimed as he started for the front. “You watch things here and be sure yuh got that cellar door blocked!”

He found Bitter Root and Tonto stretched out behind some boxes of goods. Bitter Root's right arm hung limply. He had his rifle propped up, however, and was ready for action.

“Where did yuh see 'em?” Bill asked.

“Off there to the south,” Bitter Root told him. “They swung around now so that the side of the buildin' shuts 'em off.”

“Bill, they can't mean to come at us this-a-way, can they?” Tonto asked tensely.

“No, just a feint, I figger,” He stretched out beside Bitter Root. “We'll be ready, no matter what happens.”

Three or four minutes dragged by. Across the way the fire was slowly dying down. An acute sense of misgiving began to clutch Little Bill as the silence continued. He could not help asking himself if he had missed a trick. Suddenly, then, a rifle barked, off to the rear of the Grocery. A second gun roared. Every few seconds then a shot rang out. Bill began to smile to himself.

“They'd have us believe there was only two men out there,” he said. “There'll be a little action out here now just to drive the idea home.”

True to his prediction it was only a moment before they heard a tattoo of flying hoofs coming their way.

“Not more'n two or three,” he thought.

It was a shrewd guess, for seconds later, two horsemen flashed into view. They were flattened out on the far side of their ponies, one foot in the stirrup and a hand on the saddle horn.

At the first burst of gunfire from the store, one rider swerved to the left and swung in alongside the building. The other came on, riding like a madman. Directly in front of the store he did a somersault into the dust and came up with a six-gun in either hand. With a leap he was on the store steps.

“It's Grat Sontag!” Bill jerked out.

He fired at him instantly, and knew he hit him. But Grat reached the door and dodged inside.

“He's back of that counter!” Bill yelled.

The warning was unnecessary, for the flame spurting from Grat's guns said plainly enough where he was.

Tonto was nearest him. On hands and knees he started to crawl around some barrels that stood on the floor.

“Look out!” Bill yelled. “He's got the light in back of him; he can see yuh!”

Tonto tried to pull back, but he was too late. Grat fairly riddled him. And yet, with iron courage, life running out of him like sand from an overturned glass, Tonto pulled up his gun and emptied it almost in Grat's face.

Bill had just reached the end of the counter at the front of the store, hoping to get Grat between Tonto and himself, as the former crumpled up like an empty sack. Beyond Grat, Tonto slumped to the floor.

“Tonto!” Bill cried, his voice hoarse with fear. “Where did he git yuh?”

There was no answer.

Leaping over Grat's body, Bill raised Tonto's head. A glance was enough.

“Lord,” he groaned, “he's just shot to pieces!”

Bitter Root turned Grat over.

“Look at him!” he muttered. “Yuh'd hardly know it was Grat.”

“I ain't worryin' about him,” Bill exclaimed. “But this boy here got into this jam through me. He can blame me for this.”

“Better put the blame where it belongs,” Bitter Root advised calmly. “Smoke and Beaudry put this trouble on yuh. Yuh wa'n't askin' for it.”

“That's my only excuse,” Bill murmured, more to himself than to Bitter Root. “I'll git both of 'em for what they've done to me. If I don't do it tonight, I'll keep after 'em until I do, and I'll be thinkin' of this boy when I fetch 'em I”

He was pulled to his feet by a terrific crashing of guns. On the heels of it came a furious and sustained barking of rifles that dwarfed anything that had gone before.

“They mean business this time,” he told Bitter Root, a fury in his eyes. “I'm goin' back there. I'll have Maverick step in here to help yuh keep this end clear—”

“Don't bother; I can handle it alone—”

“I'll send Maverick just the same,” Bill insisted, running to the door that led to the rear room.

He found Latch and Maverick firing from the center window.

“Where are they?” he asked, shouting to make himself heard.

“Workin' up to the buildin' from both sides!” Latch answered. “Plenty shadders back there! It's pritty hard to see 'em.”

Bill edged up to the window beside him. He found the shadows just as black as Latch said they were. A hundred yards away, however, rifles spurted flame almost continuously.

“They seem to have found some cover!” he exclaimed. “There must be a ditch out there! Don't let 'em git in where they can mow down our horses!”

He got Maverick's attention and told him to go up to the front of the store. A question leaped into Maverick's eyes. Bill pretended not be aware of it.

“No use sayin' anythin' yet,” he thought. “It might upset 'em.”

For a quarter of an hour the firing continued without a lull. His eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, and he saw that Smoke and his men were afoot. It certainly meant that they were determined to bring the fight to close quarters.

“They're beginnin' to git a little desperate,” he thought, grim satisfaction tightening his mouth “1 reckon there's some of 'em won't ever git in here unless we carry 'em in feet first.”

At the next window, Flash let out a yell.

“They git yuh?” Bill demanded.

“I been stung two or three times!” Flash answered. “I just knocked one of 'em end over end. That makes it okay with me!”

“Was it Beaudry?”

“Bill, he ain't in the fight, I tell yuh!” Luther shouted. “We ain't goin' to have the pleasure of settlin' with him tonight!”

“There'll be other nights,” the red-haired one muttered to himself. As he reloaded his gun he felt something burn across his head. Its touch was so light it didn't even shake him. A second later, blood began to run down his cheek. “That was mighty near keno,” he thought. A few seconds later, Latch stopped a slug.

“Just creased me,” he grinned.

“Well, I'm goin' up on the roof and see if I can't break that up a little,” Bill told him.

Leaving the window, he hurried to the stairs and climbed to the second floor. He had not yet reached the upper landing when a movement in the room off to his right halted him abruptly. The door was open. Silhouetted against the glow of the fire he saw the figure of a man outlined against the window for a moment. The man's size alone identified him. It was Smoke Sontag!

A ladder placed against the window explained his presence there. Smoke beckoned to some one else coming up, and then passed through a door that led into the next room.

Bill stood there, helpless in his surprise for an instant. He galvanized into action then. Tossing his rifle on the bed, he drew his .44's and ran to the window. He found himself confronting the astonished face of a man climbing the ladder.

A quick heave sent the man toppling over backwards. Without wasting another glance at him, he turned to follow Smoke. The big fellow, familiar with every corner of the Grocery, was moving cautiously from room to room, evidently intent on making sure that the upper floor was unoccupied.

Finally, he stepped out into the hall.

“Steve—where are yuh?” he demanded in a loud whisper. He glanced at the window where the ladder had stood. His back was to Bill, but the latter saw him stiffen with sudden alarm. Smoke was only ten feet away. He could have killed him where he stood. Instead, he called a warning.

“Smoke—I got yuh!”

In that dreadful instant the big fellow must have realized that he was looking into eternity; that he was safe only so long as he kept his back turned. He had a gun in his hand, and he was fast with it. But so was Little Bill, and it was hardly in the cards that a man could whirl around in that narrow hall and shade him that precious fraction of a second that spelled the difference between life and death.

A strange mixture of courage and anger steadied him. His jaws clicking together with a wolfish snap, his cheek muscles bunching into little knots that distorted his face, he spun around.

It was the expected thing, utterly devoid of surprise. And yet, he got in the first shot. It might have served him better had he held it a tenth of a second and made it count, for he had no second shot coming to him.

Unhurried, Little Bill fired from the hip. His hand had never been steadier. He could have had a second shot, but there was no need for it. Smoke simply raised up on his toes, and brushing the wall, sank down as though he were being lowered by a rope.

Bill approached him warily. Believing him dead, but taking no chance, he kicked Smoke's gun out of reach. The big fellow's eyes rolled open. There was still a faint gleam of life in them.

“Smoke—yuh had this comin' to yuh,” Bill said soberly. “Yuh only got a few seconds to go …. Tell me this—did Beaudry run out on yuh?”

Smoke's eyes said yes. He tried to speak, but his lips were leaden. Bill had to bend low to catch his faintly whispered, “You—fetch—the rat, Bill—”

“I will …. Yuh can count on that—”

No one ran up from below to investigate the shooting; proof enough that they had not heard it above the banging of their own guns.

Bill walked to the window. He saw the ladder lying on the ground. A glance along the building told him no one was there. He walked to the other side and inspected it. No one there, either.

Wearier than he suspected, he climbed to the roof. He peered about him cautiously. A little sigh of relief escaped him as he realized that he was alone.

“Smoke was the only one that got in,” he thought aloud. He had not been sure until now.

Suddenly he froze to attention. It was only the crushing stillness that had startled him. He twitched his ears incredulously. They had not deceived him; the guns that had made the night hideous with their vituperation were silent at last.

It dawned on him slowly that the fight was over; that the shattered remnant of the Sontag gang had slunk away, never to have identity again under that name.

Minutes later, Luther and Link found him squatted down on the top step, his shoulders hunched as he sat in deep contemplation. They had just discovered Smoke's body.

“Bill,” Luther cried, his voice pinched with anxiety, “are yuh all right?”

The red-haired one raised his head.