some man I don’t have nothin’ against.”
The Texan crouched a little lower. His voice was soft and deep. “All right, squawman, it’s just between us, then. Turn around an’ take your medi-cine.”
Out of all the witnesses to that fight, none could ever swear that they saw what happened. There wasa blur of action, a swish of fringes, and the Long-horn Saloon was rocked by two deafening explosions that were magnified by the four walls and roof. There were no second shots. This was a gun-fight between two thoroughly experienced gunmen. One shot each; that is all it took. For a long moment, there was a deathly silence, then the bartender spoke up in a rasping, small voice: “See if he’s dead, boys.”
None of the local men went forward and two of the Texans, hesitatingly, looking uneasily at the Lodgepole cowmen and the cowboys, walked gingerly over and bent over their foreman’s sprawled, still form. One of the riders looked up at Caleb, still standing against the bar, his voice small with awe. “Plumb through the head.” There was a rash of movement at the batwing doors and Marshal Holt, savage eyes slitted in his hawk-nosed face, hat brim low and menacing, stood just inside the opening. “Who done it?”
Caleb nodded. “I did.”
“Witnesses?”
Holt’s hard, flat voice broke the spell and the room buzzed as some men turned to the marshal while others turned to their neighbors and began talking in strained voices. Holt came over beside Doom. “Must’ve been self-defense, from what ever’body says.” He let his cold eyes travel the full length of the scout and back. “I knew that
hombre
, once. He was Powder Hudson, one of the killingest gunmen in the Southwest.” Marshal Holt shook his head slightly. “Don’t see how ya done it. There’s goin’ to be trouble here,
hombre
, an’ I don’t want you in town when it hits. Git your horse an’ slope.”
Caleb’s thoughtful gaze was direct and calm. “You’ve made a mistake, Marshal. That man asked for what he got, an’ I’m not leavin’ Lodgepole be-cause I defended myself.”
Holt’s eyes blazed suddenly with a crazy light. “I say you are,
hombre.”
Jack Britt stepped up, red-faced. “Holt, you’re the marshal here, not the governor. You don’t order any respectable citizen outen Lodgepole, now or any other time.”
For a second, Holt’s body tensed and his face went white. Caleb was watching for the little telltale tightening around the edges of the mouth. Several of the other Lodgepole men came forward. Three of them were prominent cowmen.
“Jack’s right, Marshal. This here man’s got as much right here in Lodgepole as you have. He stays.”
Holt looked at the tight knot of angry cowboys and ranchers around him, estimated his chances at nil, and relaxed with a savage smile. “Can’t argue with the whole damned town.” He swung back to Doom. “What I said still goes,
hombre.
You got till midnight tonight.”
Doom smiled softly. “That’s all the time I’ll need, Marshal.”
Marshal Holt held the door open for two of the Texans who struggled through with the remains of Powder Hudson, ramrod of the Texas trail herd. Several of the Texans tossed hard looks at the Lodgepole cowmen as they went out. Jack Britt tossed off the rest of his beer with a big sigh. “Well, boys, unless I’ve got these Texans sized up all wrong, hell’s goin’ to pop loose any minute now.”
The old white-headed man, who had argued with Holt over Doom’s leaving town, shrugged. “I wouldn’t bet on it, Jack. Them coyotes are pretty much all air, and now, with their foreman shot down, they just might take their damned critters an’ head out around the Lodgepole country an’ go on up north by way of Canon del Muerto.”
Jack was looking thoughtfully at the older man when the bartender spoke up. “Here, you fellers, have a beer on the house. Gawd that was the quickest gunfight I ever seen. Two shots an’ it’s over. Did’ja see
The Texan crouched a little lower. His voice was soft and deep. “All right, squawman, it’s just between us, then. Turn around an’ take your medi-cine.”
Out of all the witnesses to that fight, none could ever swear that they saw what happened. There wasa blur of action, a swish of fringes, and the Long-horn Saloon was rocked by two deafening explosions that were magnified by the four walls and roof. There were no second shots. This was a gun-fight between two thoroughly experienced gunmen. One shot each; that is all it took. For a long moment, there was a deathly silence, then the bartender spoke up in a rasping, small voice: “See if he’s dead, boys.”
None of the local men went forward and two of the Texans, hesitatingly, looking uneasily at the Lodgepole cowmen and the cowboys, walked gingerly over and bent over their foreman’s sprawled, still form. One of the riders looked up at Caleb, still standing against the bar, his voice small with awe. “Plumb through the head.” There was a rash of movement at the batwing doors and Marshal Holt, savage eyes slitted in his hawk-nosed face, hat brim low and menacing, stood just inside the opening. “Who done it?”
Caleb nodded. “I did.”
“Witnesses?”
Holt’s hard, flat voice broke the spell and the room buzzed as some men turned to the marshal while others turned to their neighbors and began talking in strained voices. Holt came over beside Doom. “Must’ve been self-defense, from what ever’body says.” He let his cold eyes travel the full length of the scout and back. “I knew that
hombre
, once. He was Powder Hudson, one of the killingest gunmen in the Southwest.” Marshal Holt shook his head slightly. “Don’t see how ya done it. There’s goin’ to be trouble here,
hombre
, an’ I don’t want you in town when it hits. Git your horse an’ slope.”
Caleb’s thoughtful gaze was direct and calm. “You’ve made a mistake, Marshal. That man asked for what he got, an’ I’m not leavin’ Lodgepole be-cause I defended myself.”
Holt’s eyes blazed suddenly with a crazy light. “I say you are,
hombre.”
Jack Britt stepped up, red-faced. “Holt, you’re the marshal here, not the governor. You don’t order any respectable citizen outen Lodgepole, now or any other time.”
For a second, Holt’s body tensed and his face went white. Caleb was watching for the little telltale tightening around the edges of the mouth. Several of the other Lodgepole men came forward. Three of them were prominent cowmen.
“Jack’s right, Marshal. This here man’s got as much right here in Lodgepole as you have. He stays.”
Holt looked at the tight knot of angry cowboys and ranchers around him, estimated his chances at nil, and relaxed with a savage smile. “Can’t argue with the whole damned town.” He swung back to Doom. “What I said still goes,
hombre.
You got till midnight tonight.”
Doom smiled softly. “That’s all the time I’ll need, Marshal.”
Marshal Holt held the door open for two of the Texans who struggled through with the remains of Powder Hudson, ramrod of the Texas trail herd. Several of the Texans tossed hard looks at the Lodgepole cowmen as they went out. Jack Britt tossed off the rest of his beer with a big sigh. “Well, boys, unless I’ve got these Texans sized up all wrong, hell’s goin’ to pop loose any minute now.”
The old white-headed man, who had argued with Holt over Doom’s leaving town, shrugged. “I wouldn’t bet on it, Jack. Them coyotes are pretty much all air, and now, with their foreman shot down, they just might take their damned critters an’ head out around the Lodgepole country an’ go on up north by way of Canon del Muerto.”
Jack was looking thoughtfully at the older man when the bartender spoke up. “Here, you fellers, have a beer on the house. Gawd that was the quickest gunfight I ever seen. Two shots an’ it’s over. Did’ja see
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