tion his quarry had.
SEVEN
“Y e hear what I hear?" Angus asked. The little man had been walking around, restless as a bird. The big one was stretched out below him, the thumb of his left hand plugged into the hole the bullet had made. It was surprisingly effective in staunching the outgo of his life's blood.
"Did ye hear?" Mulchay asked again.
Buchanan nodded. "Always that same damn voice."
"We'll be hearing more than his voice in another minute."
"Not you, oldtimer."
"The hell ye say! It's two birds with one stone tonight for Black Jack Gibbons."
"What did you ever do to him?"
"Claimed bottomland when the Rio was at high flood, that's what."
"Can't shoot you for that."
"Can if it benefits Malcolm Lord —can, and will!"
"Well, in case it doesn't," Buchanan said —obviously not believing that anyone would kill old Mulchay —"in case it doesn't I want to will you my goods."
"We're goin' out together, lad! That's a fact."
"Consistin' just about entirely of a one-half claim in the Lucky Monday Mine —"
"Will ye quit jabberin'? It's Last Saturday for the both of us!"
". . . can't give you any positive location, except it's in the Negras and you take the trail west by two peaks of Big Chisos. Then just keep climbin' until somebody takes a potshot at you. That'll be Fargo, but he can't shoot worth a Mex dollar."
"Here he comes!" Mulchay said, dropping to one knee. "Ah, lad, if ye had your health. If ye had a gun . . ."
Gibbons stepped cautiously to the flat roof of the hardware store, stood there waiting until he was joined there by the two he had detailed to follow him.
"Can you see them?"
"Black as tar pitch, Cap'n. You sure he ain't armed?"
"Positive."
"But he'll have a knife. Don't want a gutful of that."
Gibbons hadn't considered a blade. As a Ranger he'd never carried one, figured it as Mexican. But Texas Thompson had, one Jim Bowie had made for him, and so had others who worked the border.
"We'll each take a corner," Gibbons said, his bravado tempered. "Work toward the center, and keep talking. Anything else that moves, shoot it." They went where he told them to go. "Start," he commanded and all three be gan converging toward the door in the middle of the roof.
Buchanan and Mulchay had heard it all.
"Ye don't, do ye?" Angus whispered.
"No knife," Buchanan answered, and that was that. Each man lapsed into silence, thinking his own thoughts, but the will to live was still with them, for the silence was absolute and their assassins would get no help in their work.
Buchanan gave his personal attention to Gibbons, gaug ing the direction he would come from, listening closely to each footfall. When he thought it was time he pulled his thumb from the wound and flexed all the fingers of that good hand. His last request wasn't outlandish- only the chance to use that hand on Gibbons to leave the man something to remember him by.
They were both listening so hard to death that neither heard the bolt being slid back from the door. Then the door moved beneath Mulchay's arm and the old man shouted out loud.
Three guns exploded a startled, fearsome reply, thun dered another time, again —and nine murderous slugs crisscrossed all about the heads and legs of the two prone men, so close they could smell them and all but taste the scorching lead.
And in the midst of everything that was happening, Buchanan marveled at the single minded courage of who ever it was who kept pushing that door wider.
"Down here, down here," Mulchay was yelling at him, and then Mulchay was abruptly gone, pulled to safety by an unseen hand. Buchanan crawled into the dark open ing, was also tugged head first down the stairway. The heavy door slammed closed above him.
"Good work, Billy," said a voice he recognized as Hamlin's, from the saloon. "That took sand."
Second the motion, Buchanan tried to say, but the ef fort just to speak seemed too much now. Very quietly the big man passed into unconsciousness.
EIGHT
T HERE was no truce
SEVEN
“Y e hear what I hear?" Angus asked. The little man had been walking around, restless as a bird. The big one was stretched out below him, the thumb of his left hand plugged into the hole the bullet had made. It was surprisingly effective in staunching the outgo of his life's blood.
"Did ye hear?" Mulchay asked again.
Buchanan nodded. "Always that same damn voice."
"We'll be hearing more than his voice in another minute."
"Not you, oldtimer."
"The hell ye say! It's two birds with one stone tonight for Black Jack Gibbons."
"What did you ever do to him?"
"Claimed bottomland when the Rio was at high flood, that's what."
"Can't shoot you for that."
"Can if it benefits Malcolm Lord —can, and will!"
"Well, in case it doesn't," Buchanan said —obviously not believing that anyone would kill old Mulchay —"in case it doesn't I want to will you my goods."
"We're goin' out together, lad! That's a fact."
"Consistin' just about entirely of a one-half claim in the Lucky Monday Mine —"
"Will ye quit jabberin'? It's Last Saturday for the both of us!"
". . . can't give you any positive location, except it's in the Negras and you take the trail west by two peaks of Big Chisos. Then just keep climbin' until somebody takes a potshot at you. That'll be Fargo, but he can't shoot worth a Mex dollar."
"Here he comes!" Mulchay said, dropping to one knee. "Ah, lad, if ye had your health. If ye had a gun . . ."
Gibbons stepped cautiously to the flat roof of the hardware store, stood there waiting until he was joined there by the two he had detailed to follow him.
"Can you see them?"
"Black as tar pitch, Cap'n. You sure he ain't armed?"
"Positive."
"But he'll have a knife. Don't want a gutful of that."
Gibbons hadn't considered a blade. As a Ranger he'd never carried one, figured it as Mexican. But Texas Thompson had, one Jim Bowie had made for him, and so had others who worked the border.
"We'll each take a corner," Gibbons said, his bravado tempered. "Work toward the center, and keep talking. Anything else that moves, shoot it." They went where he told them to go. "Start," he commanded and all three be gan converging toward the door in the middle of the roof.
Buchanan and Mulchay had heard it all.
"Ye don't, do ye?" Angus whispered.
"No knife," Buchanan answered, and that was that. Each man lapsed into silence, thinking his own thoughts, but the will to live was still with them, for the silence was absolute and their assassins would get no help in their work.
Buchanan gave his personal attention to Gibbons, gaug ing the direction he would come from, listening closely to each footfall. When he thought it was time he pulled his thumb from the wound and flexed all the fingers of that good hand. His last request wasn't outlandish- only the chance to use that hand on Gibbons to leave the man something to remember him by.
They were both listening so hard to death that neither heard the bolt being slid back from the door. Then the door moved beneath Mulchay's arm and the old man shouted out loud.
Three guns exploded a startled, fearsome reply, thun dered another time, again —and nine murderous slugs crisscrossed all about the heads and legs of the two prone men, so close they could smell them and all but taste the scorching lead.
And in the midst of everything that was happening, Buchanan marveled at the single minded courage of who ever it was who kept pushing that door wider.
"Down here, down here," Mulchay was yelling at him, and then Mulchay was abruptly gone, pulled to safety by an unseen hand. Buchanan crawled into the dark open ing, was also tugged head first down the stairway. The heavy door slammed closed above him.
"Good work, Billy," said a voice he recognized as Hamlin's, from the saloon. "That took sand."
Second the motion, Buchanan tried to say, but the ef fort just to speak seemed too much now. Very quietly the big man passed into unconsciousness.
EIGHT
T HERE was no truce
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