Sudden--At Bay (A Sudden Western #2) (14 page)

Bob Davis was guarding the window
in the Oasis, his eyes sweeping up and down the empty street,
watching for any movement which might indicate hostile action. But
the town was empty and still. Even the few men who had emerged from
their homes after the fight in the street were nowhere to be seen.
‘Gone to ground somewheres,’ Davis told himself. ‘Can’t say I blame
’em. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind joinin’ ’em.’ Aloud, he
addressed a question to Sudden.

‘Yore guess is as good as mine,
Bob,’ Sudden told him in reply. ‘If they rode out to try for the
girl, Billy oughta be comin’ in hell-for-leather any minnit. Then
we’ll know where they are. Otherwise, like I said, yore guess is as
good as mine.’

‘I don’t like it,’ muttered Doc
Hight. ‘It’s too damn quiet.’

The momentary silence which
followed his words was broken then by the soft thud of hoofs
approaching, and Sudden was on his feet in one swift surge, moving
towards the batwing doors. Blass and the doctor moved quickly to
their posts by the other window, and a gasp of surprise escaped the
medico’s lips.

‘It’s the kid,’ he announced,
unbelievingly. ‘An’ he’s got Bucky Cotton in front o’ him. Will
yu
look
at
him!’

The captured Cotton was indeed a
sight to see. His clothes were covered with white gypsum dust,
which had caked his face and been turned in places to mud by sweat
or tears or both. His fine soft leather boots were tattered and one
of the heels was missing, making him limp heavily. His hair was
matted, and his eyes wild; a steady stream of curses mumbled from
his dust-caked lips as he weaved about at the end of the rope held
by Billy Hornby. The boy moved slowly up the street from the
bridge, his eyes wary, gun out. He passed Doc Hight’s house and
drew level with the jail, half turning his horse towards the saloon
and nearly jerking the half-demented Buck Cotton off his
feet.

‘Blast my eyes!’ crowed
Blass,‘that kid’s shore got his share o’ sand. I’ll go an’ give him
a hand!’

Sudden whirled to protest, but the bartender was
already through the swing doors and out on the sidewalk, calling to
the boy.

‘Billy!’ he yelled. ‘Yu shore
—’

He never finished the sentence. A lance of flame
blossomed from the jailhouse and then another.

Buck Cotton let out an animal
sound, something between a scream and a shout, turning, stumbling
to his knees, screeching ‘Sim! Sim!’ as the men in the saloon
blasted a fusillade towards the unseen assassins across the
street.

Blass had stopped as if he had run
into a wall, and uncertainty made him hesitate for a fatal moment
before he tried to turn on his heel and get back towards the
saloon. A volley of shots took him off his feet and slammed him
face down on the steps of the saloon, even as Billy yanked back on
the rope around Buck Cotton’s neck, hauling the Cottonwood man
backwards on his knees, eyes bugging and face contorted, fighting
to breathe, his fingers scrabbling to tear the searing noose from
his throat. Billy hauled his horse around as Sudden and his two
companions laid down a slashing hail of lead across the windows and
doors of the jail. Bullets whined off the adobe walls and for a
moment there was a break in the firing from the ambushers. Billy
was turned around now, yanking Buck Cotton backwards, half dragging
him along the street as the boy tried to head for the cover of the
stable. A ragged cheer escaped Doc Hight’s throat only to die
stillborn as a hail of shots was loosed at Billy. He lurched in the
saddle, fighting to stay on top of the horse, and then lurched
again and went over the side, plowing down like a broken doll into
the dirt of the street about ten yards from the front of the livery
stable.

The panic-stricken horse, however,
had not stopped. It sun fished for a moment as its rider slid from
its back, then wheeled again, the rope around Buck Cotton’s neck
looped to the saddle pommel twanging taut.

‘Stop that damn hoss!’ yelled a
voice across the street in the jail, and a man dashed out, throwing
himself prone, a rifle leveled at the horse. Sudden’s gun spoke and
the man’s head fell forward, the rifle slipping from limp
hands.

This shot brought a shuddering
whinny from the terrified horse. Its ears went back and with a
scream it lunged forward, stampeding across the street, hurtling
through the gap between the jail and the sheriff’s house, dragging
behind it a lurching, bumping, screaming bundle.

‘My Gawd!’ breathed Davis. ‘He
never had a chance.’

‘He didn’t deserve one,’ snapped
Sudden harshly. ‘Cover me! I’m goin’ to get the kid.’

Without another word, he vaulted
out of the shattered window and had rolled twice, across the
sidewalk and into the street, lighting on all fours, crouched, guns
leveled, before Hight and Davis recovered from their astonishment
and laid covering fire above his head. Sudden’s right hand gun
barked twice as he moved fast and erratically, towards where the
boy lay. Shots whined about him. One tugged at the sleeve of his
shirt, another ruffled his hair. Gouts of dust and sand plunked
into the air and still he was not harmed. He reached the boy’s
side. Billy’s back was black with blood, and there was a dark stain
beneath his head. A quick glance around revealed to Sudden that
several figures were running into the street. He emptied a gun at
them and they broke and scattered for buildings and doorways.
Without wasting a moment, Sudden picked up the slumped body of
Billy Hornby as though the burly youth had been but a child and
slung him unceremoniously across his shoulder. Stumbling,
half-falling, he ran for the door of the livery stable as more
shots from the jailhouse whispered by him, and thunked into the
wooden walls of the building. Once inside, Sudden laid the boy as
gently as he could on to a pile of straw and wheeled to face the
doorway, shooting at the running figures across by the jail until
the hammer clicked flatly upon an empty chamber. They faded back
out of sight and for a moment there was a brief respite. Sudden
took advantage of this to push the heavy plank door shut, and then
dropped the heavy timber bar into place behind it.

With a glance at the
still-unconscious boy, he methodically reloaded his guns, moving
across to one of the windows facing the street for a guarded glance
outside. The street was empty and still. A frown touched his
forehead for a moment. He wondered whether the storekeeper and the
doctor had managed to make good their escape. They had agreed
earlier that if for any reason their group was split, that the
three townsmen would try to escape to Fort Lane. Two, now, Sudden
told himself bitterly. Blass had taken three or four bullets, had
never known what hit him. He turned at the sound of movement, and
found Billy sitting up groggily on the pile of straw. He was
touching the bullet burn across his forehead gingerly, unaware of
the wound in his chest.

‘Jim…’ he began weakly. ‘I had
Buck … Cotton. Then all hell broke loose.’

‘I’m a mite cross with yu, Billy,’
Sudden told him severely. ‘Yu shore ought to’ve knowed better than
to ride into town as if yu
was leadin’ a
parade. If things wasn’t so busy right now, I shore
might be tempted to.’ He broke off as Billy’s
smile faded and
the boy slid backwards in a
dead faint.

With a final brief look at the
still empty street, Sudden moved over to the boy’s side and
stripped off the blood-soaked shirt. The wound in Billy’s shoulder
was an ugly one. A bullet had drilled a ragged hole through from
just above his shoulder blade in the back to below the collarbone
in the front. Another had burned a track across his
scalp.

‘Lost plenty o’ blood,’ Sudden
surmised, ‘but it didn’t hit bone. He’s a lucky boy. Half an inch
lower down, an’ him and Buck Cotton’d be meetin’ up
again.’

He took the shirt over to where the water barrel
stood by the horse stalls, washing it cut thoroughly and then
tearing it into wide strips. From these he made a rough compress
and bandage, and then scouted about the dusty stable for a moment
or two, returning with a handful of cobwebs from a corner.

‘Injun medicine’s the on’y kind I
savvy, Billy,’ he told the inert figure. ‘I’m shore hopin’ that ol’
Paiute knowed what he was talkin’ about!’

He pressed the cobwebs against the
wound and then laid the wet compress over them. He wiped away the
rest of the blood, and repeated the operation at the back where the
bullet had entered. He then bound the boy’s shoulder as well as he
could, so that the boy’s arm was held close against his chest. If
he moved while he was unconscious he wouldn’t start the bleeding
again.

‘Well, I hope it holds yu, kid,’
Sudden muttered. ‘Now: how do we get out o’ this place?’

He cast his eyes hopefully about
the stable. It was more or less square shaped, a one-story edifice
of timber with a peaked roof below which heavy timber rafters ran
parallel to form a sort of false ceiling. From these hung saddles
and bridles, harness, and tools. Sudden wondered idly where the
hostler was. ‘Run for the ol’ Fort, more’n likely,’ he guessed. The
sidewalls had no windows in them, and the back of the stable was
equipped only with a small, heavily-barred door and a tiny window
which was, he noted with satisfaction, barred and shuttered. The
huge front doors, wide enough when swung back to admit a wagon and
team, were flanked by larger windows, both of which were already
shattered and splintered by the hail of bullets which had followed
Sudden’s rescue dash. Huge slivers of wood had been driven through
the heavy doors by Cotton’s men’s bullets.

‘Time to take another gander,’
Sudden informed nobody in
particular, and
edged over towards the shattered window. Taking his hat from his
head he poked it forward on the end of his gun barrel until it
could be clearly seen from outside. A tremendous fusillade of shots
burst out, snatching the hat off the gun-barrel, chopping pieces of
wood from the window frame, and chunking into the walls.

Sudden shook his head. ‘Never liked
that hat, anyhow,’ he said. He was worried about the two men who
had been brave enough to stand up against the Cotton crew with him.
They were alone. Maybe even now, Sim Cotton’s men were outflanking
the saloon, ready to shoot down like a mad dog anything that moved
inside. The puncher cursed aloud.

‘Damned if I help ’em an’ damned
if I don’t’ he said. ‘No shootin’ goin’ on … so somethin’ must be
brewin’. But what?’

As if in answer to his question, someone rapped
urgently on the rear door. Gun cocked, Green slid over towards
it.