I nodded and started counting. I sheathed my knife, pulled my Colt, and moved back around next to the west-end door.
One thousand one... one thousand two... one thousand three — I pulled my second Colt — one thousand four... one thousand five — I stepped back to kick the door — one thousand six, one thousand seven, one thousand eight, one thousand nine.
This was it. This was the moment.
I kicked the door hard just as two shots rang out from inside. The door busted from its hinges, crashing flat into the room and landing at the feet of a tall man.
“Don’t shoot!” he cried out, and instantly raised his arms above his head.
With his one good arm, and his wood arm high above his head, I knew right away this fellow was the masquerading conductor, John Bishop Wellington, and the man who had escaped from prison with Bloody Bob. Wellington was healed with a backward side rig. The butt of a Smith & Wesson was sticking out facing me, but his arms were up and I had both my Colts pointing at him.
“Don’t shoot!” Wellington pleaded again as he backed away from me. “Please!”
Behind him, the door separating the office from the bunkroom was open. I saw Virgil with his Colt standing in the smoke-filled office. To my left there was a low bunk, but no women.
“Take that S ’n W out, slow,” I said, “and pitch it over to the bunk.”
Wellington did what I told him and kept both arms up.
“Don’t see the women,” I called out. “You?”
“No!” Virgil replied. “Two dead hands. No Lassiter. No women.”
“Where are they?” I said to Wellington.
“Please, don’t hurt me.”
I raised one Colt with an eye-level bead between Wellington’s eyes. “Where are they?”
Before Wellington could open his mouth I heard two distinct clicks behind me, and metal pressing into my back.
99
Distinct clicks I’d heard before. Many times before. And a voice: “Release the hammers on those pistols and drop them to the floor, Deputy,” the voice said. “You too, Marshal,” the voice called out louder, “or one shot of this eight-gauge blows a hole through your deputy’s back and the other will be for you. Your call.”
I recognized the voice, but I could not place it until he spoke again.
“Like I told you before, I have killed before, and I’m not afraid to do it again. I will give you three seconds!”
It was Captain Lowell Cavanaugh, the dandy from the first coach. The son of a bitch had my eight-gauge. The dandy was in on it.
“No need, Mr. Cavanaugh,” I said.
I was looking directly at Virgil standing in the office.
“Now!” Cavanaugh shouted.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”
I released the hammers and dropped my Colts.
“Just take it easy.”
“I will tell you how to take it, Deputy,” Cavanaugh said. “From here on, I do all the telling!”
I was watching Virgil closely, wondering what he could do.
Virgil did not have a shot. Cavanaugh was small and standing directly behind me.
“There are three of us,” Virgil said. “You only got two shots.”
“Shut up!” Cavanaugh shouted as he jabbed the barrels of the eight-gauge hard into my back. “You don’t have the upper hand here, Marshal!” Cavanaugh continued with a seething snarl. His jabbing got harder, punctuating each of his words as he talked. “If you value this man’s life, you will do exactly as I say!”
“So, you’re the one behind this?” I said, trying to keep him talking, thinking. “This was all your doing?”
“Shoot him!” Wellington said to Cavanaugh. “Goddamn it, just shoot him!”
“Don’t move an inch, Mr. Wellington, not an inch,” Cavanaugh said. “This is a perfect symmetry, you see. With the deputy demilitarized, his marshal has no recourse but...”
Cavanaugh stopped talking.
“But?” Wellington said. “Goddamn it, but what?”
I felt the barrels of the eight-gauge slip from my back and heard them hit the floor with a thud. Wellington looked down, saw the eight-gauge was no longer on my back, and he went for his pistol on the bunk, but he was too slow and too late. I snatched the back of Wellington’s neck and jerked him away from the bunk. Virgil and Berkeley came in quick. Berkeley grabbed Wellington and slammed him into a loop of barbed wire hanging from the south wall and put a forearm stiff to his throat. Lowell Cavanaugh was still standing in the doorway. Both of his arms were at his side. The eight-gauge was in his right hand, but the barrels were planted firmly on the floor. He was staring straight ahead with a blank look on his face, and I saw why. Sticking through the left breast pocket of his dandy suit coat was a razor-sharp arrowhead.
100
Cavanaugh was dead on his feet with the eight-gauge propping him up but his hand released, the gun dropped, and he fell forward flat on his face with the arrow sticking out of his back. Berkeley had Wellington tight against the wall.
“Where are they?” I said.
Berkeley let up on Wellington, but Wellington gasped, trying to get some breath, so Berkeley — in his own way — helped him. Berkeley slapped him hard.
“You heard him!” Berkeley said.
Wellington just sucked air.
Berkeley slapped him again, harder.
“Berkeley,” I said.
Berkeley let up on Wellington, but all Wellington could do was bend over coughing, trying to get his breath.
Berkeley lifted him up to face us.
“Where!” Berkeley said. “Where are they, goddamn it!”
Wellington’s coughing got worse and his face got redder than it already was as he continued gasping for air.
Jimmy John came hurrying up to the door.
“Got one running,” Jimmy John said pointing to the north. “That way!”
“Get on him!” Virgil said.
Virgil moved quick out the door, following Jimmy John on the run.
“Go,” Berkeley said to me. “If there is anything to get out of this son of a bitch, I’ll get it. Go!”
I picked up my eight-gauge and moved out the door, following after Virgil and Jimmy John.
They were running next to a coal track that traveled from the road toward the mines. Virgil and Jimmy John were ahead of me by about twenty-five yards. As I was on the run, I heard a horse to my left, and I saw movement in the trees. I heard galloping. I stopped next to a small watershed. Riding out of the trees, running directly toward me, came a rider. He was looking back over his shoulder toward Virgil and Jimmy John — they had run past him — and the rider had no idea he was riding directly at me. When he turned in the saddle to look forward, he saw me. It was Lassiter. He was too late to rein the mount away from me as I swung my eight-gauge and hit him square in the face with the heavy barrels. Lassiter flipped backward out of the saddle and hit the ground like a shot buffalo.
“Got him here, Virgil!” I called out, “I got him back here! It’s Lassiter!”
Berkeley came running up.
“The mine shaft!” Berkeley shouted out as he came running, pointing. “He said they were stowed in the mine shaft!”
“They alive?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” Berkeley said, out of breath. “He went limp. I wrapped him in barbed wire.” Berkeley looked at Lassiter on his back, spitting up blood and teeth. “Keep going! I got this bastard, and the other! Go!” Berkeley grabbed Lassiter and started dragging him back toward the office like a rag doll.