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  “Over by the desk,” he told the woman, putting the eye of the Winchester on her left breast. Ellen Longley, very pale now, got up and stood near the Irishman.

  Reaching behind him, Lassiter shut the door and shot the bolt. So far, so good, but Ketchell and some of the others could show up at any minute. Ketchell or Danvers’ black killer.

  “Put your hands flat on the desk,” Lassiter ordered the Irishman. “Palms up, arms out straight. Now you, Miss Longley, you find the keys to the Major’s safe and open it. Then you put everything you find into one canvas money sack. I figure I got a day’s pay coming to me for all my trouble. Colonel Danvers is dead, isn’t he?”

  “Lassiter, I swear,” the Irishman started off.

  “The safe and make it quick,” Lassiter told the girl.

  “No, I won’t,” she said, shaking her head violently, the money greed burning in her eyes. “Damn you, no. That’s my money, you bastard.”

  Lassiter leveled the rifle at her heart. “Goodbye then,” he told her, meaning it.

  “You’ll be next if it don’t get that key,” he advised the Irishman.

  Caulfield’s nerve broke. “Jesus, man, don’t kill me. I’ll give you the key. It’s in my vest pocket.”

  The Irishman took the key out nice and slow the way Lassiter told him to. He prodded the little man toward the big bank safe in the corner. He told the woman to lie face down on the floor. It took a couple of slaps to make her do it.

  The Irishman swung open the safe and the sight of all the stacked-up greenbacks seemed to give him back some of his nerve. “Christ, man, you don’t mean to take all of it,” he wheedled. “There’s more than enough for everybody. I swear killing Danvers wasn’t my idea. It was the woman’s ...”

  Lassiter cuffed him on the side of the head. Greed and anger flushed the Irishman’s face. “You’ll never get out of here. I’ve got men all over the place.”

  He tried for some of his rusty blarney. “Dammit, Lassiter, this is all a mistake. The two of us can straighten this whole thing out. I tell you, man, killing old Danvers was the woman’s idea. It was she sent Ketchell out to bushwhack the Colonel and fix the blame on you...”

  Lassiter slapped him again and the Irishman started filling a canvas sack. He looked ready to cry. Lassiter told him to hurry up. “Oh dammit, Lassiter, there’s more than fifty thousand dollars in there,” Caulfield groaned, shaking his white head. “Isn’t there some way we can do a deal?”

  Lassiter had raised his fist to hit him again when the whole town exploded with gunfire. Even in the Irishman’s heavily shuttered office the noise came through. It started as a ragged volley, then built up like thunder. Men started yelling outside on the street. Lassiter took his eyes off the Irishman for a split second and the Irishman hit him with the sack of money. He smashed the barrel of the Winchester at Caulfield’s head and hit him on the shoulder. The Irishman screamed as the bones broke. Lassiter swung the rifle on him. Before he could get off a shot Ellen Longley was up off the floor with a small knife in her hand.

  Lassiter knew she wouldn’t drop it. It took him about half a second longer for him to press the trigger than if she’d been a man. The bullet hit her right under the left breast and sent her reeling back. She crashed into a rocking chair and overturned it. Ellen Longley was dead before the chair stopped rocking.

  The Irishman was fumbling at the desk drawer with his left hand. The other arm hung useless. Lassiter let him get out the small-bore pistol, then shot him in the head. The Irishman flopped back into his big chair and sprawled there. He looked surprised and very small.

  Lassiter finished stuffing the sack with money, Outside the shooting and yelling was getting louder.

  By now bullets were zipping into the outer office, knocking out the windows.

  He tightened the drawstrings on the money sack and started for the street.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lloyd Ketchell was running down the middle of the street toward the bank when Lassiter stepped out onto the sidewalk, the Colt in one hand, the sack of money in the other. Ketchell didn’t recognize Lassiter in the murky light. He yelled something about Danvers’ men and kept running.

  Ketchell was nearly at the bank when he saw who it was. His meaty hand groped at his gunbelt and Lassiter shot him twice in the chest. Ketchell had been running so hard he didn’t stop after he was shot. His bulky body smashed through a hitching rail and fell face down on the wooden sidewalk.

  Hell was breaking loose from all sides of McDade. It was just as the dead Irishman had figured. The outer ring of skirmishers had fallen back after the first wild exchange of gunfire, drawing Danvers’ men in after them.

  It looked like the trap had worked well enough. There were more of the Danvers men, but they hadn’t been able to break through. Some of the buildings at the other end of town had caught fire. Somewhere out there a shot horse screamed, then a man screamed as the horse fell on top of him. Lassiter wondered where Jefferson Turner was. The Negro wouldn’t give a damn what happened to Danvers’ men now that Danvers was dead. All he wanted was to get the men who’d killed his Colonel. The men he thought had killed his Colonel.

  Keeping close to the shadows, Lassiter moved away from the bank. He figured he’d have to face Turner one time or another. It would be better if they could have it out now. It would be, he decided, mighty inconvenient to have the kill-crazy Negro dogging his trail. What would be more unhandy would be to go looking for Turner and get himself killed with fifty thousand dollars in his hand. One more time he cursed himself for not killing the Negro when he had the chance. He was pretty sure Turner wasn’t about to give him another.

  There was a wild outburst of shooting and yelling, then the thunder of hooves as a cluster of Danvers’ men broke through and came charging down the street. The defenders closed ranks again, cutting them off from their support. They came on, yelling like wild men, firing wildly into the buildings on both sides of the street, not doing any real damage. A bullet broke a window near Lassiter’s head, spraying him with slivers of glass.

  When they were about halfway down the street the riflemen on top of the buildings cut loose with a barrage that knocked four of the six riders out of their saddles. One of the surviving riders jumped off his animal and started toward an alley. Bullets kicked up the dirt around his feet. He wheeled about and knocked a McDade man off a roof with a single shot. He got another five or six feet before a bullet bowled him over. He tried to get up and failed. Now that he was a steady target the shooters lay back and pumped lead into him.

  Lassiter was crouched low in a doorway when the other Danvers rider tried to make a run for it. Only there was no place to run. About fifty feet up the street from where Lassiter was hiding a huge man stepped out of the shadows and pulled both triggers of a double-barrel at the same time. The Danvers rider was knocked clean out of the saddle. The horse wasn’t hit and kept running. The big man moved slowly into the middle of the street and yelled something at the men on the rooftops. The big man was Charlie Clingman, the Dutchman Lassiter had whipped and tossed in jail.

  The Dutchman seemed to be enjoying himself. Even before he reloaded the scattergun, he took a bottle out of his pants pocket and emptied what was left in it. Making an awkward draw, he threw the empty bottle into the air and fired at it. He missed. “Son of a bitch,” he roared. He started to laugh.

  Lassiter knew Clingman would spot him if he stayed where he was. The door he was crouched against was locked. There was a fresh outbreak of gunfire at the lightly defended end of town, out by Boot Hill. It looked to Lassiter like Turner had sent most of the Danvers men into Caulfield’s trap so he could ride around and come in from the other side.

  Lassiter put all his weight against the door. It didn’t budge. Clingman started yelling at the men on the rooftops to get down to stop the new attack. Spurred on by the Dutchman’s wild yells, they went running. Clingman was crazy drunk by now. He rooted in his coat pocket for another pint bottle. “Son of a
bitch,” he roared between swallows.

  Houses were burning at both ends of town and smoke started to drift up the street. Clingman just stood there, swaying like a maddened bear. Nothing that was happening seemed to matter a damn to him. Lassiter hoped the smoke would get thicker. That way he had a chance to walk out of there without tangling with the Dutchman. Any other time he wouldn’t duck a chance to give Clingman a beating. This, sure as shooting, wasn’t the time, the place. Not with that fifty thousand.

  Smoke or no smoke, it was time to get moving. Hugging the sides of the buildings, Lassiter started down the street. There was no use making any kind of hard and fast plan because anything could happen in McDade. All he knew was, he had fifty thousand dollars in his hand. It was the only fifty thousand he had, or was likely to have, for some time. If he could snag one of those riderless horses running around out there in the dark, he just might make it.

  Clingman was still in the middle of the street, yelling obscenities. Lassiter didn’t see how Clingman could spot him with all that smoke, but he did. “Son of a bitch,” the Dutchman roared. “Mister bitch bastard Lassiter.” The Dutchman yelled with crazy delight and brought the scattergun up to his shoulder.

  Lassiter hit the street as both barrels exploded. A store window blew in behind him. He rolled over and fired two quick shots at Clingman. They both hit him squarely in the chest. They didn’t stop him. The Dutchman threw the shotgun away and drew a six-gun. There was time to get off only one shot before Lassiter pegged two more bullets at him. The first one got him under the eye, the other right between the eyes. The big man stumbled and fell.

  One of the dead Dutchman’s canvas-coat pockets was crammed full of shotgun loads. Lassiter shoved as many as he could into his own pockets after he reloaded the scattergun. The shotgun had a sawed-off barrel and he stuck it through his belt, muzzle down. He hadn’t figured on trying to bring along a heavy weapon. After the shoot-out with Clingman it seemed like a good idea. It might just be the kind of gun to use on Jefferson Turner when and if he showed up.

  The firing at both ends of the street started to slacken off. Sparks from the burning buildings had carried on the wind, and now it looked like half of McDade was on fire. Lassiter stepped over a dead man on the sidewalk and kept going.

  There was still no sign of Jefferson Turner. It was just barely possible that he had been killed. Lassiter was tired and he hoped the Negro was dead. He didn’t think so. The gun battle was dragging to a bloody finish. Except for occasional shots here and there both sides seemed to have had enough. Somehow or other the word had gone ‘round that Caulfield was dead. With both principals dead, with nobody left to pay them, most of the fight had gone out of the hired guns.

  There was still some shooting out past the edge of town. Inside the town itself the survivors of the gun battle were shuffling around, dazed by the destruction that was going on. Nobody made any move to try to put out the fires now racing through the whole town. Not that it would have done any good. McDade was finished once and for all. Chances were it would never be rebuilt.

  Ducking into the mouth of an alley, Lassiter heard a group of riders coming down the smoke-clogged street. They reined in only a few yards from where he was hiding. Lassiter recognized one of them, a rangy Texas cowboy turned gunman.

  The Texan was yelling, “The whole goddam town’s cleaned out. Looks like somebody got to the Major’s safe.” He held up and shook a burlap sack that rattled. “Least we got enough whiskey to hold us for a spell ...”

  A thin man with a big hat spoke up, “What think we should do, Texas?”

  The Texan said, “I say let’s get the hell out of this miserable town. What’s left of it. I hear tell there’s a range war fixing to break out up Palmas way. Could be they could use some guns ...”

  Lassiter watched them ride out. They whooped and hollered some and shot up some of the buildings.

  Then they were out past the end of town and gone. The thunder of horses died away and McDade was left to burn itself out.

  Lassiter started to move down the burning street. A flying brand struck him in the face, blinding him for an instant. He slapped it away, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve. His eyes stung and watered. Holstering the Colt, he rubbed his eyes with his hand. He shut his eyes, trying to ease the sting. When he opened them again the first thing he saw was Jefferson Turner standing in the middle of the street.

  The Negro stood easy and relaxed, not at all like a man who’d been in a fight. The flat-crowned hat was pulled low over his eyes, but Lassiter could see the flames reflected in them. The Negro’s horse, a fine bay, was standing off to the left. The animal wasn’t hitched.

  “Well, Mister Cracker,” Turner said calmly. “Looks like you got two things I want. Your life and your money. And I’m about to take both of them. Just like I said I would.”

  Lassiter was surprised to find the black man so talky. He guessed a lot of killers were like that when getting ready to cut somebody down. They enjoyed killing so much they liked to talk about it. He didn’t make any answer. There was no point right now. But he did let the sack of money drop to the ground.

  Turner took that as a sign that he was scared and willing to make a bargain for his life. He couldn’t have been more wrong, but he didn’t know that. He sure was talky.

  “I’m not about to kill you easy, cracker,” the Negro said. “I don’t let any white man die easy ‘less I’m pressed for time. And look at me, cracker, I got all the time in the world. Now you don’t have much time a-tall. How does it feel to come so close to all the Irishman’s money, and then not live to spend it? There must be a sight of money in that sack. I’d say thousands. Cracker, with that money you could buy everything you ever wanted. Maybe even go back South and start your own plantation?”

  The Negro showed his strong teeth in a smile.

  “Buy yourself all kinds of fancy white gals. Set yourself up as quality folks. Round up some darkies and make believe it’s the good old days. That’s what you could do with that money, cracker. Except you ain’t. You ain’t about to do nothing but feed the worms.”

  Lassiter wished Turner would get on with it. Faster than Lassiter could see, the Negro’s hand flashed toward his gun. It came out of the holster in a smooth swooping movement. The barrel cleared leather and fired. Lassiter felt the lead slug burn along the side of his head. Then Lassiter drew, as fast as the Negro, but he didn’t fire as fast. He put three shots through the Negro’s chest, no more than two inches apart. The Negro roared not with pain or with rage but with something else. It was more like a crazed animal caught in a trap. Caught and trapped and killed after years of running free. He roared again and Lassiter shot him in the head. Turner was dead but something kept him on his feet. Lassiter figured it was pure hate. He cocked the hammer to shoot him again, then waited till the Negro’s legs buckled and then fell backward and lay still.

  Lassiter stood looking at him for several minutes. He shook his head and spat in the dust. The Negro’s horse hadn’t moved while his owner was being killed. Lassiter spoke to the horse and walked over to the animal. It was a little skittish at first. Then it settled down.

  After Lassiter finished packing the saddlebags with money, he climbed onto the horse and rode out of town.

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