hold.
Not much, but enough. Drawing forward, Calamity propelled the handle of her whip to the rear. The hard knob of the butt rammed into Torp’s solar plexus. Belching out a gasp of agony, he released her entirely and started to go backward. Calamity swung around and lashed out with her whip-filled right hand. The back of her fist caught Torp at the side of the head. Spinning in a circle, he blundered into the batwing doors and passed through. Still unable to halt himself, he crossed the sidewalk, collided with the hitching rail’s end-post and tumbled on to his hands and knees in the street.
On the point of following Torp and making sure he could not return, Calamity heard the crash of the table. Turning her head, she saw that the Kid needed help in the worst kind of way. Three strides across the room carried Calamity close enough to give it. Already her right arm had sent the whip’s lash curling behind her. Forward the arm snapped and the lash reversed its direction.
Looking up, the Kid saw Olaf’s right foot raised and poised to crash the sharp spikes into him. If he could only have a moment to catch his breath, he might yet escape. The moment was to be granted to him. Something brown wrapped itself around the man’s head. Still standing on one leg, Olaf screamed in agony as the whip’s lash bit into his face. Calamity tugged back on the handle, pulling the man off balance. Although he sent the boot driving down, he just missed the Kid. Up rose Olaf’s hands, tearing the lash from his face and flinging it aside. Then he started to rush across the room.
Seeing in which direction the giant was headed. Calamity dropped her whip and reached for her Navy Colt. Then she heard the rumble of hooves and voices raised in the street. Realizing that the sounds heralded Vandor’s return, and noticing that the Kid was already on his hands and knees as he started to get up, she knew that she must try to prevent the gunslingers from coming back into the barroom. Backing hurriedly toward the doors, she hooked her left boot under the Kid’s gunbelt and sent it skidding across the floor in his direction.
“Lon!” she yelled, drawing his attention from the bald giant and to the belt which halted several feet from the Texan.
Sweeping Endicott aside as he tried to rise, Olaf snatched up the axe. Mouthing barely human sounds, the giant turned and rushed toward the Kid. Still only half erect, the Texan saw the man approaching. Around whistled the axe, swung with the speed, power and precision of a trained lumberjack. The Kid propelled himself toward his gunbelt, barely passing clear of the axe’s swinging arc. Diving, the Texan extended his right hand as he landed belly-down on the floor. His fingers closed about the butt and he plucked the old Dragoon from its holster. Nearer came the giant’s feet, sounding and vibrating through the planks. Twisting on to his back, the Kid saw Olaf looming toward him and the axe swinging into the air. Thrusting the Dragoon upward, the Kid drew its trigger to the rear with his right forefinger as the heel of his left hand flashed over to drive back and release the hammer.
Fanning a single-action revolver, which had to be cocked between each shot, was the fastest known way of turning lead loose. It was also a measure of desperation, especially when using the four-pound-one-ounce, thumb- busting old Dragoon Colt. Twice the Kid slapped back the hammer, riding the wicked recoil between the shots. Both bullets lanced into Olaf’s torso, but even then, if he had been using a lesser weapon, the Kid might not have saved his life. Each chamber of the revolver held forty grains of powder, almost twice the charge used in a Winchester
Two 219-grain bullets, traveling at around 900 feet-per-second, were more than even Olaf’s giant frame could absorb and remain standing. Instead of completing his blow, he pitched over backward and the axe dropped from his hands. Olaf was dead before he hit the floor. Across the room Endicott lay crumpled against the front of the bar.
At the door, Calamity flattened herself against the wall and looked out. Vandor sat his horse, leading three others, in the center of the street. Suddenly, as the Kid’s Dragoon began to crash behind her, Calamity saw Vandor rein in the horses. Torp was lurching toward him, pointing toward the saloon and speaking, but Vandor hardly looked his way.
“It’s the sheriff!” the handsome gunslinger growled, indicating something beyond Calamity’s range of vision. “Poole must’ve missed him. Get the hell out of here, Torp!”
“What’s happening, Calam?” the Kid asked, forcing himself erect and moving toward her.
“It’s them two gun-slicks,” the girl replied, then hooves rumbled and moved away. “They looked like they was fixing to come busting in here. Only Vandor yelled something about the sheriff and they lit out like the devil after a yearling.”
Thrusting through the doors, the Kid lunged across the sidewalk and landed on the street. He saw the two men disappearing at a gallop into an alley farther down and across the street. As they went out of sight before he could raise the Dragoon, he looked for the reason behind their departure. Hearing another set of hooves in the opposite direction to that taken by the hired guns, he swung toward the sound. Patches of light scattered along the street, from the illuminated windows of various business premises. A big light-colored horse walked into one of them.
Instantly the Kid knew that something was wrong. He identified the horse as Leckenby’s buckskin. While the sheriff was on its back, he was not behaving in a natural manner. Instead of urging his horse to a better pace and holding a gun as he came to investigate, he sat stiff in his saddle with the animal moving at a steady walk. Even as the Kid looked, the buckskin turned and continued at the same pace into an alley.
“Calam!” the Kid barked, ignoring the people who began to congregate. “Let’s go,
Having seen that there was no chance of taking up matters with the gunslingers, Calamity had holstered her Colt, then returned to collect her whip and the Kid’s gunbelt. With the belt hanging over her left shoulder and coiling the whip, she joined the Kid in the street.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I reckon the sheriff’s been hurt,” the Kid replied. “We’d best——”
“What’s happened in there?” asked a tall, lean man in town clothes and carrying a doctor’s bag. He was in the front of the crowd, along with half a dozen men who looked like they had been a long time west of the Mississippi, even if they had lived in towns rather than on the range.
“Vandor set Olaf on the Texan,” the bartender replied, coming through the batwing doors.
“Seeing’s you’re here,” the spokesman spoke dryly to the Kid, “I’d say Olaf’s dead. I’m not surprised ——”
“Are you a doctor?” interrupted the Kid.
“If I’m not, young feller, there’s a lot of people around here should have worries,” the man answered. “Who’s hurt in there?”
“Nobody’s you can fix,” growled the Kid. “I reckon the sheriff’s been shot!”
Talk rumbled up and, watching the faces around him, the Kid saw mixed emotions. Some of the people looked surprised, others appeared to be worried and cast anxious glances around them. The six men hovering behind the doctor reacted as the Kid had expected they would. All showed interest, concern, but not fear for their own safety. The doctor proved to be a man of action.
“Let’s go!” he snapped. “I don’t need a crowd to watch me work. Some of you help Sid to clear up in there. Harry, you and the boys head for home then meet me at Day’s house.”
“We’ll do that,” declared a gnarled old-timer among the six.
On joining the Kid, Calamity had returned her whip to its loop and taken his Dragoon, leaving him free to retrieve and buckle on his gunbelt. Returning the old gun to leather, he went with the girl and the doctor along the street. Taking the lead, the medical man swung down an alley. While walking, the Kid told of his suspicions and found that the doctor agreed with him.
“You’re right. Day’d’ve come barreling down that street, gun out and ready to use it if he’d been all right.”
At that moment they came into sight of the sheriff’s house and any hopes they cherished that the Kid might be wrong were wiped away by what they saw. Leckenby’s big buckskin stood at the picket fence’s gate and the house’s front door was open. Staggering under his weight, Mrs. Leckenby was helping her husband along the path. She looked around as she heard the running feet. Coming up fast, Calamity and the two men closed around the couple. Although hit high up in the right side of his chest and with his shirt soaked by blood, the sheriff was still conscious.
