Twin Guns

side of the trail as possible. They waited quietly with drawn guns. A horse whose rider was swaying drunkenly in the saddle trotted into view between the boulders. As he caught sight of the ominously waiting Wagon crew, he shouted, 'Don't shoot no more, men; I'm already carrying enough lead.'

He released the saddlehorn, which he had been gripping with both hands, in an attempt to raise his hands in the ancient gesture of surrender. He never completed the move, however, for when he relaxed his grip he slid to the ground in a grotesque heap, clawing feebly at leather as he fell.

Josh hurriedly dismounted and went to him. The man was trying desperately to get to his knees but couldn't make it. He fell flat on his chest, managed to turn himself over and lay on his back, arms outflung.

Josh breathed, 'Look at the hole in this kid.'

The boy, who had propped himself up on one elbow, snarled at him, 'Kid, nothin'! I'm past twenty!' He tried to say more, but gasped for breath, and a crimson thread trickled down his beardless chin. He lay watching them, his eyes suddenly pleading. 'I ain't dyin', am I?'

No one answered. Josh and the others looked away in embarrassment as Kirby fumbled for words.

The boy spat out his words. 'I ain't no cow thief. I been runnin' with Dawes' bunch all right, but I ain't hazed no stolen cows. I'm no cow nurse. I'm a darn good gunhand. Even Whitey says so.' He closed his eyes.

'Who is Whitey?' Josh asked, with a glance at the others. Kirby spoke up before the boy could open his eyes.

'I think I know the answer. Remember that pale gent we ran into in the Nugget? The one Lon beaned when he tried to draw on me?'

The boy's eyes opened. In them there was a look of fanatic admiration. 'I heard about that. It's a good thing for you he didn't get to make his draw, mister. He's the Lightning Kid, the fastest draw in the country.'

'You mean was, don't you?' Josh asked, thinking of the furious gunfire they had heard. 'What happened at Dawes? That's where you got this hole, isn't it?'

'Whitey was still alive when I got away,' the boy answered. 'That blasted posse took us by surprise. Dawes didn't even have a man staked out as lookout. Darn Dawes, anyway. He's the cause of all our trouble.'

'Looks like you picked the wrong man to work for,' Kirby told him.

Scorn crossed the young gunman's face. 'Heck, I didn't work for that yellow-livered skunk. He was just boss of the crew; he took his orders from the same place all of us did, the Syndicate at Galeyville.'

Realization of the effect his words had on his intent audience suddenly came to him. 'Whitey always said I talked too much,' he muttered.

'What about the Syndicate, boy? They seem to be the ones who are responsible for this hole in your chest. Better talk fast; you haven't much time.'

The boy's glazed eyes were lit by a final spark of anger. 'Wouldn't you like to know?' he gritted, and died.

In silence they stared at the dead youngster, Kirby still squatted at his side. He got to his feet stiffly, like an old man. 'Blast men like Whitey anyhow. This kid might have been a useful citizen one day if he hadn't give a man like Whitey hero worship.' Shaking his head sadly, he went on, 'Let's get him off the trail and under the rocks. It'll have to do until someone can get around to giving him a decent burial.'

Quietly they set about the unpleasant chore. Then, satisfied that the body was safe from buzzards and coyotes, they climbed into leather. Ringo said, 'I hope we're not too late for the fireworks. I just heard some more shootin' up ahead.'

'I caught that, too,' said Josh. 'We better shake a leg. Might be needed.'

Things were under control when they crossed H Bar D range and rode cautiously into the yard of the spread's headquarters. They found the posse standing in a group near the front porch. Half a dozen figures lay sprawled in the yard, and they could see several others inside the house. Two possemen stood at either end of the porch, rifles at the ready as they watched a shed among the cluster of outbuildings. Lon Peters was standing near a man whose shoulder was being crudely bandaged. Kirby drew a breath of relief as he saw that his entire crew was safe. There were two still forms covered with a blanket lying on the porch. Peters saw Kirby.

'We just about cleaned out this place,' he said. He shook his head, his voice grieved. 'Two Acorn punchers cashed in their chips in the fracas. And one of their gang got away. Think he was packin' lead. See anything of him?'

'We ran into him on the trail, Lon. He's dead.'

The sheriff showed his pleasure. 'That leaves only the skunk in the shed back there, and the job is done.'

'Anyone I know holed up back there?' Kirby asked.

'Yeah. An old friend. I think they call him Whitey. He's a hired gunman, and there's nothin' I hate worse.' The sheriff's sigh seemed to come from his boots. 'I guess the time has come to see whether the old woman was right or not.' He started to walk away, but Kirby stopped him, a vague dread beginning to crowd into his mind.

'Lon, wait. Where you going?'

The sheriff's breath came in a groan. 'That danged gunhawk is holed up back there with a rifle and plenty of ammunition. If we try to rush him, someone's gonna get shot, mebbe killed. I think I know a better way to make him come out.' He tried to move away from Kirby's restraining hand.

'Don't, Lon. I think I know what you have in mind. There must be some other way.'

Lon's eyes were reproachful. 'You sound like my old woman. There ain't no other way, unless we starve him out, and that might take weeks. That's a storeroom for the cook house.' He shook off Kirby's hand and shuffled to the corner of the house where the puncher was watching the shed.

'Lemme get here, son.' The puncher moved back, and the sheriff took off his battered hat and waved it around the corner.

'Hey, Whitey, hold your fire a minute. I wanta palaver.'

There was silence for a moment, then a hoarse burst of dirisive laughter. 'Palaver nothin'! My guns do my talking.' A rifle slug tore into the corner of the house.

'That's what I mean,' Lon yelled. 'I'd like to see how good your guns are. I'll make a deal with you.'

Again came laughter. Then, 'What kind of a deal?'

'You think you're pretty fast with your iron, don't you? I think you're just a young punk not dry behind the ears yet. Meet me out here in the open, and we'll find out. If your guns are the best and you get me, the posse will give you an hour's start before they take after you. If I get you, it'll just be speedin' things up a little. What are you, a gunman, or a cowardly sidewinder?'

'How do I know for sure your men'll give me an hour? If I get you, they'd fill me full of holes in a minute.'

'I'll give you my word as a man and as sheriff. Give me yours, and I'll have a horse brought to the door of your hideout. You agree not to drill the man who brings the bronc?'

'What else?' Whitey yelled.

'We each take ten steps out in the open and draw. You scared?'

Whitey's laugh, slightly hysterical now, floated across the stillness of the yard. 'You make me laugh, old man. You gotta deal. But no tricks. Bring a bronc and tie him to the corner of the shed.'

'I'll do it,' cried Kirby and several others at the same time. But Ringo beat them to it. Seizing the reins of a saddled pony, he stepped out in the open and walked slowly to the shed, the bronc at his heels. To the tense men watching, it seemed to take hours to make the slow march. Ringo never once took his eyes from the shed window. In plain view, he tied the horse to a loose board at the corner of the ancient little building. Then he turned his back to the killer and sauntered unconcernedly toward the house. When he came closer to the watching posse, they could see that beads of perspiration stood out on his face and that his eyes held the hunted look of a man facing sudden death. He stepped around the corner of the house and let go a vast sigh of relief, in which he was joined by his waiting friends. There was quiet at the shed; then Whitey yelled:

'Now what, old man?'

'We'll each take ten steps out in the open, one at a time. I'll come first, then you. After you take your last step, we draw. That suit you, sonny, or are you scared?'

Whitey's laugh was almost a scream. 'I'm scared plumb green. Let's see the color of your eyes, old man.'

As Kirby watched the sheriff take his first step out in the open, he turned and ran into the house, carrying a rifle he had snatched from the floor. He reached a window from which the entire scene was in view and, after