The men dismounted, then started walking toward a building about fifty yards away, Pete following on horseback with the other horses. A large sign on the front of the building read WESTERN EXPRESS OFFICE.
“Are we sure the money is here?” one of the men asked Fargo.
“Pete said it is,” Fargo answered. “So it damn sure better be, or he’ll be answerin’ to me.”
“I still don’t see why we’re robbin’ it here. Why don’t we just wait until it gets put on the stagecoach?”
“And go up against the shotgun guard and whoever else might be on the stage? No, thanks. We hit them this morning; the expressman will still be at breakfast and half the town will still be asleep. Just keep your wits about you, we’ll go in, get the money, and get out of here fast. By the time anyone figures out what happened, we’ll be ten miles from here.”
When they got within twenty yards of the building, the front door opened unexpectedly and four men came out.
“What the hell, Fargo? I thought you said nobody would be here. They’re wearing badges! That’s the law!”
“Pete?” Fargo hissed angrily. “What is this? What are these badge-packers doin’ here?”
“I didn’t know nothin’ about this,” Pete said. “You can’t blame this on me!”
“What are we goin’ to do, Fargo?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. Let me think,” Fargo said.
“I’m glad you and your deputies could come, Sheriff Ferrell,” George Snyder was saying to his breakfast guests as he walked out to the porch with them.
“I’ll tell you this, George,” the sheriff replied as he patted his stomach. “For the life of me, I can’t understand why you don’t weigh three hundred pounds. I mean, what with a wife that can cook like that. I do believe that is about the best breakfast I’ve ever ...”
“Who are you men, and what do you want?” one of the deputies shouted, interrupting the sheriff in mid- sentence. The deputy pointed to Fargo and the men who were approaching the express office in what the deputy perceived to be a suspicious manner.
“Sheriff ?” George said. Like the deputy, George was concerned by the determined approach of the men.
Sheriff Ferrell looked up, as curious as the others. That was when he recognized the leader.
“Son of a bitch! It’s Fargo Ford!” the sheriff shouted, going for his gun.
At this point neither Fargo, nor the men with him, had drawn their guns. But with the sheriff’s confrontation, the guns came out at about the same time and, within seconds, the street was filled with the explosive sounds of gunfire and billowing clouds of white smoke. George Snyder, who wasn’t armed, went down with the opening volley.
Falcon was taking a sip of coffee when he heard the sound of gunshots from out in the street. Getting up quickly, he ran out onto the front porch of the hotel and looked toward the sound of the guns. He saw someone standing in front of the hotel, looking toward the far end of the street. It was Paul Gibson, one of the men Falcon had played cards with last night.
“Mr. Gibson, what is it?” Falcon called from the front porch of the hotel. “What’s going on?”
“It looks like someone is tryin’ to rob the express office,” Paul replied. “There’s shootin’ goin’ on down there.”
A bullet whizzed by, the angry buzz clearly audible to both men.
“Yeah, well, if I were you, I wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the street like that,” Falcon said.
“Damn, you’re right!” Paul replied. He darted behind a watering trough and squatted down. The wisdom of Falcon’s warning was demonstrated when a stray bullet kicked up dirt just behind where Paul had been standing but a second earlier. Another bullet whizzed by Falcon’s ear and plunged into the post just beside him.
From here, Falcon could see three men, wearing badges, standing in front of the express office, exchanging fire with six men out in the street. He happened to remember that George Snyder, with whom he had played cards last night, planned to entertain the sheriff and his deputies for breakfast. And he remembered seeing the money shipment being taken off the train yesterday.
One of the six men out in the street was mounted, and he was holding the reins of five horses. The other five were in the street, backing slowly toward their horses, all the while shooting at the lawmen. Up on the porch of the express office, one man lay belly-down, and even from here, Falcon could see the downed man’s blood pooling on the boards.
Pulling his pistol, Falcon started running toward the express office, staying up on the boardwalk. He fired once at the men in the street but hit no one. He hadn’t really expected to hit anyone; it hadn’t even been an aimed shot. He had fired at the outlaws only to let the lawmen know that he was not one of the outlaws, but was coming to join in with them.
“Fargo, the whole town is after us!” Pete shouted, pulling the rifle from his saddle holster. He jacked a shell into the chamber, then, seeing Falcon, recognized him as the man with whom he had had the run-in with yesterday.
“You!” Pete shouted. “You son of a bitch, I’m going to kill you!”
Pete let go of the horses and raised his rifle to his shoulder to aim at Falcon.
“Pete, what the hell are you doing? Hang on to them horses!” Fargo yelled when he saw what Pete had done.
Pete fired, and Falcon felt the bullet fry past his ear. Falcon fired back, an aimed shot this time. Pete tumbled from his saddle. When he did so, his horse galloped, causing the horses Pete had been holding to bolt off with him. The five remaining outlaws suddenly found themselves afoot in the middle of the street.
“Fargo! Fargo! Our horses is gone!” one of the other outlaws shouted.
“I can see that they are gone, damnit!” Fargo shouted back. “You think I’m blind?”
