as he led the charge once more past the hotel. This time, Longarm, Coffin, and Sanderson had to throw themselves flat on the boardwalk as the outlaws returned their fire. Slugs thudded into the wall and chewed splinters from the railing along the edge of the boardwalk. As a bullet smacked into one of the planks only a few inches from Longarm’s head, he knew he had to hunt some cover.
He rolled quickly toward the edge of the boardwalk and dropped the foot and a half to the ground. That put him between the boardwalk and one of the watering troughs that lined the street. The ground was a little muddy there, since horses had obviously been drinking earlier and had dripped quite a bit from their muzzles, but Longarm didn’t worry about getting a little mud on his clothes. The thick wood of the trough and the water inside it would stop the outlaw lead from reaching him.
Longarm glanced behind him and saw that Coffin and Sanderson had overturned the heavy wooden bench that normally sat on the far side of the hotel doors. Most days, that bench was occupied by hotel visitors and various old-timers passing the time. Now it was serving as a shield behind which the sheriff and the Ranger crouched as they shot it out with the raiders. Sanderson had no trouble getting his slight frame behind the overturned bench, but Coffin was so big that he stuck out in places.
Longarm had three shots left in his Colt, and he emptied them as fast as he could pull the trigger as he raised up behind the water trough. One of the outlaws’ horses stumbled but didn’t go down. Then, as quickly as it had happened before, the riders were past the hotel. Scattered gunfire came from elsewhere along the street as a few of Del Rio’s citizens tried to put up a fight. At this hour of the morning, though, folks were still sleepy, and certainly weren’t prepared to fight for their lives against a gang of vicious killers.
And the outlaws were already regrouping at the end of the street for yet another sweep through the town.
Longarm jammed his Colt back in its holster as he pushed himself to his feet and bounded up onto the boardwalk. He headed for the door of the hotel, ignoring Coffin’s angry shout, “Where you goin’, Long?” It probably looked to Coffin and Sanderson as if he was running out on this fight, but Longarm figured he could do more damage if he could get his hands on the Winchester up in his room.
He charged across the lobby, barely noticing the clerk peeking fearfully over the counter from where he crouched behind it. Longarm didn’t see any of the guests, and hoped they all had the sense to lie low. He took the stairs three at a time, then dashed down the second-floor corridor when he reached the landing. He had rigged the door of his room with a match again when he left earlier, but now there was no time to check it before he flung the door open. No one was waiting to ambush him. He snatched up the Winchester, which he had left leaning in a corner, and dug a box of cartridges out of his saddlebags. Fumbling out a handful of the .44-40s, he began thumbing them into the rifle’s loading gate as he hurried across the hall to a room that was on the front of the hotel.
Longarm lifted a booted foot and slammed it against the door of the other room, not taking the time to worry about whether or not it was occupied. As luck had it, it wasn’t. He sprang to the window, hearing the pounding of hoofbeats from the street, followed by the bang of more gunshots.
Longarm shoved the window up and leaned out as he jacked a shell into the chamber of the Winchester. The outlaws were just reaching the hotel again. From somewhere below him, pistols cracked as Coffin and Sanderson opened fire on them. Longarm jerked the rifle to his shoulder and drew a quick bead on one of the riders. When he squeezed off the shot, the outlaw went flying out of the saddle like a pinwheel.
As fast as he could work the rifle’s lever, Longarm raked El Aguila’s gang with deadly accurate fire. Two more men fell. Between them, the three lawmen had accounted for almost half of the outlaws, and when their murderous charge reached the end of the street this time, the surviving members of the gang kept going. They were headed south, toward the Rio Grande, and Longarm had little doubt that within minutes, they would be splashing across the border river into Mexico. There was no point in going after them.
But they had left four men on the street behind them, and Longarm was certain several more had been badly wounded. Carrying the Winchester, he hurried downstairs and found Coffin and Sanderson in the street, checking the bodies of the fallen outlaws.
“We got one dead and three that soon will be,” said Sanderson as he looked up at Longarm. “Figured that was you when that rifle opened up. Good shootin’, Marshal.”
“What do you mean, good shootin?” demanded Coffin with a snort. The Remington was still in his hand, and he waved at the dead and unconscious outlaws. “I was the one who downed these coyotes, all four of ‘em!”
Longarm knew better than that, but he didn’t think it was worth an argument. He walked into the street and looked at each of the bodies in turn. None of them belonged to the big man who had been leading the outlaws.
To the sheriff, Longarm said, “That big jigger, I reckon he was El Aguila?”
Sanderson shrugged. “Hell, your guess is as good as mine about that, Marshal. That fella looked like he was in charge of the raid, but maybe he just got stuck ridin’ in front and couldn’t do nothin’ about it. Anyway, he ain’t here, and it ain’t likely any of these boys’d be willin’ to talk even if they come to ‘fore they die, which ain’t likely neither.”
Longarm had to admit that Sanderson was probably right. Even as he nodded grimly, he heard a death rattle from the throat of one of the wounded outlaws. A white-haired old man carrying a black medical bag was hurrying down the street, but he was going to be too late to do much good. Sanderson advised him of as much, calling out, “No need to hurry, Doc.”
Both of the other outlaws died as the elderly physician was checking their wounds. The doctor shook his head and looked up at the three lawmen. “There was nothing I could do.”
“Don’t waste any sympathy on these rabid skunks, Doc,” said Sanderson.
He sighed. “I’d best go fetch the undertaker.”
Sanderson had just taken a few steps down the street when a man wearing a nightshirt with a pair of trousers hastily pulled on over it came running up to him. “Sheriff!” the man cried. “They ... they got into the bank!”
Sanderson caught hold of the man’s arm to steady him. “What’d you say, Ames?”
Longarm figured the man for the town banker. He had the well-fed look about him common to such men, and he certainly seemed distraught enough as he gasped out, “The back door of the bank ... they broke it down! While the others rode up and down the street shooting ... safe was looted ... thousands of dollars gone ... I thought I had better check, just in case.”
What he was saying made sense, thought Longarm. While the rest of the gang had kept the whole town
