clearly pleased with himself.
But when his gaze locked with Longarm’s, his eyes widened and his hand dropped in a blur to the gun on his hip.
A couple of thoughts whipped through Longarm’s brain in that instant. He had figured that because there were six horses at the hitch rail outside and six men around the table in the corner, all of the outlaws were accounted for. But the man who had come out of the back room, the man who was now grabbing for his gun as a curse sprang to his lips, had definitely recognized Longarm. And Longarm thought he recognized the man too. He remembered the duster the man wore, and the cream-colored hat with conchos around the band.
The last time Longarm had seen him, he’d been tossing a stick of dynamite into Sheriff Sanderson’s office in Del Rio.
All of that flashed through Longarm’s mind even as he acted. He flicked his left wrist, and the tequila in the glass he held in that hand flew up into the face of the outlaw. At the same time Longarm twisted toward the man, his right hand flashing across his body to palm the Colt out of the cross-draw rig. The outlaw in the duster yelled in pain as the tequila stung his eyes. He stumbled back a step as he blinked furiously. His gun was already out, and it was coming up fast, even though he was half-blinded.
Longarm triggered twice, the slugs slamming into the outlaw’s midsection at close range and driving him backward like a giant hammer. Before the man even hit the dirt of the floor, Longarm was spinning around toward the table where the other owlhoots were.
One of the men at the table went diving away from the others,
indicating to Longarm that he was probably one of the locals and not a
member of the gang at all
The others were all leaping to their feet and reaching for their guns.
“Hold it!” yelled Coffin, who had drawn the pearl-handled Remington.
The long-barreled revolver was leveled at the outlaws.
They ignored the command, as Longarm expected they would. Everyone else in the cantina had wisely hit the floor, so Longarm and Coffin had a clear field as they opened fire. The gunshots were deafening as their thunder filled the low-ceilinged cantina.
From the corner of his eye, Longarm saw Scott tip over one of the tables and crouch behind it for cover. The drifter had drawn his guns, but he hadn’t fired yet. Of course, he didn’t really need to. Longarm and Coffin had had the drop on the outlaws, and it had been foolish of the men not to surrender. Most owlhoots weren’t noted for the sharpness of their wits. These had tried to blaze away at Longarm and Coffin, and were getting cut down for their trouble.
The shooting lasted only a handful of seconds, though it seemed longer. A couple of the outlaws were thrown back against the adobe wall behind them by the lead plowing into their chests. Another doubled over, gut-shot, and collapsed onto the table where they had been playing poker, scattering the cards. The pasteboards fluttered to the ground, stained with outlaw blood.
That left just two of the gang on their feet, and one of them was wounded. The man dropped his gun and clutched at a bullet-shattered elbow. He whimpered and cursed in pain as he stumbled against a chair. The other man let his gun fall to the floor too, though he wasn’t wounded. He lifted his hands and cried out, “Don’t shoot! For God’s sake, don’t shoot no more!”
The man who was surrendering was one of the gringos, Longarm saw. His companion with the broken arm was Mexican. The fight was out of both of them, and as Longarm and Coffin approached, guns still leveled, they cringed back.
As all the innocent bystanders in the cantina scurried out the front door of the place, including the barmaid, Longarm kicked the fallen guns out of reach and said harshly, “You’re two of El Aguila’s men. No use in denying it. We trailed you here from Del Rio.”
The Mexican with the wounded arm spat at Longarm’s feet. There were tears in his eyes and his face was contorted in pain, but he found the strength somewhere inside him to put up a stubbornly defiant front. “We deny nothing,” he said.
Scott had followed Coffin. He checked the men on the floor and announced, “These boys are all dead. That was pretty good shooting.”
Longarm grunted and bit back a comment about how that was no thanks to Scott’s efforts. The man was no coward—he had proved that when he took on those Yaquis—but for some reason he had decided to remain in the background this time.
Longarm might have puzzled over that more, but right now he was more worried about Sonia Guiterrez. “Where’s the girl you took from Del Rio?” he asked the two survivors.
The American started to say something, but the wounded Mexican cut him off. “You gringo lawmen will never find her,” he gloated. “She has been taken to our stronghold, where not even an army of bastards like you could reach her.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, old son,” Longarm said.
“I would,” said Walt Scott. The words were accompanied by the ominous double click of gun hammers being cocked.
And those sounds told Longarm just what a damn fool he had been.
Chapter 12
“You’re double-crossing us, aren’t you, Scott?” Longarm said.
“Afraid so. Drop your gun, Long. You too, Coffin.”
Coffin started cursing, a venomous rant that fairly stank of brimstone. After a moment, Longarm interrupted him by saying, “That’s not going to do any good, Coffin. Scott’s got us where he wants us.”
“Yes, and if you don’t drop those guns, I’m going to have to shoot
