Then Gallagher came with a backhanded slap, only this time as the blow was carrying his face sideways, Longarm’s big right arm was coming up to grab Gallagher around the neck. As he grabbed him, Longarm pivoted, changing his position to face the shack. By that time he had the derringer out in his left hand and he was holding Gallagher up against his front, squeezing him with the muscles of his right arm against the man’s neck. He could hear Gallagher making choking sounds as he struggled.
On the porch, Rufus had brought up his rifle. Longarm stooped lower so that his head was not so far above Clem’s. He jabbed Gallagher hard in the back and said, “I’ve got a derringer in your back, boy. I’ve got a.38-caliber derringer, two barrels, and I’ll blow your spine in two if you don’t drop that revolver right now, right now, right now.”
Clem Gallagher was still making the gurgling sounds. Both of his arms were held straight out in front of him. His almost nerveless fingers let the pistol slip. It fell to the ground. Longarm began to back toward his horse, crabbing sideways. He yelled at the house, “Rufus, I’ve got a derringer in your brother’s back. You’d better put that rifle down right now or I’m going to blow the living hell out of him. Do you understand me? Put that rifle down.”
Rufus Gallagher said, “You go to hell.” Suddenly, with one spring, he jumped back through the open door of the shack. Gallagher tried to struggle, but Longarm clamped him tighter. By now, Longarm was at the head of his horse. He said to Clem, “Take hold of the bridle of my horse. Take hold of him right now.” He jabbed him hard with the derringer.
Clem Gallagher slowly put out a hand and took hold of the reins. Longarm began to back away from the shack. Unwillingly, Clem Gallagher was forced to lead Longarm’s horse. As they went backwards, someone in the house fired. Dust kicked up two or three feet to Longarm’s left and a bullet went whining off.
Longarm yelled, “One more shot and I’ll shoot this sonofabitch through the back.”
To illustrate his point, he raised his left hand so that they could see the derringer. Then he quickly stuck it back into Clem Gallagher’s spine. Little by little, they were putting some distance between them and the house.
Another rifle cracked and dust stirred under the belly of Longarm’s horse. He yelled, “You better stop that shooting. One more time and I’m killing this sonofabitch.”
A voice yelled back. Longarm assumed it was Rufus. The voice said, “Yeah, you kill him, then what are you going to do?”
“I’ll take it one at a time,” Longarm said. “But one thing that’s for certain is that I’ll kill your damn brother.”
The voice yelled back, “Then what are you going to do, Mister Marshal? Your pistol is lying up here and your rifle is in the sand. What are you going to do to defend yourself? Throw rocks at us?”
The distance had widened to some fifty or sixty yards. Longarm said, “Take your choice. If it’s worth that to kill me, ask old Clem how he feels about it.”
Clem Gallagher was still making the gurgling sound. He seemed to be getting limp at the knees, and Longarm suddenly realized that he was choking the man, cutting off his wind. He eased the pressure slightly. He said, “Tell them, Clem. Tell them how you feel about swapping your life out for mine. Tell them if they ought to trade your life for mine.”
At first Clem Gallagher’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper, and then he cleared his throat and coughed for a moment. He said, still hoarsely, trying to shout, “Don’t shoot, for heaven’s sakes, don’t shoot. Hell, Rufus, I’m your flesh and blood. Don’t shoot. Hell, let the sonofabitch go. We’ll get him another time.”
Longarm clamped his arm solid around Clem Gallagher’s neck. He called out, “There ain’t going to be a next time.” A shot suddenly rang out and Longarm heard a thud.
Chapter 9
For a second he thought they had shot his horse, and then he felt the body go slack in his arms and he realized that they had just shot his hostage. Another shot exploded from the shack, catching the Gallagher he was holding high on the shoulder. He suddenly realized that they were aiming for the arm he had around the man’s neck. By the weight of the body, he could tell the man was dead. He yelled, “Rufus, you crazy sonofabitch. Is it so important that you just killed your own brother?”
There was a loud cackle from the shack and a new voice called out, “That ain’t Clem Gallagher. I’m Clem Gallagher, you ignoramus Mister Smartass U.S. Deputy Marshal. That there fool you’re cuddling up to is our half- brother Virgil.”
Longarm was still stumbling backwards, trying to move away from the shack as fast as he could. Then he realized that the body that he was holding was no longer leading the horse. He took two quick steps forward, switching arms as he did, and grabbed the horse’s reins with his right hand, starting to run backwards, moving fast. Another shot was fired that thudded into the body. Longarm realized that very shortly they were going to hit him in the arm and probably break it. He estimated that he was some sixty to seventy-five yards from the shack. He yelled, “What kind of people are you that you’d kill your own half-brother?”
A deeper voice yelled. Longarm assumed it was Rufus. It said, “We got lots of half-brothers, but there ain’t but one of you and we’re kind of sick of you, do you understand? You’re right, there ain’t going to be no next time. This is the time.”
Just as he said it, Longarm suddenly released the dead body, and sprang behind his horse, frantically trying to increase the distance. Two shots rang out, and he heard and felt the thuds into the side of his horse. Instantly, he realized that if the horse fell full out, the nitro would blow up. The horse was swaying on his legs. He had already gone down to his front knees. Bending low, Longarm worked the ties that were holding his saddlebags. With his left shoulder, he was trying to prop the horse up as more bullets hit the carcass of the poor animal. It was taking all his strength. The horse’s weight was beering down on him harder and harder. He imagined that the animal was already dead. At any second now, the horse’s hind quarters would crumple and the nitro would go up, blowing him and the horse a long way up in the sky. Then, just as his strength was about to fail him, he undid the last tie and jerked the saddlebags loose. He fell at the same time as the horse, using the carcass as protection from the rifle bullets that were beginning to sing over his head.
Longarm was in no immediate danger. They could not hit him from where they were in the shack as long as he lay prone behind his horse. But all they had to do was spread either to the left or to the right, flanking him, and he was a goner. All he had in the way of a weapon was a two-shot derringer that was ineffective over five yards. There was, of course, the nitro and the slingshot, but he couldn’t raise up enough to sling one of the vials into the cabin. He could, perhaps, work his way onto his back, but that would expose him if he lay in such a way that he could see the shack. If he could see them, they could see him.
Meanwhile, the occupants of the shack seemed to take pleasure in whining bullets inches over his head.
