Jane tossed the reins over his horse’s head and began walking around the building. The horse followed him like a puppy following a boy. “Again, I apologize,” Jane said.
Will waved him off. “No harm done,” he said casually, but the fear in his eyes showed he knew how close he’d come to having his head cleaved open like a ripe melon.
Jane’s horse immediately took over the water trough, clicking his teeth at the other two, cringing against the far wall. “They will settle,” Jane said.
“You might could check on them real often,” Will said. “If there’s trouble, you’re the only one who can do anything about it.”
“I will do this.”
Will was about to turn away, but stopped. “Say—does that critter have a name?”
“Of course. His name is Partner.” Jane’s grin showed again. “Although you know as well as I do that naming a horse makes as much sense as naming a chicken, no?”
The three men sat at the table the store owner provided for checker players. Austin was alternating between gnawing an apple and taking belts from a bottle of whiskey.
“We could use a couple men on the roof,” Will said.
“Could use a Gatling gun, but we ain’t got one of them, neither.”
“Our biggest danger,” Jane said, “is if they decide to use fire arrows to burn us out. We must drop any man who shows a flame on an arrow or a torch, immediately.”
“That’s what I meant about men on the roof. Be a whole lot easier to see from up there.”
“Well, hell. How ’bout we chop a hole in the ceilin’ an’ put a stepladder there. Ever once an’ a while one of us can pop up for a look-see,” Austin suggested.
Jane and Will looked across the table at one another, almost stunned by the simple efficiency of Austin’s idea. Will spoke for both of them. “Boy, you’re somethin’, pard.”
Jane nodded toward the two broad front windows. “That’s an awful big opening,” he said. “We need to barricade it with whatever we can, just high enough so that we can shoot over it.”
The next couple of hours were spent grunting, sweating, and cursing—even Jane said “Dammit!” when he dropped a crate of yard goods on his foot. The barricade was a bizarre-looking affair, but the men felt it would be effective. It was made up of a small piano, two desks, several barrels of apples and carrots, a number of plow blades stacked atop one another, four saddles upon which crates of textbooks were stacked, a couple of butter churns holding up a crate of canned peaches, and so forth. It was a bit better than waist high on Will and it offered good cover the length of the two storefront windows.
Will sat on the floor and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
“How’s that hand?” Austin asked.
“Pretty much as good as new—fingers work good. I figure I’ll cut them stitches out in a couple more days.”
“You oughta take the ones outta your face too—they’re uglier’n a goat’s ass.”
“I’ll give those a little more time,” Will said, ignoring the insult. “I can still feel ’em pullin’ a bit.”
“The window glass,” Jane said, “will shower us when it is hit. The shards and pieces will be sharp and dangerous.”
Austin was the first to draw and he shot hell out of the expanses of glass, exploding them out into the street. Will joined in, firing until his Colt was empty.
“I always liked to bust glass,” Austin said. “With stones when I was a kid an’ later with bullets.”
“Me too,” Will admitted. “There’s somethin’ about the way it shatters that makes a man feel good.”
Jane shook his head but didn’t comment.
It was hot in the store and growing hotter as the sun reached and crossed its peak. The destroyed windows would have allowed fresh air to enter, but there wasn’t a breath moving outside.
Will had his Colt partially disassembled on the checkers table and was working with a piece of cloth and a can of gun oil.
“How do you think they’ll attack?” Austin asked.
“One Dog is an Indian, and he won’t come at night. Their initial attempt will probably be at first light in the morning,” Jane said. “It’ll probably be a sweep, as if they were closing in on a wagon train.”
“I dunno,” Will said. “I saw more white men than Indians earlier today. Seems like they might could convince One Dog to try a sneak-attack type of thing, even today. We gotta be on watch all the time.”
“I can’t see them scum changin’ Dog’s Injun ways—’specially with all that medicine horseshit he believes in.”
“Will is right. We must watch constantly.”
Austin pushed out from the barricade where he sat, watching the street. “There sure ain’t nothin’ out there now but heat,” he said. “If I’m gonna set here gawkin’, I’m gonna have a couple buckets of beer keepin’ me company.” He began climbing over a crate of goods to the street. “I won’t be but a minute,” he said.
“This is not wise,” Jane said.
“No—but try tellin’ Austin that. He wants his beer an’ he’s gonna get it. Tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind a sip myself.” Will put his pistol back together and spun the empty cylinder. It gave off a smooth, whirring whisper. He filled the chambers with cartridges and holstered the .45. Jane crossed the room to the spot Austin had vacated. Will rolled a smoke, lit it, and sat back in his chair.
A rattle of gunfire down the street dragged Will from his dream as quickly as a bucket of ice water in his face would have. He rushed to the window near Jane, snatching up a rifle. The shooting seemed to go on forever, round after round, constant, nonstop. Then it stopped abruptly.
“My brother and your friend is dead,” Jane said quietly. His voice was a monotone but there was great sorrow behind it.
“Maybe he got some cover. Maybe some of them shots were his. Could be that—”
“No.”
A whoop—almost a screech—broke the silence, as did the pounding of hooves. A man, a white man in a rebel jacket, galloped toward the mercantile, hugging the far side of the street. He carried a spear upright in his right hand. Impaled at the top of the shaft was Austin’s head, his hat still in place, his face a mass of blood, an irregular, deep red mass of meat stuffed into his mouth. It was his heart.
Jane stood, leveled his shotgun, and blew the rider off the horse to fall in a crumpled and bloody heap. Even before the rider hit the ground a dozen horsemen charged from the opposite ends of the street, firing rifles, shotguns, pistols, and a few arrows. Jane went for his rifle immediately; Will depended on his Colt until it was empty before he, too, snatched up a .30-30. Bullets riddled the barricade like a swarm of insane bees and the inside of the mercantile was a chaos of ricocheting slugs, shattering glass, tortured wood, and exploding bottles and cans.
Will and Jane fired like a combat-trained militia: steadily but not rapidly, aiming each round, making it count. It was the rare slug that didn’t wound or kill an outlaw.
“Sonsabitches are crazy,” Will shouted. “It’s like they want to die.”
“Is true—One Dog must have given them mushroom buttons. Their fighting is insane!”
Still the renegades came on, jerking their horses around when they’d galloped past the store, heading back the opposite way, fumbling loads into their weapons. There were several full-gallop collisions; outlaws and horses went down in twisted heaps of flailing hooves, arms, and legs. Survivors of the crashes were quickly dropped by the men in the store.
The street looked like the third day at Gettysburg: corpses were scattered as if they’d dropped from the sky. Small potholes and ruts were filled with blood that had seeped from men and from horses. A few attackers moaned in pain, and others writhed about in the blood and the grit and dirt. Jane stood calmly levering his .30-30. His rifle
