loose with one of the barrels. At that range, the shotgun could shred flesh like a grater shredding cheese. A man shrieked and fell, flopping about like a fish out of water.
The buckboard lost momentum. Someone beyond the ring of flickering light roared, “Keep pushin’, damn your hides, or I’ll shoot you myself!”
The other two men behind the buckboard put their shoulders to the tailgate. Jesco could see the crowns of their hats. Rising, he aimed below the top of the nearest hat, and fired.
Wood and hay burst outward and upward. A hole the size of a cantaloupe appeared about where the man’s head must have been. The outlaw was flung to the earth, and did not move. That left one man to push, and he lost his nerve. Breaking away, he sprinted to the man Jesco had shot in the legs, and, bending, sought to drag him out of the light.
Jesco switched the shotgun to his left hand, and swooped his right hand to his Colt. He had no compunction about shooting them in the back. But their friends awakened to their peril. Rifles and revolvers banged, forcing Jesco to fling himself flat. When the firing stopped and he looked up, the pair had melted into the night.
The burning hay had ignited the buckboard, but the buckboard was not close enough to do the same to the house.
“You’ll have to try somethin’ else!” Jesco shouted, hoping Saber would answer and give his position away, but the wily killer was too smart to fall for the ploy.
Jesco crawled to the door. Once inside, he rose and kicked it shut. He found Timmy over by the parlor window.
“I reckon you taught them!”
Jesco set him straight. “I was lucky. If they’d had men at both ends of the porch, they’d have caught me in a crossfire.” He began reloading the shotgun. It had repelled them once, it might do so again.
“Will they give it up?”
“Not likely,” Jesco said. “We know too much.” Saber
The man Jesco had shot in the head lay where he had fallen. Dead, Jesco figured, which whittled the odds a little. He heard a groan behind him, and said without turning, “Have a nice nap?”
“Bastard,” Dunn spat. “How long have I been out?”
“Long enough for your friends to try to burn us out, and for one of them to learn the hard way that buckshot means buryin’.”
“Crow while you can. We have a powerful hankerin’ to be rich, and you’re all that’s standin’ in our way.”
“I wouldn’t count the rest of the Circle T hands and the DP out just yet,” Jesco said. “Kent Tovey is no tree stump. He’ll figure it out, and when he does, there will be hell to pay.”
“He won’t figure it out in time. In a day or two, this whole valley will be ripe for the pluckin’.”
Jesco looked at him. “If you put half as much effort into makin’ money honestly as you do makin’ it dishonestly, you’d have more than enough to get by.”
“I don’t see you with your own spread and money galore in the bank,” Dunn retorted. “The problem with livin’ honestly is that it leads to the poorhouse.”
“Why, you’re a philosopher.”
“Go to hell.”
“But there are worse things than bein’ poor,” Jesco said. “Like losin’ your honor and self-respect.”
“God. You should be a parson. Where’s the honor in nursemaidin’ cows? Where’s the self-respect in forty a month and found?”
“If you don’t know by now, you never will.”
Timmy cat-footed into the parlor, saying, “No sign of anyone out back. I bet we could sneak off without them noticin’.”
“You would lose the bet,” Jesco said. “There’s bound to be at least one waitin’ for us to try. Step foot out the back door, and you’re worm food.”
Dunn’s teeth showed bright in the dark. “Don’t listen to him, boy. You go ahead and do as you please.”
From somewhere between the house and the stable came a harsh bellow, “Are you awake in there?”
“We’re playin’ checkers!” Jesco replied.
Saber was not amused. “You’ve killed a pard of mine and about near crippled another. This is your last chance to come out with your hands over your heads. You have one minute.”
“It must be the bull,” Jesco shouted back.
Silence lasted for all of ten seconds, then Saber yelled, “What bull, you damned nuisance?”
“The one that kicked you in the head when you were little and addled your brains. Why else would you think we’d give up?”
Timmy chortled and slapped his leg. “That’s tellin’ him!”
Through the shattered window came the ratchet of rifle levers being worked. Whirling, Jesco threw himself at Timmy and tackled him, bearing him down as the night exploded in gunfire. It sounded like five or six firing at once. Slugs ripped through the wall, through the front door, through what was left of the glass pane. Slivers flew every which way. A lamp disintegrated with a loud crash. A pillow on the settee spewed feathers. A portrait of Nancy Tovey’s mother fell off the wall.
Forty or fifty rounds were expended before the firing ceased.
Jesco raised his head and nudged Timmy, who had his arms over his. “Are you all right?”
“No.” Grimacing, Timmy groped low down on his left leg. “I’ve been hit. I can feel blood.”
“Let me have a look-see.”
Enough light spilled inside from the still burning buckboard to reveal a half-inch-deep furrow above the young cowboy’s ankle. The lead had missed the bone, and even as Jesco examined the wound, the bleeding slowed to a few drops.
“You’ll live.”
Timmy pointed. “It doesn’t look like he will.”
Dunn was slumped in the chair. His chest rose and fell erratically, as if he were having difficulty breathing. A pair of spreading stains on his shirt explained why.
“Well, this is fittin’.” Jesco poked the killer in the shoulder, and Dunn slowly lifted his head.
“I hate you.”
“You’re the one chose the life of a lobo,” Jesco said. “Us honest folks don’t generally get shot to pieces by our friends.”
“I can’t tell you how much I hate you.” Dunn let out a long breath. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this. I was goin’ to have more money than I knew what to do with.” He coughed, and swore, and coughed some more, ending with a gasp that abruptly choked off.
Jesco felt for a pulse. “And then there were six.”
“What do we do with him? Just leave him there?”
Scratching his chin, Jesco glanced at the window. “I hate to see a good body go to waste.”
Chapter 26
Hijino always had luck. He was lucky at cards, lucky with the ladies, and particularly lucky when he was in situations where it was shoot quick or die. He counted it luck bordering on a miracle that he reached the strip of woods along the Rio Largo alive. A hailstorm of slugs sought his life, yet he and Blanco made it.
Hijino raced in under the trees, past vaqueros who were firing in a mad frenzy at the gringos. He went almost to the river, then drew rein and swung down while Blanco was still in motion, yanking his Winchester from its scabbard as he alighted. Turning, he had taken barely six steps when Trella flung herself at him. In near hysterics, tears streaming down her cheeks, she beat on his chest with her small fists and screamed in his face.
“What happened? What in God’s name happened?”
Dolores and Paco and Roman were running toward them.
“Didn’t you see?” Hijino responded. “The cowboy, Demp, went for his
