Thomas scowled. “You’re fixin’ to get some men killed to no good end.”
“Enough!” Nix said sharply. “We have local officers who carry standby federal commissions. Get them together and do your job.”
Nix rose, rapidly crossing the room. He paused at the door, looking back. “Heck, despite any differences, you’re our most experienced marshal. You’ll be in charge.”
“Christ!” Thomas snorted when the door closed. “What d’you think of them apples?”
“Well, Heck,” Tilghman said, “I think he just put the bee on you.”
“Guess he did, ’cause I sure as hell feel stung.”
* * *
The sky was heavy with clouds, and beneath it the earth was cold and still. Trees along the creek swayed in the wind, bare branches crackling like the bones of old skeletons. A flock of crows fluttered against the sky, then wheeled and vanished beyond the treeline.
There were nine men in the posse, bent low as they crept forward in single file. The creek bank covered their movements, and the rush of water deadened the sound of their footsteps. A mile or so downstream where the creek angled southeast, they had left their horses hidden in a stand of trees. Stealthily, as though stalking game, they had spent the last hour working their way up the rocky stream.
Ahead, the bank sloped off sharply, and Council Creek swung westward in a lazy curve. Beyond the bend, hardly more than a stone’s throw away, stood a squalid collection of buildings. Heck Thomas held up his hand and the men halted, flattening themselves against the creek bank. Except for Thomas, who carried a double-barrel shotgun, every man in the party was armed with a Winchester. A sense of suppressed violence, something unseen but menacing, hung over the ramshackle town.
Tilghman scrambled forward on his hands and knees. He stopped beside Thomas, who nodded and jerked his thumb toward the town. They removed their hats, still hunched low, and slowly eased themselves to eye level at the top of the bank. Their weapons held at the ready, they subjected the huddled buildings to an intense, door-to-door scrutiny. For a time, with the squinted gaze of veteran scouts, they absorbed every detail.
Ingalls under an overcast sky was little more than a backwoods eyesore. The single street, rutted and dusted with snow, petered out into a faint wagon road on either side of town. Nearest to the creek was a blacksmith shop, beside that a mercantile emporium, and farther along the dulled windows of the two-story hotel. Across the street was a seedy-looking saloon, flanked on one side by a cafe and on the other by a general store. Beyond, a short distance upstreet, was the livery stable.
Heck Thomas whistled softly between his teeth, motioned toward the town. Everyone already had their instructions, and as they scrambled over the creek bank, the lawmen split into two groups. Tilghman headed for the cafe, trailed by three men, and Thomas led the others on a direct line to the smithy. Taking one building at a time, they were to work both sides of the street, one party covering the other, until they flushed the gang. A metallic snick broke the stillness as one man after another eased back the hammer on his Winchester.
Then, too quick to fathom, their plan came unraveled. The door of the cafe opened, and a man accompanied by a young boy emerged onto the street. A moment later Bitter Creek Newcomb stepped through the door of the saloon, a bottle in hand, and started across to the hotel. On the instant he spotted Thomas, then his eyes flicked past the man and boy to Tilghman. His reaction was one of sheer reflex, without regard for the consequences. He jerked his pistol and fired.
Tilghman’s shouted warning to the man and boy melded with the gunshot. The marshals behind him and those across the street shouldered their rifles in unison. The first sharp crack blended into a rolling tattoo, and Newcomb was struck in the left arm, dropping his bottle. Caught in the crossfire, the man outside the cafe went down like a puppet with his strings gone haywire. Beside him, jolted back by the impact of a slug, the boy dropped onto the boardwalk. Newcomb took off running for the stable.
Suddenly the street came alive with sizzling lead. Someone fired from an upstairs room in the hotel, and the front of the saloon appeared wreathed in a wall of flame as men opened fire through the door and windows. The marshal behind Tilghman grunted, clutching at his stomach, and dropped to the ground. Tilghman hefted his rifle and levered four shots into the upper floor window of the hotel. Glass shattered and a moment later Arkansas Tom Daugherty toppled over the windowsill. His rifle clattered to the boardwalk below.
From across the street, Thomas let go with his shotgun. Tilghman was aware that the other officers had concentrated their fire on the saloon, and he swung his rifle in that direction. Another lawman went down, a dark splotch blossoming on his coat, but the remaining Winchesters hammered out a withering barrage. The saloon windows disintegrated in a maelstrom of glass, and the building jounced as heavy slugs shredded the front wall. A third marshal swayed and crumpled to the earth.
Doolin suddenly leaped through the saloon door, followed by Clifton and Raidler. They sprinted toward the stable, where Newcomb was popping off shots at the lawmen. Tilghman fired simultaneously with the roar of Thomas’s shotgun, and the four remaining officers loosed another volley. Clifton staggered, then righted himself, as slugs pocked the walls of the general store. He darted into the stable on the heels of Doolin and Raidler.
There was a momentary lull in the gunfire. Then, as though prearranged, Will Dalton, Jack Blake, and Red Buck Waightman rushed out of the saloon. Doolin and the men in the stable covered their retreat, emptying their pistols rapid fire at the marshals. The officers returned fire, Thomas fumbling to reload his shotgun,
