defeat, for Jim Dagget would lock them up for theft, and then, sooner or later, he would find the money belt about Grant's waist and remember the bank robbery in Joplin. And that would be the end.
Even as he thought it, he heard Bud Muller snarl like some cornered animal, and the instant of silence was completely shattered by the blast of a revolver.
Now was no time for thinking, or swearing in anger because a hotheaded kid had made a bad situation even worse. Grant leaped to one side, clawing in his windbreaker for his pistol. And he saw Lloyd, Farley's gunman, reacting unhurriedly and coolly, reaching swiftly for his shoulder holster inside his loose-fitting windbreaker.
Farley himself judged the situation instantly and calmly withdrew. Lloyd and the roustabout were paid to do his fighting, and the oilman reined his animal quickly to one side as calmly as if he were getting up to leave a poker game. Battle's face was sheer panic; his startled animal reared suddenly and he fell solidly to the frozen ground and did not get up. The roustabout lost his idiotic grin; he looked bewildered and faintly shocked as he fumbled inexpertly for his revolver.
Only Kirk Lloyd seemed unruffled and cool. He worked smoothly, as only a professional can, and his quick eyes picked out the point of most immediate danger and ignored all the others. The dull steel of a .45 seemed to glow in his right hand, and he fired twice without a change of expression, without a flicker of an eyelash, directly at Bud Muller.
The boy's mouth flew open as if in amazement. He grabbed his side and slipped slowly, gracefully, to the bottom of the driver's seat. Lloyd's horse had shied suddenly at the sound of shooting, and for an instant the gunman seemed to wonder if his shot had been spoiled and whether he should fire again. But when he saw the boy begin to fall he forgot about Bud Muller and turned his mind to the other points of attack.
The roar of Lloyd's second shot was still ballooning in the air when he turned from Bud Muller. He saw Turk Valois was still struggling to open his windbreaker and forgot the runner as one unworthy of his attention. With a practiced movement that seemed almost lazy because of its perfection, the gunman turned his .45 on Grant.
Here he showed his first flicker of emotion. A faint shadow of surprise crossed his eyes when he saw that Grant's pistol was in his hand. Lloyd was not worried, merely surprised that this man had drawn as fast as he had. Probably it had never occurred to the gunman that, by shooting first at the boy, the odds had grown against him. He was cool and completely confident as he turned to flick his trigger finger at Grant.
Not even when Grant's pistol barked first did any expression come over that lean, stone-hard face. Not even when the bullet tore through him did he show dismay. He was a professional; killing was his business, and he could not imagine that this big wild-eyed man standing before him might beat him at his own business. But the impact of the bullet tore him from his saddle, and he fell to the ground with one foot caught in the stirrup, and the nervous animal whirled in a tight little circle until it had thrown off the dead weight.
Immediately on top of Grant's shot came two more shocking muzzle blasts that jarred the night. And Grant glanced up to see Turk Valois standing crouched on the wagon seat with a revolver in his hand. The roustabout dumped forward from his saddle without ever getting his windbreaker open.
A bare second of silence struck the night as sharply as had the crashing of guns. For one scant instant Kiefer seemed to hold its breath. Then suddenly some distant voice was raised in excitement and the figures of men crowded doorways and spilled into the biting night, and the darkness became cluttered with the sound of running men.
Battle was still lying on the ground, paralyzed with fear, and Farley had vanished somewhere into the darker shadows near the makeshift depot. Drained of all feeling, Grant shoved his pistol back into his waistband and looked up at Valois. “How's the boy?”
“Still breathing. That's about all I can tell.”
Grant climbed over the wagon wheel and, with Valois' help, they lifted the boy out of the freighter and put him on the ground. Apparently, one of Lloyd's shots had missed; the other had caught Bud Muller in the right side, about an inch above the thrust of the hipbone. If the boy lived he could thank Lloyd's rearing horse for throwing off the gunman's aim.
In an uneasy gesture the runner wiped his hand across his mouth. “He doesn't look too good to me. Maybe we ought to take him to a doctor.”
Grant smiled weakly. “We'll have plenty of help in just a minute.”
And they listened to the pounding of heavy boots on the snow-crusted ground. It seemed that every door in Kiefer was standing open; streams of orange lamplight formed bright patterns in the street and on the faces of the running men.
Then one voice sounded out above all the others. “Marshall Over this way!” It was Ben Farley's voice and it was high-pitched, almost hysterical with rage. Grant and Valois looked at each other, then at the approaching mob with Jim Dagget in the van.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MARSHAL JIM DAGGET was an angry man. He glanced at Kirk Lloyd sprawled face down on the ground, and then at the roustabout's motionless form, and finally he knelt beside Bud Muller and felt the boy's throat for a pulse. All the time he kept his own .45 trained on some indefinite point between Valois and Grant, ready to fire instantly at either of them.
“Back up against the wagon,” he said, almost snarled, “and unbutton your windbreakers.”
In his rage, he would have killed both of them at the slightest wrong move. Grant and the runner, backed against the freighter, gingerly unbuttoned their coats.
“Drop your weapons on the ground.”
The two men drew their revolvers carefully and dropped them. Grant said, “The boy's hurt bad. He needs a doctor.”
“You should have thought of that before you brought him gunning for Farley!” said the marshal. But he jerked his head at one of the men standing behind him. “See if you can find Doc Lewellen; probably he'll be at the Wheel House bar.”
Then there was a stir in the crowd and Ben Farley came shoving his way through to face the marshal. His dark, hard eyes flashed with anger. “This is my fight, Dagget. Me and my boys will take care of it our own way.”
The marshal's own anger turned cold. “Stay out of this, Farley!”
“I want justice done!” the oilman roared. “Those two men are murderers! They've got to hang!”
“Maybe, but it'll be on the order of a federal judge if they do, not yours, Farley.” He jerked his head at Grant and Valois. “March!” he said coldly.
But Farley stepped in again before they could move. “You can't get away with it, Dagget. There's no jail in Kiefer, and you can't let two murderers run loose.”
“There's a jail at Muskogee that'll hold them until they can be brought to trial,” the marshal said flatly. Then he turned to the crowd and shouted, “Go back to town, all of you! The excitement's over.”
“I don't think so,” Farley said. And he glanced around the crowd, his gaze falling briefly on the faces of men he knew, and at last he turned back to the marshal, smiling thinly. “I don't think so, Dagget.”
He turned away abruptly, glanced coldly at Kurt Battle who was trying to crawl away in the crowd. He strode stiffly to the still form of Kirk Lloyd and suddenly spat in disgust. “I paid him to protect me!” he said hoarsely. “And he let a stinkin' plowhand outdraw him!”
Then, without a flicker of warning, he kicked the still form savagely with the sharp toe of his boot. Lloyd groaned, and a sharp sound of surprise escaped the crowd. They had thought the gunman was dead.
Lloyd groped blindly, trying to shove himself away from this new source of pain, but Farley, in his rage, stepped in again and slashed at the gunman again with his boot.
“That's enough!” Dagget yelled. And there was a steely warning in the marshal's voice that not even Farley could ignore. Lloyd's eyes were glazed, and he lay in a crooked, distorted position on a dirty patch of snow. Painfully, he turned his head and gazed up at Farley, and a slow, cool savagery formed behind his slitted eyes.
“That was a mistake, Ben.” The voice was little more than a whisper, but it carried like the whine of a bullet. “A bad mistake...” And then he closed his eyes and lay still.
An uneasy silence surrounded the bizarre scene for just a moment before Doc Lewellen, reeking with whisky, stumbled through to the marshal's side.
“Looks like you've got your work cut out for you, Doc,” Dagget said. “Your sickroom unlocked?”
