“Enough!” Win Curry had his shotgun. But he could not decide which one to point it at, so he was not pointing it at either of them when Caine and Stevens pointed their revolvers at him. Win ducked, not a heartbeat too soon, and the mirror behind the bar, the mirror he had sent all the way to St. Louis for, dissolved in a shower of broken bits.
Paunch Stevens laughed and swung back toward Club Caine. “That will teach the meddler!”
“That it will!” Caine continued limping toward him. “Out of my way!” he commanded the quaking figure at his feet.
Chester Luce was happy to oblige. He was awhirl with fear. Everything had gotten out of control. He would be lucky now if
“Lily-livers,” Paunch spat. He was trying to aim at Caine. Then Caine’s Webley went off and he was punched in his big belly by an invisible fist. There wasn’t much pain, certainly not enough to prevent him from squeezing off another shot of his own. “I will do you in if it is the last thing I do.”
Club Caine only had a few feet to go. “Boasts and hot air!” he cried. “Hot air and boasts!”
Paunch Stevens was trying to remember if he had fired four shots or five. If he only had one shot left, he must be sure not to miss. “How many shots do I have left? I have lost count.”
“Count this,” Club Caine said. By then he was close enough to press the Webley against Stevens’s ribs and fire.
“Damn you,” Paunch Stevens said. He looked down at the bright scarlet stain spreading across his belly. “That one hurt.” His legs trembled and he staggered. Thrusting out his other arm, he braced himself against the bar to keep from falling. “You better not have hit my vitals.”
“Bloody hell. Why aren’t you dead yet?” Club Caine stepped back and sought to steady his Webley in both hands.
It was then that Sally Worth did something she should not have done, something people commented on for months afterward whenever the affray was talked about. Sally laughed and merrily exclaimed, “You two are pitiful! My grandmother can shoot straighter than you and she has never shot a gun in her life.”
“Think so, do you?” Paunch Stevens said. Rankled by her insult, he snapped off a shot in Sally’s general direction. He did not aim. He was just so mad, he wanted to shut her up.
Everyone saw the result. Paunch, Club Caine, who glanced at her when the Smith & Wesson went off, Win, who had poked his head up from behind the bar, and Chester, peeking from under the table. They all saw a hole appear in the center of Sally’s forehead even as the rear of her cranium erupted in a shower of brains and gray and brown hair. Under different circumstances her look of amazement would have been comical. As it was, she collapsed without a sound, pinkish fluid seeping from the new hole.
“I’ll be damned!” Paunch exclaimed in delight. “I hit something.”
“You are an inspiration,” Club Caine said. Lunging, he jammed the Webley’s muzzle against Stevens’s forehead and emptied the Webley into the man’s skull. He had to step aside to avoid being bowled over as the heavy bulk fell.
Then he was the one gripping the bar for support, and smiling. “All’s well that ends well, eh?”
Chapter 16
Seamus Glickman was a quarter of a mile out of Coffin Varnish when an inner sense that he was being followed prompted him to glance over his shoulder. Despite his feeling he did not really expect to see anyone, so he was mildly taken aback to behold a rider seeking to overtake him. The man was riding like a madman, at a full gallop, arms and legs flapping as if he were an ungainly goose trying to take wing. When Seamus recognized the flapper, his surprise changed to anger, and he drew rein.
The other was not long in coming up beside him. The man’s mount was lathered with sweat and winded.
“Trying to ride that poor beast into the ground, are you?” Seamus asked.
“I would ride ten into the ground to get a good story,” Frank Lafferty answered. He, too, was slick with sweat. “And a shooting is always news.”
“Let me guess,” Seamus said. “Aces Weaver told you?”
“It might turn out to be the best dollar for a tip I ever spent,” Lafferty said enthusiastically. “Think of it. Two of Dodge City’s leading citizens swapping lead over a woman!”
“Nine times out of ten, there is a woman involved somewhere,” Seamus mentioned. The tenth time was either a long-standing grudge or resentment over a slur.
“Harriet Fly, no less,” Lafferty said. “A cow in a dress. How any man would take to fighting over her is beyond me.”
“There is no accounting for taste, boy,” Seamus said. He clucked to his mount and the young journalist did the same. “I don’t suppose if I ask you to turn around and go back to Dodge that you would?”
“You must be joking,” Lafferty rejoined in disbelief.
“Some stories are better not written.”
“But if there has been a shooting—” Lafferty started to argue.
