Now! Bond straightened himself and leapt through the still-swinging door. McGonigle’s back was just in front of him and, beyond, there was a brightly lit empty bar-room in which an automatic piano was playing to itself.
Bond’s hands shot out and caught the man above the elbows. He lifted him off his feet and swung him round and into the swing doors and into Frasso, who was half-way through them. The whole clapboard house trembled as the two bodies met and Frasso fell back through the doors and crashed on to the sidewalk.
McGonigle catapulted back and twisted to face Bond. There was a rising gun in his hand. Bond’s left caught him on the shoulder. At the same time his open right hand slapped down hard on the gun. McGonigle went back on his heels against the door jamb. The gun clattered to the floor.
The snout of Frasso’s revolver appeared through the swing doors. It weaved quickly round towards Bond, like an aiming snake. As its blue-and-yellow tongue licked out, Bond, his blood singing with the battle, dived for the ground and for the gun at McGonigle’s feet. He got his hand on it and fired two quick shots upwards from the floor before McGonigle stamped on his firing hand and landed on top of him. As Bond went down, he caught a glimpse of Frasso’s gun arced up between the swing doors, pumping bullets into the ceiling. And this time the crash of the body on the planking outside sounded final.
Then McGonigle’s hands were at him and Bond was kneeling on the ground with his head down, trying to protect his eyes. The gun was still on the floor within reach of the first free hand.
For seconds they fought silently, like animals, and then Bond got to one knee and gave a great heave of his shoulders and lashed upwards at the glimpse of a face and the weight came off him and he rose to a crouch. As he did so, McGonigle’s knee came up like a piston under Bond’s chin and knocked him to his feet with a snap of the teeth that shook his skull.
Bond had no time to clear his head before the gangster gave a thick grunt and came for him head downwards with both arms flailing.
Bond twisted to protect his stomach and the gangster’s head hit him in the ribs and the two fists crashed into his body.
Bond’s breath whistled through his teeth with the pain, but he kept focus on McGonigle’s head below him and, with a twist of the body that put all his shoulder behind his hand, he whipped in a hard left, and, as the gangster’s head came up, he lashed out with his right to the chin.
The impact of the two blows straightened McGonigle and rocked him back on his feet. Bond was on him like a panther, crowding him and raining in blows to the body until the gangster began to sag. Bond grabbed at one weaving wrist and dived for an ankle and yanked it away from the floor. Then he put out all his strength, made almost a full turn to gather momentum, and slung the body sideways into the room.
There was a first twanging crash as the flying figure hit the upright pianola and then, with an explosion of metallic discords and breaking wood, the dying instrument toppled over and, with McGonigle spread-eagled across it, thundered to the floor.
Amidst the diminishing crescendo of echoes, Bond stood in the centre of the room, his legs braced with the last effort and the breath rasping in his throat. Slowly he lifted one bruised hand and ran it through his dripping hair.
‘Cut.’
It was a girl’s voice and it came from the direction of the bar.
Bond shook himself and turned slowly round.
Four people had come into the saloon. They were standing in line with their backs to the mahogany-and-brass bar behind which ranks of gleaming bottles rose to the ceiling. Bond had no idea how long they had been there.
A step in front of the other three stood the leading citizen of Spectreville, resplendent, motionless, dominant.
Mr Spang was dressed in full Western costume down to the long silver spurs on his polished black boots. The costume, and the broad leather chaps that covered his legs, were in black, picked out and embellished with silver. The big, quiet hands rested on the ivory butts of two long-barrelled revolvers which protruded from a holster down each thigh, and the broad black belt from which they hung was ribbed with ammunition.
Mr Spang should have looked ridiculous, but he didn’t. His big head was thrust slightly forward and his eyes were cold, fierce slits.
On Mr Spang’s right, with her hands on her hips, was Tiffany Case. In a Western dress of white and gold, she looked like something out of
The other half of the quartette was the two men in black hoods from Saratoga. Each of them held a .38 Police Positive trained on Bond’s heaving stomach.
