heavy thud at his side and an agonized groan came from Harker. Hunkering in the darkness, he found the sheriff lying on his side with a fast-growing stain darkening the front of his shirt. He had been shot in the chest and badly wounded. Vejar was mortified that a bullet intended for him had brought down his friend.
The sound of gunfire had brought people cautiously out on to the street. Unaware of the danger he was putting himself in, Dan Matthews came running wheezily up to Vejar, asking, ‘What’s happened?’
Grabbing the oldster’s shirt, Vejar pulled him into the shadows, saying tersely, ‘George Harker’s been hurt real bad. Wait till I say, then run to fetch Doc Thurston. Keep in the shadows when you go.’
Bending to make a quick check on Harker, who was still unconscious, with blood now trickling ominously from the corner of his mouth, Vejar called a muted order to Matthews ‘Go, Dan, go!’
As the old man scurried away, Vejar leapt off the boardwalk and ran across the street, targeting the upstairs window with five rapid-fire shots as he went. There was no return fire.
Not slowing his pace, Vejar jumped up onto the boardwalk and hurled himself at a glazed ground-level window. While in the air, he curled up into a ball, tucking his head tight into his chest. The windowpane shattered explosively under the impact of his shoulders. Somersaulting into the room, Vejar hit the ground, rolling down an aisle between stacked boxes. Coming up into a sitting position with his back against a wooden crate, the sleeves of his shirt slashed to ribbons by the window glass, he deftly flicked the used cartridges from his Colt and reloaded it. Holding the gun in his hand, he sat for a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior of the building.
Then he rose to his feet and began a hunt for the Poole brother who had gunned down George Harker. Aware that the man with the rifle could now be on the ground floor, Vejar moved slowly and silently along the narrow gangways between stacks of goods, in search of the stairs.
Finding the staircase in a corner of the huge room, he climbed cautiously, one step at a time. By placing most of his weight on a heavyhandrail as he crept upwards, he prevented the stairs from making any sound. But he was about two-thirds from the top when a tiny creak was immediately followed by a loud crack as the wood gave a little. As still as a stone statue, Vejar waited. Within a split second a gun roared and a bullet slammed into the wooden wall behind his head. A sliver of wood sliced along his cheek, and he felt blood seeping out to run down his face.
To attempt going up would be suicidal. But Vejar wasn’t prepared to wait for the man who had shot at him to come down. If he wasn’t going up, then he had to find a way of getting the gunman to come down. Examining the stair rail, he discovered it was fixed securely to the actual staircase by a number of regularly spaced wooden uprights. Going down the stairs he searched the stores to find a length of thick rope. Throwing one end of the rope up over the rail, he caught it coming down and pulled it until both ends were level. Holding the ends together, he backed across the room until there was no slack in the doubled rope. His plan was to pull on the rail to make the staircase collapse. When the man upstairs heard the wood cracking , he would realize what was happening. He would be forced to come down to avoid being trapped on the upper floor.
Yet the plan would put Vejar in jeopardy. He would need both of his hands and all of his strength if he was to wreck the staircase. That meant holstering his .45.
Exploring with his feet in the gloom, he located a step to brace them against. Then he strained, pulling hard on the rope. But, despite his efforts, the stair rail held fast. Leaning back to employ his weight so that his body was at a precarious angle, he tried again. This time there was a loud creaking, but the wooden
The sound of gunfire had brought people cautiously out on to the street. Unaware of the danger he was putting himself in, Dan Matthews came running wheezily up to Vejar, asking, ‘What’s happened?’
Grabbing the oldster’s shirt, Vejar pulled him into the shadows, saying tersely, ‘George Harker’s been hurt real bad. Wait till I say, then run to fetch Doc Thurston. Keep in the shadows when you go.’
Bending to make a quick check on Harker, who was still unconscious, with blood now trickling ominously from the corner of his mouth, Vejar called a muted order to Matthews ‘Go, Dan, go!’
As the old man scurried away, Vejar leapt off the boardwalk and ran across the street, targeting the upstairs window with five rapid-fire shots as he went. There was no return fire.
Not slowing his pace, Vejar jumped up onto the boardwalk and hurled himself at a glazed ground-level window. While in the air, he curled up into a ball, tucking his head tight into his chest. The windowpane shattered explosively under the impact of his shoulders. Somersaulting into the room, Vejar hit the ground, rolling down an aisle between stacked boxes. Coming up into a sitting position with his back against a wooden crate, the sleeves of his shirt slashed to ribbons by the window glass, he deftly flicked the used cartridges from his Colt and reloaded it. Holding the gun in his hand, he sat for a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior of the building.
Then he rose to his feet and began a hunt for the Poole brother who had gunned down George Harker. Aware that the man with the rifle could now be on the ground floor, Vejar moved slowly and silently along the narrow gangways between stacks of goods, in search of the stairs.
Finding the staircase in a corner of the huge room, he climbed cautiously, one step at a time. By placing most of his weight on a heavyhandrail as he crept upwards, he prevented the stairs from making any sound. But he was about two-thirds from the top when a tiny creak was immediately followed by a loud crack as the wood gave a little. As still as a stone statue, Vejar waited. Within a split second a gun roared and a bullet slammed into the wooden wall behind his head. A sliver of wood sliced along his cheek, and he felt blood seeping out to run down his face.
To attempt going up would be suicidal. But Vejar wasn’t prepared to wait for the man who had shot at him to come down. If he wasn’t going up, then he had to find a way of getting the gunman to come down. Examining the stair rail, he discovered it was fixed securely to the actual staircase by a number of regularly spaced wooden uprights. Going down the stairs he searched the stores to find a length of thick rope. Throwing one end of the rope up over the rail, he caught it coming down and pulled it until both ends were level. Holding the ends together, he backed across the room until there was no slack in the doubled rope. His plan was to pull on the rail to make the staircase collapse. When the man upstairs heard the wood cracking , he would realize what was happening. He would be forced to come down to avoid being trapped on the upper floor.
Yet the plan would put Vejar in jeopardy. He would need both of his hands and all of his strength if he was to wreck the staircase. That meant holstering his .45.
Exploring with his feet in the gloom, he located a step to brace them against. Then he strained, pulling hard on the rope. But, despite his efforts, the stair rail held fast. Leaning back to employ his weight so that his body was at a precarious angle, he tried again. This time there was a loud creaking, but the wooden
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