of his coat.
Robeck swore and swung his gun, blasting fire. His first shot was too quick, Talon' s was not. The bullet caught Robeck over the belt buckle and he started back. Talo n fired again, then nailed Jones. Pete was already falling and suddenly there was silenc e broken only by the plunging of the horses and the rattle of harness. They quiete d down and Talon got slowly to his feet.
Talon walked over to Robeck and kicked the gun from his hand, but the man was dead.
Tracey was standing in the door, his hands high. "Don't shoot!" he said. "I've quit!"
Ruth came from the door, but the shotgun guard reached Talon first. "Thanks," h e said. "When I didn't see Dan I figured something was wrong."
"I'm sorry," Ruth said, "I just thought-" "I always carry a spare," he said. "Yo u know, any of us in there could have been killed. Sometimes it's better to reserv e judgment . . . when a man's life is on the line, he naturally wants to wait unti l the time is right."
He walked to the stable for his horse. It was still a long way to Carson.
*
HERE ENDS THE TRAIL
Cold was the night and bitter the wind and brutal the trail behind. Hunched in th e saddle, I growled at the dark and peered through the blinding rain. The agony o f my wound was a white-hot flame from the bullet of Korry Gleason.
Dead in the corral at Seaton's he was, and a blessed good thing for the country , too, although had I gone down instead, the gain would have been as great and th e loss no greater. Wherever he went, in whatever afterlife there may be for the Korr y Gleasons of this world, he'll carry the knowledge that he paid his score for th e killing of old Bags Robison that night in Animas.
He'd been so sure, Gleason had, that Race Mallin had bucked it out in gun smoke dow n Big Band way. He'd heard the rumor all right, so he thought it safe to kill old Bags , and he'd nothing on his mind when he walked, sloshing through the mud toward Seaton's-an d then he saw me.
He knew right off, no doubt about that. He knew befor e he saw my face. He knew even before I spoke. "Goodbye, Korry," I said.
But the lightning flashed as I spoke and he saw me standing there, a big, lean-bodie d man wearing no slicker and guns ready to hand. He saw me there with the scar on m y jaw, put there by his own spur the night I whipped him in Mobeetie.
He swore and grabbed for his gun and I shot him through the belly, shot him low down , where they die hard, because he'd never given old Bags a chance, old Bags who ha d been like a father to me . . . who had no father and no mother, nor kith nor ki n nor anything. I shot him low down and hard and he grabbed iron and his gun swun g up and I cursed him like I've never cursed, then I sank three more shots into him , framing the ugly heart of him with lead and taking his bullet in the process.
Oh, he was game, all right! He came of a hard clan, did Korry Gleason, big, bloody , brutal men who killed and fought and drank and built ranches and roads and civilizatio n and then died because the country they built was too big for them to hold down.
So now I'd trail before me and nothing behind me but the other members of the Gleaso n clan, who, even now, would be after me. The trail dipped down and the wind whippe d at my face while the pain of my wound gnawed at my side. My thoughts spun and turne d smoky and my brain struggled with the heat haze of delirium.
Gigantic thunder bottled itself up in the mighty canyons of cloud and then explode d in jagged streaks of lightning, cannon flashes of lightning that stabbed and glance d and shimmered among the rock-sided hills. Night and the iron rain and wet rock fo r a trail and the thunder of slides and the echoing canyons where they ended, the roarin g streams below and the poised boulders, revealed starkly by some momentary flash , then concealed but waiting to go crashing down when the moment came. And throug h it I rode, more dead than alive, with a good seat in the saddle but a body
Robeck swore and swung his gun, blasting fire. His first shot was too quick, Talon' s was not. The bullet caught Robeck over the belt buckle and he started back. Talo n fired again, then nailed Jones. Pete was already falling and suddenly there was silenc e broken only by the plunging of the horses and the rattle of harness. They quiete d down and Talon got slowly to his feet.
Talon walked over to Robeck and kicked the gun from his hand, but the man was dead.
Tracey was standing in the door, his hands high. "Don't shoot!" he said. "I've quit!"
Ruth came from the door, but the shotgun guard reached Talon first. "Thanks," h e said. "When I didn't see Dan I figured something was wrong."
"I'm sorry," Ruth said, "I just thought-" "I always carry a spare," he said. "Yo u know, any of us in there could have been killed. Sometimes it's better to reserv e judgment . . . when a man's life is on the line, he naturally wants to wait unti l the time is right."
He walked to the stable for his horse. It was still a long way to Carson.
*
HERE ENDS THE TRAIL
Cold was the night and bitter the wind and brutal the trail behind. Hunched in th e saddle, I growled at the dark and peered through the blinding rain. The agony o f my wound was a white-hot flame from the bullet of Korry Gleason.
Dead in the corral at Seaton's he was, and a blessed good thing for the country , too, although had I gone down instead, the gain would have been as great and th e loss no greater. Wherever he went, in whatever afterlife there may be for the Korr y Gleasons of this world, he'll carry the knowledge that he paid his score for th e killing of old Bags Robison that night in Animas.
He'd been so sure, Gleason had, that Race Mallin had bucked it out in gun smoke dow n Big Band way. He'd heard the rumor all right, so he thought it safe to kill old Bags , and he'd nothing on his mind when he walked, sloshing through the mud toward Seaton's-an d then he saw me.
He knew right off, no doubt about that. He knew befor e he saw my face. He knew even before I spoke. "Goodbye, Korry," I said.
But the lightning flashed as I spoke and he saw me standing there, a big, lean-bodie d man wearing no slicker and guns ready to hand. He saw me there with the scar on m y jaw, put there by his own spur the night I whipped him in Mobeetie.
He swore and grabbed for his gun and I shot him through the belly, shot him low down , where they die hard, because he'd never given old Bags a chance, old Bags who ha d been like a father to me . . . who had no father and no mother, nor kith nor ki n nor anything. I shot him low down and hard and he grabbed iron and his gun swun g up and I cursed him like I've never cursed, then I sank three more shots into him , framing the ugly heart of him with lead and taking his bullet in the process.
Oh, he was game, all right! He came of a hard clan, did Korry Gleason, big, bloody , brutal men who killed and fought and drank and built ranches and roads and civilizatio n and then died because the country they built was too big for them to hold down.
So now I'd trail before me and nothing behind me but the other members of the Gleaso n clan, who, even now, would be after me. The trail dipped down and the wind whippe d at my face while the pain of my wound gnawed at my side. My thoughts spun and turne d smoky and my brain struggled with the heat haze of delirium.
Gigantic thunder bottled itself up in the mighty canyons of cloud and then explode d in jagged streaks of lightning, cannon flashes of lightning that stabbed and glance d and shimmered among the rock-sided hills. Night and the iron rain and wet rock fo r a trail and the thunder of slides and the echoing canyons where they ended, the roarin g streams below and the poised boulders, revealed starkly by some momentary flash , then concealed but waiting to go crashing down when the moment came. And throug h it I rode, more dead than alive, with a good seat in the saddle but a body
Similar Books
