toward me !”
It was a deadly game, like children playing tag, but the stakes were much higher. Conrad and Turnbuckle darted here and there, ducked, leaped high, threw themselves aside. The frantic action lasted only moments, but it seemed much longer before the last of the barrels had caromed past them.
The barrels weren’t the only threat. The gunmen were distracted by the avalanche of beer barrels, and some of them fell victim to the bouncing, rolling, suds-filled dreadnaughts, but several killers avoided the onslaught and charged toward Conrad and Turnbuckle. Conrad heard shots booming and slugs whining off pavement, and he twisted around to meet the new threat as he reached for his gun.
The Colt hadn’t fallen out of its holster during all his frenzied jumping around, and he brought the revolver up, triggering a pair of swift shots that sent two of the attackers spinning off their feet. The sharp smell of powdersmoke mingled with the earthy, overpowering aroma of spilled beer. Shifting his aim, he fired again.
Another gunman stumbled and dropped his weapon to clutch at his arm. In a voice wracked with pain, he shouted, “Let’s get out of here!”
The remaining bushwhackers broke off the attack and fled into the night.
Conrad sent another shot after them to hurry them on their way, then went over to help a sprawled Claudius Turnbuckle to his feet. “Are you all right, Claudius?”
Turnbuckle was breathing hard. “Yes,” he managed to say after a moment. “I’m ... not hurt. Just soaked in ... beer ... and shaken up a bit.”
“Come on. I want to check on the driver.”
It was too late to help the man. He was lying in the wreckage of the carriage, dead. The avalanche of beer barrels had killed all the horses as well.
Conrad heard shrill whistles approaching and knew the San Francisco police were on their way, drawn by all the commotion. Explaining this mess wasn’t going to be easy. It could have been passed off as an accident, if not for the bodies of the slain gunmen. Luckily, he had Turnbuckle with him, Conrad thought, and it was the lawyer’s job to explain things away.
Before the police arrived, Conrad went to the abandoned wagon that had carried the beer barrels and blocked the street. There was nothing special about it. There were probably dozens just like it in San Francisco, maybe more.
Something lying on the street next to the wagon caught his eye. It was round and shiny, and although he had no way of knowing for sure that it had fallen from the driver’s pocket when he jumped down from the wagon’s high seat, that was certainly possible. Conrad slipped the object into his pocket before the police could arrive. He would take a better look at it later.
Uniformed men wearing peaked caps and carrying shotguns and pistols swarmed around him, their feet slipping a little on the beer-wet pavement. Conrad let the police take his gun, then lifted his empty hands to show he wasn’t a threat. Not far away, Claudius Turnbuckle was already blustering in his best lawyerly bluster.
Conrad had a feeling it was going to be a good long while before he made it to the hotel for that rest and relaxation Turnbuckle had urged him to take.
Conrad and Turnbuckle finally reached the hotel long after midnight. They had spent a couple hours at police headquarters, being questioned separately and together by several different detectives on the San Francisco force. The detectives were suspicious, and Conrad knew they didn’t fully believe Turnbuckle’s story about how the attack must have been an attempted robbery.
On the other hand, the carriage had been an expensive one before it was wrecked, Turnbuckle was a well-to-do attorney, and Conrad was a highly successful businessman. It was possible they had been tempting targets for a gang of thieves.
Conrad knew it wasn’t actually what had happened, of course, but he didn’t admit that to the police. He had sensed all along that bringing the
It was a deadly game, like children playing tag, but the stakes were much higher. Conrad and Turnbuckle darted here and there, ducked, leaped high, threw themselves aside. The frantic action lasted only moments, but it seemed much longer before the last of the barrels had caromed past them.
The barrels weren’t the only threat. The gunmen were distracted by the avalanche of beer barrels, and some of them fell victim to the bouncing, rolling, suds-filled dreadnaughts, but several killers avoided the onslaught and charged toward Conrad and Turnbuckle. Conrad heard shots booming and slugs whining off pavement, and he twisted around to meet the new threat as he reached for his gun.
The Colt hadn’t fallen out of its holster during all his frenzied jumping around, and he brought the revolver up, triggering a pair of swift shots that sent two of the attackers spinning off their feet. The sharp smell of powdersmoke mingled with the earthy, overpowering aroma of spilled beer. Shifting his aim, he fired again.
Another gunman stumbled and dropped his weapon to clutch at his arm. In a voice wracked with pain, he shouted, “Let’s get out of here!”
The remaining bushwhackers broke off the attack and fled into the night.
Conrad sent another shot after them to hurry them on their way, then went over to help a sprawled Claudius Turnbuckle to his feet. “Are you all right, Claudius?”
Turnbuckle was breathing hard. “Yes,” he managed to say after a moment. “I’m ... not hurt. Just soaked in ... beer ... and shaken up a bit.”
“Come on. I want to check on the driver.”
It was too late to help the man. He was lying in the wreckage of the carriage, dead. The avalanche of beer barrels had killed all the horses as well.
Conrad heard shrill whistles approaching and knew the San Francisco police were on their way, drawn by all the commotion. Explaining this mess wasn’t going to be easy. It could have been passed off as an accident, if not for the bodies of the slain gunmen. Luckily, he had Turnbuckle with him, Conrad thought, and it was the lawyer’s job to explain things away.
Before the police arrived, Conrad went to the abandoned wagon that had carried the beer barrels and blocked the street. There was nothing special about it. There were probably dozens just like it in San Francisco, maybe more.
Something lying on the street next to the wagon caught his eye. It was round and shiny, and although he had no way of knowing for sure that it had fallen from the driver’s pocket when he jumped down from the wagon’s high seat, that was certainly possible. Conrad slipped the object into his pocket before the police could arrive. He would take a better look at it later.
Uniformed men wearing peaked caps and carrying shotguns and pistols swarmed around him, their feet slipping a little on the beer-wet pavement. Conrad let the police take his gun, then lifted his empty hands to show he wasn’t a threat. Not far away, Claudius Turnbuckle was already blustering in his best lawyerly bluster.
Conrad had a feeling it was going to be a good long while before he made it to the hotel for that rest and relaxation Turnbuckle had urged him to take.
Conrad and Turnbuckle finally reached the hotel long after midnight. They had spent a couple hours at police headquarters, being questioned separately and together by several different detectives on the San Francisco force. The detectives were suspicious, and Conrad knew they didn’t fully believe Turnbuckle’s story about how the attack must have been an attempted robbery.
On the other hand, the carriage had been an expensive one before it was wrecked, Turnbuckle was a well-to-do attorney, and Conrad was a highly successful businessman. It was possible they had been tempting targets for a gang of thieves.
Conrad knew it wasn’t actually what had happened, of course, but he didn’t admit that to the police. He had sensed all along that bringing the
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