Clifford Simak - The Big Front Yard and Other Stories

“That’s what we figured, too,” said Jake.

“I ain’t no fighting man,” Robinson declared. “I like things peaceable … like them peaceable so well I’ll fight to make them that way. That’s why I shot Bean. That’s why I came here. My way of figurin’, there ain’t no peace around these parts until we run out Fennimore.”

“Instead of coming here,” Carson told him, “you should have ridden out and told the ranchers what was happening. Told them we needed help.”

“Lee Weaver is already out,” said Robinson. “I was just over there. The stable boy told me he left half an hour ago.”

A flurry of shots blazed from the North Star, and bullets chunked into the room. One of them, aimed higher than the rest, smashed the clock and it hung drunkenly from its nail, a wrecked thing that drooled wheels and broken spring.

“Just tryin’ us out,” said Jake.

To the north, far away, came the sound of shooting. They strained their ears, waiting. “Wonder what’s going on up there?” asked Jake.

Robinson shook his head. “Sure hope it isn’t Lee,” he said.

After that one burst there were no further shots.

The sun climbed up the sky and the town dozed, its streets deserted.

“Everyone’s staying under cover,” Jake opined. “Ain’t nobody wants to get mixed up in this.”

Just after noon Lee Weaver came, flat on his belly through the weeds and tall grass back of the building, dragging himself along with one hand, the right arm dragging limply at his side, its elbow a bloody ruin bound with a red-stained handkerchief.

“Came danged near lettin’ you have it,” Jake told him. “Sneakin’ through them weeds like a thievin’ redskin.”

Weaver slumped into a chair, gulped the dipper of water that Carson brought him.

“I couldn’t get through,” he told them. “Fennimore’s got men posted all around the town, watching. Shot my horse, but I got away. Had to shoot it out with three of them. Laid for two hours in a clump of sage while they hunted me.”

Carson frowned, worried. “That leaves us on the limb,” he said. “There isn’t any help coming. They got us cornered. Come night –”

“Come night,” suggested Jake, “and we fade out of here. No use in tryin’ it now. They’d get us sure as shootin’. In the dark we’d have some chance to get away.”

Carson shook his head. “Come night,” he declared, “I’m going into that saloon the back way. While you fellows keep them busy up here.”

“If they don’t get us first,” Weaver reminded him. “They’ll rush us as soon as it’s dark.”

“In that case,” snapped Carson, “I’m starting now. That weed-patch out there is tall enough to shield a man if he goes slow, inches at a time, and doesn’t cause too much disturbance. I’ll circle wide before I try crossing the street. I’ll be waiting to get into the North Star long before it’s dark.”

The doorknob turned easily, and Carson let out his breath. For long hours he had lain back of the North Star, his mind conjuring up all the things that might go wrong. The door might be locked, he might be seen before he could reach it, he might run into someone just inside. …

But he reached the door without detection and now the knob turned beneath his fingers. He shoved it slowly, fearful of a squeaking hinge.

The smell of liquor and of stale cooking hit him in the face as the door swung open. From inside came the dull rumble of occasional words, the scrape of boot-heels.

Holding his breath, he moved inside, slid along the wall, shoved the door shut. Standing still, shoulders pressed against the wall, he waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark.

He was, he saw, in a sort of warehouse. Liquor cases and barrels were piled against the walls, half-blocking the lone window in the room. Straight ahead was another door and he guessed that it opened into a hallway that ran up to the barroom, with another room, the one in which he had faced Fennimore the night before, off to the side.

A gun crashed ahead of him. A single shot. And then another one. Then a flurry of shots.

He felt the hair crawl at the base of his scalp, and his grip tightened on the gun in his hand. There had been occasional firing all afternoon, a few shots now and then. This might be just another fusillade, or it might mean that the kill had started, that the office would be rushed.

On tiptoe he moved across the room, reached the second door. And even as he reached for the knob, he felt it turn beneath his hand before his fingers gripped it.

Someone else had hold of the knob on the other side – was coming through the door!

Twisting on his boot-heel, he swung away, staggered back against the piled-up cases. The door swung open and a figure stepped into the room.

With all his strength, Carson swung at the head of the shadowy man, felt the barrel of his sixgun crash through the resistance of the hat, slam against the skull. The man gasped, pitched forward on buckling knees.

Moving swiftly, Carson scooped the guns from the holsters of the fallen man. He bent close to try to make out who it was, but in the dark the face was a white splotch, unrecognizable.

He straightened and stood tense, listening. There was no sound. No more shots from up in front.

He reached up to place the two guns he had taken from the holsters on top of the whisky cases, and as he stretched on tiptoe to shove them back away from the edge, something drilled into his back, something hard and round.

Rigid, he did not move, and a voice that he knew spoke just behind him.

“Well, well, Morgan, imagine finding you here.”

Mocking, hard – the voice of Jackson Quinn. Quinn, hearing the thud of the falling body, coming on quiet feet down the hallway to investigate, catching him when he was off guard.

“Mind if I turn around?” asked Carson, trying to keep his voice easy.

Quinn gurgled with delight. “Not at all. Turn around by all means. I never did like shooting in the back.” He chuckled again. “Not even you.”

Carson twisted slowly around. The gun muzzle never left his body, following it around from back to belly.

“Drop your gun,” said Quinn.

Carson loosened his fingers and the gun thudded on the floor.

“You’ve given me so much trouble,” Quinn told him, “that I should bust you up a bit. But I don’t think I will. I don’t think I’ll even bother.” He chuckled. “I think I’ll just shoot you here and have it over with.”

Iron squealed against iron, an eerie sound that leaped at them from the dark.

Quinn jerked around, and for the first time his gun-muzzle lifted from Carson’s body.

Carson moved like lightning, clenched fist coming up and striking down, smashing against the wrist that held the gun; striking entirely by instinct, for it was too dark to see.

Quinn cried out and the gun clanged to the floor.

The back door was open. A figure stood outlined against the lesser dark outside, a crouching figure that carried a rifle at the ready.

Shoulders hunched, head down, one foot braced hard for leverage against the whisky cases, Carson hurled himself at Quinn. He felt the man go over at the impact of the flow, knew he was falling on top of him, hauled back his arm for a blow.

But a foot came up, lashing at his stomach. He sensed its coming, twisted, caught it in the ribs instead and went reeling back against the whisky cases, limp with pain.

Quinn was crouching, springing toward him. A fist exploded in his face, thumped his head against the cases. He ducked his head, ears ringing, and bored in, fists playing a tattoo on Quinn’s midriff, driving the man out into the center of the room.