Oakley Hall - Warlock

He strained his own blade from side to side and Brunk gasped. But he felt his wrist begin to tilt. He had to bend his arm to retain his grip, and so the post he had made of his forearm was gone and there remained only the inadequate strap of his muscles, and his will — not to be beaten. He could feel his arm bending as the blood flowed from Brunk’s belly.

He laughed and panted up into Brunk’s contorted face, and smelled the stink of him, and watched the bowie that was not a foot from his throat. He worked his own blade up toward Brunk’s vitals, up toward Brunk’s heart; for Brunk must die too. Why? he thought. What did it matter? There seemed no reason, but his hand needed none. He grinned up at the bowie’s point, not six inches from his throat now. Now three, as his arm gave like a rusty ratchet, pure pain now, and caught somehow again; now two inches, as it gave again.

Then out of the corners of his eyes he saw Murch move suddenly, and saw the little double-barreled derringer in Murch’s hand. “ No, Al! ” he grunted, and his words were lost in the crash. Brunk’s head fell on him, and Brunk did not move again. “No!” he panted.

Weakly he struggled to slide the heavy body off himself, and to his feet. His vest was soaked with blood. He stood there swaying. Murch had the derringer trained on the three miners. Someone was hammering on the door and shouting, “Frank! Hey, Frenchy!”

“Shut up!” Murch whispered to Bald-head. He turned white-rimmed eyes to Morgan. “Christ, what the hell was I supposed to do, Tom?”

“Fair shake!” old Goat-beard cried. “Son-of-a-bitching gambling man, never gave anybody a fair shake in your life!”

Bald-head was leaning back against the wall with a hand in front of him as though to keep the derringer off. The door creaked as the miners in the Glass Slipper tried to force it.

Morgan took up his shoulder holster and Colt, and could not think for a moment. He glanced at his bleeding shoulder.

“Christ, what’ll we do, Tom?” Murch said desperately. “Christ, Tom!”

“Sons of bitches!” Waxed-mustache said. “Play fair so long as you win. He had you by the—”

“Shut up!” Murch cried. “Christ, Tom!”

Morgan looked down at Brunk on the floor, with one arm under him and the other flung out, the blood beneath his head and much more blood spreading on the floor beneath his body. He sighed and said, “You had better make tracks, Al.”

Murch started for the alley door. The inner door creaked and strained again, and there was another volley of shouting and cursing. Murch turned and the straight-on eye regarded him worriedly. “What about you, Tom?”

Morgan didn’t answer, and Murch went out. Morgan stood facing the three miners, trying to get his breath back. As they would not think of blaming the derringer that had put the bullet through Brunk’s head, so they would not think either of blaming merely Murch. The bar on the door began to squeal as a more concerted weight crashed against it. He drew the Colt from its holster as Waxed-mustache took a step toward him.

“Bust that door in, boys!” Goat-beard yelled. “For there is rats in here need cleaning out!”

One of the iron keepers sprang loose from the door and flew like an arrow to smack against Waxed-mustache’s shoulder. Morgan grinned suddenly to watch Waxed-mustache rubbing his arm, and unhurriedly went to the door and stepped out into the alley. Murch was nowhere in sight. He started to the left. When he heard the crash as the door burst open, he broke into a run. He had reached the end of the alley before he saw, over his shoulder, a flock of them come out of the Glass Slipper and start after him. He laughed as he ran down Southend Street toward Main. It would be quite a run, he thought, if neither Schroeder nor Gannon were at the jail.

GANNON was in the jail with Carl when Tom Morgan ran in, panting, covered with blood, hatless, a holstered Colt in his hand. “Lock me up, boys!” he panted. “Or there’s a lynching coming off!” He ran into the cell and slammed the door on himself.

Carl sprang up, knocking his chair over backward. There was a roar outside; it came down Main Street like a flood, and Gannon snatched the shotgun down from its pegs. “What the hell?” Carl cried.

“Lock the damned door!” Morgan said, and Carl leaped to do it, and flung the key inside the cell. Gannon ran to the door. Behind him he heard Morgan laughing like an idiot.

Miners were streaming around the corner out of Southend Street, more were coming out of the Glass Slipper to join them, and all of them were yelling.

Gannon held the shotgun out before him with his finger tight on the trigger and felt the sweat starting from his face. “Hold off!” he shouted, “Hold off!” the words lost in the tumult. Beside him Carl was shouting too. Then the leaders halted.

Gradually the whole mass came to a halt, forming a broad semicircle on the boardwalk and in the street around the front of the jail, all of them yelling still, until Carl raised his Colt and fired into the air.

“Now, what the hell?” Carl said, in the silence.

There was a disturbance in the front rank and Frenchy Martin stepped forward through the settling dust; then old man Heck came out.

“Now you turn over that son of a bitch in there, Deputy!” Frenchy Martin cried.

“He is our meat and no business of yours at all!” old man Heck shouted. “Dirty dog killed Frank Brunk and we are—”

The clamor began again and the miners crowded forward. Gannon thrust the muzzle of the shotgun against the belly of the one nearest him. Slowly the shouting died.

“—fair fight,” Frenchy Martin was saying. “And then Frank got him down and that lookout of his shot Frank through the head!”

“Where’s Murch?” someone yelled. “Somebody’d better get that wall-eyed son too!”

“He lit out on a horse!” another replied. “He was moving!”

“You turn over that bloody-bellied gambler, hear!” old Heck said. “I mean, we will tromp you down, Schroeder!”

Gannon swung the shotgun toward Heck. Another miner made a grab for it and he slammed the barrel against the man’s elbow. “Get back!” he said.

Somebody was singing, “We’ll hang Tom Morgan to a sour apple tree!”

Frenchy Martin jumped up on the tie rail, and, clinging to a post, motioned for silence. “Boys, are we going to let them stop us? Are we going to take out that murdering bastard or not? Good old Frank was a friend to us all, and MacDonald set Morgan to kill him, most likely.” The miners roared.

Gannon looked toward Carl, for this had better be stopped, and Carl leaped forward and clubbed the barrel of his Colt down behind Martin’s ear. Martin fell forward into the street, where the miners caught him; the yelling increased in volume and violence. Old man Heck was shaking his fist. Carl fired into the air again. Gannon began edging toward old Heck again, to buffalo him next. He was only worried that it would get dark before they could run the mob off. Already the light was fading with the sun gone.

“Listen!” Carl shouted. “There’s been men took out of here and hung but not while I was here and by God there won’t be, either! Because I can play hell with a good lot of you and Johnny will just make pure mincemeat with that shotgun. Now; if you want Morgan that bad maybe you can get him, but it’s going to cost you dear. You hear now!”

The solid roar went up again, the shoving back and forth. Old man Heck turned and cupped his hands to his mouth to yell, and Gannon slammed the shotgun barrel against the side of his head. He fell to his knees.

“Watch that bull moose over there!” Carl cried, and Gannon swung the shotgun toward a big bearded miner who was moving toward him.