J.A. Johnstone - The Loner - Crossfire

“What in blazes are you doing?” the driver called to someone. “Move that thing!”

Turnbuckle leaned out the window. “What’s wrong, Harry?”

“Oh, some dunderhead driving a beer wagon pulled out right in front of us,” the driver explained. “Nearly ran into him, I did. And now he’s blocking the street.”

Alarm bells began to ring inside Conrad’s head. Wagons and carriages nearly ran together in the streets all the time, he supposed. That was one of the hazards of living in a big city. But his instincts told him there was something wrong.

“Are those bodyguards you hired following us?” he asked sharply.

For a second Turnbuckle looked like he was going to deny hiring any bodyguards, but then the lawyer said, “Yes, they’re supposed to be back there.”

The driver yelled, “Hey, what are you doing with that ax?” At the same time, a swift rush of hoofbeats sounded somewhere behind the carriage, and guns began to go off.

“Claudius, I think we’d better get out!” Conrad reached for the door.

“We’ll be safer in here!” Turnbuckle protested.

“I don’t think—” Conrad began, but the rest of what he was going to say was drowned out by the driver’s frightened yell and a sudden rumble like thunder.

Conrad rammed a shoulder against the door and popped it open. He half fell, half jumped to the street in time to see a huge mountain of beer barrels begin to roll off the big wagon that had blocked the carriage’s path, creating the thunderous sound. The first one flew off the wagon and slammed into the horses hitched to the carriage. The poor animals screamed in pain and went down under the impact.

A few weeks earlier, Conrad had witnessed an avalanche in the mountains on the border between Utah and Nevada. Right before him a small-scale avalanche was taking place on the San Francisco street, with beer barrels instead of boulders. The barrels continued to roll off the wagon. Some of them burst when they landed, spraying beer over the street, but most bounced and kept rolling. Conrad leaped aside from one that would have crushed him like a bug. From the corner of his eye he saw another barrel bounce high and then slam down on the carriage’s seat, cutting short the driver’s terrified scream.

“Claudius, come on!”

Turnbuckle scrambled out of the carriage as another barrel landed on the vehicle’s roof, splintering it. The lawyer slipped in the flood of beer washing down the street and would have fallen if Conrad hadn’t grabbed his arm and jerked him upright. They had to get out of the path of the barrels if they were going to survive.

The men who had sprung the trap had chosen a good spot for it. Buildings on both sides of the street were dark and shuttered for the night, and there were no alleys between them. There was nowhere for Conrad and Turnbuckle to go, and as more barrels rolled off the wagon and came bounding toward them, all they could do was turn and run.

Chapter 8

Things went from bad to worse a second later when Conrad saw stabs of orange muzzle flame ahead of them. He knew the hoofbeats he had heard before the shooting started came from mounted gunmen sweeping in on the bodyguards Turnbuckle had hired. Those gunmen would soon target him and Turnbuckle.

Something made him jerk his head around and glance over his shoulder. One of the barrels had bounded high in the air and was coming right at them. Conrad grabbed Turnbuckle’s arm again and yelled, “Down!”

He sent them diving forward. The barrel went over them, coming so close he felt it moving through the air. They scrambled to their feet on the beer-slick pavement and started running again.

A yell of alarm sounded in front of them. Conrad spotted two men trying to get out of the way of the barrel, but they were too late. The barrel smashed into them and rolled over them, probably breaking numerous bones in their bodies. Conrad saw the guns lying on the cobblestones next to the men and knew the trap had backfired on those two, at least. They were some of the hired killers trying to wipe him out.

That gave him an idea. “Slow down!” he called to Turnbuckle. “We can’t outrun those barrels. We need to dodge them!”

“You’re crazy!” Turnbuckle panted. “We can’t—”

“It’s our only chance!”

Conrad knew he was right. He turned to face the barrels and leaped high in the air to let one of them roll under him. Muttering, Turnbuckle wheeled around and threw himself to the side to let another barrel fly past him. There were only seven or eight of the barrels left, but it would only take one to crush him or Turnbuckle.

“To your right, Claudius!” Conrad called out. “Go to your right!”

Turnbuckle flung himself in that direction while Conrad leaped the other way. One of the barrels bounced off the cobblestones and flew between them.

“Now 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.