William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Comanches chasing the stagecoach ran straight into a barrage launched by Ramrod riders. Crashing rounds of gunfire burst forth. The braves fired back, but they were outnumbered two-to-one by the gun hawks. Only half the braves survived that initial onslaught. Their charge took them beyond the town limits into the open.

The cloud of dust kicked up by the stagecoach on its high-speed turn worked to its advantage, cloaking it in airborne murk. Latigo turned the stagecoach onto Commerce Street.

A Comanche trio returned to the fray, emerging from the dust cloud in dogged pursuit. Firing back at them, Sam picked them off one, two, three.

The stagecoach had shed most of its speed while making the turn. Sam motioned for Latigo to turn into a side street on their left-hand side. “In there!”

Working the reins and the hand brake, Latigo wheeled the slowing stagecoach onto the street between the courthouse and the Golden Spur, providing a safe haven from the battle that continued to rage through the town. The vehicle jostled to a halt.

Recovering from the shock of the surprise attack, the townfolk had begun to regroup and return fire. The number of militiamen already grouped en masse in the street quickly mounted an effective counterstrike against the raiders. Also well armed and geared for trouble were those of the Ramrod, who fought back hard and fast.

In the grid of streets and cross streets comprising the heart of town, more braves spilled into the dirt, their ponies bolting free. The tide was turning.

Quick to adapt, the Comanches retreated from the costly fusillade on Trail Street. Their fight was not yet done, however. Breaking up into small groups of twos and threes, they spread out through the rest of town in search of less well-protected citizens.

A sodden drunk staggered out of an alley beside the Dog Star Saloon, where he had passed out sometime earlier. Confusing the pounding of his aching head with the racketing of gunfire and hoofbeats, he stood swaying just outside the alley mouth.

Seeing him, a Comanche bowman shot an arrow into his chest. The drunk reeled, staring bleary-eyed at the feathered shaft protruding from his torso. He remained on his feet.

A bowstring twanged for a second time, launching another arrow into the befuddled man. He dropped and died, bewildered by the cruel fate that had overtaken him.

A woman in a boardinghouse on a cross street north of the Alamo Bar went to the window to investigate the source of the racket. Standing at an open second-floor window, she was shot by a Comanche rifleman. She fell to the floor, sinking out of sight below the windowsill, and died.

Gunfire continued to pop elsewhere as the main clash on Trail Street subsided. From wounded townfolk came cries and screams, groans and mutterings, and calls for help. Wounded Comanches stayed grimly silent, due not only to their stoic nature but also the certainty they would live longer by not calling attention to themselves in the midst of their enemies.

A hard-core group of militiamen formed around Sheriff Barton and Boone Lassiter, Hutto’s top gun. Among them were Hutto himself, Russ Lockhart, Deputy Smalls, and a steadily growing number of others.

“The red devils! Why, they haven’t so much as shown their faces in Hangtree since before the war,” Lockhart said, sounding as much offended as shocked.

“Well, they’re here now,” Barton said, reloading his six-gun.

“Looks like we got ’em on the run,” somebody said.

“Keep your gun ready and your eyes open. You can’t count on nothing where Comanches are concerned,” Barton instructed. “Be like them to fake breaking off the attack, only to regroup and hit us again one more time.”

“It could have been worse,” Wade Hutto said. “If we hadn’t gathered to buck the Ramrod, they would have fallen on this town like wolves on a sheepfold!”

“Wonder how Stafford’s bunch made out?” said a clerk from the feed store, wearing a white bib apron over his clothes and toting a Henrys repeating rifle.

“If Vince caught a bullet it would solve a lot of problems.” The rancher sounded hopeful. He had a small spread on the South Fork of the Liberty River, not far—meaning too close—from the Ramrod Ranch.

“You won’t be rid of Vince so easily,” Lassiter said, grinning. “He’s too blamed ornery to be that obliging.”

“We don’t want to lose Vince just yet. We’ll need every manjack we’ve got if the Comanches return,” Barton said.

“They wouldn’t dare!” Lockhart said.

“Why not?”

Nobody had an answer to that one.

Sporadic outbursts of gunfire and distant screams from outlying parts of town continued to be heard.

“Hell, they ain’t quit yet.” Deputy Smalls looked distinctly unwell—pale, pasty faced, and beaded with cold sweat.

“You’re showing a little green around the gills, Deputy,” Lassiter said, chuckling.

“I got excited and swallowed my chaw of tobaccy by mistake. I’m feeling mighty low down in the belly,” Smalls complained.

Barton peered east on Trail Street. “Vince made it. He’s still with us.”

“Someone’ll have to speak to him to arrange a truce until the Comanche threat is done,” Hutto said.

“‘Someone,’ huh? Who could that be? As if I didn’t know!” Barton exclaimed.

“You’re doing a fine job, Mack. You’re the only one can handle Stafford. He respects you.”

“Respects me enough to put a bullet in my back!”

“That wasn’t Vince. Looked like Quent shot at you,” somebody said.

“Oh he did, did he?”

“Let’s get squared away first,” Hutto said quickly.

“I’ll square Quent away,” Barton fumed.

“We’ll have to comb the town street by street to make sure the Comanches are all gone,” Hutto said, trying to change the subject.

“Street by street? Hell, house by house,” Boone Lassiter said. “It’d be just like those devils for a few of them to find a hiding place to set for a few hours and let things calm down before cutting up again.”

On the side street, Sam finished reloading his Winchester and climbed down from his perch. Latigo reached into the box under the seat, hauling out the carbine, which had remained unfired since he first took the reins of the stagecoach.

Sam put his face in a window of the coach. “How you folks doing in there?”

“Brewster’s dead,” Donahue said dully.

“Hell!” Sam looked in, seeing Brewster’s body slumped in a heap on the floor.

“Sally and I are all right, but Junie started bleeding again, bad.” Mary Anderson’s dark eyes stared out of a strained white face. The front of June’s dress was soaked with dark, fresh blood. “We’ve got to get her to a doctor.”

“We will, Miz Anderson.”

A Comanche rode west on Trail Street, flashing past the gap between the courthouse and the Golden Spur. Latigo fired, and the brave spilled into the street, lying motionless. The horse kept going, running out of sight.

Sam eyed the broken lead line tied to the rear of the stagecoach. “Looks like Don Eduardo is out four horses.”

“He will love you all the more,” Latigo said dryly.

“Blame the Comanches, not me!”

“He has love enough in his heart for both.”

A door in the east wall of the Golden Spur creaked open. Sam and Latigo spun, pointing their rifles at it.

“Don’t shoot, it’s only me.” Standing in the doorway, Johnny Cross raised his hands and smiled.

Sam and Latigo lowered their weapons.

“Trust a Yank to be in the middle of all that shooting and whatnot,” Johnny said, shaking his head in mock sadness. “The bad penny always turns up somehow.”

Sam looked him over. “I was thinking the same about you.”