Ed Gorman: Showdown

Carlos was just hefting the suitcase into the shallow bed of the buggy when he heard riders approaching.

He ran to the edge of the grass for a better look. Two riders limned by moonlight, dust the color of fading ghosts as they turned in toward the estate.

One of the men jerked his carbine from his saddle scabbard, the barrel gleaming in the moonsilver.

He turned away and ran back into the house.

Prine, carbine ready, said, "I'm going in the house."

"You in charge now, are you?" Daly said. He sounded amused.

"I can move faster."

"That you can," Daly said as they reined up. "I'll work my way around back. In case he tries to get out that way."

Prine dropped from his horse, leaving him ground-tied.

He moved fast, crouched down.

Something white moved on the shadows of the front porch.

"Come out of there," Prine snapped.

"He killed a man in there, Deputy. I am afraid to go back in."

"Carlos? Come out here where I can see you." Carlos came up, his arms stuck straight up above his head. His white serving jacket rode up to his ribs. "Where is he?" Prine said.

"Getting ready to leave. The den, I think."

"Now tell me about what happened in there. Who'd he kill?"

Sheriff Daly made his way around to the back of the house. It was like walking around a stadium in a big city. A man could lose some weight just making the trek.

Weight wasn't his only problem, Daly thought. He had arthritis, bursitis, and neuritis. He probably had all the other itises, too, if he ever bothered to go back to the doc. He'd busted his knee once, so he hobbled a bit; and he needed new eyeglasses, so he squinted a bit; and he was fighting a mild case of shingles, which kept him in minor, but constant pain. He was one hell of a specimen, he was, and he was damned glad that Prine had suggested going in first.

Daly took up his position at the back door, next to the screened-in porch. Either way, Neville wasn't going to escape. He'd protected the Nevilles for twenty years. But no longer. He was now—at last—an emancipated white man.

Prine moved carefully through the house. He remembered from his single visit here where the den was.

He stood to the side of the door and said, "Neville, this is Prine. I need you to come out with your hands up.

For a time, the only sound was the tocking of a grandfather clock and the relentless pounding of his own heart. He was oily with sweat. He was trembling.

"Neville. Make this easy for both of us."

"How's it feel, Prine? You get to come into the mansion and arrest the richest man in the valley."

"If you're so rich, why did you have to burn down those three buildings and then have your sister murdered by Tolan and Rooney?"

The silence again.

"If you were sensible, we could talk about this."

"I'm not sensible, Neville. So don't even bother to try and pay me off."

The shotgun blast packed the air with buckshot and a roaring echo. A large chunk of the solid oak den door was torn out.

"You try to get in here, Prine, you know what you'll be facing. I keep a lot of ammunition in here."

Prine was worrying a plan. If he could quickly try and kick the door open, kick it back on its hinges so he'd have a clear shot, and then fall to the floor where Neville would have a difficult time seeing him for a moment or two—maybe he could get a shot off that way. He wanted to take Neville alive. He wanted to attend the hanging.

He needed to make Neville nervous. Silence was his ally. He began to make his move, walking on tiptoe, moving himself in position to try and kick in the door and then dive for the floor in case Neville was standing on the other side with his shotgun ready.

Apparently, Neville was practicing silence too. Trying to unnerve Prine. Not a sound in the den.

Prine took a couple of deep breaths. Everything depended on timing. If he was caught in the center of the door on this side, Neville would have no trouble killing him.

He moved. There was no thought process now. No time for it. He acted strictly on instinct and a terrified need to survive.

He brought his boot up and kicked at a place just above the doorknob. The door swung backward with such force that it sounded as if an explosion had just taken place.

This was where Prine expected the shotgun to erupt. He didn't doubt Neville's word that he had a lot of ammunition.

He dropped to the floor, his Winchester ready to fire.

A sound. But not of a shotgun. A faint squeaking noise—something being opened.

As he lay there on the floor, ready to belly-crawl inside, he pictured the den. The large desk, globe, the immensity of built-in bookcases—the mullioned windows.

That was the sound he'd just heard.

The huge, palace-like mullioned windows being opened.

An easy way for Neville to escape.

No wonder there hadn't been the sound of a shotgun. Or Neville shouting at him.

Neville was no longer in the den.

He was just jumping to his feet when the brutal charge of the shotgun troubled the autumn night. Then—a cry. Somebody shot. Somebody down.

Prine ran to the back of the house, not knowing exactly how to find the back door. A couple of false turns before he found the steps next to the pantry leading down to the landing and the back door.

He took the steps quickly. He'd already formed a picture of what he was going to see. And that was what he did indeed see when he reached the enormous backyard.

Sheriff Daly was on the grass, on his back, blood soaking the front of his shirt. He'd opened his sheepskin, apparently to get some air. People did off things when they'd been wounded mortally.

Two shots from the garage where the buggies were kept. The horses were in the adjacent barn.

Prine dove to the ground and rolled to the right, over to Daly. Two more shots, both nearly hitting him. The frost soaked his Levi's. He ended up with his jaw resting on a dog turd.

Prine put four shots into the dark garage. He knew he'd come close by the way Neville cursed him. Neville obviously needed to get into the barn. Get a horse. Get out of here. He'd likely brought a lot more ammunition than Prine did. Eventually, this would make Neville invincible unless Prine got lucky and shot him. He had no more thought—not after seeing poor Daly dead or dying—of taking Neville in. He wanted him to die. And he wanted to be the man who killed him.

Prine, almost without realizing it, started rolling again. He wished he'd gotten rid of his sheepskin. It was pretty damned bulky.

Several more shots from Neville. Each one progressively closer. The family dog, wherever it was, was now barking along with the shots. Apparently, it felt that they were holding another recital here and it, naturally enough, wanted to join in.

Prine got where he'd wanted to go. Out of Neville's range. He got to his feet and raced around the far side of the barn. The stark smell of horseshit; the slippery feel of hay on the floor. Four horses in stalls, each awake now and casting sidelong glances at the strange human running past them with a Winchester in his hand.

He hurried through the barn to the doors. It was his intention to ease himself out and then sneak across to the garage. He would surprise Neville and this would at last be done.

He began his quiet move from barn to garage. The horses had settled down some. He could hear the night again.

He pressed himself flat against the front side of the garage. He began moving inch by inch. When he reached the open door, he would duck down and pick off Neville in the darkness.

He was halfway to the open door when he heard somebody say, "Your turn to come out with your hands up, asshole."

Easy enough to see what had happened , Prine thought. Easy enough to see that I didn't think he'd do the same thing I did. Easy enough to see he's going to kill me .