Ralph Compton - Bluff City

Fireflies flared in the mouth of an alley and lead smashed into the jail door and wall inches from his chest. Clay responded in kind. Someone cried out. Zigzagging, Clay raced toward the alley. He was almost to it when a shadowy shape rose onto its knees and a revolver hammer clicked. Clay fired again, into the figure’s chest, and came to a stop next to the convulsing form.

It was Gorman. The whites of his eyes showed as his mouth opened and closed, and dark spittle dribbled over his lower lip.

“Where is Stark?” Clay asked.

Gorman’s eyes focused on him. The outlaw tried to raise his gun arm but Clay stepped on his wrist. The next second Gorman sucked in a deep breath and died.

From somewhere behind the jail came a shout from Deputy Wiggins. To linger was folly. Clay ran down the alley to the next street. He drew few stares but, to be safe, he stayed in the shadows until he had gone several blocks. By happenstance he came to the Courier.

A light glowed in the window.

On an impulse Clay crossed the street. The door was unlocked. He entered on cat’s feet. Only one person was there, seated at her desk with her shoulders slumped, her hair disheveled, and her forehead resting on her forearms. Clay heard a sniffle. “Are you all right?”

Melanie jerked upright. Her cheeks were moist, her eyes red. Swiping at her face with her sleeve, she exclaimed, “You! Where did you come from? I thought they arrested you.”

“Barker tried to have me killed.”

Blinking in confusion, Melanie said, “What are you saying? How does that explain what you are doing here?”

“Barker tried to have me killed,” Clay repeated. “I’m on the run. I just shot Gorman.”

Melanie stiffened. “He’s dead, you mean? My God. Is there no end? Is that your answer to everything?”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Clay asked, coming around her desk. He reached for her hands, but she recoiled.

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

“What has gotten into you?” Clay snapped. “I need your help. Barker will have men searching for me. I have to get up into the high country, lie low a spell, decide what to do.”

“There you go again,” Melanie said. “Accusing Harve Barker. What proof do you have? You told me he tried to have you killed, but it was Gorman you shot, correct? So it is Jesse Stark who wants you dead, not Barker.”

“They are connected somehow. I know it.”

Melanie came out of her chair in a fury, her fingers balled into fists. “Will you listen to yourself? Name me one thing that links Barker to Stark. Just one thing.”

“I can’t yet. It’s a hunch I have, is all,” Clay explained.

“Dear God. You were ready to gun him down over a hunch?” Melanie sagged into her chair. “And to think I liked you. Truly and really liked you. How could I have been so wrong?”

Clay gestured in impatience. “I should have known how you would react. Very well. I won’t impose on you further.” He turned to go. “I’ll find Train. He will believe me even if you don’t. Do you know where he is?”

“No. But I know he is leaving in the morning. He has his money, and he asked me to say so long for him.”

“Oh.”

“What did you expect? Stark could have found out about Mr. Train any number of ways. You are the only one who sees Barker’s hand in everything.”

A commotion broke out in the street. Clay dashed to the window, careful not to show himself. Men with lanterns were fanning out and checking doorways and nooks. One came toward the Courier, a tin star glinting on his vest.

In three bounds Clay was at the counter. He ducked behind it a heartbeat before blows hammered the door, rattling the glass.

“Open up in there! This is the law!”

Melanie rose. She did not glance at Clay as she went by. Clay heard a door hinge creak. “Deputy Wiggins? What is all the fuss about?”

“Sorry to bother you, Miss Stanley, but that no-account friend of yours has escaped and murdered a man,” Wiggins said. “A few people thought they might have seen him come this way, so we are turning every street upside down.” Wiggins coughed. “He hasn’t been here by any chance, has he?”

Clay placed his hand on his Colt.

“No, he has not, Deputy, which is just as well. I have lost all respect for him,” Melanie said.

“You are working kind of late, aren’t you?”

“I was writing of his arrest for tomorrow’s edition,” Melanie answered. “I always like to write events down while they are fresh in my mind.”

“Now you will have even more to write,” Deputy Wiggins said. “Keep this door bolted and don’t let him in if he does show.”

“Never fear on that score. I want nothing whatsoever more to do with Clay Adams or Neville Baine or whatever he wants to call himself.”

Wiggins chuckled, then bid her good night. Melanie closed the door, threw the bolt and pulled the blind. She came to the end of the counter and said without looking down, “That was the last favor I will ever do for you. Sneak out the back, and for God’s sake don’t get caught.”

Clay rose, but only as high as the top of the counter. “Did you mean what you said about not wanting anything more to do with me?”

“I did.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I wish there was something I could say to change your mind, but I never have been all that good with words.”

“Just go.”

His cheeks burning, Clay backpedaled until he came to the press. “I’m going,” he said. “But I want you to know I meant what I whispered to you that night on the mountain. You mean more to me than anything. I would rather chop off my gun hand than lose you.” He started to say more but his throat constricted. Shaking his head, he moved down the narrow hall to the back door. In his emotional state he forgot himself. He violently wrenched the bolt, threw the door open and barreled outside. Straight into a burly figure who had been to one side of the doorway.

Clay stabbed for his Colt but the man grabbed his wrist. A knife appeared in the other’s hand and Clay grabbed the man’s wrist. Locked together, they swung back and forth, each straining to break free. The man was as strong as a bull. It was all Clay could do to hold on.

Then faint light from the open door spilled over them, and Clay got a good look at who he was battling. He had assumed it was one of the searchers, maybe even Deputy Wiggins.

But he was mistaken.

The man trying to kill him was Bantarro.

Chapter 28

Clay’s surprise was fleeting. It had to be. Bantarro snarled and slammed Clay into the wall, jarring him down to the bone. Clay retaliated by driving his knee into Bantarro’s groin. Bantarro grunted, but that was all. Otherwise he seemed not to feel the blow as, uttering an inarticulate growl, he practically raised Clay clear off the ground and then threw him down on his back.

Suddenly Clay had Bantarro’s knee gouging into his gut and Bantarro’s sweaty face hovering above his and, worse, the tip of Bantarro’s knife being forced toward his neck.

“Now you die, gringo!”

Clay exerted his strength to its utmost, but he could not heave Bantarro off of him or stop the blade from being forced a fraction at a time toward his jugular.

“I kill because Senor Stark tells me to. But I also kill you for Gorman. He was my friend, my amigo.”

Clay pushed against Bantarro’s wrist but Bantarro’s arm was made of steel.

“The great Baine!” Bantarro gloated. “You are much with a pistola, but not so much when you cannot use one, eh?”

Gritting his teeth, Clay marshaled whatever reservoir of might he had left. It was not enough. He was hopelessly, helplessly pinned.

“The other one will reward me for this,” Bantarro hissed. “He wants you dead, gringo, more than he wants anything.”