The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [169]
He studied the distance from the doorway to the corner of the hut. Three long strides. Out of sight in less than three seconds. That’s if he’s thinking of it. And if he tried it, you’d have only that long to aim and fire. Unless…
Unless Doretta pulls off the five shots. He thought about this for some time before he was sure it could be done without endangering her. But first you have to give him the idea.
He rolled to his side to pull Usher’s gun from his belt. Then, holding it in his left hand, he emptied it at the doorway. Silence followed.
I’m reloading now, Chink. Get it through your cat-eyed head. I’m reloading and you’ve got time to do something.
He explained it to Doretta unhurriedly—how she would wait about ten minutes before firing the first time; she would count to five and fire again, and so on until the gun was empty. She was behind the thick bole of a pine and only the gun would be exposed as she fired.
She said, “And if he doesn’t come out?”
“Then we’ll think of something else.”
Their faces were close. She leaned toward him, closing her eyes, and kissed him softly. “I’ll be waiting,” she said.
Brennan moved off through the trees, circling wide, well back from the edge of the clearing. He came to the thin section directly across from Doretta’s position and went quickly from tree to tree, keeping to the shadows until he was into thicker pines again. He saw Chink’s horse off to the left of him. Only a few minutes remained as he came out of the trees to the off side of the lean-to, and there he went down to his knees, keeping his eyes on the corner of the hut.
The first shot rang out and he heard it whump into the front of the hut. One… then the second …two…he was counting them, not moving his eyes from the front edge of the hut… three… four …be ready….Five! Now, Chink!
He heard him—hurried steps on the packed sand—and almost immediately he saw him cutting sharply around the edge of the hut, stopping, leaning against the wall, breathing heavily but thinking he was safe. Then Brennan stood up.
“Here’s one facing you, Chink.”
He saw the look of surprise, the momentary expression of shock, a full second before Chink’s revolver flashed up from his side and Brennan’s finger tightened on the trigger. With the report Chink lurched back against the wall, a look of bewilderment still on his face, although he was dead even as he slumped to the ground.
Brennan holstered the revolver and did not look at Chink as he walked past him around to the front of the hut. He suddenly felt tired, but it was the kind of tired feeling you enjoyed, like the bone weariness and sense of accomplishment you felt seeing your last cow punched through the market chute.
He thought of old man Tenvoorde, and only two days ago trying to buy the yearlings from him. He still didn’t have any yearlings.
What the hell do you feel so good about?
Still, he couldn’t help smiling. Not having money to buy stock seemed like such a little trouble. He saw Doretta come out of the trees and he walked on across the clearing.
20
No Man’s Guns
Western Story Roundup, August 1955
AS HE DREW near the mass of tree shadows that edged out to the road he heard the voice, the clear but hesitant sound of it coming unexpectedly in the almost-dark stillness.
“Cliff—”
His right knee touched the booted Springfield and he thought of it calmly, instinctively, drawing it left-handed in his mind, as he slowed the sorrel to a walk. Now at the edge of the shadows he saw a man with a rifle.
The man called uncertainly, “Cliff?”
“You got the wrong party,” he answered, and neck-reined the sorrel toward the trees.
Less than twenty feet away the rifle came up suddenly. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Mitchell.”
The rifle barrel hung hesitantly. “You better light down.”
Astride the McClellan saddle, Dave Mitchell didn’t move. He sat with his shoulders pulled back, yet he was relaxed. Narrow hips, sundarkened, thin-lined features beneath the slightly turned-up forward brim of a faded Stetson and everything about him said Cavalry. Everything but the rough-wool