“Walk this way,” Six commanded, all the while keeping one eye on the barn and the other on the three toughs, suspicious of treachery such as Chris Holliday had displayed last night with the derringer. But Price and the two others came along meekly enough, Price favoring his wounded leg. Six put his handcuffs on Price and handed all of them over to Bones Riley. “Tie them up and sit on them, Bones.”

  Riley nodded and herded them back around the building, out of the line of fire. Six raised his voice, “Tilghley?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are those two dead in there?”

  “The big one is. T’other one’s got a busted arm. I missed my proper shot.”

  “Tie him up, then.”

  “I got you,” Tilghley called back.

  Looking across to the far side of the clearing, Six saw that Redondo had taken up a position behind the barn, to prevent Madden and Ivy from escaping that way. With Keene to the right, and Elias to the left, and Six here facing the barn squarely from the corner of Tilghley’s store, the barn was effectively surrounded. For the first time, Six allowed himself a short bleak smile of satisfaction.

  Holstering his gun, he cupped hands around his mouth to call across to the barn, “We’ve got you circled, Madden. You might as well come out.”

  “Come in and take us, Jeremy!” was Madden’s reply.

  Six frowned. There was no angle from which a man could approach the barn without having to cross open ground. Presently he shrugged and called out again. “Madden. You listening?”

  “I hear you.”

  “After dark I intend to burn that barn down around your ears. You haven’t got any way out of it. Give it up.”

  “No deal, Jeremy.”

  Six settled back, forcing patience on himself. The noon sun was hot and afforded no shade. He wondered what Madden had in mind. Was Madden just playing for time, trying to figure out a way to escape? Six didn’t see any method by which the outlaw could get away. But on the other hand it would be senseless to risk any man’s life by trying to attack Madden. He would simply have to wait until dark, then lob a burning limb onto the barn roof. Tilghley wouldn’t like it, but it was better to lose a barn than a man’s life.

  Tilghley’s voice came from inside, “Marshal?”

  “What is it?”

  “You hungry?”

  “Why,” Six said, “I guess I am.”

  “I’ll drop some food out the high window. Right behind you; look out.”

  Six looked up and saw the window, cut high and small in the stout adobe wall to withstand Indian attack. He watched two cans, peaches and beans, drop, followed by a can-opener. “Thanks,” he called. Riley came around, never bashful when food was near, and Tilghley tossed more cans out; Riley took some of them around the building for Elias. Six began to eat, all the while watching the barn.

  There was a quick flurry of shots, startling him after the long stillness; someone was firing from the barn, and in answer, Larry Keene’s rifle was talking in the trees to Six’s right. Then Keene’s rifle stopped, and after a moment Keene called out, “Jeremy?”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m hit. Pulling back.”

  Madden must have drawn a bead on Keene’s muzzle-smoke. Six called, “How bad is it?”

  “Not bad. I’ll have to stop the blood. Can you cover this side?”

  “Go ahead back,” Six told him, and put a pair of shots into the barn for good measure.

  In time Keene appeared behind him, having circled around in the deeper protection of the trees. Keene said, in a worried tone, “I thought I heard a horse moving back in the woods.”

  “Probably one of ours, running loose.”

  “I reckon,” Keene said. There was a wicked-looking bullet burn across the top of his left shoulder, ranging downward in back. Six stepped back long enough to help him bind it up, then said, “You’d better get back to shelter and let yourself relax. We’ve got enough men to handle this without you.” But in his mind the feverish thought was edging his nerves: That horse back in the woods. Sarasen? What if he cuts a crossfire on us?

  Keene drifted back around the building, and then suddenly Six heard Drake Ivy’s voice, hollering from the barn, “Six, Hey, Six, you still there?”

  “Right here,” he answered, a little drily.

  “I’m givin’ it up, Six. I’m coming out. For God’s sake don’t shoot me.”

  “Keep your hands high, Drake, and move slow.”

  “Here I come.”

  The massive Ivy appeared in the doorway, hands over his head, walking forward slowly. Six stood and flattened himself at the trading post corner, allowing only his eyes and gun to show.

  Ivy had not taken half a dozen steps before Oakley Madden’s voice cut forward, high-pitched with strain,

  “God damn you, Drake—you’re not double-crossing me!”

  Madden sounded near the breaking-point; his high-strung nerves were betraying him. Six had to stand in astonishment while Madden’s gun roared in the dark barn and Ivy’s huge body rocked with the impact. Ivy turned around slowly, having trouble keeping his feet under him. He had no gun. Blood welled thick, high on the back of his shirt. Massive arms outstretched, Ivy roared with rage and lumbered back into the barn with great stubborn lurching strides.

  There was a faint sound of scuffling. Then Ivy appeared again in the opening. His head was lolling; he seemed half-out on his feet.

  Then Six realized what was holding him up.

  Madden was right behind Ivy, his arm around the big man, supporting him. When Madden pushed, Ivy walked in obedient, awkward, half-conscious steps. Madden said hoarsely, “He’s still alive, Jeremy. If you don’t want to kill him unarmed, stay away from me. Stay away, you hear?”

  Grinding his teeth together, Six called out the bitterly galling order to his men,

  “Hold your fire, boys.”

  Madden was backing along the barn wall, sidling toward Faro Price’s horse, which had drifted over and stood near the corner of the barn. Madden took the reins in his teeth and, still supporting Ivy before him, began slowly to walk toward the trees, leading the horse. Six had to admire his raw courage. Any second, Ivy might lose consciousness; and when that great weight went dead in Madden’s arm, it would fall, losing Madden his human shield. Madden’s pistol stuck out under Ivy’s arm.

  No opening seemed to offer itself to Six. Redondo was over in those far trees behind Madden, but Madden shrewdly was maneuvering the horse in back of him, keeping it effectively between himself and Redondo’s gun. He was heading toward a spot in the woods midway between Redondo’s position and the post Keene had left.

  There was a thump inside the trading post, and a shout, but Six had no time to pay attention to that. He kept his gun up, waiting for Madden to make a slip.

  Almost to the trees, Madden cackled. Ivy’s tongue was out, his eyes were glazed, but he was on his feet. Six marveled at the huge man’s tremendous store of energy.

  There was only one chance that Six could see. He braced his pistol in both hands, hating this, took aim on the head of the horse Madden was leading, and fired.

  The bullet penetrated the horse’s eye and it went down without a sound. The horse’s fall threw Madden off balance. Ivy swayed, and fell from Madden’s grip. Exposed, Madden roared a curse and leaped into the trees just as half a dozen bullets sought him. But a moment later Six heard Madden’s high laughter: they had missed.

  Grimly, he stepped forward from the building and began running toward the trees, risking exposure to Madden’s gun, in the hope that Madden had faded back.

  He had covered half the distance across the yard when he saw a tall shape step out of the trees to his right.

  Ben Sarasen.

  Sarasen’s gun was coming up. His mouth uttered a terse statement that Six didn’t catch. Stark fear paralyzed Six and instinct made him drop flat without thinking.

  It was good he did; a bullet fanned air so close over his head that he could feel the whiplash-wind of it, and then Sarasen’s gun was rocking, bucking in his fist. In naked astonishment, Six saw Creed Bolton at the trading-post door, folding up under the savage onslaught of Sarasen’s bullets, a smoking rifle in Creed’s hand.

  Then another gun fired, from the trees. With shocked disbelief, Six saw the tall figure of Sarasen bend in the middle and fall. Six saw Oakley Madden standing on the edge of the trees, shirt-front soaked with Ivy’s blood, laughing insanely. Madden’s gun was coming around to bear on Six.

  Lying flat, Six closed his mind to every sight except Madden’s distorted, laughing face. With grim, desperate fury he worked the mechanism of his kicking gun until at last it clicked empty; but long before that, riddled with bullets from Six’s gun and three others as well, Madden fell to earth.

  Six scrambled to his feet and ran to Sarasen’s side. The gunfighter was lying flat on his stomach, head turned to one side. The gun that had made his life lay a few inches from his hand. His eyes were open and he was breathing in jerks; when Six came up, he said, “Roll me over, Jeremy.”

  Six moved him, as gently as he could, onto his back. Sarasen’s eyes looked at him. For the first time, they were not clouded with bitter despair. Six said, with quiet awe, “I was caught in a crossfire between Madden and Bolton. You knew that—you stepped into the open to draw Madden’s fire.”

  “Didn’t have time to think about it,” Sarasen said in gasps. “I just did what came to me. Damn it, I think my back’s broken. I can’t move.”

  “I’ll get you some water. We’ll have you patched up—”

  “Never mind,” Sarasen breathed tightly. “This is the last hand. Just as well, I guess; I’m already a fossil. Me and Madden, we were dead many years ago. It’s a comfort to know the waiting’s over with.”

  Six sat by him in misery. After a moment Sarasen said, “I’m pleased to have ridden with you, Jeremy. When a man dies it’s always comforting to have a friend with him. Tell Clarissa she’ll be best off if she forgets she ever knew me. I’m just a bad dream.”

  In a little while Sarasen was dead. The bloody business was ended. Six stood up slowly, favoring the stiffness in his legs. He turned and walked toward the building, tramping his shadow into the ground.

  Six sat in the office, watching moonlight flood the street. Bill Dealing came in and said, “Everything’s quiet,” and hung up his shotgun. Six nodded and got up and went out onto the porch. Down in the Drover’s Rest a lusty racket grew, men laughing. He turned that way, feeling the lonely pressures of darkness, and went into the place, to the bar. Hal Craycroft came over, arm in a sling, to inquire after his needs. “Beer,” Six said. It was a quiet night; he could afford one beer to slake the dusty thirst. Bones Riley sat back at a card table behind a half-empty bottle of port, surrounded by fascinated listeners to his outrageous ribald tales. As he stood drinking his beer, Six felt inundated by waves of memory that left a sour taste on his tongue. He left the beer mug half-full on the bar and turned outside, going across the street toward Cat Town. Traversing a narrow thoroughfare, he could look down to the end of it and see Mrs. Gutierrez’ house, its windows warm with lamplight. Fat Annie sat in a rocking chair on the porch of her place and called out a friendly greeting; Six waved to her and went by, and presently came to the Glad Hand.

  It was an off-night for the orchestra. Buchler was playing tinny melodies. Only a handful of people were in the room. He went through to the office door, and knocked.

  At the sound of Clarissa’s voice he went in. She looked up and said, “It’s been a long time since you came in here. Jeremy.”

  “I wanted to work things out.”

  “In your mind. Have you got it figured out?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I guess only God has the answers.”

  She was sitting behind the desk, in a green dress that was familiar to him. He said nothing more, but his glance brooding on the desk must have revealed his thoughts to her. She said softly, “He’s a hard man to forget, Jeremy.”

  “I know,” he said; he knew it well.

  “Some things take a lot of time,” Clarissa said.

  “I know that too,” he agreed.

  And then, in answer to the wordless question in his gaze, she shook her head and only said, “I don’t have the answers either, Jeremy. But one day maybe we’ll be lucky enough to find our own answers, you and me.”

  It was as much of a statement as he could hope for from her at this stage. He nodded, touched his hat brim gently, and left.

  As he crossed the room, Buchler got up from the piano and followed him outside. Buchler stopped at his customary post beside the front door and lit a cigarette. Six said, “Those things won’t do your lungs much good.”

  “We all die,” was Buchler’s answer. He bent over and coughed rackingly, and straightened, tossing the smoke down and grinding it out. “Maybe you’re right. Then again, I ain’t sure I want to live to see the future. Bound to be kind of tame, don’t you think?”

  “That would be all right by me,” Six answered.

  Buchler nodded judiciously. “Maybe so. Sure is hot. Going to be hot another two months, I guess.”

  Six tugged his hat down. “I’ve got to make my rounds,” he said, and turned away, walking down the dusty moonlit street. Off in another quarter of town some drunken fool shot off a gun. With a little grimace, Six turned his feet that way, touching his gun and testing its freedom of movement in the holster.

  It was proving to be a long dusty summer.

  About the Author

  The author of more than seventy books, Brian Garfield is one of USA’s most prolific writes of thrillers, westerns and other genre fiction. Raised in Arizona, Garfield found success at an early age, publishing his first novel when he was only eighteen – which, at the time, made him one of the youngest writers of Western novels in print.

  A former ranch-hand, he is a student of Western and South-western history, an expert on guns, and a sports car enthusiast. After time in the Army, a few years touring with a jazz band, and a Master's Degree from the University of Arizona, he settled into writing full time.

  Garfield is a past president of the Mystery Writers of America and the Western Writers of America, and the only author to have held both offices. Nineteen of his novels have been made into films, including Death Wish (1972), The Last Hard Men (1976) and Hopscotch (1975), for which he wrote the screenplay.

  To date, his novels have sold over twenty million copies worldwide. He and his wife live in California.

  More on Brian Garfield

  The Marshal Jeremy Six Series

  by Brian Garfield,

  Writing as ‘Brian Wynne’

  Mr. Sixgun

  … And more to come!

 

 

  Brian Garfield, Marshal Jeremy Six #1

 

 

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