From outside came the scuff of boots, the scuff of several boots. More than one man out there, he told himself.
Reaching out with his toe, he found the door’s edge, exerted gentle pressure. The door swung easily. The hinges squeaked just once then the latch clicked softly.
Relaxing from the strung-up tension of a moment before, he caught the sweetish smell of whiskey in the darkness, heard the subdued mumble of voices that came from just behind him.
His eyes made out the shapes of things piled against the wall. Kegs and cases and a pile of empty bottles, thrown helter-skelter in the corner.
A voice came higher than the others, cutting through the mumble.
“But, damn it, Egan, Gardner never misses. He’s pure death with that gun of his. That’s why I picked him for the job.”
The sheriff’s throaty rumble answered. “But he did miss, Carson. Shot twice and missed slick and clean each time. The boys are out hunting down the hombre.”
Straightening up, Burns tiptoed back into the darkness, nearer to the sound of the voices.
The sheriff said: “Just wait. You’ll hear a gunshot pretty quick. That’ll be the end of him.”
“The end of someone else more than likely,” growled Carson. “You don’t seem to get it into your thick skull who this man is. Steve Burns, the toughest marshal that ever packed a star. Cleaned up Devil’s Gulch single-handed and you know what kind of a place that was. A jasper like that would have to ride in just when we’d gotten things to rolling. Wonder if Custer sent for him…”
The back door, the one Burns had latched a moment or so before, burst open with a crash.
Burns wheeled, stepped swiftly backward, felt his body wedge between two piles of cases.
“Hey!” yelled a voice. “Hey, in there!”
There were three figures in the doorway and one of them was struggling, fighting furiously and silently to break from the clutch of the other two.
The sheriff’s voice boomed. “That’s Gardner. They got him!”
A door opened and a flood of light splashed into the room, lighting up the three who struggled in the doorway.
From his position between the cases, Steve Burns gasped and his guns jerked up.
The one who stood between the other two, the one who had been fighting to get free, was the girl with the blue eyes, the girl Bob Custer had sent to guide him to the hills!
CHAPTER THREE
Satan’s Law and Order
Across the room, Burns saw Ann’s mouth shape a warning cry, saw the blank astonishment that slipped like a mask across the face of one of the men who stood beside her. He sensed rather than saw the lightning move that brought a gun flashing from the holster of the other man.
In that timeless space while the flashing gun was moving, Burns twisted his wrist and thumbed the hammer. The gun bucked in his hand and across the room the other gun was spinning in the lamplight that flooded from the inner door.
Spinning like a wheel of light while in the doorway the man who had drawn it was wilting like a sack from which the grain was pouring.
Shuffling feet scraped swiftly across the floor and Burns spun clear of the packing cases, pivoting on his toes. The burly sheriff was almost on top of him, his drawn six-gun dwarfed almost to toy size by the ham-like fist that clutched it.
The sheriff’s gun crashed in the closeness of the room and Burns felt a slash of fire rip across his ribs. Savagely he lashed out at the charging figure and his sixgun barrel slapped across the sheriff’s face.
The lawman staggered in midstride and stumbled. His gun dropped from his hands and his face suddenly was red with blood that spouted from his nose. Burns danced out of his way, brought up with a jolt against a pile of cases stacked against the wall.
Egan skidded to his knees, sprawled upon the floor.
The room crashed again with spitting thunder and a bullet crunched into a case scant inches from Burns’ head. Quickly Burns ducked, knees bending beneath him, dropping his body to a crouching position.
Through the gunsmoke that filled the place, Burns saw Carson standing to one side of the doorway. A crooked smile was on his lips and his gun was leveling for another shot.
Swiftly Burns angled his own sixgun around, thumbed the hammer. The shot was wild, but it spoiled the saloon man’s aim. Carson’s bullet plowed a furrow along the floor, hurling shining splinters in the murky light.
Another gun crashed and the half open door beside which Carson was standing jumped on its hinges at the impact of the bullet.
Carson jerked back, moving swiftly, dived for the safety of an empty case standing on the floor.
Steve spun on his heels, leaping for the back door. He saw Ann standing in the doorway, gun in hand, smoke still drooling from its muzzle. The man who had stood beside her, the one with the look of blank astonishment on his face, was huddled on the floor.
“Quick!” Burns yelled at her. “Outside!”
She hesitated for a second, staring at him.
With a single bound, he was at the door and reaching out for her. Lifting her, he swung her into the darkness, set her roughly on her feet. From behind them a sixgun snarled.
“Run!” gasped Burns. “The livery stable. Two horses. I’ll hold them off.”
She clung to him. “I hit him,” she said. “He was just standing there and I grabbed the gun out of his holster and hit him on the head.”
Burns shoved her away. “The barn,” he shouted at her. “Get us horses!”
The girl was running and Steve loped after her, watchful, guns ready to be used.
Another gun barked from a building’s corner and Burns heard the bullet whine through the grass at ankle height. He held his fire.
“They can’t be sure where we are,” he told himself. “No use showing them.”
Ahead of him he saw Ann’s shadowy figure duck into an open door, knew it must be the rear entrance to the livery barn. Reaching it, he stood in the darkness by the door, waiting, watching. But there was no sign of pursuit. Perhaps no one knew exactly where they’d gone. Perhaps most of them didn’t even know what was happening. Of the gang back in the saloon’s back room, Carson would be the only one in any shape to tell them. One man was dead, another had been knocked out by the girl, and the sheriff would need a little while to get his wits together.
Swiftly, Steve ducked into the door, ran down the aisle that smelled of hay, of oiled leather, of sweaty saddle blankets.
One horse was sidling along the aisle and Burns spoke to it soothingly. The animal snorted and backed away. Leaping, Burns caught the reins.
“Where are you?” he shouted at the girl and her voice came back.
“Here. I got another horse.”
She was backing it out of the stall.
Burns flicked his eyes up and down the row of stalls, wishing for his own gray, although his mind told him there was no time to wait, no time to choose. No time even to get on saddles. They’d have to ride without them. Bridles was the best that they could do.
If he only knew where his own horse had been put. If only…
“Hey, what’s going on?” a voice called sharply.
Burns swung around. It was the livery man, striding toward him.
Burns jerked up his gun.
“See this?” he asked.
The livery man stopped abruptly.
“Just turn around and walk ahead of us,” Burns told him. “Real slow. And shed your artillery as you go.”
Slowly the man swung around, hands fumbling at his gun belt.