So the counterfeiter on guard duty back here was more than likely surprised as all hell when Longarm tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Howdy.”
The man turned instinctively toward the sound, and as his head came around, the butt of Longarm’s .44 came crashing down. The blow dented the crown of the man’s hat, which softened the impact a little. Longarm had to hit him again before the man slumped forward into his arms, out cold.
“Five hundred,” Longarm said aloud. He was there with more than a minute and a half to spare.
That was when all hell broke loose inside the warehouse.
At the sound of the first gunshot, Longarm said, “Shit!” dropped the unconscious gent he had been lowering to the ground, and drove the heel of his boot into the door just below the lock. The wood around it splintered, but it took another kick before the door sprang open and hit the inside wall with a bang.
Longarm went through the opening fast, in a crouching run. There was a short, narrow corridor inside, with another door at the end of it. One kick was enough to open that one, and then he was in the warehouse proper, a huge room with a ceiling two stories high. There were stacks of crates around the walls, and more crates had been used to form partitions in the room, creating several smaller areas. Gunshots and shouted curses came from behind some of those crates. The bullets and the profanity weren’t directed at Longarm, however, but rather at the front of the building, where Harrelson, Seeley, and Truelove had found some dubious shelter behind a pair of desks. They were returning the fire.
Despite the fact that he was in a better position than his fellow deputies, Longarm didn’t have a clear shot at any of the men behind the crates. The sound of their shots seemed to have drowned out the noise he’d made busting into the place, because no one was shooting at him yet. He went to his left, hoping to get behind the gang before he was spotted.
So far there had been no time to worry about why the raid had been launched early, and that trend continued. Longarm heard a yell of alarm, and one of the pistol barrels behind the crates swiveled toward him. He threw himself to the side as death winked orange from the muzzle of the gun.
Longarm’s left shoulder landed hard on the sawdust-littered floor, sending pain shooting through him. He bit back a curse and scrambled behind another stack of crates, snapping a shot toward the gang as he did so. When he reached the shelter of the big wooden boxes, he knelt there and tried to catch his breath.
This place was like a damned maze, he saw now as he looked around. Paths twisted and turned between the stacks of crates, and the handful of lanterns that were lit didn’t provide enough light. There were shadows everywhere. Things had probably been set up that way on purpose, Longarm thought. Anybody who looked inside the warehouse from the street would be unable to see the printing press set up in the center of the big room.
But Longarm had gotten a glimpse of it, and he knew it would be important to the counterfeiters because the plates were probably still locked into it. He had to hope they were, anyway, because while he couldn’t get a clear shot at any of the gang from where he was, he thought he might be able to put some slugs into the press.
He sprawled on the floor and edged his head past the corner of the crate. Through a narrow opening, he caught a glimpse of the heavy metal contraption that spewed out the false currency. He triggered three times, fast, and was rewarded by the clang of a bullet striking the press.
“No!” someone cried. That was probably Nowlan, Longarm thought. “Somebody stop him before he ruins everything!”
That was obliging of the fella. Longarm was sure now the plates were still in the press. He sent the final shot in his .44 toward the narrow gap, and then hunkered behind the crates again as bullets chewed bites from the wood and searched like angry hornets through the air around him. He took a box of cartridges from his coat pocket and calmly reloaded the .44. At least, he tried to stay calm. He was sweating again. Damn New Mexico heat.
Longarm could tell from the sound of the shots that Harrelson, Seeley, and Truelove had renewed their attack. Some of the pressure was off them now that more members of the gang were concentrating their fire on Longarm’s hiding place. In fact, after a moment the fusillade from the other lawmen increased even more.
That, in turn, took some of the heat off Longarm, and he was able to stand up without worrying too much about getting a bullet through the head. He peeked around the crates and saw how the stacks were lined up. The aisles between them were narrow, so narrow in places that a broad-shouldered man—like Custis Long—might have had to turn sideways to get through them.
He holstered his gun as a plan formed in his mind. Placing his hands against the top crate and flattening his body against the lower boxes in the stack, he started to push.
He wasn’t sure what was inside the crates. Considering what was going on in this warehouse, bundles of phony money were the most likely possibility. Whatever was inside the crates, they were heavy enough so that Longarm had to grunt and strain for a long moment before the stack began to tilt.
But when the crates fell, they fell hard, and they landed on more crates, knocking them over, and then those crates fell on others.
It was just like little kids playing with dominos, Longarm thought as he stepped back hurriedly and drew his gun again. The falling of the crates continued toward the center of the warehouse, where the gang was holed up. The crashing grew so loud it was deafening.
Dust rose along with the startled shouts of the gang, clogging the air so that it was hard to see. The counterfeiters broke out of hiding abruptly, going all directions at once. Longarm spotted a couple of them coming toward him, guns in their hands.
“Throw down those pistols!” Longarm bellowed. “This is the law!”
The counterfeiters ignored the order and jerked their guns upward.
That was exactly the reaction Longarm had expected. His .44 was already leveled, and he fired twice before either of the men could get off a shot. The slugs bored into their chests, throwing them back so that they disappeared into the clouds of dust again.
The next man came shooting, and Longarm had to dive forward onto his belly. He triggered once as bullets whined over his head. The counterfeiter spun around and tumbled off his feet.
“There goes Nowlan!” a voice shouted urgently. Longarm recognized it as Jim Harrelson’s.
The deputies’ orders were to take Edward Nowlan alive if possible. A quick death wasn’t punishment enough for a man who had made the federal government look like a pack of monkeys for more than a year. The powers that be wanted him behind bars where he could suffer properly. Besides, the theory was that despite being a master engraver, Nowlan wasn’t the head of this operation. Someone had backed him. The law wanted to know who.
But sometimes wanting to take a prisoner alive was one thing, and being able to do it was something else entirely. In this case, as Longarm scrambled quickly to his right to intercept the fleeing Edward Nowlan, the counterfeiter pointed the gun in his hand at the deputy and started blazing away.
Nowlan was no gunfighter. None of the bullets struck Longarm. But one of them came close enough to take a hunk out of the brim of his hat, and another practically kissed his ear as it whipped by. Longarm’s instincts made him return the fire. He aimed low, however, hoping to cripple Nowlan without mortally wounding him.
That might have been possible if Nowlan’s feet hadn’t slid on the sawdust on the floor. His legs went out from under him, and he fell as Longarm triggered twice. The first bullet missed, but the second one entered Nowlan’s mouth as the man yelped in alarm. The slug tore through Nowlan’s throat and out the back of his head, taking the lower third of his brain with it. He was dead, his limbs jerking crazily, by the time he landed on the floor.