Fanning a single-action revolver, which had to be cocked between each shot, was the fastest known way of turning lead loose. It was also a measure of desperation, especially when using the four-pound-one-ounce, thumb-busting old Dragoon Colt. Twice the Kid slapped back the hammer, riding the wicked recoil between the shots. Both bullets lanced into Olaf’s torso, but even then, if he had been using a lesser weapon, the Kid might not have saved his life. Each chamber of the revolver held forty grains of powder, almost twice the charge used in a Winchester rifle. That gave the Dragoon a power which would not be equaled in a handgun until superior steel and smokeless powder brought the mighty .44 Magnum cartridge into being.
Two 219-grain bullets, traveling at around 900 feet-per-second, were more than even Olaf’s giant frame could absorb and remain standing. Instead of completing his blow, he pitched over backward and the axe dropped from his hands. Olaf was dead before he hit the floor. Across the room Endicott lay crumpled against the front of the bar.
At the door, Calamity flattened herself against the wall and looked out. Vandor sat his horse, leading three others, in the center of the street. Suddenly, as the Kid’s Dragoon began to crash behind her, Calamity saw Vandor rein in the horses. Torp was lurching toward him, pointing toward the saloon and speaking, but Vandor hardly looked his way.
“It’s the sheriff!” the handsome gunslinger growled, indicating something beyond Calamity’s range of vision. “Poole must’ve missed him. Get the hell out of here, Torp!”
“What’s happening, Calam?” the Kid asked, forcing himself erect and moving toward her.
“It’s them two gun-slicks,” the girl replied, then hooves rumbled and moved away. “They looked like they was fixing to come busting in here. Only Vandor yelled something about the sheriff and they lit out like the devil after a yearling.”
Thrusting through the doors, the Kid lunged across the sidewalk and landed on the street. He saw the two men disappearing at a gallop into an alley farther down and across the street. As they went out of sight before he could raise the Dragoon, he looked for the reason behind their departure. Hearing another set of hooves in the opposite direction to that taken by the hired guns, he swung toward the sound. Patches of light scattered along the street, from the illuminated windows of various business premises. A big light-colored horse walked into one of them.
Instantly the Kid knew that something was wrong. He identified the horse as Leckenby’s buckskin. While the sheriff was on its back, he was not behaving in a natural manner. Instead of urging his horse to a better pace and holding a gun as he came to investigate, he sat stiff in his saddle with the animal moving at a steady walk. Even as the Kid looked, the buckskin turned and continued at the same pace into an alley.
“Calam!” the Kid barked, ignoring the people who began to congregate. “Let’s go, pronto!”
Having seen that there was no chance of taking up matters with the gunslingers, Calamity had holstered her Colt, then returned to collect her whip and the Kid’s gunbelt. With the belt hanging over her left shoulder and coiling the whip, she joined the Kid in the street.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I reckon the sheriff’s been hurt,” the Kid replied. “We’d best——”
“What’s happened in there?” asked a tall, lean man in town clothes and carrying a doctor’s bag. He was in the front of the crowd, along with half a dozen men who looked like they had been a long time west of the Mississippi, even if they had lived in towns rather than on the range.
“Vandor set Olaf on the Texan,” the bartender replied, coming through the batwing doors.
“Seeing’s you’re here,” the spokesman spoke dryly to the Kid, “I’d say Olaf’s dead. I’m not surprised——”
“Are you a doctor?” interrupted the Kid.
“If I’m not, young feller, there’s a lot of people around here should have worries,” the man answered. “Who’s hurt in there?”
“Nobody’s you can fix,” growled the Kid. “I reckon the sheriff’s been shot!”
Talk rumbled up and, watching the faces around him, the Kid saw mixed emotions. Some of the people looked surprised, others appeared to be worried and cast anxious glances around them. The six men hovering behind the doctor reacted as the Kid had expected they would. All showed interest, concern, but not fear for their own safety. The doctor proved to be a man of action.
“Let’s go!” he snapped. “I don’t need a crowd to watch me work. Some of you help Sid to clear up in there. Harry, you and the boys head for home then meet me at Day’s house.”
“We’ll do that,” declared a gnarled old-timer among the six.
On joining the Kid, Calamity had returned her whip to its loop and taken his Dragoon, leaving him free to retrieve and buckle on his gunbelt. Returning the old gun to leather, he went with the girl and the doctor along the street. Taking the lead, the medical man swung down an alley. While walking, the Kid told of his suspicions and found that the doctor agreed with him.
“You’re right. Day’d’ve come barreling down that street, gun out and ready to use it if he’d been all right.”
At that moment they came into sight of the sheriff’s house and any hopes they cherished that the Kid might be wrong were wiped away by what they saw. Leckenby’s big buckskin stood at the picket fence’s gate and the house’s front door was open. Staggering under his weight, Mrs. Leckenby was helping her husband along the path. She looked around as she heard the running feet. Coming up fast, Calamity and the two men closed around the couple. Although hit high up in the right side of his chest and with his shirt soaked by blood, the sheriff was still conscious.
“It—It’s come—Doc!” Leckenby gasped. “Got me—Buck—carried me clear. Sen-Send—for Cash—Trini——”
The words ended and the sheriff went limp in the men’s arms.
Chapter 13 NOBODY LIKES HANGINGS
“WHERE’S THE KID?” MRS. LECKENBY ASKED, COMING from the bedroom into which, half an hour before, her husband had been carried.
“Some fellers come, toting shotguns ’n’ painted for war,” Calamity answered, drawing out a chair and seating the haggard-faced woman in it. “He’s got two of ’em watching front ’n’ back and’s took the other two into town to help ask questions.” She indicated the coffee-pot and other utensils on the table. “I hope you don’t mind, but I threw up some coffee for us.”
“Thank you, Calamity.”
“How’s the sheriff?”
“The doctor’s still working on him.”
“Looks like he knows what he’s doing.”
“Manny’s good at his work,” Mrs. Leckenby confirmed. “Did you see Orde Endicott, Calamity?”
Knowing that the question had come out of a desire to avoid thinking about her own troubles, Calamity told the woman what had happened. When the girl concluded her story with a blistering condemnation of the lawyer, Mrs. Leckenby shook her head.
“He’s got cause for being what he is, Calamity. You said that you’d heard he was a good lawyer. He was, a great one.”