Part 40 (1/2)

”I'll fill the first man that makes a move plumb full of buckshot. If there's any shootin' in here, I'm doin' it myself.” He held a pump gun at his shoulder, the muzzle dominating the group. ”You, Tom,” he continued, ”you said you wouldn't make trouble.”

”Am I makin' it?” asked McHale.

”Are you makin' it?” s.h.i.+ller repeated. ”Oh, no, you ain't. You're a gentle, meek-and-mild pilgrim, you are. I ain't goin' to hold this gun all day, neither. You better hit the high spots. I'll give you time to get on your cayuse and drift. At the end of two minutes this man goes out of that door, and I ain't responsible for what happens. I'm sure sorry, Tom, to treat you like this, but I got my house to consider.”

”That's all right, Bob,” said McHale. ”Looks like you hold the ace.

I'll step. Far's I'm concerned you needn't keep them gents two minutes nor one.” He turned to the door.

”I'm lookin' for you, McHale,” said Cross.

”Come a-runnin',” said McHale. ”Bring your friends.”

He walked into the middle of the road, turned, and waited. His action attracted little attention. Coldstream was indoors, somnolent with the afternoon heat. Across the street the proprietor of the general store commented lazily to a friend:

”What's Tom McHale doin'?”

”Some fool joke. He's full of them. I reckon he wants us to ask him.”

McHale called to them: ”Boys, if I was you I'd move out of line of me and Bob's door.”

”What did I tell you?” the wise one commented. ”You bet I don't bite.

I----”

Out of the door of s.h.i.+ller's surged Cross, gun in hand. Uncertain where to find McHale, he glared about. Then, as he saw him standing in the middle of the road, the weapon seemed to leap to a level.

Simultaneously McHale shot from the hip.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Pale-pink flashes stabbed the afternoon light. Coldstream echoed to the fusillade. Its inhabitants ran to doors and windows, streaming into the streets. One of the store windows suddenly starred. Long lines, like cracks in thin ice, appeared in it, radiating from a common centre. The proprietor and his friend, electrified, ducked and sprang for shelter.

A woman screamed in fright.

Suddenly Cross staggered, turning halfway around. The deadly rage in his face changed to blank wonder. His pistol arm sagged. Then he collapsed gently, not as a tree falls, but as an overweighted sapling bends, swaying backward until, overbalanced, he thudded limply on the ground.

McHale, half crouched like a fighting animal awaiting an attack, peered with burning eyes over the hot muzzle of his gun at the prostrate figure. Swiftly he swung out the cylinder of the weapon, ejected the empty sh.e.l.ls, refilled the chambers, and snapped it shut. s.h.i.+ller's door opened. McHale covered it instantly, but it was s.h.i.+ller himself.

”So you done it, did you?” he said.

”Sure,” said McHale. ”He comes a-shootin', and I gets him. Likewise I gets them two _tillik.u.ms_ of his if they want it that way.”

”Billy's keepin' them quiet with the pump gun,” s.h.i.+ller informed him.

”You better get out o' town. I'll clean up your mess, darn you! Git quick. Them fellers expects some more in.”

McHale nodded. ”I ain't organized to stand off a whole posse with one gun. So long, Bob. I'm plumb sorry I mixed you into this. They won't like you much now.”

”They don't need to,” said s.h.i.+ller. ”Want any money? Want another gun?

I got a handy little three-ought-three carbine.”