The Unflinching Collection

Chapter 16

Two men stood at the far end of the street. Both held shotguns. They were silent, feet planted firmly apart, eyes staring ahead. To their right, kneeling in a shop doorway was another man with a handgun, and over to the left, on the roof of a merchant"s store, a fourth man trained a muzzle-loading rifle on Mason, who was moving down the street as if out for a Sunday afternoon stroll. None of the men made to fire their weapons. How could they, for to attempt such a thing would be foolish indeed. Mason had Pilcher by the neck, using him as a shield. And Mason was grinning.

He stopped about ten paces or so from the two blocking the street, pulled in a breath, and prodded Pilcher in the temple with the barrel of his own revolver. “Tell you what, boys, you step aside, let me help myself to a horse, and we end all of this without any further nonsense.” He eased back the hammer of his g*n. Pilcher emitted a tiny cry, a frightened bird, trapped, frantic. “What do you say?”

“I"d say you"re a dead man, mister.”

Mason whistled, tilting his head to survey the owner of the voice. A tall man, a few days" growth of beard around his chin, wiry, keen-eyed. “Well, if you"re willing to see your good boss here die first, then that"s just fine and dandy. Your call.”

The man beside the first spat onto the ground. “Kill the bastard, Hodge.”

Hodge nodded, but made no move with his shotgun, which remained cradled in his hands across his midriff. “Mister, what is it you want?”

“I told you,” said Mason, eyes darting to the shop doorway, then to the roof opposite. He estimated once the shooting started, he"d have around five seconds before he received a bullet. Of course, it might be in his arm just as easily as it might be his head, but a bullet would hold him up, make him a perfect target for the others, especially the one called Hodge, who seemed to have something about him. Unless, of course, Mason"s good luck held. In which case, it might be worth the risk. “I want a horse. You allow me that, and time to leave this place, and your employer here, he lives.”

“Tell us what the shooting was.”

“Where"s Holness and Rankin?”

Mason shrugged, “If they was the two men with this dear old gentlemen, sorry to say, they are departed.”

The man called Hodge blinked, reeled back as if struck, and snapped his head around to his partner. “He killed them.”

A tiny tremble flickered in Hodge"s eyes. Mason saw it, recognized it for what it was. Mason sighed. “Oh dear.”

He put a bullet through Pilcher"s brain and was already moving before any of the others reacted. He ran straight for the shop doorway, keeping low, firing from the hip. The man next to Hodge flipped backwards, chest spouting blood. Hodge was screaming, bringing the shotgun to bear. But he was too late. Mason could move faster than any of them expected, and he made the boardwalk before Hodge managed to loose off both barrels, the buckshot spreading wide, but not wide enough to hit Mason.

The man in the doorway stood up and ran, throwing down his weapon. Mason, teeth clamped white in his face, swept up the man"s fallen revolver and used it, putting two bullets into the fleeing man"s back.

With his own revolver empty, Mason swung around and a musket ball slapped into the doorframe beside him. He glanced across and clicked his tongue, took a bead on the man on the roof and fired, missing him. With two bullets left, he marched into the street, eyes set straight ahead on Hodge fumbling with the shotgun, desperate to feed in new cartridges. His hands shook, his body trembled, and when he raised his head, his eyes were blinking rapidly, stung by the sweat rolling down his face. “Oh sweet Jesus,” he said as a parting speech. He snapped the shotgun closed but it was the last thing he ever did.

Mason shot him at point-blank range through the head and got down beside the body. He searched through the dead man"s clothing, found his revolver on his hip and pulled it free from the holster. The g*n was a monstrous Walker-Colt, far too heavy for a sidearm, but Mason had little time to admire it, as when he glanced up, another musket ball hit the dirt next to his knee. Closer this time. He trained Hodge"s revolver on the shape on the roof, took careful aim, and with plenty of time as the man was reloading, loosed off six, measured shots.

The silence which ensued, was deafening. Mason"s ears rang from the explosion of sound from the handgun. He dropped the revolver and jiggled an index finger into his ear. He screwed up his eyes and as the cordite wafted away, he saw two feet sticking out over the edge of the store roof. Wounded or dead, Mason didn"t much care what fate had befallen the man. For now, Mason had bought himself valuable time and he made good use of it.

He strode down the deserted street. He thought he caught some movement behind the occasional pane of glass in the stores and other buildings, but he no longer cared. These people, whoever they were, were not about to risk their lives after what they"d witnessed. Not against someone like Mason. Someone so blessed.

Ned waited in his house doorway, as he had since Mason left, arms folded, lips pressed together, eyes never leaving the street. But his shoulders slumped when he saw the familiar shape of the killer emerging from out of the distance. He"d hoped Mason would die at the hands of Pilcher"s men, good men, hardy, experienced. But now, with the devil himself riding tall and straight in the saddle, all those hopes dwindled.

“How is he, Cathy?” he called down the hallway. After a few seconds, Cathy appeared, brushing back a lock of hair from her face, looking drained, tired.

“He"s sleeping. Breathing is even, the fever gone. The wound seems clean, but the swelling tells me he"ll not walk again without a limp.”

Ned nodded and she came up next to him. He slipped his arm around her waist and they both peered towards Mason, approaching with a steady, unhurried tread. “You think we could kill this bastard?”

She gaped up at him, “Don"t be a fool, Ned. The man is not human. Look at him, as bold as you like. There isn"t a scratch on him. If you go up against him, he"ll win, and I don"t want you dead. Not like the others. I"ve never seen anything as terrible as what he did.”

“I wonder where Pilcher is?”

“Dead, more than likely. As they all are. The man is some sort of monster, Ned. Let"s just do what he says and watch him ride out.”

“But what if he won"t? What if he means to kill us too?”

“I don"t think he will. We helped his friend. He has no cause.”

“A man such as he requires no cause, Cathy. He does as he wishes. If he has a mind to kill us, he will.”

“Then let us pray he does not have the mind, Ned.”

They did pray, both of them, offering up a silent plea to the heavens to allow them to live. And when Mason got down from his horse and stomped past them without a word, they felt God had answered their prayers. They stood, in silence, and watched Mason return down the hallway, carrying Newhart with nonchalant ease. He went outside and placed his friend in the back of the wagon. He then tied his newly acquired horse to the tail gate, jumped up on the buckboard and twitched the moth-eaten nag ahead of him with the reins. He steered the wagon around to the left, then stopped. He twisted in his seat and put a finger to the brim of his hat. “Thank you for your kindness. There will be men who will come and they will ask you which way I went. You tell them, they will die. Remember that.” Then he flicked the reins again and the wagon trundled out across the street in the direction Ned told him to go. Towards the ferry on the river.

Cathy blew out a long breath. “Will you tell them, when they come?”

Ned shook his head. “I would be signing away their lives if I did.”

For a long time, they both stood in silence, watching Mason until he was nothing more than a black dot on the horizon.

A noise caused them both to look up. An old man, hat held aloft, came stumbling towards them, bleating like a goat, “Doc, Doc! You have to come, come quick.”

Cathy squeezed Ned"s arm and went down the steps towards the old man as he drew closer, his face white as chalk, gulping in air, body close to collapse.

“Oh Jonas, dear God Almighty, what is it?”

“It"s Mr. Pilcher. Shot. Shot dead, Catherine.” He fell into her arms and she helped him to the steps as Ned appeared from inside with a glass of water. The old man took it in fingers as thin and gnarled as willow tree twigs, and he swallowed it down, gasping. “I ain"t ever seen anything like it. Not if I live to be a hundred. They fired their guns and not one bullet hit him. But whenever he fired back, they died. And they"re all dead, save for Prentice who lies on the roof with his legs bleeding like a fountain.” He gripped Cathy"s arm, “You have to come, you have to save him.”

“They"re all dead?” asked Ned.

“All the others, yes. They didn"t stand a chance.” He put down the glass and covered his face with his hands. “I never want to see anything like it again. Mr. Pilcher. Sweet Jesus, what are we going to do?”

Ned chewed his lip and held Cathy"s questioning look. “We can pray,” he said at last, turned his face towards the horizon in the direction he knew would lead Mason to the river and wishing he could be there, to watch that devil die.