Ironhorse

99

Distinct clicks I’d heard before. Many times before. And a voice: “Release the hammers on those pistols and drop them to the floor, Deputy,” the voice said. “You too, Marshal,” the voice called out louder, “or one shot of this eight-gauge blows a hole through your deputy’s back and the other will be for you. Your call.”

I recognized the voice, but I could not place it until he spoke again.

“Like I told you before, I have killed before, and I’m not afraid to do it again. I will give you three seconds!”

It was Captain Lowell Cavanaugh, the dandy from the first coach. The son of a bitch had my eight-gauge. The dandy was in on it.

“No need, Mr. Cavanaugh,” I said.

I was looking directly at Virgil standing in the office.

“Now!” Cavanaugh shouted.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”

I released the hammers and dropped my Colts.

“Just take it easy.”

“I will tell you how to take it, Deputy,” Cavanaugh said. “From here on, I do all the telling!”

I was watching Virgil closely, wondering what he could do.

Virgil did not have a shot. Cavanaugh was small and standing directly behind me.

“There are three of us,” Virgil said. “You only got two shots.”

“Shut up!” Cavanaugh shouted as he jabbed the barrels of the eight-gauge hard into my back. “You don’t have the upper hand here, Marshal!” Cavanaugh continued with a seething snarl. His jabbing got harder, punctuating each of his words as he talked. “If you value this man’s life, you will do exactly as I say!”

“So, you’re the one behind this?” I said, trying to keep him talking, thinking. “This was all your doing?”

“Shoot him!” Wellington said to Cavanaugh. “Goddamn it, just shoot him!”

“Don’t move an inch, Mr. Wellington, not an inch,” Cavanaugh said. “This is a perfect symmetry, you see. With the deputy demilitarized, his marshal has no recourse but...”

Cavanaugh stopped talking.

“But?” Wellington said. “Goddamn it, but what?”

I felt the barrels of the eight-gauge slip from my back and heard them hit the floor with a thud. Wellington looked down, saw the eight-gauge was no longer on my back, and he went for his pistol on the bunk, but he was too slow and too late. I snatched the back of Wellington’s neck and jerked him away from the bunk. Virgil and Berkeley came in quick. Berkeley grabbed Wellington and slammed him into a loop of barbed wire hanging from the south wall and put a forearm stiff to his throat. Lowell Cavanaugh was still standing in the doorway. Both of his arms were at his side. The eight-gauge was in his right hand, but the barrels were planted firmly on the floor. He was staring straight ahead with a blank look on his face, and I saw why. Sticking through the left breast pocket of his dandy suit coat was a razor-sharp arrowhead.