So now, here she was to tend to hers, too late in the day to bring the wagon for all the supplies she needed. If she hadn't needed the whiskey and bandages for Big Mack tonight, she'd have just waited until morning. But the large dog had tangled with a wild cat, and while not life-threatening, his wounds required more treatment than a mere cleaning.
Allie drew up the reins and dismounted. An uneasy tickle crawled up her spine. She looked around the street. Deserted. No matter. She'd just get what she'd come for, and get out of town quickly. She hurried up the steps of Anderson's Mercantile. The sounds of fighting became more distinct, the brutal connection of fists and flesh, accompanied now by the unmistakable crack of a whip.
Sounded like it came from Dawson's Livery. Allie paused at the door of the mercantile, then walked quickly on to the end of the boardwalk and turned the corner.
She was unprepared for the sight that greeted her. Several of the men of the town gathered around a dark-haired stranger – and they were methodically beating him to death. His gun lay in the street a few feet away from where he stood unsteadily. He staggered from the punishing blows he'd taken so far, his large frame held upright by four burly men.
What was going on? She took another involuntary step forward.
Arnold Smith seemed to be the instigator, the ramrod of the whole affair. Allie wrinkled her nose in disgust, unsurprised. Arnie was always at the heart of any unrest, and the first to turn tail and run at any inkling of trouble. He must feel safe, with so many of the town's founders joining in against the stranger.
Blood streamed down the man's face, soaking his shirt in places. He should've been face down in the street by now, and Allie could tell the others recognized it as well. He was standing, on the strength of his determination, his stubborn will stiffening his spine and keeping him on his feet.
He had guts. Arnie wasn't going to make him crawl.
Smith leaned close to him and said something that Allie couldn't hear. The stranger spat blood across Smith's polished boots.
Allie's breath caught at the full impact of the scene she had unwittingly come upon. The hired gunman. It had to be. But why were they all turning on him now? He'd done what they'd paid him to do – obviously. Eli Simmons had told her none of the townspeople would dare be seen on the street when the Claytons were in town.
Something about the gun hawk was familiar to her. Something about the defiant way he stood, his pummeled face swollen and bloody. His blue shirt hung in tattered pieces where it had been cut to ribbons by Tom Carver, who still stood with the bullwhip in his hand. Sweat and blood matted the hired gun's raven-dark hair, and his hard-sculpted muscles rippled beneath bronze skin where the ragged shirt was torn away.
She swallowed hard, a knot in her throat. Why didn't I grab the rifle? They meant to kill him – that much was evident. No. She couldn't stand by and let that happen. She quickly took stock of where each of them stood – and who they were. So many of them. Her hands clenched in determination. I have to try.
Allie took a step back, closer to the afternoon shadows of the side of the mercantile. Did she have time to go back to her horse for the rifle? No. She'd have to duck into the mercantile and borrow one of Zach Anderson's. And the one she took would have to be a repeater. Hurriedly backing away, she tried to keep her eyes on the man until she turned the corner. Only then did she rush into the nearby mercantile, behind the counter, where Zach kept his stock of guns for sale. Without hesitation, she closed her fist around the polished mid-section of a brand new Henry. Quickly, she scooped up a box of shells displayed on a shelf. She ripped the lid off, and jammed a handful of the shells into her jeans pocket. Reaching for another fistful, she began to feed the bullets into the side entry, pushing them snugly into the chamber as she ran back to the door.
****
Smith shook his head. "We didn't aim for it to end like this, but you're just as dangerous as the Clayton Gang. Probably more so, in some ways." Smith swiped a hand across his sweaty forehead. "See, we hired you 'cause you were the best. Can't none of us truly afford it, though. We need our money worse than you do – and we can't be worryin' about you ever comin' back here to collect."
"Get on with it," Brandon muttered.
"Arnie, maybe—" one of the men began.
Brandon didn't need to see the man with the anxious voice. The shopkeeper, Anderson, who'd been so eager to yell instructions about getting his gun earlier.
"Shut up, Zach. You were in on this. We all agreed. We'll keep to the pact."
Brandon's split lips twisted. "Yeah. You boys all got your honor to uphold. Keepin' the pact, an' all."
"You shut up, too, gun hawk. You ain't shit without that gun, are you, Breed?"
Smith drew back and slugged Brandon, and his insides felt as if they were going to deliver themselves at his feet. He couldn't hold back his sharp cry as Smith's knuckles connected solidly with his sore ribs. "I guess…maybe that's why you needed all these…brave men to help you—" he gasped, drawing a raw breath.
The right cross Smith delivered staggered Brandon and the four men who held him, cutting off the rest of his words.