Black Day At Hangdog by Jack Sheriff

Author:Jack Sheriff [Sheriff, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

‘Hold it!’

With the echoes of the shot from Wilf Gannon’s dropped Henry repeater still ringing in his ears, Ben Stone’s voice roared out. But he was a fraction late, and had nothing to back up his warning.

Outlined against the broad oblong of daylight that was the livery stable’s street opening, Django Orr was a whirling black shape as he spun to one side and went for his gun. It came up in a blur of glittering metal. Orange flame spurted. A slug plucked at Stone’s shirt and whined out through the back entrance.

Fractions of a second had passed. As if time had slowed to a crawl Wilf Gannon’s Henry was only now toppling from the vertical.

Twice more Orr’s six-gun spat flame. Splinters flew from the timber upright alongside Stone’s head. Then he leaped sideways. As he moved he plucked the lazily falling Henry out of the air. He ducked inside the nearest stall, worked the rifle’s lever, sprang back out and dropped into a running crouch, snapping a wild shot at Orr as he darted across the runway.

As he rested with hands on knees in the opposite stall, panting, conscious of stabbing pains in an old back being worked too hard, he was rewarded by a yell of pain. He poked his head out, blinked through steamed-up spectacles and saw the six-gun arc into the air to fall spinning against the far wall. Again he yelled out his warning: ‘Hold it, Orr, stay right where you are!’ and this time the gunman straightened, stepped back a pace massaging his wrist, his face twisted with pain.

And still only seconds had passed.

Frank Tighe and Dakota Slim had ridden fast out of the livery stable, the tall man with the blind eye leading Moses Kane’s roan. Ben Stone guessed the mud was slowing them, hoped they’d got themselves in a tangle as the rattle of gunfire reached them and three horses tried to turn fast on the clogged, gluey surface.

Hank Travis was clinging onto his big bay’s reins, but was backed up against the wall of the stable office where he’d stepped to stay out of the line of fire. John Darling was bent over, still clutching his dun gelding’s cinch, his head turned to one side, his mouth open in shock.

The Indian was a graven statue just inside the doorway, his dark eyes inscrutable as he watched Django Orr.

‘Move, Ben!’ Hank Travis cried and, as he let go of the bay’s reins, he slapped it smartly on the flank and sent it trotting towards the street. At the same time John Darling came out of his trance, snapped upright and forced the gelding back so that it was standing crosswise in the runway, effectively preventing a man on horseback from getting past.

Outside, a horse squealed. A man cursed loudly. From across the street Mose Kane could be heard bellowing, ‘What the hell’s goin’ on over there!’

Then Ben Stone was clear of the stall and alongside his horse. His reaching boot found a stirrup.

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