McCourt's Posse

Elmer McLean had been running security for freight stages for the last twenty five years. He constantly found pit stops in small towns a wonder with new inventions from the East. The latest was a shower, which flowed a seemingly endless stream of steaming hot water. It beat out regular bathing in cold creeks in every way.

Elmer reluctantly turned off the water and enjoyed the last stuttering droplets. Steam curled in lazy tendrils from his weathered skin. Elmer reached out of the thin curtain and groped for a towel, snaking his hand back into the still warmth of the shower. He pressed the rough fabric against his face, then dapped over the rest of his body. Elmer wrapped the towel loosely around his waist and pushed the curtain aside.

A loud crack, and a shocking pain in his middle. Elmer fell back against the shower wall, clutching a bloody hole in his abdomen. Rough hands snatched his gray hair, ripping him forward. Elmer fell onto the degraded rug spread out in front of the curtain.

“Where’s the money, old man?” A voice leered at him. A young gunman named Barry Kimbler cocked the hammer on his Schofield again. “You still got time to make it to the doctor. Better talk fast.”

Elmer coughed, and the action shook the bloodied puncture in his stomach. But he wasn’t dead yet. He had to fight. Hardly the first time he’d been shot, but the first time Elmer was afraid of not pulling through. Normally he was armed. Now he was naked, in multiple senses. He shuddered, trying to recover his breath as blood seeped into the towel laying across his hips.

A hard hit brought Elmer back to reality. Kimbler readjusted the hold on his Smith and Wesson revolver. “Talk.”

“Go to hell,” Elmer managed. Each rattling intake shook the lead buried in his innards. He turned and looked into the face of the young man, fighting to keep the pain from creeping into his leathered face.

Kimbler shrugged, pressed the barrel of his gun into Elmer’s forehead, and squeezed. The old man crumpled into a defeated heap. Kimbler hurriedly snapped his pistol open and reloaded the spent cartridges. Brass casings rattled on the floor. People were shouting now. Footsteps in the hall.

Kimbler tossed the linen curtains to the ground and jumped through the window. He stumbled when his boot caught on the frame, but he retreated into the dusk. He needed to find Sloane and get the hell out.

Kimbler stuck to the edges of buildings, dodging across town to the alley where they were waiting. Dan Sloane, a former Ranger who turned to the less legitimate side of the law. Freddie Dunn, a blonde youngster from Kansas, and Billy Martinek, a gambling gunner from El Paso. All of them had been on Racencourt’s payroll, and still managed to mess up.

Kimbler ducked into the shaded alley, out of breath. Sloane turned to him, and marched over with an evil glint in his eye. He grabbed Kimbler’s collar and hauled him out of sight.

“Killed him?” Sloane growled, belting Kimbler hard across the face. As soon as his hand was clear, he backhanded the other side. “Shot him in the goddamn bathhouse?” Sloane roared as he hit him again, two more slaps when Kimbler showed his face. “You better hope we find the money quick,” A slap. “Soon as we do,” Another slap. “You better run.”

Sloane once again grabbed Kimbler’s collar, to steady his target. He cracked his fist into Kimbler’s jaw with mechanical precision. Kimbler fell onto the creaking boards when Sloane turned him loose. He’d been rumored to have fists of iron when he rode for Texas, a fair gunhand but fairer when he boxed.

Freddie slipped into the street while Sloane still berated Kimbler. He saw two lawmen casually approaching their alley, giving questioning looks to the brands on their horses. The clamor of citizens yelling “Gunshots!” was beginning to approach the marshal like a tide approaching shore.

Freddie pulled his gun before the lawmen could link him to the strange horses. Billy saw him and rushed to help, leveling a shotgun at the closely-spaced deputies. Freddie shook his barrel in the direction of their Peacekeepers.

“You want to live another second, toss out them hoglegs,” Freddie ordered. Billy backed him up, cocking both hammers on his scattergun.

The deputies gave Freddie and Billy reproachful looks before slowly withdrawing their pistols. They dropped them into the dirt, raising their hands to shoulder level. Freddie pointed his gun at the wall in the alley, then returned it to them as the lawmen walked past and lined up on the wall.

“Jesus, Billy,” Sloane griped. More shouts came about the shooting. Dan took off his hat and ran hand through his sandy hair. He punched a better shape into the crown just as the marshal showed his mustached face on the street.

“We’ll have to kill ‘em,” Sloane said as he flipped his hast back on. “They seen our faces.” He palmed his Colt but didn’t draw, just assessed the marshal from across the street. The deputies tried to talk, but Billy shouldered his shotgun and they fell silent. Billy tried to pull the dual triggers, but a small part chided him for taking unarmed lives. The debate went on until he lowered the twin barrels with a resigned sigh.

Sloane saw Billy wilt and a new idea blossomed. He turned around.

“They’re collateral,” Slaone said with malicious eagerness. “We’ll buy our way out of this little piss-shit town.”

The men besides Kimbler exchanged eager glances. As soon as Sloane turned back to the marshal, Kimbler drew his Schofield.

“See, Billy,” Kimbler said pridefully, despite the bruises forming on his face. “This is how you do it.”

He shot the first deputy straight in the heart. A blast of scarlet coated the wall behind him as he sank to the ground. The second made a half turn before Kimbler shot quickly and caught him in the ribs. He stumbled, fell, but was still very much alive. Kimbler brought his sights for the final blow, but Sloane smashed his wrist down with his combined arms. Kimbler looked at him with the frantic eyes of a trapped beast.

In one slick motion, Kimbler brought his left hand swinging hard upwards and caught Sloane in the face. At the same moment, he locked his elbow tightly against his waist. Another quick blast from the end of his Schofield dropped the running deputy in the street, four feet from the marshal.

Kimbler’s victorious grin was short lived. He turned to see Sloane’s Colt flash fire, before a sharp, digging pain burst in his left shoulder. Kimbler fell against the opposite wall, sliding down as Sloane hit him again, this time lower. Stars burst in Kimbler’s vision as he hit the ground and lay still, gun barrel still smoking.

Billy unloaded both barrels into the rushing marshal. His barely connected torso flopped into the street, arms and legs spread apart. An unfired Winchester lay at his fingertips.

“Skin out!” Sloane yelled as he ejected the fired rounds from his Colt. He dug into his pocket to withdraw two more and filled the chambers, leaving the customary hammer chamber empty. Billy slid his shotgun into its boot before jumping into his saddle and backing into a turn.

Sloane’s horse shrieked as a round burned his shoulder. Sloane barely controlled the animal long enough for Freddie to heave aboard his bay. As soon his Freddie’s foot touched the other stirrup, Sloane slapped his reins and took off up the street.

The first track he took was straight North. The road turned past the marshal’s dwelling and sloped toward the distant mountains. Sloane was almost rejoicing at their narrow escape when a wagon, pulled by armed townspeople, rolled onto the track and stopped.

“Roadblock!” Sloane screamed. He fired once, a wild round that chased the head of a rifleman back behind the wagon. “Go back! Back the other way! Roadblock!” Billy stopped as he turned, aimed his pistol, and caught a bullet square in the throat. Billy tumbled backwards off his black gelding, his pistol firing straight upwards. He lay dead on the road.

Sloane and Freddie successfully turned back around and made a dash for the other road out. It ran straight through mostly housing before reaching the freight station and branching off in multiple directions. Sloane saw another approaching wagon and downed the leader, but the remaining haulers managed to cart the wagon and cut off another escape route.

Sloane and Freddie’s only chance now was to ride back through the main street. He turned his sorrel so abruptly that his hooves slid in the dirt of the road. Freddie managed to wing another before they raced off back into town.

The marshal’s last deputy was a kid of nineteen who fancied being a gunslinger without the experience to back him up. He ran out the door with a gun in either hand, blasting away at the running forms of Freddie and Sloane. He burned off eight rounds without doing so much as causing smoke and spooking the nearby horses.

Freddie stopped long enough to put a single shot in the deputy’s chest. The kid gasped as blood ran from between his fingers, very real and painful. He fell to his knees, staring imploringly at the boardwalk ceiling. He fell sideways, beside the bloodstained handles of his dual revolvers.

Sloane saw Freddie stop at the beginning of the main drag. He also saw the enclosing ring of armed citizens. Shots whizzed around, smoke blossoming into deadly clouds.

“Freddie!” Sloane screamed. He stopped his sorrel, dropped a man taking aim on a roof, and waved Freddie over with his gun. Freddie saw it before he could utter any sign of warning.

Two quick blasts knocked Sloane clean off his horse. The panicked animal whinnied and raced away, the clear way Sloane could have escaped if he hadn’t stopped. Freddie reined up his bay, dropped his pistol, and raised his hands high.

“Hang on!” Freddie yelled over the receding roar of gunfire. The bay panicked, bogged his head, and bucked. Freddie had no hold, and the horn crunched into his ribs. The horse ran off after Sloane’s sorrel as Freddie hit the ground beside his abandoned gun and once again raised his hands. He ignored the crushed, suffocating feeling in his nose. He ignored the blood running from his mouth. He also ignored the sharp poking deep inside his chest.

The saloon’s double doors swung open, exposing a man in a white suit with several other, normal colored suits behind him. The closest to the white suit leveled a sawed-down shotgun at Freddie, waiting for further instruction.

Mr. Abraham Racencourt liked to finish his matters personally. He stepped into the dirt street, his small army of suited men waiting on the boardwalk. The man with the shotgun kept it pointed at Freddie’s back.

Racencourt disregarded the dirt soiling the barest amount of his white trousers as he stood before Freddie. He lifted his face with a black gloved hand, and watched the life begin to ebb from the corners of Freddie’s eyes.

Racencourt drew a Remington from a holster on his left hip. He took a big step backwards from Freddie, sighted his forehead, and squeezed. Freddie hit the ground at the same time Racencourt holstered his pistol. Blood had sprayed from Freddie’s face and now painted the front of Racencourt’s jacket and trousers. He withdrew a white, linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and began dabbing the crimson pigment. Several citizens began venturing closer, seeing the man who had shot a clearly dying, pained man. Racencourt looked around, met their faces, and spoke slowly.

“He ruined my suit.”