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  “I know where I’m supposed to be,” Shorty answered, impatient with Deacon’s insistence on repetition. When Deacon prodded him to answer, Shorty said, “At the Golden Rail, by the front corner, and it’s my job to get the horses ready to go as soon as one of us shoots him.” Deacon had decided to leave the horses behind the saloon where nobody would bother them. And when the job was done, they could ride down the creek bank behind the hotel and out of town in minutes.

  “All right, Marty, where you gonna be?”

  “Beside Howard’s store, so I’ve got a good angle for a shot if you or Shorty miss him.” Deacon said that was right, but Marty had one concern. “I’m gonna be across the street from the Golden Rail, and I’ll have to run across the street to get to the horses. What if there’s somebody out in the street, and they see me runnin’?”

  “They’ll all be lookin’ at him. Ain’t nobody gonna pay attention to you. If he’s already in the dinin’ room before we get set up, then I’ll be the one gets the first shot. And anybody in the street will be looking up toward the hotel where the shots come from. Hell, I’m gonna have to run across the street, too. I ain’t worried about it. If things go like they’re supposed to, I’ll nail him as soon as he walks outta the dinin’ room. And likely you and Shorty can stroll over behind the Golden Rail and be in the saddle when I get there.”

  That seemed to satisfy his two unenthusiastic partners in the planned assassination, so they continued to pass the time away there by the creek. After what seemed a long time, Deacon was about to ask what time it was when Shorty looked at his watch and announced that it was almost five o’clock. Marty jumped to his feet at once and hurried to his horse. “Don’t get your long johns twisted in a knot, Marty,” Deacon told him. “The dinin’ room opens at five. Even if he gets there right when they open up, he’ll have to have time to eat it before he comes out again.”

  “Right,” Marty said, “I didn’t think about that. I reckon it’s a good thing you’re callin’ the shots and I ain’t.”

  “We don’t need to be hurryin’ around, attractin’ attention,” Deacon said. “We’ve got plenty of time to ride around back of the saloon, tie the horses, and walk to our spots.” The only thing that would be better would be if it was dark, he thought, but he didn’t say it to his partners. In the saddle then, he led his assassination party up from the creek and loped along behind the buildings until he reached the Golden Rail.

  As luck would have it, when they got there, Stump Jones was coming from the outhouse. “Heyo, Deacon,” Stump greeted them. “What you boys doin’? I thought you took off for the ranch.”

  “We changed our minds, and we got a little card game goin’ on with some fellers we met back beside the jailhouse. We thought it’d be better if we left our horses here in case Mr. Dalton comes back. So, don’t say nothin’ to anybody about seein’ us, all right?”

  “Sure thing, boys, I won’t tell a soul,” Stump assured them.

  “’Preciate it, Stump,” Deacon said. “We’ll be back to get ’em in a little while.” When Stump went inside, Deacon told his partners, “I know Stump, he won’t say nothin’. Don’t get nervous on me. This ain’t gonna make no difference. Let’s get to our spots.” Before they parted, he had to remind Marty to take his rifle with him. Damn good thing I set myself in the best spot to shoot. Whether he’s comin’ out or goin’ in, he thought, I’ll get the first shot at him. He hadn’t counted on running into Stump, so he asked Shorty what time it was as they started out to their ambush. Shorty told him it was already twenty minutes after five. So Deacon picked up his step.

  The spot he had picked out for himself was on the opposite side of the street from the hotel, which was the first business structure you came to if you were approaching the town from the south. The only other building was the residence and office of Dr. John Tatum, and it was set back from the road a good fifty yards. There was a small clump of oak trees just short of the hotel, which afforded him ample cover to watch the dining room without being seen. The angle was perfect. If Savage had not yet come to eat, Deacon would see him when he did, provided Savage made it by Shorty and Marty. He could watch him the entire way as he came down the street, and he could wait to let him get close enough, so he couldn’t miss. The anticipation of that moment caused Deacon to reach up to gingerly touch the ruins of his nose. He could barely touch it before a needle-like shot of pain made him take his hand away at once. It served to increase his anticipation of the satisfaction he was about to enjoy.

  After he had remained there, kneeling beside the trunk of a tree for what seemed like a long time, he began to think of things that he might have done differently. The first thing he thought was that he could have brought his horse with him because the cover there in the trees was enough. No one could have seen his horse and he would almost be out of town as soon as he took the shot. “Damn,” he cursed himself for not thinking of that. He cursed himself for being so intent upon making the assassination the work of all three of them. Otherwise, he might not have decided to keep all the horses together. “Damn it, damn it,” he repeated again. “I wish I had a watch.” It seemed so long, he decided that Savage must have gone in as soon as the dining room was open. He cursed Stump Jones then for delaying them. It meant he wouldn’t have the chance to take the easy shot at Savage walking down the street. But that didn’t matter, he told himself, the shot would be just as easy when Savage was walking back to the Lost Coyote.

  He stood up to change his position for a few minutes before kneeling again, and just as he did, two men came out of the dining room. Neither man was Ben Savage, but it caused him more concern because now diners were starting to come out. He dropped back down on his knee again. When no one else came out right away, he brought his rifle to his shoulder and set the front sight on the back of one of the men walking away from the dining room. It would be an easy shot and would bring him so much pleasure. Where is that bigshot saloon ranger?

  Up the street, his partners in the planned assassination were experiencing no better success in playing the patience game than Deacon was. After a while, Marty was finding it difficult to remain inconspicuous. He started out simply leaning against the side of Cecil Howard’s store, but after what seemed like a long time, he thought passersby were beginning to notice him. So he tried to stroll casually up the street a couple dozen yards, then strolling slowly back, repeating that for a while.

  Down the street from Marty, Shorty at least knew the time was a quarter to six, but he was as antsy as his two fellow assassins, checking his pocket watch every few minutes. After a while with no report from a rifle down near the hotel, he decided he looked too suspicious just standing there at the front corner of the Golden Rail. So he thought he might attract less attention if he was just sitting in one of the straight-back chairs on the narrow porch. He stepped up on the porch and quickly dragged the closest chair over away from the window, hoping no one inside would notice. He sat down and tipped the chair back against the wall on its two back legs, his rifle lying on the floor beside him. In a few minutes, Stump Jones came out the front door.

  “Hey, Shorty, what you doin’ back here again? I thought you and the other boys was goin’ to a card game.”

  “I decided I didn’t wanna play no more cards,” Shorty answered with the only thing he could think of at the moment. “I just thought I’d set here on the porch for a spell.”

  “It is kinda nice out here this time of evenin’,” Stump remarked. “I’d join you, but Wilson’s got me cleanin’ out the stockroom. Maybe I’ll set with you when I get through.”

  “Yeah,” Shorty said, “but I might not stay here much longer.” Stump went back to work, leaving Shorty to peer anxiously down the street toward the hotel. “Come on, Deacon, make it quick and let’s get the hell outta town,” Shorty muttered under his breath.

  * * *

  Inside the Lost Coyote, Rachel walked in the office to find Ben still poring over the ledger she had given him, so he could trace
the activity of the saloon’s whiskey business after Jim Vickers’s death. “I thought you were goin’ to the hotel to eat supper,” she said.

  “I am,” he responded. “Tuck wanted to go with me, so I told him to come by here after he closed his shop.”

  “He’s in the saloon now,” Rachel said. “Been there for fifteen minutes. If you’re going to eat at the hotel, you’d better shake a leg. They’ll be closin’ in about forty minutes.”

  “I swear, I let the time get away from me,” Ben reacted immediately. He gave her a big grin and joked, “Your ledger is such interestin’ readin’ that I forgot about Tuck and supper, too. I’d best get outta here before he comes in after me.”

  “I’m sorry, Tuck,” Ben said when he came out. “I got into some of Rachel’s accountin’ books back there, and the time slipped up on me. Let’s go. I don’t want you to get too weak to walk to the hotel.”

  “We ain’t gonna walk,” Tuck said. “We’re gonna ride. I’ve got my wagon still hitched up, and after we eat, I’m gonna take a couple of rolls of wire out to my cabin down the creek.”

  “All right,” Ben said and started for the door. “Want me to bring you anything from the dining room?” he asked Rachel as he walked past her.

  “No thanks,” Rachel replied, “but I’ll bet Tiny would be tickled if you happened to bring him back a slice of cake, if Myrtle made one today.”

  “I wouldn’t refuse it,” Tiny said.

  Outside, Ben climbed up on the wagon seat beside Tuck, and they pulled away from the saloon. They took no notice of the man carrying a rifle walking casually back toward Howard’s store. Likewise, Marty Jackson paid little attention to the men in the wagon until they had passed him and he suddenly recognized the man sitting beside the driver.

  Turning to look at the rolls of wire in the back of the wagon, Ben asked, “Whaddaya gonna use all that wire for?” He didn’t get an answer, for Tuck was struck in the back with a .44 slug before he could reply. With no idea where the shot had come from, Ben grabbed Tuck and pulled him off the wagon seat and they both landed in the bed of the wagon. Rapidly scanning the street from side to side, his Colt six-gun already drawn, Ben’s eyes came to focus on the man with the rifle, who was raising it to his shoulder again. Ben recognized Marty Jackson at that moment and quickly fired two shots at him, missing both but close enough to rip splinters from the boardwalk by his feet. In panic, Marty ducked back behind the corner of the store. Ben took advantage of that moment to reach for the reins and pop the mules’ rumps with them.

  The mules responded and pulled the wagon bouncing over the rough street, causing the few people on the street to scatter while Ben held Tuck flat in the bed of the wagon. As startled as everyone else, Shorty Dove dropped his chair back on all four legs and grabbed his rifle as the driverless wagon rattled past the Golden Rail just in time to see Ben reach up to take the reins again. With no time to think, Shorty raised his rifle and shot at him. Wild, the first shot ricocheted off one of the rolls of wire, and the second embedded in the side of the wagon. He didn’t try for a third one, since he realized several people taking cover in the doorway of the barbershop next door had seen him take the shots. He turned to threaten them, then thought better of it and ran back around the saloon where the horses were tied. He jumped on his and lit out for the cover of the trees lining the creek.

  Hearing the gunshots on the street, Deacon jumped to his feet again, not sure what to do. In a successful ambush, he would have hoped to hear a single shot, but he had heard several and he was not certain what that might mean. Then suddenly he saw a runaway team of mules pulling an empty wagon heading his way. It continued right on past the hotel, out the end of town, and onto the south road. When it was past him, he discovered it was not empty, for he saw the head and shoulders of a man in the wagon. Too late, he realized the man was Ben Savage when he reached up from behind the seat to drive the mules. His initial reaction was a frustrated rage as he ran out of his cover in the trees to watch helplessly as the wagon continued down the road. “Damn!” he cried out in anger for missing his chance to shoot. Then, when he saw the wagon suddenly swerve off the road and onto the path leading to the doctor’s office, it struck him that Marty or Shorty had wounded Savage. “They got him!” he bellowed. “He’s wounded and he’s tryin’ to get to the doctor!”

  He came out of the trees and looked back up the street. Although there were people in the street, coming out of the stores to gape, there was no sign of anyone giving chase to the wagon. He knew he had a chance to put the fatal round into Ben Savage, if he hurried to get to the doctor’s office before anyone else thought to follow the wagon. So he started down the road at a trot.

  * * *

  Nancy Tatum got up from her chair at the table when she heard the wagon come into the yard. “Always at suppertime,” she complained as she went to the window to see who it was.

  “Doesn’t matter that much,” Dr. John Tatum said. “I’m about finished, anyway.” He took a few quick sips from his coffee cup and got to his feet. “Probably has to do with those shots we just heard.”

  “It’s that new owner of the Lost Coyote,” Nancy reported, “that Ben Savage fellow who’s been shooting everybody. He’s lifting somebody out of the wagon.” She paused to see who it was. “It looks like Tuck Tucker. I better go open the office door.” She hurried to the two-room addition on the side of the house that served as the doctor’s office.

  When she opened the door, she found Ben standing there holding Tuck in his arms. “Ma’am,” Ben said, “he’s got a gunshot wound in his back. I don’t know how bad it is.”

  She stepped back and held the door open for them. “Bring him right on inside and lay him on the table in there,” she instructed, pointing to the door of Tatum’s surgery. “Dr. Tatum will be right in.” With experience from many gunshot victims before, she went straight to the kitchen to put some water on to boil. When she returned, she laid out some instruments she knew her husband would need to examine the patient. She took a look at the short little man lying on the table and started to get him out of his jacket. His eyes, closed tightly until that moment, opened wide when she turned him to try to get his arm out of the sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she said, thinking he had been unconscious, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “You ain’t hurtin’ me, ma’am,” Tuck answered. “I’ll set up, so you can pull it off. Gimme a hand, Ben.” Ben stepped forward and pulled him up to a sitting position so Nancy could get him out of his jacket and shirt. When the doctor came in, the patient was lying facedown on the table, most of the blood cleaned away from his wound, and several towels spread across Tuck’s back.

  It didn’t take Tatum long to determine the extent of the damage to the little red-haired gnome. “I’d say you were pretty lucky,” he said after his initial examination.

  “Lucky?” Tuck responded. “If I was lucky, he’da missed me.”

  “You’re lucky the wound isn’t serious,” Tatum said, patiently. “A few inches to the left and he’d have hit your lung. Now hold still, and I’ll dig that slug outta there. I’ll give you a little painkiller to make it easier.”

  “I don’t need no painkiller,” Tuck insisted. “The ride over here in that wagon was rougher’n diggin’ a bullet out.”

  With concern for his big-talking little friend now relieved, Ben had other things to think about. He knew the man who shot Tuck was Marty Jackson, and he had an idea that Marty ran after he threw a couple of shots at him. But there were another two shots after Marty’s. He could guess who that shooter was, so somewhere back around the Golden Rail, Deacon Moss may or may not be hiding. He now needed to find Deacon before Deacon found him. He decided it would be a good idea to move Tuck’s wagon out of sight until the doctor was finished with him. “I’m goin’ outside to take care of those mules,” he told Nancy and went out the office door.

  Outside, he took hold of the bridle of one of the mules and led the team around behind the house where he tied them
up to a clothesline pole. He took a moment to replace the two cartridges he had spent in his six-gun, unaware of the man who ran in the office door at that moment.

  Still winded from running after the wagon, Deacon burst into the office, his rifle aimed at Nancy Tatum. “Where is he?” he demanded. She didn’t have to answer, because he then saw the doctor through the open door to his surgery. Hustling the terrified woman before him, he pushed her into the surgery before shoving her aside and raising his rifle to point at the man lying on the table. “What the hell?” He blurted upon seeing the short, red-bearded Tuck on the doctor’s table.

  “You lookin’ for me?” Deacon spun around to face Ben Savage in the doorway, his Colt six-gun leveled at his belly. He started to raise the rifle, but Ben warned him, “Do it and you’re dead.” A long moment passed while Deacon made his desperate decision. “Drop it and come peacefully and I’ll take you to jail,” Ben offered.

  Deacon froze, undecided. “All right,” he finally relented. “I’ll drop it.” He held the rifle out to his side at arm’s length. Then he dropped it, but before it hit the floor, he drew his pistol, grabbing Nancy at the same time and jamming the .44 into her side. “Now, I’ll tell you to drop it, or I’m gonna make the doctor a widower. Take me to jail, was you?” he gloated, “You shoulda shot me while you had the chance.”

  “Let her go,” Ben ordered firmly.

  “Let her go?” Deacon mocked as he pulled Nancy even more directly between himself and Ben, enjoying his moment with the upper hand. “It’s time to put you in the ground.” He pulled the pistol out of Nancy’s side, pointed it straight at Ben, and said, “Say good-bye.” He never heard the sound of the shot that smashed into his forehead.