Chapter 11 - Whisky and Blood

And so we waited...

We knew that Tennant had no choice but to come for us, his very future depended on what happened next. If he stayed on his ranch, he'd lose his hold on the town and would eventually be called upon by one of the State Marshalls who occasionally drifted through the area, probably with a warrant for his arrest. Dancing briefly at the end of a rope would hold no attraction for a man like Tennant. If he came to town he had no idea what he faced, but Tennant was a bastard not a coward.

We knew he would come.

Many of the townsfolk visited Anton's store and stocked up on bullets and guns, but we laid no barricade across the streets, and gave no sign that we were prepared.

We carried Henry into the saloon and laid him in one of the guest rooms, upstairs and out of the way. He'd regained consciousness by then and was grumpy and up for a fight despite his injuries. Anton supplied some salve that seemed to help with the burns, and we made sure he was comfortable. Then we started to plan.

When Tennant and his men rode cautiously into town a few hours later, the only outward sign of anything untoward was the utter emptiness of the main street.

Twenty armed and hard looking men rode slowly towards the saloon, the steel-shod hooves of their horses kicking penumbra of dust into the air, the breathy wind making dust devils that traced their path, dancing maniacally in their wake, short-lived harbingers of a terror yet to come.

Everything was utterly still and other than the gentle sounds of the horses or the odd jangle of harness or spur, not a sound broke the silence as the men dismounted at the hitching posts outside the saloon. For a few moments they milled around in confusion, undecided as to a course of action. We had left the body of the now ex-Sheriff propped in his chair clearly visible through the window of the gaol, his hat tilted at a jaunty angle over his eternally sleeping head. This, as intended, provided the first port of call for the investigating men.

Tennant was never short of courage, I'll give him that. He rode into town like he owned it which, up until that point, he had. He sent a small group of men to check on the apparently snoozing Sheriff and when the man had slumped to the floor after being prodded with the barrel of a rifle, Tennant went on full alert, scattering his men into the scant cover offered by their horses or into nearby alleys and shop doorways.

No-one in the town had stirred during any of this. There was a stillness that permeated every timber of that little frontier town, even the dogs on the street seemed to hold their breath in anticipation.

They knew the signal, and they waited, building the tension in Tennant's men to fever pitch.

After a few tense minutes, Tennant motioned to some of his men to spread out and then he and most of his men entered the saloon.

Jim the barman was another man who didn't lack courage, he was standing behind the bar polishing a glass when they walked in. He'd approached me after the earlier fight and had volunteered his establishment when the plans were being formulated. The only visible patron was me, and I stood at the bar with a whisky, trying to steady my shaking hands and look calm as the swinging doors moved repeatedly on their well-worn hinges as the men entered the saloon.

"Jim," nodded Tennant as he walked up to the bar. "What's happening?"

"There was a shootin'," Jim slid a whisky along the bar to Tennant who stopped it and glared at the barman, then turned his attention to me, eying me suspiciously.

"And what's your part in this stranger?" The question hung in the air, and time seemed to slow for a second as I realised almost gratefully that he had no idea who I was.

There was always a part in a gunfight where a sort of calm comes over you, the time when your hands stopped shaking, when the adrenalin reaches a peak and a sort of peaceful acceptance drapes like a blanket over your soul.

Well, it did with me anyway.

Many men I knew seemed to live in that state, others kept themselves drunk to avoid it and others lived in a state of almost perpetual anger. The drunks didn't usually last long which was why I never really drank much. I guess I was always kind of happy-go-lucky and didn't stay angry for long back then.

Tennant did though; you could almost see the anger writhing darkly through his veins and poisoning his soul, the constant brooding blackness of his looks partnering a level of tenseness that filled any room he entered. As my calm attained its peak, so did his anger and as I smiled back at him, preparing to answer his question, his hand twitched to his gun, his drink dropping to the bar as I turned to face him.

We both drew, my quicker reactions catching up with his almost imperceptible lead. Both of us missed. I caught one of his men standing behind him; his bullet buried itself in the bar to my right. That was the signal for all hell to break loose inside the saloon.

As we both fired again, moving quickly away from each other, Jim snatched his gun from behind the bar and Henry appeared at the door to the rooms at the top of the stairs, rifle in hand and roaring hate at the men who had disfigured him. All was a haze of smoke and noise, and in the confusion I leapt the bar to land sprawling by Jim who had quickly taken cover after the first few shots. Henry, shooting madly from the hip, had picked off a couple of the men and the remaining cowboys, including Tennant, ran for the door only to be met by a volley of fire as the townsfolk finally opened up on them from outside where they had hidden in rooms and on roofs. Many of them had taken cover in Anton's shop which lay directly opposite the saloon, its sturdy construction and open front providing an ideal vantage point from which to attack Tennant and his men as they swarmed out from the bar.

A bedlam of gunsmoke and noise spoke the disapproval of the lynch mob outside as Jim and I made to join in from the rear, only to be met by Tennant's men piling back into the saloon to use it as cover from the gunfire that shredded them. Tennant and his men sent a desperate volley of shells back towards the shop as they took hurried cover, and Jim and I leapt back over the bar, a volley of bullets spraying broken glass around us as they counterattacked. I landed in a painful heap next to Jim's dying body, his blood pooling around my feet. Then, as I went to stand, I missed my footing, slipping on the red ooze and tumbled ungracefully through the open cellar hatch into the darkeness below.

As I hauled my battered body back upright, shadows darkened the steps and I moved back into the depths of the basement, throwing myself to the floor again as more bullets were fired blindly into the cellar, ricocheting off the walls and floor, occasionally smashing a bottle or thudding into the wood of the ceiling above.

I've said before, Tennant wasn't short on bravery, but he was long on anger and he was bellowing his rage at the world from behind the bar where he now sheltered, the distant sound of gunfire peppering the saloon from outside. Eventually his rage overcame his reason and he and a few men charged into the hole that sheltered me, desperate for revenge.

What followed was a nightmare of darkness and danger; gunshots, smashing glass, flashes of light and the smell of gunpowder and spilt liquor. To add to the terror, there was the occasional grunt or scream as a bullet found its mark, danger and adrenalin fighting the dark induced panic.

A few of them were stupid and stayed by the hatch, I picked them off quickly; silhouetted against the light as they were, but the others watched for the flash from my guns and quickly fired back at me. I found a solid old oak table to hide behind and picked my targets carefully, slowly winnowing my way through them until only Tennant was left.

By this time, I'd been hit in the calf and left arm, and was covered in cuts from crawling around among the glass fragments and splinters. Tennant fired, the slug biting into my table and I lifted my gun only to be met by a dull click as the hammer tried to fire an empty chamber. As I dropped my gun and reached for my spare, Tennant made good his escape up the stairs. There was a final shot from the bar area, and then the muffled blow of a body hitting the floor rained dust on my head.

Hobbling badly, scared and bloody, I made my way up the stairs as quickly as I could, dreading what I would find as I reached the bar. There were bodies everywhere and the metallic taste of blood filled the air. Jim was sprawled where I'd left him, his dead eyes gazing at the sun streaming through the window. Dust motes danced in the light breeze and for a few dead seconds, no other sound than the sighing wind cut the silence that lay heavy on the town.

Then there was a faint glugging sound and, as I poked my head cautiously over the bar, I realised that only one man was still standing, well sitting anyway. Henry sat at the only remaining table in the saloon, a bottle of whisky in front of him and a glass ready for me. His bootless feet were resting on the unconscious form of Tennant, who had a lump on the back of his head. Henry grinned toothlessly at me and stood painfully, his burns still raw and bloody.

"I thought I'd help meself to a drink," he said, smiling broadly as he shook my hand. I smiled back, and reached over to my drink, toasted him and knocked back the fiery liquid.

As it burned down my throat, there was a sudden commotion from outside and a clatter of hooves. Henry and I moved to the doors of the saloon, only to see a man on a horse whip down the main street, his body pressed to the back of his mount.

As we watched, Anton moved into the centre of the street, unhurriedly lifted his rifle to his shoulder and fired, once. The last of Tennant's men tumbled out of the saddle, almost drunkenly falling from his horse to land in the dust. His now riderless horse came to a quivering halt and stepped uncertainly around his dead rider.

"Good shot!" called Henry cheerily to Anton and then moved back into the bar, the bottle of whisky dangling from one hand.

Anton walked over and shook my hand, passing me the gun moments later.

"I'm glad to see you still alive," he said calmly. "I hope I never have to use one of these again."

A small form hurtled into his arms and he lifted Emily into a hug, the little girl smiling over his shoulder at me.

"You son of a bitch, come back here!" Henry's voice spoilt the quiet moment and Tennant strode from the saloon, slamming the swinging doors into the frame, one sagging drunkenly under power of the blow. His progress was halted as the sound of several dozen guns cocking brought him back to his senses.

Henry hobbled out into the street behind him.

"I'm sorry lad, he caught me by surprise and tipped me off my chair, luckily I had hold of his gun or he'd've shot me where I sat."

Tennant ignored the men around him and focussed his gaze on me.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I run this town."

"I think we've decided otherwise," said Anton quietly.

Tennant ignored him, still looking at me. "You and me boy, here and now, let's settle this like men."

Anton grabbed my arm with one hand. "You don't have to do this, we can just put him in the gaol and let him rot until a Marshall turns up. Please Joe, this isn't the way to do it."

A vision of striking fists and the fire lit dark flashed behind my eyes, my jaw flared in remembered pain and my left hand cramped suddenly. All that pain, all the darkness. I was young then and foolish. Pride and anger found a voice in me and I sealed my fate.

"Henry, give him his guns."