out of Oceanville. He was quite capable of dealing with this situation himself.
Another burst of gunfire sent bullets thudding into the tree trunk as he hauled himself around it, spraying him with pieces of bark.
Then he could go no further. Spread-eagled on the pine-needled floor of the timber stand, shaded from the sun by the overhead foliage, his punished and exhausted body made a demand for rest that could not be denied.
He tried. Summoned every ounce of willpower he could muster to force his muscles to respond to the commands of his mind. But he was in the tenacious grip of a paralysis and came within a hairbreadth of giving shrill vent to the fear that this aroused within him.
He controlled the urge. And began to talk softly to himself.
‘You’re a cold-hearted sonofabitch who never wanted help and never asked for it. You’re all conceited self-confidence. Have been since you were a kid. Nothing ever phases you, you snot-nose Barnaby Gold Junior. You got everyone’s back up being the way you are. You never gave a damn for anybody and never cared that they didn’t give a damn for you. So where the hell do you get off figuring to yell uncle. Just because you’re in a spot. You’ve been in a spot ever since you paid no attention to the old-timer and had him drive you into this ravine. And you just told yourself you’re almost free and clear. Goddamnit to hell, you’re going to get to Europe. And no hired gunslingers or bunch of outlaws are going to stop you.’
He became quiet, face beaded with sweat and clothing sticking to him. Began to consciously breathe regularly again.
All around him was silence. Except for the faint thud of combers on the beach in the distance.
He flexed his muscles, one at a time. Starting with his fingers and toes. The unasked for idea that he must have given a damn about Emily Jane entered his mind. And as he almost cursed aloud at wasting time on this side issue, the memory of another Emily came to the forefront of his consciousness,
Delroy’s whore. She was in a worse spot than he was. Old Seth Harrow too, maybe. It would not take too much irrational thought in the twisted mind of the top man of Oceanville for the wagon driver to be allocated blame for the lethal trouble Barnaby Gold had brought to the community on the beach. And the hapless Mexicans who had been ordered to lock the prisoner in the basement.
All his muscles could function in isolation now and he tested his ability to make them work in concert. Discovered they could, provided his nervous system could stand the barrage of pain.
He rose on to all fours, careful to check that he could not be seen above the brush that fringed the timber line.
It had been quiet for a long time and when he looked down at the shotgun which lay between his splayed hands he rejected an impulse to reload it. The metallic sounds of the gun being broken open to eject the spent cartridges and cock the hammers would ring out loud and clear in the tensely silent ravine, reveal to the Oceanville men he was still close to the point where he went from sight around the bullet-scarred pine tree.
Out on the trail directly opposite him, the kerosene had ceased to run from the split-open barrels scattered about the overturned wagon. The horse with the broken legs was still breathing, but no longer gave sound to his pain. Up at the top of the ravine the runaway pair from the team had bolted out of sight and the high ground from which the stranger had provided covering fire was now a static blot of rock and vegetation against the blue brilliance of the morning sky. Peering down on the trail below the wreckage and the dying horse, Gold had the opportunity for the first time to see the extent of the injuries that had killed two men - the gory double amputation caused by the wagon wheels and the ghastly wounds which the shotgun blast had torn in the flesh of the man named Steve.
But as a former undertaker and the son of an undertaker, Barnaby Gold
Another burst of gunfire sent bullets thudding into the tree trunk as he hauled himself around it, spraying him with pieces of bark.
Then he could go no further. Spread-eagled on the pine-needled floor of the timber stand, shaded from the sun by the overhead foliage, his punished and exhausted body made a demand for rest that could not be denied.
He tried. Summoned every ounce of willpower he could muster to force his muscles to respond to the commands of his mind. But he was in the tenacious grip of a paralysis and came within a hairbreadth of giving shrill vent to the fear that this aroused within him.
He controlled the urge. And began to talk softly to himself.
‘You’re a cold-hearted sonofabitch who never wanted help and never asked for it. You’re all conceited self-confidence. Have been since you were a kid. Nothing ever phases you, you snot-nose Barnaby Gold Junior. You got everyone’s back up being the way you are. You never gave a damn for anybody and never cared that they didn’t give a damn for you. So where the hell do you get off figuring to yell uncle. Just because you’re in a spot. You’ve been in a spot ever since you paid no attention to the old-timer and had him drive you into this ravine. And you just told yourself you’re almost free and clear. Goddamnit to hell, you’re going to get to Europe. And no hired gunslingers or bunch of outlaws are going to stop you.’
He became quiet, face beaded with sweat and clothing sticking to him. Began to consciously breathe regularly again.
All around him was silence. Except for the faint thud of combers on the beach in the distance.
He flexed his muscles, one at a time. Starting with his fingers and toes. The unasked for idea that he must have given a damn about Emily Jane entered his mind. And as he almost cursed aloud at wasting time on this side issue, the memory of another Emily came to the forefront of his consciousness,
Delroy’s whore. She was in a worse spot than he was. Old Seth Harrow too, maybe. It would not take too much irrational thought in the twisted mind of the top man of Oceanville for the wagon driver to be allocated blame for the lethal trouble Barnaby Gold had brought to the community on the beach. And the hapless Mexicans who had been ordered to lock the prisoner in the basement.
All his muscles could function in isolation now and he tested his ability to make them work in concert. Discovered they could, provided his nervous system could stand the barrage of pain.
He rose on to all fours, careful to check that he could not be seen above the brush that fringed the timber line.
It had been quiet for a long time and when he looked down at the shotgun which lay between his splayed hands he rejected an impulse to reload it. The metallic sounds of the gun being broken open to eject the spent cartridges and cock the hammers would ring out loud and clear in the tensely silent ravine, reveal to the Oceanville men he was still close to the point where he went from sight around the bullet-scarred pine tree.
Out on the trail directly opposite him, the kerosene had ceased to run from the split-open barrels scattered about the overturned wagon. The horse with the broken legs was still breathing, but no longer gave sound to his pain. Up at the top of the ravine the runaway pair from the team had bolted out of sight and the high ground from which the stranger had provided covering fire was now a static blot of rock and vegetation against the blue brilliance of the morning sky. Peering down on the trail below the wreckage and the dying horse, Gold had the opportunity for the first time to see the extent of the injuries that had killed two men - the gory double amputation caused by the wagon wheels and the ghastly wounds which the shotgun blast had torn in the flesh of the man named Steve.
But as a former undertaker and the son of an undertaker, Barnaby Gold
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