assailant. As he did, he heard movement behind him. He turned to see a man appear at the end of the block with a rifle. The man fired. Clay fired his own shotgun at the same time, then sprinted across the narrow street toward a cluster of Mexican jacales . Rifle bullets followed him; there must have been a half-dozen men shooting at him.
He went to the ground between two of the ramshackle jacales . More shots sounded; bullets splintered wood. Clay drew his pistol and fired, as much to give himself time as anything else. He got up again and ran down the narrow passageway between the jacales . An old, solid-wheeled carreta blocked his way. He scrambled over its tongue and took cover behind it, firing at the first man who appeared at the head of the alley. The man dodged backward.
Footsteps to his rear told him he was surrounded, trapped. He was going to die in a stinking alley full of dog shit. He was going to die alone, too—not a single person in town was going to help him. A bullet from behind him thunked into the carreta , just missing his head. He snapped off another pistol shot in that direction. He got up again and, with the strength of desperation, pulled down some of the mesquite logs forming the wall of a jacal , ripping them free of their hemp bindings while bullets spattered around him, and threw himself inside the building. He knew he’d bought himself only a minute’s respite.
The jacal was empty. A shadow appeared at the open doorway. Clay whirled, firing the remaining barrel of his shotgun. The figure vanished in powder smoke, seemingly snatched away. All around the ill-fitting walls of the jacal he saw movement. Shots were fired through the cracks between the logs; another shotgun blasted. Clay jerked his head away as splinters exploded past his eyes.
Then somebody cried, “Let’s go,” and the shadowy figures began running away. Clay heard rifle shots from nearby.
Clay scrambled out of the jacal to find Essex standing in the narrow alley, firing the Henry repeater at the retreating assassins. The men were too far away for Clay’s pistol, but they made a perfect target for the rifle.
Essex fired and missed. He fired again and missed again. Then the repeater jammed, and Essex fiddled uncertainly with the lever. Clay grabbed the rifle from his hands, but by then the gunmen were gone, lost in the warren of buildings that made up the Triangle.
Clay swore. “No sense going after them. They’d just ambush us.” He rounded on Essex. “How the hell did you miss a shot like that? You told me you knew how to shoot.”
“And you was stupid enough to believe it,” Essex retorted. “What do you think—ol’ Massa lined us niggers up and taught us how to use his rifles, case we ever wanted to revolt?”
“Then why’d you say it?”
“If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have given me the job.”
“Well, you ain’t got the job anymore. You’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me,” Essex said.
“I just did.”
“I won’t leave.”
“What good are you going to be if you can’t shoot?”
“I just saved your dumb ass, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” Clay admitted, “I guess you did. How’d you get here so quick, anyway?”
“I expected something like this to happen. I didn’t trust no promises Wes Hopkins made.”
A small crowd had gathered. Clay saw Julie among them. She was coming forward, worried. He frowned and shook his head slightly as a sign that she should stop. He didn’t want people making the connection between her and him any more than necessary. She watched another second, then withdrew.
Clay cursed himself for being stupid. That was why this part of town had been so quiet. It was why the jacal had been empty. The people here had known—or sensed—that the ambush was coming. He glared at the crowd, and it began to breakup.
Clay and Essex walked around to the front of the jacal . The man that Clay had hit with the shotgun lay on his back, his chest a welter of blood and bone
He went to the ground between two of the ramshackle jacales . More shots sounded; bullets splintered wood. Clay drew his pistol and fired, as much to give himself time as anything else. He got up again and ran down the narrow passageway between the jacales . An old, solid-wheeled carreta blocked his way. He scrambled over its tongue and took cover behind it, firing at the first man who appeared at the head of the alley. The man dodged backward.
Footsteps to his rear told him he was surrounded, trapped. He was going to die in a stinking alley full of dog shit. He was going to die alone, too—not a single person in town was going to help him. A bullet from behind him thunked into the carreta , just missing his head. He snapped off another pistol shot in that direction. He got up again and, with the strength of desperation, pulled down some of the mesquite logs forming the wall of a jacal , ripping them free of their hemp bindings while bullets spattered around him, and threw himself inside the building. He knew he’d bought himself only a minute’s respite.
The jacal was empty. A shadow appeared at the open doorway. Clay whirled, firing the remaining barrel of his shotgun. The figure vanished in powder smoke, seemingly snatched away. All around the ill-fitting walls of the jacal he saw movement. Shots were fired through the cracks between the logs; another shotgun blasted. Clay jerked his head away as splinters exploded past his eyes.
Then somebody cried, “Let’s go,” and the shadowy figures began running away. Clay heard rifle shots from nearby.
Clay scrambled out of the jacal to find Essex standing in the narrow alley, firing the Henry repeater at the retreating assassins. The men were too far away for Clay’s pistol, but they made a perfect target for the rifle.
Essex fired and missed. He fired again and missed again. Then the repeater jammed, and Essex fiddled uncertainly with the lever. Clay grabbed the rifle from his hands, but by then the gunmen were gone, lost in the warren of buildings that made up the Triangle.
Clay swore. “No sense going after them. They’d just ambush us.” He rounded on Essex. “How the hell did you miss a shot like that? You told me you knew how to shoot.”
“And you was stupid enough to believe it,” Essex retorted. “What do you think—ol’ Massa lined us niggers up and taught us how to use his rifles, case we ever wanted to revolt?”
“Then why’d you say it?”
“If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have given me the job.”
“Well, you ain’t got the job anymore. You’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me,” Essex said.
“I just did.”
“I won’t leave.”
“What good are you going to be if you can’t shoot?”
“I just saved your dumb ass, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” Clay admitted, “I guess you did. How’d you get here so quick, anyway?”
“I expected something like this to happen. I didn’t trust no promises Wes Hopkins made.”
A small crowd had gathered. Clay saw Julie among them. She was coming forward, worried. He frowned and shook his head slightly as a sign that she should stop. He didn’t want people making the connection between her and him any more than necessary. She watched another second, then withdrew.
Clay cursed himself for being stupid. That was why this part of town had been so quiet. It was why the jacal had been empty. The people here had known—or sensed—that the ambush was coming. He glared at the crowd, and it began to breakup.
Clay and Essex walked around to the front of the jacal . The man that Clay had hit with the shotgun lay on his back, his chest a welter of blood and bone
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