A Wolf in the Fold

“There he is!”

“Don’t shoot! He has Calista with him!”

I pointed the Remington at them. “Back down the stairs! Pronto! Or you’ll be burying your friend here before the day is out!” They started down and I took another step—and stumbled. I had tripped over the hem of Calista’s robe. I caught myself and stayed on my feet, but Calista nearly slipped out of my grasp and her hair fell from her face.

“Look!” the townsman exclaimed. “There’s blood on her clothes!”

“I don’t think she’s alive!” cried another.

“Kill him! Shoot the vermin!” urged a third.

Howling with outrage, they barreled up the stairs, firing as they came. I hurled Calista at them and snapped off two shots, then spun and ran to her room, slamming the door behind me. Slugs ripped into the wood as I angled toward the window.

They would take a few minutes to regroup. I swiftly reloaded, and as I was inserting the last cartridge, a face appeared at the pane. It was Tom Fielding, the owner of the general store. He opened his mouth to shout something, and I sent a slug through the center of it.

Seizing the chair, I whipped around and threw it. The glass exploded outward. The chair must have struck someone lower on the ladder because there was a shrill squawk.

I ran to the window. No one was on the ladder, but there had to be twenty or more incensed citizens clustered about Fielding and another man at the bottom. In the few seconds their attention was diverted, I reached down, wrapped my left hand around the top rung, and shoved.

The ladder crashed to earth among them, knocking several over. The confusion and panic that resulted gained me the moments I needed to hook my right leg over the sill, then my left, and lean out. I was two stories up, but there were plenty of cushions below. I pushed off and dropped.

“Look out!” a woman screeched.

I slammed into the back of a portly man in a nightshirt. It was like falling into a vat of dough. My left knee hit bone and my leg spiked with pain, but otherwise I was unhurt and on my feet before those around me realized what had happened. I shot one man in the chest, another in the head, snatching the second man’s revolver as he fell. Screams and shouts added to the bedlam as I plowed through them, scattering those not quick enough to move aside.

Packed so close together as they were, no one dared fire for fear of hitting someone else.

Then I was in the street and sprinting for my life, zigzagging as I ran. I had always been fleet of foot. Now it would be put to the test.

“There he goes!”

“Shoot him!”

Several tried. Slugs sizzled the air uncomfortably near and there was a tug at my sleeve. I made it to the boardwalk, and the saloon. The door was shut and no doubt locked, so I used the big window. Throwing my arms over my face, I crashed into it shoulder first.

My luck held. I wasn’t cut. I raced for the rear, hoping there was a back way out. I had never been in the saloon before. It would not have been fitting when I was pretending to be a parson.

The howls of my pursuers spurred me into flying down a short hall. I came to a door. A flick of a bolt and the wrench of a latch and I was in the cool night air, just as the mob crashed in through the front.

I turned east and sped to the gap between the general store and the butcher’s. Some of my pursuers burst out of the saloon and spotted me as I darted into it, but I doubted they guessed my intent.

I sped to the main street and was elated to find it temporarily empty.

The townspeople had fallen for my ruse. I had led them away from Calista’s—and my horses. Most of them, anyway.

A figure filled the window of her bedroom, and a finger pointed. “There he is! He’s right there! Get him, somebody!”

I shot the town crier in the throat and he staggered out of view. Somewhere, a rifle blasted, kicking up dust inches from my boot. But I made it to the alley. It was nearly pitch-black. Which explains why I collided with someone coming the other way. We were both running flat out, and the impact slammed both of us to the ground. I landed on my back, the breath knocked out of me, the few stars visible overhead swirling and dancing.

“You damned idiot!” the townsman bellowed.

I forced myself to sit up. The man was doing the same.

“Fowler, is that you? Why in hell don’t you watch where you’re going? I about busted a rib.”

“I’m not Fowler,” I said, and shot him. Heaving erect, I jumped over the deceased.

Two men were standing guard over Brisco and the mare. They had heard the shot and were almost to the alley when I hurtled into the open. Both had rifles, but neither had his leveled.

Stupidity always costs us. In their case it was lead to the head, and then I was in the saddle and galloping south with the mare in tow.

Bedlam ruled Whiskey Flats. Lanterns and lamps were blazing all over the place, and despite the shots and screams, most of the women and a few kids had ventured outdoors and were milling about.