“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” stammered Hanratty. “We take in money, yes, but there are expenses—feed for the mules, ingredients for my elixir—”
Gnarled Teeth swung his Winchester and fired a round into the nearest mule, shattering the poor beast’s brain. Molly screamed as the shot rang out. The stricken animal emitted a soft snort and then its legs buckled and it collapsed heavily to the ground. The mule harnessed next to it pawed and jerked wildly for a moment but was held in check by the weight of its fallen mate and by Hugo hauling back hard on the reins. “You murderer! You bastard!” Hugo wailed at Gnarled Teeth.
“There. Now I cut down part of your expense,” Gnarled Teeth proclaimed. “Best shut up that loud-mouthed lame-brain, Professor, or my next bullet goes in him.”
Molly fell against McMahon, sobbing. “Make them stop! No more shooting—Don’t let them hurt Hugo.”
“All right,” McMahon said, patting the girl comfortingly as he addressed Gnarled Teeth. “That’s enough. You win, you bastard.... You’re right, there’s more money to be had.”
Hanratty looked aghast. “McMahon...stop and think...all we worked for, the money we put away for Molly’s operation....”
McMahon shook his head. “It ain’t worth it, Professor. What does any of that mean if this scum decides to cut us all down.... And he will, sure as can be, just as cold as he pulled on that poor dumb mule.”
“Damn betcha I will,” Gnarled Teeth confirmed.
“What’s to stop him from killing us all anyway?” Hanratty protested.
“No guarantee,” allowed McMahon, giving another faint head shake. “But it’s damn certain he will if he thinks we’re holdin’ out on him.”
“Ain’t no thinkin’ left to it now,” Gnarled Teeth pointed out. “You done admitted you got more money hid away. The only question left...where is it?”
Grim-faced, McMahon said, “Let me climb down, I’ll show you.... You and your boys hold easy on those triggers, right?”
Gnarled Teeth nodded. “Go ahead. Just move real slow and careful-like.”
McMahon gave Molly another comforting pat before quitting the wagon seat. “Everything’s gonna to be all right, little girl,” he assured her.
“It had better be,” Gnarled Teeth said. “Just to be sure, O’Toole”—he gestured to the rider who had moved close to the rear wagon—“you train that rifle gun of yours right on the little cripple. If boxer man tries anything funny, you blow her clean out of that seat, you hear?”
Dropping lightly to the ground, McMahon walked forward to the front wagon. There, he stopped before a large rectangular storage bin that had been fastened to the sideboards on the near side. “What you’re askin’ for is in here,” he said over his shoulder to Gnarled Teeth, as he began untying the ropes that were lashed around the bin to hold its lid shut.
“Mackie-boy, are you sure about what you’re doing?” asked Hanratty edgily.
“Trust me, Professor. This is our best chance.”
“That’s right. Trust the boxer man,” said Gnarled Teeth, “and while you’re at it keep your whinin’ trap shut.”
McMahon wrestled off the lid to the storage bin and let it drop to the ground. Dust puffed up from the rocky footing and swirled in the cold wind. Then he began rummaging in the bin, in time scooping out an armload of small burlap pouches, which he turned and also dumped to the ground. He’d turned back to rummage some more when Gnarled Teeth called sharply.
“Hold up there! What foolery is that? What do you think you’re doing?”
McMahon jerked his chin. “The money you want—it’s squirreled inside some of those pouches.”
“The hell you say! Didn’t you hear me tell the old man that I been watchin’ your shows? You think I ain’t seen how those pouches get used—you knockin’ ’em outta the air when they’re throwed at you?”
“That’s true enough,” McMahon allowed. “But that don’t mean they still can’t have another use too. You never heard of hidin’ something in plain sight, where it’s least likely to be looked for? I’m tellin’ you there are tight balls of money shoved down in the pea gravel inside several of these pouches—the ones tied with red string, the ones we never use as part of the show.”
Virgil looked anxiously at Gnarled Teeth. “When he says it like that, it makes sense in a sneaky kind of way. Might be tellin’ the truth.... Want me to check some of ’em out, Boss?”
Gnarled Teeth scowled suspiciously. “You go ahead and do that, Virgil,” he finally said. “But you hear me, boxer man: I don’t real soon see some money spillin’ out amidst that pea gravel, I’m gonna take you tryin’ to make a fool outta me mighty damn hard—hard on you!”
From where he stood, his right arm still dangling down inside the storage bin, McMahon said, “Let Virgil have his look...you’ll get what you’re askin’ for.”
Virgil left the spilled strongbox and went over to the pouches that had been tossed to the ground. He squatted beside them, laying his Winchester down beside his right foot.
“Want me to give him a hand?” asked O’Toole, a greedy gleam forming in his eyes as he watched Virgil reach for the first of the pouches.
That was the opening McMahon had been waiting for—the moment O’Toole shifted his attention off Molly. In a blinding blur of motion, McMahon’s arm swung free of the storage bin. In his fist, as he extended the arm out to his right, was gripped a Colt .44 Peacemaker. Twice the gun roared, the shots coming so close together it was almost a single sound. Two bullets streaked out, the first splitting open the forehead of O’Toole, the second catching the other rear rider just under the tip of his nose and blowing away the bottom half of his face. Twisting at the waist, reaching cross-body now, the motion a continuing blur of speed, McMahon sent a third bullet up into the soft pad of flesh under Gnarled Teeth’s chin—then on up through his brain, which blew messily out the top of his head, sending his hat flying in the process—before the gang leader even got his rifle raised. That left only Virgil, squatting nearly at McMahon’s feet, He tried desperately to retrieve the Winchester he had laid down only moments earlier. McMahon blasted him at point-blank range and sent him flying backward to land in a sprawl.
It was over in mere seconds. Four bodies lay toppled to the ground, forever stilled, before the echoes of the shots were finished reverberating down through the gorge.
Professor Hanratty wore a stunned expression, his mouth hanging agape to the point of barely being able to form words. “Mackie-boy.... Lord, lord.... Where did you?... How did?... Did you kill them all?”
“Wasn’t time not to,” McMahon answered coolly, as his hands automatically busied themselves pressing out spent shells and then reloading the Peacemaker. He cut his eyes over to Molly. “You all right up there, sweetie?”
Molly, wide-eyed, answered, “I—I’m okay. I’m fine.... Gosh, Mac, where did you learn how to shoot like that?”
McMahon looked away from her questioning gaze and stared off up the gorge for a long minute. Then, in a low voice, he said, “Was a time...back before I joined the show...when my way was to take up the gun pretty regular. Don’t care to go into it more than that, really. It’s a life I left behind...until today.” His eyes fell on Hanratty. “You see, Professor, quick hands are useful for some things other than boxing. For me, that other was drawin’ and firin’ a gun. But then I made my mind up to quit usin’ ’em for that. Never meant to go back to it again, not if I could help it.”
“Yet you had the six-gun in the storage bin. When did you put