would save everybody concerned a whole lot of bother.”
McGrath laughed. “The lowly soldier’s view on politics.”
Somebody somewhere shouted a warning. It was one of Townsend’s men.
“Incoming airship!”
“Shit!” Townsend and McGrath shielded their eyes against the sun and could make out the shadow of the approaching dirigible. There was no need to peer through telescopes to know that it was a Confederate one. Air space was strictly forbidden to all but military vessels. And this one was heading their way.
“Get the supplies on those packhorses!” Townsend commanded. McGrath had already disappeared, barking orders to his own men to cast off and depart as quickly as possible.
“Captain, will we have time?” argued one of her men.
“We’re not leaving without these supplies! We’ve got little enough of everything as it is, now get moving!”
By the time they were ready to depart the details of the approaching dirigible could be made out; every Whitworth cannon, every patch in its balloon and the hinges of its bomb carriage were all too clear.
The Union airship falsely flying Confederate colors had cast off its lines and risen rapidly. Its propellers had begun to move it in a northerly direction, but much too slowly. The Confederate dirigible came within range and, without even flying a series of flag signals, opened fire with every cannon on its starboard side.
Most of the shots went wide but a couple tore holes through the fabric of the balloon. The Union craft returned fire immediately, the deafening roar tearing through the sky above. Some of Townsend’s men were firing upon the Confederate vessel uselessly with their pistols.
“Come on!” yelled Townsend. “Let’s get out of their way!”
They urged their mounts towards the edge of the ruins but before they had reached the outskirts the Confederates opened their bomb hatch. The first Townsend knew of it was when the left side of the pueblo complex disappeared in an explosion of shattered mud bricks which showered them with dust. A second bomb fell closer and one of her riders cried out as his horse was knocked from under him by a flying chunk of debris. Townsend wheeled her mount around and saw that the man had been killed. The rest of her squad were leading the packhorses out into the desert and she thanked whomever was watching over them that the two dirigibles were locked in battle, keeping the Confederate one from pursuing them.
With the smoking ruins of the pueblo and the battling airships blocking the sun behind them, Townsend rejoined her squad and they headed onwards in the direction of the mineshaft where the darkness they called home beckoned.
V
“The hell took you so long?” Thompson asked testily. He had been sitting in Mickey’s Saloon for over two hours.
“I had to collect my things together,” said Caldwell, heaving his heavy portmanteau onto the tabletop. “And have a quick shave of course.”
“You been shaving while I’ve been sitting here waiting for you?”
Caldwell looked at him in confusion.
“Come on. This town ain’t one of my favorites. The sooner we hit the trail the better. Oh, and you needn’t worry about Clanton’s boys. They ain’t interested in you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Turns out Gerard Vasquez is also in town. They’re trying to grab him for the government. They don’t know a thing about you.”
Caldwell looked like he was daring himself to feel relieved and losing the challenge. “As long as you’re sure…”
“Well I took care of that oak-head at the corral so there won’t be anyone to stop us leaving. Now come on.”
They turned onto Allen Street and headed for the Old Kindersley Corral. As promised there was nobody hanging around its entrance. But as they approached a man on horseback galloped out through its doors and, dust flying, thundered past them down the street. As he passed, Thompson caught a glimpse of the rider’s face. It was a face he recognized from dozens of wanted posters across Arizona Territory. It was the face of Gerard Vasquez.
“Looks like we’re not the only ones taking advantage of Pony Diehl’s desertion from his post,” Thompson muttered.
Inside the corral they found its owner in a state of fury. “Goddamned bastard didn’t pay his bill!” he was ranting. “Just took on off outta here! Bastard!”
“That was Vasquez the bandit, I believe,” said Thompson.
The man’s face paled. “You don’t say?” He cleared his throat nervously. “Good job I didn’t draw on him, I suppose.”
“I suppose it is. Now, we plan on paying our tabs and taking off too so why don’t you fetch us our horses?”
There was no ‘yessir’ or any such politeness extended and Thompson never expected any. He was keen to get back to base which was the only place in the world where he felt he was treated according to his own merits and not the color of his skin.
“Uh… Thompson…” said Caldwell, loitering at the double doors and peering out into the street. “Come and see!”
Thompson joined him and cursed as he saw a group of men coming towards the corral with determination written all over their faces. Some wore black suits and some wore rancher’s gear but all carried guns. And one of them was Pony Diehl, his nose bandaged and swollen to comical proportions. Pony saw Thompson and let out a squeal.
“There’s that nigger who busted my nose!” He drew a newly acquired pistol but one of the men in the black suits grabbed his arm.
“Boy!” called out the black suit. “I am Tombstone City Marshall Ike Clanton. My deputy here says you struck him and stole his gun. That so?”
Thompson did not reply to Clanton but called out; “Pony Diehl, did I not say that if I ever saw you hanging around this corral again that I would kill you?”
“This man is under my orders!” shouted back Clanton. “You can’t tell my deputies where and what they can and can’t do! I’ll string you up, boy!”
Thompson ignored him and drew his pistol quick as lightning and sent a single bullet towards Pony Diehl. It struck him in the forehead and knocked him backwards, blood and brains spilling out onto the dusty street.
A shotgun was produced from beneath the duster of one of Clanton’s men and a round splintered the wood right where Thompson had been standing seconds after he ducked out of sight. Bullets from revolvers dug into the wood, some finding their way into the interior of the corral.
Caldwell was cowering behind some sacks of horse feed, gibbering in terror. Thompson drew the gun he had taken from Pony Diehl and tossed it over to Caldwell. “Just point it at them and shoot if any get too near,” he told him.
“Wh… where are you going?” Caldwell demanded.
“Round to the side to see if I can’t pick off a few of them that way.”
But Clanton’s posse had come up with the same idea and Thompson found the alley at the rear of the building occupied by two more gunmen. He sent a few warning shots into the alley just to keep them from getting too near and they scurried for cover. He ducked back into the corral and began looking for a way up onto the rooftop.
A ladder led up to a storeroom and from that a second ladder to the flat roof of the corral. He crept over towards the side that faced the street and crouched behind the large painted sign. Ike Clanton and two of his men were hovering near the corpse of Pony. One sidled up to the double doors of the corral and tried to get in at Caldwell.
Six shots from the terrified hand of Caldwell tore through him and spun him around, killing him before he landed face down in the dust. Thompson frowned. It was good that Caldwell had the balls to take a life but his overzealousness had used up all of his cartridges in one kill. At least Clanton’s posse wouldn’t know that he was out of ammo.
Thompson moved to the rear of the roof and looked down. The two men in the alley had got their courage together and were approaching the rear door. Thompson made a leap to the roof of the City Hall that neighbored the corral and dropped silently down into the alley. Keeping low and sti
cking to the cover of barrels and crates, he crept up on the two men who were peeping into the darkness of the corral. He stood up and fanned his gun, riddling them both and spattering the planking of the corral with their blood.
The sight of the running gore put him in mind of Nathaniel, dead on the tracks, his blood and brains spattered on the wooden side of the carriage. He could never take enough lives to numb the pain of that loss. He forced the memory from his mind. Thumbing more cartridges into his Colt, he dashed back inside and called out to Ike Clanton; “There’s only two of you left now, Clanton! I figure the odds are a little more even now!”
“You killed my brother Billy?” roared Clanton. “You son of a bitch! I’ll gut and skin you, you bastard! Where the hell are you going?” This last was aimed at his companion who was high-tailing it away from the corral, clearly not optimistic about their chances. “Tom McLaury, you miserable coward! Get back here!”
“Where the hell are our horses?” said Thompson to nobody in particular. The corral owner had vanished.
“Mine’s the dun saddle bred down the end,” said Caldwell.
“Get it. And my black mustang too. We’re getting out of here.”
They mounted their horses which stamped and trod the hard-packed floor, eager to be away. Ike Clanton was still shouting himself hoarse outside. Thompson turned in his saddle to Caldwell.
“Don’t stop for nothing. We head down Allen Street, turn onto Freemont and then straight out of