Steel by Richard Matheson

scenes repeat themselves in the next town, and the next, and the next after that? The young city man arriving, changing outfits, asking for the most dangerous pistolman, meeting him—was that how it was going to be in every town? How long could such insanity last? How long before he met a man who would not lose the draw?
    My mind was filled with these questions. But, over all, the single question— Why? Why was he doing this thing? What calculating madness had driven him from the city to seek out death in this strange land?
    While I stood there wondering, Barth Selkirk’s men carried out the blood-soaked body of their slain god and laid him carefully across his horse. I was so close to them that I could see his blond hair ruffling slowly in the night wind and hear his life’s blood spattering on the darkness of the street.
    Then I saw the six men looking toward the Blue Buck Hotel, their eyes glinting vengefully in the light from the Nellie Gold, and I heard their voices talking low. No words came clear to me as they murmured among themselves, but from the way they kept looking toward the hotel I knew of what they spoke.
    I drew back into the shadows again, thinking they might see me and carry their conversation elsewhere. I stood in the blackness watching. Somehow I knew exactly what they intended even before one of their shadowy group slapped a palm against his pistol butt and said distinctly, “ Come on. ”
    I saw them move away slowly, the six of them, their voices suddenly stilled, their eyes directed at the hotel they were walking toward.
    Foolishness again; it is an old man’s trademark. For, suddenly, I found myself stepping from the shadows and turning the corner of the saloon, then running down the alley between the Nellie Gold and Pike’s Saddlery; rushing through the squares of light made by the saloon windows, then into darkness again. I had no idea why I was running. I seemed driven by an unseen force which clutched all reason from my mind but one thought— warn him.
    My breath was quickly lost. I felt my coattails flapping like furious bird wings against my legs. Each thudding bootfall drove a mail-gloved fist against my heart.
    I don’t know how I beat them there, except that they were walking cautiously while I ran headlong along St. Vera street and hurried in the backway of the hotel. I rushed down the silent hallway, my bootheels thumping along the frayed rug.
    Maxwell Tarrant was at the desk that night. He looked up with a start as I came running up to him.
    â€œWhy, Mr. Callaway,” he said, “what are—?”
    â€œWhich room is Riker in?” I gasped.
    â€œRiker?” young Tarrant asked me.
    â€œ Quickly , boy!” I cried and cast a frightened glance toward the entranceway as the jar of bootheels sounded on the porch steps.
    â€œRoom 27,” young Tarrant said. I begged him to stall the men who were coming in for Riker, and rushed for the stairs.
    I was barely to the second floor when I heard them in the lobby. I ran down the dimlit hall, and reaching Room 27, I rapped urgently on its thin door.
    Inside, I heard a rustling sound, the sound of stockinged feet padding on the floor, then Riker’s frail, trembling voice asking who it was.
    â€œIt’s Callaway,” I said, “the grocery man. Let me in, quickly. You’re in danger.”
    â€œGet out of here,” he ordered me, his voice sounding thinner yet.
    â€œGod help you, boy, prepare yourself,” I told him breathlessly. “Selkirk’s men are coming for you.”
    I heard his sharp, involuntary gasp. “ No ,” he said. “That isn’t—” He drew in a rasping breath. “How many? ” he asked me hollowly.
    â€œSix,” I said, and on the other side of the door I thought I heard a sob.
    â€œThat isn’t fair!” he burst out then in angry fright. “It’s not fair, six against one. It isn’t fair!