Free Bowdrie's Law (Ss) (1983) by Louis L'amour Page B

Bowdrie was watching, and when the rifle flashed, he fired.
    There was a crash of glass and a startled yelp. If he hadn't hit somebody, he had at least scared him. His shot was followed by a scattered volley that broke much of the front window.
    Keeping the Spencer in his hands, Bowdrie waited. Sweat trickled down his chest under his shirt. He wiped his hands on his pants. A searching shot struck the wall over his head, but he knew they could not see him, although given time, they might figure out his position.
    Bishop and Young must both have seen the inside of this office many times.
    He refilled his cup, sipped coffee, and sat back in his chair, waiting. He had two front windows and a side window, and the glass in the front windows was more than half gone. By now the people around town were wondering just what was going on.
    He waited, not wanting to waste a shot and hoping they would believe he had been hit.
    Nothing happened. Chick yawned. If they waited long enough, the Rangers would be here. Of course, they could not know that. Yet even if he left the office somehow he was handicapped in not knowing the men he was fighting.
    A shot rang out and a bullet cut a furrow in the desk and buried itself in the wall.
    Another struck the floor and ventilated the wastebasket. They were probing with fingers of lead.
    He reached for his cup and caught a glimpse of movement from the window on the second floor of the harness shop across the street. There was a curtain inside that window, but he could detect a reflection of movement.
    A man was inching his way along the rooftop to fire from behind the false front of the building next to the harness shop and directly opposite. The man was getting into position to fire down into the office. He was out of sight behind the false front but dimly reflected in the window over the harness shop.
    Bowdrie took a swallow of coffee, put the cup down, and took the Spencer from his lap. He studied the window and then the roof. Taking up the Spencer, he took careful aim, drew in a breath, and let it out slowly and then squeezed off his shot.
    The heavy rifle leaped in his hands, firing right into the false front of the building.
    A pistol bullet would penetrate several inches of pine at that distance, and the .56-caliber Spencer would not be impeded by the half-inch boards on the front opposite.
    He heard a rifle clatter and fall into the dirt; then a man slid to the roof edge, clawing madly to keep from sliding on the steep roof, then falling.
    The man scrambled up, obviously hurt but moving. As he started to run, Bowdrie, with only the wide posterior for target, squeezed off another shot. There was an agonized yell and the man disappeared.
    Bowdrie thumbed two shells into the Spencer, then hit the floor as a hail of bullets riddled the windows and the door. One bullet ripped through the desk, leaving a hole in a half-open drawer right in front of his face.
    The shooting died down and he got up just in time to see a man sprinting across the street. Bowdrie fired and the runner drew suddenly to his tiptoes, then spilled over into the dust. "If you weren't one of them," Bowdrie said aloud, "you used damn poor judgment!"
    He slipped down the hall to the back cell. There was still a man behind the lumber pile, but there was no chance for a shot.
    Returning to the office, he stood well back in the room and searched the line of buildings opposite. He could see nothing.
    He put down the Spencer, mopped his face, and reached for the gun. Dust stirred on the floor and he wheeled, his grasp closing on the shotgun.
    Comanche George Cobb stood in the side door, his pistol in his hand.
    Bowdrie saw the man's eyes blaze, and the pistol thrust forward; he saw the man's thumb bend as it pulled the hammer back, and Bowdrie squeezed both triggers on the shotgun.
    Cobb's body jerked as if kicked by a mule, and he took a staggering step backward before he fell, a spur hooking itself on the doorjamb.
    "Two gone," he