Free One-Man Massacre by Jonas Ward Page B

doorway, and limped out.
    Scotstown was quiet now, the street deserted, and the only light still glowing came from the Glasgow. As Buchanan glanced that way the swinging doors parted and Rosemarie came onto the street, her head bent in earnest conversation with Angus Mulchay. He watched her come on for another moment, long enough to make her image indelible, and then slipped out of sight around the corner of the building. He went that way until he reached the next street, swung south and headed for the towering black mass that was the mountain.
    You bet it's tough, he said, but nobody heard him.
    NINE
    G oing to church on Sunday morning was an integral part of the life in Scotstown, and it would be safe to estimate that on this particular sunny Sunday in June some ninety per cent of the town's three hundred-odd population were attending services in the handsome new building Malcolm Lord had been so instrumental in erecting.
    And because the rancher was such a prominent member of his congregation, the Reverend Jamieson was willing to forego his regular sermon and permit Lord the use of the pulpit for what the minister had been told was an important, though non - sacred, message. That, as a matter of fact, was what Dr. Jamieson told the congregation by way of introduction —and Angus Mulchay, who had been settling down for the half-hour nap he always took at this time Sunday, suddenly sat up straight in his pew, eyes wary and suspicious.
    Malcolm Lord made a fine figure in the pulpit, hand some in a distinguished manner, affluent and benign, aristocratic, even, and there were few there besides Mul chay who didn't feel prouder of themselves because this was their good neighbor, their benefactor and first vestryman.
    Lord thanked Dr. Jamieson and took a sweeping glance at the upturned faces of Scotstown.
    "My friends," he told them in his sure, rich-toned voice, "I am going to speak to you of two matters. One of them is the unpleasantness that occurred within our peaceful community last evening. For those who may not yet have heard, there was a common gunfight in Mr. Terhune's otherwise perfectly respectable establishment. A man, unfortunately, was shot to death—the first such casualty in our town since the board of councilmen ap pointed the present sheriff.
    "More unfortunately still, there was a second gun- fight —brought on by the first as such things generally happen—and other casualties. No Scotstown man, I am deeply gratified to say, was involved in either fight . . ."
    "The hell he says!" Mulchay whispered indignantly' and irreverently, earning for himself a dozen hostile glares.
    ". . . although one of Overlord's young men, Billy Neale , was instrumental in ending the disturbance. Now you may wonder why I asked Dr. Jamieson to speak of last night's trouble to you all on this, the day of prayer. The reason, my friends, is that some of the men who did take part in the shootings were in Scotstown at my own personal instigation. Therefore, I take full responsibility for everything that happened, and will make complete restitution for all property damage that occurred.
    "Now who were these men? They are Texas soldiers — cavalry troopers, to be exact—and they are members of that elite and courageous corps known as Gibbons' Mili tia. This group, formed a year ago by the famous Ranger Captain John Gibbons, are becoming famed far and wide for the great and valorous service they perform along our strife-torn border.
    "These few, the cream of Texas manhood, have stepped into the bre a ch where our do-nothing state and federal governments have left us to defend ourselves against an other Mexican invasion . . ."
    "Invasion!" echoed a startled lady in the rear.
    "Ay, invasion, Mrs. Watkins. Did you think they had given up just because a treaty was signed? Did you be lieve they wouldn't really make a try to conquer Texas again, put us under the rule of a foreigner? My friends, in this house of holy worship I will not say more