New Storm Rising

25. Rikkard Ambrose's Plan

"You," Mr Ambrose stated, his cold voice carrying all over the silent square, "are late."

"My apologies." From between two lines of houses, out of the darkness of an alleyway, stepped a shadowy figure, revolver raised and pointed straight at De Ravera. "I had not really wanted to believe things were this bad in this town...but you were right. You were right about all of it."

"Who's there?" Revolver flying to his hand, Gallagher leapt towards the newcomer. "I'm William Gallagher, US Sherriff! Step out with your hands over your—"

Bam! Bam!

One moment, Gallagher was raising taking aim—the next, he was clutching his hand, staring at the gun lying on the ground, his hat blown off his head, fluttering away.

"One more word out of you," said the newcomer, voice filled with steel, "and the next bullet goes through your brain."

Then the shadowy figure of our rescuer moved forward, and out of the alley stepped...

My mouth dropped open.

What?

How?

And most of all, why?

Completely and utterly flabbergasted, I stared at the man who stood there, aiming a revolver at a US sheriff, as if it were the most natural thing to do.

Angus Angleton?

Although...the figure in front of me bore little resemblance to the overenthusiastic travelling salesman with the ever-present sample case under his arm. His eyes were sharp, his revolver hand steady, and the case was nowhere to be found. Instead, a gun belt was slung around his waist, and pinned to his chest was a gleaming emblem.

A very particular emblem, in the shape of a star.

"A sheriff?" Gallagher snorted, eyes narrowed. "I'm the sheriff in this town!"

"Look again," Angleton advised.

Gallagher did. And so did I, for that matter. At second glance, there was indeed some difference between this star and Gallagher's. There was a circle surrounding this star, and on the lower part of the circle letters were etched, proclaiming...

All colour drained from Gallagher's face.

"U...US Marshal?"

"Smart boy. Now, hands above your head! I won't ask a third time!"

Slowly, Gallagher raised his hands.

"Good. Now get down on the ground, and—Don't even think about it!"

In a flash, Angleton's other hand flew out, holding a second revolver that pointed straight at De La Fuente's forehead. The Spaniard, who had been just about to pull a derringer from his sleeve, froze in mid-motion.

"On the ground! Now!"

The nobleman hesitated—that was until a bullet ripped a piece out of the wall right beside his ear.

Bam!

De La Fuente was on the floor so fast he nearly left his moustache behind.

"Good boy. And thanks for the confession, by the way."

"C-confession?"

"Indeed."

That cold, domineering voice...that was not Angus Angleton speaking. All eyes, mine very much included, were drawn to Mr Rikkard Ambrose, who had somehow divested himself of his bonds, cut the rope and slipped out of the noose.