A Good Day to Die (18 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: A Good Day to Die
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The surviving braves were stunned by the vicious counterstrike. It was like riding full tilt into a wall of hot lead. Comanches were no strangers to the repeating rifle, more than a few of them were similarly armed. But none had ever come face-to-face with a repeater wielded by such a dead shot as Sam Heller.
Even their best marksmen were at a disadvantage. They were on horseback, charging across uneven ground. Sam, dismounted, worked from a stable firing platform.
He had some cover. The Comanches had none. They were being decimated by a sharpshooter with the world's latest and most lethal application of mechanized mass death available to a lone individual.
The braves were no fools. They were in the game to kill, not to die, but it was all happening too fast for them to break off the charge. No sooner did they realize the damage done than it was too late to turn back. They had a mountain lion by the tail. Or rather, he had them.
That was the edge Sam Heller had been counting on. With his repeating rifle he could pick off most, if not all, of the attackers before they closed with him.
The last of the Comanche band was very close indeed. Outriders on the flanks turned their horses's heads, peeling off from the charge. Or trying to. Sam wasn't going to let them circle around the rocks and get behind him. He picked off a brave at his extreme left. A beat later, he felled an outrider wheeling to the right.
Black Robe's rage at being undone by his lamed horse was supplanted by stunned amazement as the ranks of his band thinned visibly with each passing second. What had first seemed great sport was becoming a blistering fight for survival, one his side was losing.
He took heart in the surety that all was not lost. His gods had not deserted him. What he had taken for a cruel jest of fate laming his mount had become the instrument of his salvation. Had he been at the head of the charge, he would have been the first to fall to the White Eyes with the Devil Gun. But luck was still with Black Robe, affording him an opportunity to turn disaster into victory.
Holding on to the horse's neck with one bent arm, hooking the back of an ankle around his saddle's high wooden cantle, he hung down on his horse's right-hand side. This put the animal's body between him and the foeman's Devil Gun, covering him as he swung right to get behind the rocks on Sam's left. Half lurching, half loping, the horse was still game, still coming on.
Black Robe clutched his rifle in one hand, the barrel protruding beneath the horse's snout as he lined it up for a shot at Sam.
Sam was busy burning down a last lone brave who'd almost reached the rocks on a head-long charge. He drilled him through the heart.
Lydia saw Black Robe coming, but he was too well screened behind the far side of the horse to present much of a target to her. He glimpsed the girl with the yellow braids as she rose and turned, pointing a rifle in his direction. A flare rimmed the muzzle of her weapon as she fired.
Thinking fast, Lydia shot not at the brave but at his horse. The horse stumbled, forelegs folding, tumbling headfirst. Black Robe was thrown, cartwheeling to the hard ground.
He rolled to a stop, battered and dazed, semiconscious. He was empty handed, having lost the rifle in the fall. Somehow he rose, standing shakily on two feet.
Sam shot him. Black Robe's awareness was blotted out by the darkness of complete and illimitable death.
Sam Heller looked around. Dead bodies lay all about; riderless horses scattered in every direction. Like himself, the girl was unhit, unhurt. She put a hand against a rock to steady herself. “Hey, mister!”
Sam looked at her.
“My name is Lydia—Lydia Fisher.”
Sam realized that up till now he hadn't known her name. “Glad to know you, Miss Fisher.”
“Lydia,” she said, sticking out a hand.
He shook it. “Call me Sam.”
E
LEVEN
It was quiet in the Golden Spur, as if the earlier outburst of violence had never been. The dead bodies had long since been carted away. Sawdust thrown down by Swamper had soaked up the blood. He swept it up, mopping the stains with a bucket of hot water, lye soap, and a scrub brush. Their washed-out shadows darkened the floorboards.
“That's enough,” Mrs. Frye said. “There'll be more later—or sooner.”
Swamper tossed the scrub brush into the bucket and put everything away, then crashed on his mattress in a corner of the kitchen to sleep off some of the booze he'd guzzled in the aftermath of the shootings.
A long case clock stood between two windows on the west wall of the main hall. In height and shape it was not unlike a coffin standing on end. Black and gold it was, made of ebony wood with gilt trimmings. An ivory-colored clock dial was decorated with images of the sun, moon, and stars; sun and moon were depicted with the human faces of Old Sol and the Man in the Moon.
The hands on the clock pointed to a little after seven in the evening. The interior of the case was filled with clockwork gears and a pendulum, each
ticktock
sounding as sharp and clear as a gun hammer being thumbed back into place.
Damon Bolt sat in place at the table facing the front door, playing his game of solitaire. Whether it was the same game as before or a new one made no difference to him. He continued to play with an undiminished air of concentration and a steady hand, despite the fact that the level of whiskey in his bottle had declined noticeably in the last hour or so.
Mrs. Frye had retreated to the office behind the staircase. The door had been left open to hear if anything was going on outside the room. She sat behind a desk, going over the accounts. Her steel-tipped ink pen made rustling, scratchy sounds on the ledger pages as she brought the entries up to date.
Out front, Morrissey stood behind the bar, absently polishing up glasses with a thin towel. A double-barreled shotgun lay on its side on the countertop, near at hand. The front pockets of his white bib apron bulged with shotgun shells.
Behind him, the wall showed the ghostly outline where the mirror had hung before a stray slug had shot it to pieces. The horizontal oblong was discolored compared to the rest of the cream-colored wall.
Across from the barkeep, Creed Teece sat on a long-legged stool at the bar, eating a late lunch. “Damned if I'm goin' off my feed on account of a dustup that ain't even happened yet,” he said with his mouth full. The thick, juicy steak that Morrissey had cooked covered his plate, the slabbed beef looking about as big as a doormat.
Teece went at it hard with knife and fork, his face almost parallel to the plate as he wolfed down his food. Strong white teeth tore at red-dripping meat, the juices running down his chin. The knotted clumps of muscle at the corners of his square jaw worked hard to chew the steak. From time to time he washed it down with great gulps from a tumbler full of whiskey, which the barkeep was quick to refill when it showed signs of running out.
Monk the bouncer was still up on the roof of the building, keeping watch.
Johnny Cross and Luke Pettigrew sat at a table off to the side of the bar, with a clear view of the main floor and front entrance. They drank beer out of solid, long-handled glass mugs. They'd switched from whiskey to beer earlier to keep from getting too big a skinful too early in the day.
“We got enough hands here to work up a decent poker game,” Luke said, looking around.
“The cards'd only get in the way of your drinking,” Johnny said.
“You ain't exactly been on the water wagon yourself.” Luke drained his glass, setting the empty mug down on the table and smacking his lips. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Pushing his chair back, he reached down under the table, straightening the wooden leg that had been bent at a right angle and extending it in a straight line out to the side. His fingers worked on the hinge screws of the artificial limb, locking it into place.
He gripped the back of his chair with one hand and the edge of the table with another. Johnny took hold of the table to steady it. Luke hefted himself up out of the chair, on to his feet. Bending forward, he picked up the crutch which lay across a third chair at the table.
Luke snugged the crutch's padded crossbar under his left arm and planted its tip firmly on the floorboards. “Got to see a man about a horse.”
Johnny nodded absently, watching tiny bubbles rise in his beer. Luke made his way limping to the bar. “Where's the donnicker?”
“Through that door and down the hall, first door on your right,” Morrissey said, gesturing at a swinging door set in a near corner of the rear wall.
“Much obliged,” Luke said, making his way to the convenience.
Johnny sipped some beer. Holding the mug up, he gazed at the wash of foamy suds sliding down the inside of the glass. From behind came soft footfalls, the rustle of a long skirt and petticoats. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Francine Hayes coming out of a back room.
She went to the bar and spoke softly to Morrissey. Reaching under the bar, he set an unopened bottle of whiskey on the countertop. He put two glasses down beside it. Francine picked up the bottle and glasses and started toward Johnny.
Johnny eyed her admiringly without getting overheated about it. She was a good-looking gal, a real beauty. Champagne-colored hair, blueberry eyes, a ripe red mouth that turned up at the corners. A dress of some shiny, satiny material hugged her slim, well-formed body. It was a pleasure just to watch her move.
Francine stood at the table, smiling. “Buy you a drink, cowboy?”
“That's a switch. Usually it's the fellow who buys a gal a drink,” Johnny said.
“It's an unusual day.”
“And it ain't hardly even got rolling yet.”
“Compliments of the house,” she said, brandishing the bottle.
Johnny rose, indicating an empty chair. “Please.”
“Thank you.” Francine set the bottle and glasses down on the table.
Johnny held the back of the chair, pushing it toward the table after she sat down. He tasted her perfume in his nostrils, light and elusive, yet making his senses tingle.
“You're a gentleman, sir.”
“Shoot, all us Texas boys is gentlemen.”
She cut him a sceptical side glance, a wry twist to her lips. “Not all.”
“Maybe not,” he allowed as he sat down, turning his chair to face her.
Indicating the bottle, Francine said. “If you would be so kind ...”
“Glad to.” He broke the seal and uncorked the bottle, loosing the rich, dark scent of prime Kentucky bourbon. It smelled almost as heady as her perfume. Almost, but not quite. He filled a shot glass, setting it down before her. “No water for a chaser?”
“Why, do you need one?” she countered.
“I was thinking of you.”
“I take it straight. Especially today.”
“Can't say as I blame you.” Johhny filled the other glass, raising it.
Francine raised her glass. “Here's luck.”
“Mud in your eye,” Johnny said.
They drank. She tossed hers back in a gulp, drinking it down, shuddering a little. Color came into her cheeks, some of the tautness leaving her face.
“Good.” Johnny smacked his lips.
“Have another,” Francine invited.
“Why not?” He refilled their glasses.
She sipped hers. Johnny slowed down, too.
She studied his face, thoughtful. “I know you.”
His eyebrows rose. “I'd remember if we ever met before. I never get that drunk.”
“I mean, I know who you are. You've been in here before. You and your friend were pointed out to me.”
He'd forgotten about Luke. Where was he? Looking up, he saw his buddy standing at the bar, chatting with Morrissey. Catching Johnny's eye, Luke winked at him behind Francine where she couldn't see him. Johnny grinned to himself. Luke had nice timing. He knew when not to show up. Now that was a friend.
“You're John Cross, the gunfighter,” Francine said.
Johnny smiled, shaking his head. “I'm Johnny Cross, the mustanger. I catch and sell wild horses for a living.”
“Why be coy? I've seen what you can do with a gun.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You're very good.”
“You're pretty good yourself, Miss Hayes.”
“It's Francine ... John.”
“Call me Johnny, Francine.”
“All right, Johnny. How is it we never met before?”
“Luke and I are kind of busy out at the ranch. We don't get into town much. You're new here.”
She nodded. “I've only been at the Spur for a few weeks. Long enough to get into trouble, though.”
“No shortage of that in Hangtown. Is it too late for you to clear out?”
“Is that polite? Trying to get rid of me when you hardly know me. Usually it takes longer than that for someone to tire of me,” Francine said, pouting.
“What am I saying? I must be drunk.”
“And here I thought you were a gentleman.”
“You must be drunk.”
“Not yet.”
“I meant that the party is liable to get rough when the Ramrod crowd rides in,” Johnny explained.
“I've got nowhere to go. Why are you sticking?”
Johnny shrugged. “Maybe I don't like to see a pretty gal get pushed around.”
“I was hoping that was the reason,” Francine said huskily, gifting him with a full-force smile he could feel clear down to his toes.
“Or maybe I'm just an ornery critter that likes to fight,” he added.
“That I believe!” she said, laughing. “You like me, Johnny?”
“Sure, what's not to like?”
“I know you do. I can tell. I like you, too. But watch out.”
“Why?”
“I'm dangerous.”
“All women are dangerous.”
Francine's smile faded, the corners of her mouth turning down as she got serious. “I mean it. Look at Bliss Stafford. He got killed because of me.”
“Don't talk dumb,” Johnny said, frowning, his yellow cat eyes glinting. “I saw it. Stafford got hisself killed because he was a damned fool, a troublemaker who thought he was fast with a gun. He picked a fight with someone who was faster. That's all.”
“You knew him?” Francine asked.
“Hell, no.”
“You described him pretty well.”
“I know the type. There's some like him in every saloon from here to the Mississippi. Too many. Seems I happen to meet more than my share, and they all want to fight me.”
Francine showed a quirked smile. “Bliss. Bliss! Was ever anyone so misnamed? All he ever brought was heartache and trouble. He was a swine who thought he was God's gift to women. The harder I tried to discourage him, the more he wanted me. He kept after me, wouldn't let me be.”
“No need to explain. What's done is done.”
“I want you to understand.” Francine put her hand on his, squeezing it. “I like you, Johnny. I like you a lot.”
She let go of his hand. “His brother Clay came to see me a couple times. I suppose you heard about that?” Francine asked, studying his face.
“No.” he said, though in truth he had heard a few comments along those lines earlier.
“Clay Stafford offered me money to leave his kid brother alone and go away. As if that would have done any good! I'd have gone away for free if I hadn't known Bliss would follow me wherever I went. I begged Clay to ride herd on Bliss and keep him out of my life. He couldn't stop him. Not even Vince Stafford himself could hold Bliss in line. At least here I knew that Damon would protect me.”
“Bliss ain't gonna bother you no more, Francine.”
“No. But his father and brothers will come for my scalp.”
“They ain't gonna bother you. Not while I'm around ... and I'll be around.” Johnny's youthful face was set in hard lines, his eyes bright and cold. None could doubt that he meant business and when he was in that mood few would dare to balk him.
“Thanks, Johnny. You're sweet.” Francine blinked back tears. Leaning forward, she rested her slim, long-fingered hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. Her long, white-blond hair brushed his face.
“I better go before I make a fool of myself by crying my head off.” She rose from her chair and crossed to the staircase. Climbing to the second floor, she walked along the mezzanine and into her room, closing the door behind her.

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