William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Johnny recognized them. The older man was Wyck Joslyn, the younger was known only as Stingaree. Joslyn was a gun for hire, a professional with many kills under his belt. Johnny had heard that Joslyn had tried to sell his services to town boss Wade Hutto. But Hutto already had top gunhand Boone Lassiter on his payroll and wasn’t hiring. He wasn’t looking to make trouble, either, not with a Yankee cavalry troop garrisoned upcountry at Fort Pardee. Stingaree was a fast young gun looking to make a name for himself.

Joslyn and Stingaree were regulars at the Alamo Bar, the pricey establishment patronized by a high-living, free-spending crowd. A fellow could burn through a lot of money fast at the Alamo. Both being at somewhat loose ends, the two had fallen in together.

They were suspected of having pulled several stagecoach and highway robberies farther east in Palo Pinto and Tarrant counties, but nothing had been proven against them yet. They’d stayed out of trouble in Hangtown, giving Sheriff Mack Barton no cause to brace them.

Wyck Joslyn’s restless gaze brushed Johnny’s, making eye contact for a brief beat. Johnny nodded, tilting his head an inch or two in casual acknowledgment, not making a thing out of it one way or the other.

Joslyn’s gaze moved on, looking beyond Johnny to others, seeking. Finding what he was looking for, he started forward, Stingaree falling into step beside him. Stingaree was a small man who carried himself like a big man, swaggering all cock-o’-the-walk.

They went down the center aisle and even in that rough crowd, men made way for them, moving aside.

Some men at the far end of the bar called out for more whiskey. “Like to stand around jawing with y’all, but we got some thirsty folks here,” McCray said.

Johnny slapped a dollar coin down on the bar.

“Thanks, gents,” McCray said, scooping it up and scuttling off to serve some more customers.

“Some barkeeps, you buy ’em a drink, they say, ‘I’ll have it later,’ or ‘I’ll have a cigar, instead.’ Not ol’ Squint. You buy him a drink, he drinks it, by God! I like that,” Luke said.

“Hell, he’ll even buy you one on the house once in a while,” Johnny said.

“I like that, too.”

“Wyck Joslyn’s a long way off his stomping grounds,” Johnny said, a bit too casually.

Luke cut him a side glance. “The Dog Star’s a far cry from his usual fancy digs. What do you figure he’s doing here?

“Maybe we’ll find out.”

Joslyn and Stingaree reached the end of the long aisle. At the left rear corner an odd trio sat huddled around a table, hunched over their drinks like vultures over carrion.

Wild and woolly characters, they looked more like mountain men than cattlemen. All had long hair and stringy beards. Ragged scarecrow figures with harsh bony faces and hard eyes, they shared a family resemblance

Each of the three wore some part of a Confederate Army uniform. One sported a gray hat with a faded, frayed yellow-braided hatband. Another was wrapped by a long, tattered knee-length gray overcoat. The third wore baggy gray breeches tucked into the tops of black cavalry boots.

A long-barreled, single-shot smoothbore musket was leaning up in a nearby corner.

Johnny and Luke eyed the trio nonchalantly, as if they weren’t looking at them.

“The Fromes Boys,” Johnny said.

“You know ’em?” Luke said, surprised.

“I’ve seen ’em around. In Quinto, up in the Nations.”

Quinto was a flyspeck town in the middle of a sun-baked plain in what would someday be the Oklahoma Territory, a refuge for deserters, drifters and outlaws.

“They’re brothers from the Tennessee hill country, wanted all over the map. They’re on the dodge, so they never stay in any one place for too long,” Johnny said.

“Man! They’s really unreconstructed,” Luke said, shaking his head.

“They never was constructed in the first place,” Johnny said dryly. “Zeb, Tetch and Jeeter. Zeb’s the one with the Billy Goat chin whiskers. Tetch is the big one. Jeeter’s the red-haired, sneaky looking one. The Fromes Boys. Three of the meanest faces you ever did see.”

“They look mighty unsociable at that,” said Luke.

“Zeb’s so sour he’d cross the street to kick a sleeping dog,” Johnny said. “I seen him do it once. I should’ve shot him then.”

Despite the crowded conditions in the saloon, the other patrons had left a space around the brothers. The Fromeses sat off by themselves, hunched over their whiskey, glaring out at the world.

They looked none too welcoming, but Wyck Joslyn was undeterred. He went to their table, Stingaree lagging behind.

The brothers looked up as one. Three sets of hard eyes fastened on Joslyn, pinning him. Zeb, the oldest, was possessed of a particularly forbidding gaze. Dark irises were completely surrounded by white eyeball, giving an intent, spooky quality to his unblinking stare.

Few men could have stood under those gun-sight eyes without qualms, but Wyck Joslyn seemed unabashed.

Joslyn did some fast talking and not much of it. Just as well—the brothers weren’t much for palavering. Whatever his pitch, he must have put it over.

The Fromeses exchanged glances, Tetch and Jeeter looking to Zeb for guidance.

Zeb nodded grudgingly. That went by his way of being an invitation. Joslyn pulled a chair from a nearby empty table, drew it up to the Fromes’s table, and sat down. He motioned to Stingaree, telling him something, giving him instructions.

Stingaree went to the bar, shouldering aside several patrons. They were no pushovers, but when they saw he was associated with the evil-eyed Fromeses, they sidled off without protest.

Stingaree got a couple bottles and two cups from McCray, bringing them to the brothers’ table. He dragged a chair away from the wall and sat down at the table.

Neither Joslyn nor Stingaree sat with his back to the front door. Both angled their chairs around to the sides so they were partially turned to the front and could keep an eye on it. The chairs extended out from the table like wings.

Joslyn uncorked the bottle and filled Zeb Fromes’s cup, followed by Tetch’s and then Jeeter’s. Then he poured for Stingaree, and lastly, himself. All drank, with no particular evidence of good fellowship, cordiality, or even relish for whiskey. Joslyn did some more talking, not drinking much.

“Quite a coalition.” Johnny stepped away from the bar. “Let’s mosey. I could use some fresh air.”

Luke nodded. Fixing the crutch under his left arm, he swung around facing the door. He and Johnny went out, into the street. No porch or boardwalk fronted the Dog Star saloon, just hard-packed dirt under their feet.

High overhead the noonday sun beat down, blanketing the surroundings in bright hot glare.

“Now, what do you suppose Wyck Joslyn’s about with the Fromes Boys?” Johnny asked.

“Cooking up some mischief,” Luke said.

“Sure, but what?”

“Whatever it is, it’ll probably come to fruit before too long.”

Johnny nodded. He lit a cigar and got it going. South of the Dog Star the buildings were few and far between. A wide expanse of bare dirt mixed with patches of short, tough grass was broken by a handful of straggly trees and bushes.

Beyond lay Mextown, where the Spanish-speaking people of the town lived. A cluster of whitewashed adobe huts and wooden shacks grouped around an oval plaza centered by a shallow, water-filled basin. The area was watered by irrigation troughs fed by a stream snaking across the plains south of town. Small yards and vegetable gardens were marked off by wooden pole fences. A burro hitched to a pole walked around in circles, turning a waterwheel. A youngster walked beside the animal, beating its hindquarters with a stick when it slowed.