William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Zeb Fromes was still alive. He lay on his side, twitching, legs working like those of a dog who dreams of running. Johnny reached out with his pistol to deliver the coup de grâce, sending a bullet crashing through the mountaineer’s brain.

After a pause, the office door at the rear of the building opened, an orange-haired head cautiously peeking around the corner of a doorframe. Mrs. Frye looked out, surveying the carnage. “God!”

“You can come out now,” Damon said, his voice steady.

Mrs. Frye emerged, stepping onto the main floor. “God,” she repeated, then, “What happened?”

“I’m a mite bewildered myself.” Damon turned to Johnny Cross. “Perhaps you can shed some light on the subject, sir?”

“Glad to,” Johnny said. “Luke and me were over to the Dog Star earlier, when we saw Wyck Joslyn and Stingaree getting together with the Fromes Boys.”

Indicating the brothers’ three corpses sprawled around the foot of the staircase, Damon said, “I take it those are the gentlemen in question.”

Johnny nodded. “No-account trash—cutthroats, back shooters. Only reason for Wyck Joslyn to be roping in the likes of them was to be cooking up some badness. When he and Stingaree came in here, it all fell into place. You was the target, Damon. Joslyn must’ve figured Stafford would pay big money for your scalp.

“I had a hunch the Fromeses wouldn’t be too far off. Wyck was stringing you along, stalling for time while the brothers got in place. When they came charging in, I was ready for ’em. Luke, too.”

“That’s right,” Luke agreed.

At the left rear corner of the second floor, a vertical wooden ladder bolted to the wall rose to a square-shaped hatch in the ceiling. A head and pair of shoulders came thrusting out of the hatch. Monk looked down at the main room below. “You okay, boss?” he shouted.

“Yes!”

“Anybody hurt?”

“Nobody important.”

“What happened?”

“Somebody made a bad bet.”

Monk climbed down the ladder, a rifle in one hand. He was balding, bullet-headed, bearded, with powerful shoulders and arms, and bowed, bandy legs. He crossed to the edge of the balcony and leaned over the balustrade, surveying the carnage below.

“Whoo-whee! Who’s them deaders—Staffords?”

“Outriders trying to cut in,” Damon said.

Mrs. Frye stood with hands on hips, head tilted, looking up at Monk. “Where were you when they sneaked in through the back?” she asked, indicating the bodies of the Fromeses.

“Up on the roof,” Monk said.

“A fine lookout you are!”

“Staffords got to come in from the south. I was watching for them . I can’t look everywhere, Miz Frye, it’s a big roof!”

“Get back up there and keep your eyes open this time.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Monk went to the ladder, scrambling up through the trapdoor hatch and out of sight.

Francine came out of her room and stood at the balcony rail. “Everyone all right?”

“The ones on our side are,” Mrs. Frye said. “Come down and join the party.”

“No, thanks.” Francine put a hand to her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.” Turning, she hurried back into her room, slamming the door shut.

Damon faced Johnny. “Gutsy play that, turning your back on Joslyn and his partner to shoot it out with the brothers.”

“I’m a betting man myself. I figured you and Creed could handle Wyck and Stingaree,” Johnny said.

“Quite a gamble.”

Johnny shook his head, smiling. “A sure thing.”

“Your faith in us is heartening, if possibly misplaced. In any case, I thank you, sir. I thank you both,” Damon said, addressing Johnny and Luke. “And now I suggest you clear out while you can, before Stafford arrives.”

“What! And miss all the fun?” Johnny joked, but he meant it, too.

“Fun, he calls it,” Mrs. Frye said. “If you think tying into two dozen red-hot killers is fun.”

“Happens, I do,” said Johnny. “It wouldn’t be the first time, neither.”

“Why buck the Ramrod? Vince Stafford’s got no grudge against you,” Damon said.

“It’s early yet,” Johnny said.

“Wait till he gets to know us better,” Luke chimed in.

Mrs. Frye’s eyes narrowed as she looked over the duo. “I don’t get it. What’s in it for you? I mean, why make this your fight?”

“Damned if I know,” Johnny answered. “Maybe because the Spur is the one place in town with square-deal, straight-up card games and dice. No crooked tables or watered-down whiskey. Maybe I liked the way you handled yourself, Damon, when young Stafford braced you. Or maybe I was overdue to kill Zeb Fromes for kicking an ol’ hound dog who never did him any harm. I got distracted that day and Zeb got away from me.

“Could be I’m just a natural-born Rebel with a liking for lost causes and kicking up trouble and siding with y’all promises to deliver plenty of both. Who knows? Like I said, I ain’t entirely sure why myself.”

Mrs. Frye gave Luke the once-over, appraising him with cold-eyed calculation. “And you, where do you fit in in all this?”

“Me? Oh, I’m with him.” Luke indicated Johnny. His attitude said that explained it all. For him it did.

A slight smile played around Damon’s lips. “Betting on the Golden Spur now could be considered a long shot.”

“Them’s the kind that pays off best,” Johnny said.

Damon reached into one of his pants’ front pockets, pulling out a fat roll of high-denomination greenbacks. “The house always makes good.”

“Whoa,” Johnny said, holding his hands up, palms-out. “Put your money away, I ain’t sniffing around for a payday.”

“The workman is worthy of his hire, they say.”

“When I sell my gun, that’s business. When I side with a man, that’s different. Money’s got nothing to do with it.”

Damon stuffed the roll back in his pocket. “My apologies, sir. I misread the situation. No insult meant or implied.”

“None taken,” Johnny said.

“A couple of go-to-hell Texas gun hawks, in it for the fun of it?” Mrs. Frye said. “The funny thing is with you two, I almost believe it.”

“ ’Course, you want to buy us a drink or ten to show your appreciation, we wouldn‘t take that as no insult, not even a little bit,” Luke said.

“You got yourself a deal, stud,” Mrs. Frye said.

“Let’s all step over to the bar and get better acquainted,” Damon said. Nobody found fault with his suggestion. They went to the bar, where Morrissey was already setting them up, laying out glasses on the countertop.

“Drink up,” Damon invited, “as much as you want. It’s on the house.”

All drank, several rounds.

“I believe we got the best of that bargain. Ol’ Luke can sure put it away,” Johnny said.

“I got me a hollow leg,” Luke said, nodding. He rapped his knuckles against his wooden limb. “For real.”

“Never mind,” Mrs. Frye said airily, “Damon’ll win it all back in cards, and more.”

Presently Damon, Mrs. Frye, and Creed Teece were all called away on various errands relating to the reception they were preparing for Vince Stafford and company. Morrissey was at the other end of the bar, removing bottles from the back shelf below the mirror and stowing them under the wooden counter for safekeeping.

Johnny and Luke were by themselves for the moment. They spoke low voiced, for their own hearing alone.

“I don’t get it,” Luke said. “Why not take Damon’s money, if he’s giving it out?”

“The friendship of a man like Damon Bolt’s worth more than money. That’s a friend worth having, if we mean to stick in Hangtown,” Johnny said.

“If he don’t get killed. Or we don’t.”