William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

“That’s where the gamble comes in. I’ll take a chance on him, and I sure ain’t gonna bet against us. Trust me, once the ball starts rolling, there’ll be plenty of money to pick up from action on the side.”

“You’re calling it, hoss,” Luke said, shrugging. “Too much thinking makes my head hurt.”

“I think that’s the whiskey,” Johnny pointed out.

Luke studied his glass, peering into it, surprised to find it empty. “Thanks for reminding me. Believe I’ll have another.” Reaching for a nearby bottle, he refilled his glass. “You?”

“Why not?” Johnny said. “This killing is thirsty work.”

SEVEN

Ten minutes after the shooting, Wade Hutto and Sheriff Mack Barton entered the Golden Spur. They came alone, just the two of them, to show their lack of hostile intent. Deputy Smalls and a half dozen hangers-on from Hutto’s party waited outside. The sheriff of Hangtown had no hangers-on, except maybe Deputy Smalls.

Barton had the glum, stolid air of a man doing a disagreeable duty. “Now what?”

“They came in looking for trouble,” Damon Bolt said, pointing to the five corpses littering the floor. “They found it.”

“You’re in an all-fired hurry to get yourself killed,” Hutto snapped.

“Yet they are dead, while I am still alive,” Damon said, smiling thinly.

Johnny and Luke were at the bar. Creed Teece was there, too, standing slightly apart from them. Their faces were turned toward the newcomers. Morrissey was behind the bar, keeping out of Swamper’s way while the latter cleaned up pieces of broken mirror.

Swamper wore grimy work gloves. He was picking up the bigger pieces of broken glass and making a racket as he tossed them into an empty bucket. He’d clean up the smaller pieces later with a broom and dustpan.

Barton circled the three bodies stretched out in front of the staircase, each outlined by handfuls of sawdust Swamper had spread on the floor around them, to soak up the blood. The sheriff cheered up at sight of the corpses. “The Fromes Boys! It was only a matter of time before they got shot or hung. Saves the town the price of three hangman’s ropes. That’s a break.” The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled upwards.

“Any reward on ’em?” Johnny asked.

“Not in Hangtree,” Barton said, his good humor increasing at the thought that the county need pay out no funds to be rid of three such potential troublemakers. He went to the far end of the bar to look at the two corpses there.

“Who killed Joslyn?” he asked.

“I did,” Damon said.

“And Stingaree?”

“Mine,” said Creed Teece.

Barton nodded. He didn’t take any notes. It wasn’t an investigation. He was just curious. He rejoined Hutto, who stood to the side, facing Damon.

“That’s how it begins. Vince isn’t even in town and already there’s killing,” Hutto said.

“It wipes five undesirables off the books, at no cost to the taxpayers,” Barton said.

“There is that.”

Mrs. Frye came out from behind the closed door of the office, where she’d been fortifying herself with a glass of whiskey and a laudanum chaser. A medicinal tincture of opium, laudanum was widely available with no prescription needed, despite its addictive properties. The drug contracted the pupils of her eyes to pinpoints. “How about getting those bodies out of here?”

“Who, me?” Barton said, taken aback.

“You’re the sheriff. They’re lawbreakers. That falls under your jurisdiction.”

Barton snorted, shaking his head. “I’m a lawman, not an undertaker.”

“In this town, there’s not much difference.” Mrs. Frye turned to Hutto. “What do I pay taxes for? Believe you me, I pay plenty! If the town won’t take them away, I’ll have them thrown out in the street.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Hutto said, making placating gestures. As the man whose slate of hand-picked candidates included the mayor and most of the town council, Hutto was ever mindful that it was an election year. The Golden Spur swung a nice handful of votes, or would, depending on how many of its staff and associates were still alive come Election Day.

“We’re gonna need a place to put the bodies,” Barton said. “These, and more to come.”

“Plenty more,” Hutto agreed grimly.

“You own half the property in town and hold the paper on the other half. Any ideas?”

Hutto rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We’ve got young Stafford in a storeroom at the courthouse, but that’s a special case.”

“Oh yes,” Barton said, his tone flat, neutral. “Special.”

“Can’t turn the courthouse into a mortuary.”

“How about the carriage house behind the Cattleman?”

“Not there,” Hutto said, shocked. “It’s the best hotel in town!”

“There’s a storage shed behind the lumberyard,” Barton suggested.

“That’ll do it.” Hutto motioned to his hangers-on standing outside looking through the front windows. A couple of them entered.

“Run over to the lumberyard and tell Tuttle we’re temporarily commandeering his storage shed. Tell him I’ll square it with him so he’s not out of pocket for any inconvenience,” Hutto said.

“Okay, Wade.” The fellows started for the door.

“Wait a minute,” Hutto called after them.

They paused and turned back.

“Get a cart or wagon to haul the bodies out. Have Hobson at the livery stable fix you up,” Hutto said.

“Right!” the hangers-on chorused, and out they went.

Mrs. Frye turned some of her dissatisfaction on Barton. “What’s the law going to be doing when Stafford makes his move?”

“I’m working on it,” Barton said evasively.

“I bet.”

“Try the Dog Star,” Johnny Cross said. He and Luke sat at a table between the bar and the front door. “I hear the Ramrod brand ain’t too popular around there.”

“Where do you fit in this, Cross?” Hutto questioned.

“Just helping out.”

“Careful you don’t help yourself into Boot Hill!”

“I’ll be careful, Mr. Hutto. Very careful,” Johnny said with mock solemnity.

“Bah!” Hutto was one of those fellows who can say Bah! without looking ridiculous. He turned to Damon. “You could help by clearing out of town. And take that Francine Hayes with you.”

Damon glanced with seeming mildness at the other. Hutto looked away, not making eye contact.

“You touch me on a point of pride, sir,” Damon said. “Miss Hayes is entirely blameless in this matter. She’s the offended party here. It’s no fault of hers that a boor like the late Bliss Stafford tried to force unwanted attentions on her. I’m sure you agree that I did what I had to do, and that no Southern gentleman could do less.”

Hutto backed off. “I’m not arguing the point. Legally you were in the right. Isn’t that so, Sheriff?”

“A clearcut case of self-defense,” Barton said.

“But Vince Stafford won’t see it like that,” Hutto pressed. “He’ll make it a blood feud, him and Clay and Quent. They’ll have twenty guns and more backing them up. You’re a gambler, you know better than to buck those odds. Get out of town.”

“That would make things easier for you,” Mrs. Frye said.

“You’re damned right it would!” Hutto said fervently.

“If you were me, would you run?” Damon asked.

“I’m not you and right now I’m damned glad of it!”

“And you, Sheriff? Would you run?”

“It’s not the same.” Barton fidgeted, uncomfortable with the question.

“Why not?”

“I wear a badge. A lawman who runs is finished, washed up.”

“It’s the same with me.”

“You’re dead if you stick,” Hutto warned.