William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Barton didn’t need to ask who. He just said, “How many?”

“About twenty.”

“Where?”

“Coming in from River Road. Coming slow, but coming.”

Putting down his magazine and wedging the cigar in the corner of his mouth, Barton gripped the edge of his desk with big, meaty hands that had beaten many a malefactor and detainee senseless. With a great grunt he hauled himself upright, standing on two legs.

“Lord! How I hate to get up out of my chair!” he said feelingly. His eyes glinted, a danger sign to those who disturbed the peace—his peace.

Smalls crossed to an opposite corner, reaching for a shotgun he’d left standing there earlier.

“The cells are empty except for that one drunk. Let him go and send him on his way,” Barton said.

“Without paying no fine?” Smalls said, goggling.

“He’s got no money to pay. You ought to know, you turned out his pockets.”

Smalls didn’t deny it; Barton had been watching at the time. “Let him serve on the work gang.”

“To hell with it. I got bigger fish to fry. The county can fill out its quota with somebody else.”

“Mr. Hutto ain’t gonna like that.”

“Who’s gonna tell him? You?”

Smalls contrived to look shocked and indignant at the same time. “You know me better than that, Mack! I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“All right, I didn’t ask for a testimonial. Shake a leg and shoo the rumpot out of the cell.”

“I checked on him a little while ago. He’s dead drunk!”

“Drag him out back and leave him in the alley,” Barton said. Before the other could comply, the sheriff thought better of it. “No. It don’t look good to have a drunk sleeping it off behind the jail. Let him be where he is, it’s his lookout. Hell, whatever happens he’ll probably sleep through the whole thing.”

“Okay, Mack.”

“Let’s get to it, then.” They went out, Barton locking the front door behind him. “If we both get killed, the poor guy ’ll probably starve to death in there.” The thought tickled him and he chuckled.

He looked east on Trail Street and saw the Ramrod riders coming in. “Head over to the Cattleman and spread the word. You know what to do.”

“Let me go with you, Mack,” Smalls urged. “I’ll cover your back.”

“No sense both of us getting killed,” Barton said

The deputy’s face fell. “Think it’ll be that bad?”

“Naw. If I did, I’d send you and I’d go to the Cattleman.”

Smalls looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“That’s a joke, jackass,” Barton snapped.

“Oh.”

“I don’t want to provoke Stafford any more than I have to—which is what the sight of you and that shotgun would do.”

“Shoot, there ain’t no getting on his good side, no matter what you do.”

Barton was plesantly surprised by this glimmer of wit. “You’re catching on, Deputy. There may be hope for you yet.”

“I’d like to go along, though.”

“Forget it. You just make sure Hutto does what he’s supposed to.”

Smalls looked doubtful. “Mr. Hutto ain’t much on listening to other folks.”

“He will when you tell him he won’t have much of a town left if he don’t play things like we planned. You tell him I said that. Get going, Deputy.”

“Watch yourself, Mack.”

“You picked a fine time to get sentimental!”

“Hell, you’re the only one who ever trusted me—or hired me—to do a job ... that wasn’t kin.”

“Do it, then. And remember, Smalls, I aim to be sheriff here for a long time. Now, git!”

“Yes, sir!” Smalls hurried west on Trail Street.

Barton stepped out from under the shade of the awning, into the sunlit street. He turned, facing east. Glancing down at his chest, he noticed that the tin star pinned over his left breast was filmed by dust. He swiped it with the sleeve of his right forearm, shining it up.

Taking a last puff on his cigar, he tossed it away and started down the middle of the street toward Vince Stafford.

Barton stood just past the courthouse with hands hanging easy and open at his sides. His expression, usually dour and harbitten, was more so. His narrow eyes shone like mica chips glinting in a rock face.

The column of riders came on, spearheaded by Vince mounted on a big brown horse, a charger, a Morgan type quarter horse.

The sheriff’s gaze followed the line of riders behind the elder Stafford. Waspish Clay and dumb, mean Quent rode right behind their pa. Quent was big, oversized. Clay with the quick gun was the dangerous one, fast and smart. Too bad he couldn’t talk some sense into Vince but then, nobody could.

Barton looked at Dan Oxblood behind the brothers. Gunfighter, outlaw, he’d somehow wrangled himself a full pardon from Yankee Captain Harrison at Fort Pardee for services rendered in taking down the Harbin gang. He was a fast draw, maybe the fastest one riding into town. Dangerous, he could like you and still kill. He’d regret it, but he’d do what had to be done—or not. The redhead was a creature of whims, unpredictable. No telling which way he’d jump.

Ted Claiborne and Kev Huddy were well-respected triggermen. Barton had never seen either of them at work, but he’d cleaned up after Claiborne in a shoot-out outside the Alamo Bar that left one foe dead and two others wounded.

The sheriff knew some of the others, too. They were a bad bunch to mess with.

Vince Stafford halted little more than a man’s length away from Barton. The others followed their paymaster’s lead, pulling up and reining in. Vince glared down at the sheriff. “You bucking me, lawman?”

Barton shook his head. “Thought you’d like to see the boy first.”

“My boy Bliss ...” Something like pain flickered across the part of Vince’s face not hidden by a bushy, snow-white beard—hard bright eyes nesting in wrinkled pouches, flat squashed nose, and wide belligerent mouth. A spasm of intense emotion, powerfully held in cheek, was quickly stifled.

Barton indicated the courthouse with a tilt of his head. “He’s in there.”

“Show me,” Vince demanded.

“Sheriff’s trying to stall you, Pa,” Quent said, pronouncing it “shurf.” “You ain’t gonna fall for that one, are you? The gambler—”

“He’ll keep,” Vince said curtly.

“He’ll run, if he ain’t long gone already.”

“Damon won’t run.” Clay sighed, weary of Quent’s stupidity, yet mocking it, too.

“What makes you so sure?” Quent asked.

“I’ve got eyes in my head and a brain behind them. I know people.”

“Shut up, boys,” Vince said. He turned to Barton. “The gambler?”

“At the Golden Spur. He ain’t running, though I wish to hell he would.”

“You a friend of his?”

“No, I want him out of town where he’ll be somebody else’s problem.”

“Sensible enough, I suppose. Don’t worry about it. He’s my problem and I’ll fix it,” Vince said. “Take me to the boy.”

Barton walked toward the courthouse front. Vince turned his horse and followed. Clay cut his horse out of the line, starting after them. Barton paused at the foot of the courthouse steps as Vince reined in, stepping down heavily from the saddle, joints creaking. He tied up his horse at the hitching rail.

Clay halted his horse, Vince squinting fiercely up at him. “Where you going, boy?”

“He was my brother,” Clay answered.

“Oh? Where was you when Bliss got killed?”

“The same place as you, Pa. At the ranch.”

“You should’ve been with him to keep him out of trouble.”

“Nobody could keep Bliss out of trouble, Pa. You know that.”

“You should’ve been there anyhow.”

“I could run the ranch for you or I could nursemaid the kid, but not both. Each is a full-time job.”