William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Throughout Four Corners, attention was focused on the dark, west side of town from where the shooting seemed to have come.

Red Hand and twelve followers were hidden in a dark grove of trees a hundred yards east of town. Part of a well-wooded thicket north of Hangtree Trail, it was a tangle of brush, shrubs, and tall weeds.

When the shooting started on the west side of town, Red Hand rode out alone into the open, toward the courthouse. Outfitted in full warlike regalia, he rode a strikingly colored silver horse with a white mane. A bonnet of eagle feathers crowned his head. His face was striped and masked with war paint, his torso was shielded by a chest piece made of buffalo bones, and his arms were painted red from fingertips to elbows. A round buffalo-hide shield was worn on his left arm; his right hand held a flaming spear.

Not the Fire Lance, of course. It was too valuable to be thrown away on a mere ploy, and that’s what he was engaged in. A bold stroke to steal the Texans’ courage and plant fear in their hearts.

Red Hand wielded a Comanche lance whose spear blade was coated with Medicine Hat’s inflammable compound and set ablaze. He crossed the field, charging the courthouse front.

Close to the courthouse steps, he yanked hard on the reins, the bit digging into the soft parts of the animal’s mouth. The silver stallion reared, rising on its hind legs.

Red Hand cast the fiery lance, burying it point first in one of the wooden front double doors. It stuck, quivering in a planked panel, its head burning with eerie blue ghost light.

Turning his horse to the right, he galloped away into the darkness. He shrieked a war whoop in parting.

His men in the grove opened fire on the courthouse with repeating rifles, laying down a covering fire for their chief. Once Red Hand was safely clear, they ceased fire, melting back into the woods.

Drawn by this new disturbance, the courthouse folk rushed to the east windows to see what it was all about. Wade Hutto returned to his office, looked outside, and saw the burning spear stuck in the courthouse front door.

“What’s it all about?” asked Banker Willoughby.

“A declaration of war, I call it,” Hutto said.

“As if any were needed! They’ve already made their hostile intent clear,” Rutland Dean said.

“Comanche medicine, to scare the faint hearts,” Boone Lassiter informed them. “Hope nobody falls for it. But they will.”

The fiery spear kept on burning. Presently, some hardy souls opened the front door partway, mindful not to show themselves as targets. Somebody splashed the spear with a bucket of water. The fire was oil-based and instead of extinguishing it the water made it burn hotter and brighter.

Next, buckets of sand were thrown on it and blankets were beaten against it and the door until the flames went out. A few door planks were charred, but only on the surface, not too deep.

The door was slammed shut and bolted from the inside.

An hour or so later, the screaming started. It came from somewhere in the grove from which Red Hand had previously ventured. Thick woods and darkness hid whatever was going on there.

Shrill and piercing, the outcry was the sound of a man in mortal agony. Worse, it was only the opening note in what would prove to be an aria of anguish. It was loud and clear throughout the Four Corners.

A small lamp burned in Hutto’s office, glowing dimly. Fresh screams ripped through the stillness of night.

“Gad! What’re they doing to that poor devil?” Rutland Dean exclaimed.

“Torture,” answered Boone Lassiter.

Chance Stillman went to the east window, looking out. “I don’t see nobody. No Injins. Nothing.”

“You won’t see them until they want you to see them,” Lassiter said.

“Who is it, do you think?” Dean wondered.

“Some poor soul unlucky enough to be taken alive, Lord help him,” Lassiter said.

“Think it’s Coleman or Hapgood?” Stillman asked.

“Let’s hope not. They’re our only hope of getting word to the cavalry,” Willoughby said.

“Don’t count on the army,” Lassiter said. “We’re on our own here.”

Hutto’s face fell. “There’s a good chance that one or both of them might have gotten through ... isn’t there?”

Nobody answered. The shrieking fell off, grew silent. After a moment, Dean said, “Thank God that’s over!”

Boone Lassiter snorted. “Hell, they ain’t even started yet.” He poured himself a fresh drink.

After a while, the screaming began again, steadily rising into ever-higher registers of pain. It lost all human qualities. It was the hopeless wail of a suffering animal in mortal pain and terror.

“What do they do to make a man scream like that?” Willoughby wondered.

“Don’t think about it,” Hutto said thickly.

Lassiter gulped his drink, setting down an empty glass. “Save a bullet for yourself, if we can’t hold ’em today. Save some for your families, too.”

The shrieks rose and fell, fading, then starting up again, and again, and again.

“Why don’t he just shut up and die?” Stillman said. “Die, damn you, die!”

“Easy,” Hutto cautioned.

“Comanches know what they’re doing,” Lassiter said. “They’ll keep him alive for a long time. They’re good at that. By working on him, they’re working on us, trying to put the fear in us.”

“They’re doing a pretty good job,” Rutland Dean mumbled, grinning weakly.

Wade Hutto rose from his chair. “I better go downstairs and make a show to the folks, take their mind off things. Reassure them. They might need some shoring up.”

“I can use some shoring up myself.” Dean poured a stiff drink and tossed it down.

TWENTY-ONE

In Francine’s room of the Golden Spur, Johnny Cross slipped out of bed, his eyes already accustomed to the dimness. He’d been lying awake in bed for some time. He dressed quietly, then sat on the bed while he donned socks and boots.

Yellow light from the hallway outlined the closed door. Moonbeams shafted through lacy curtained windows, spilling onto the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled up around Francine.

She lay on her side, legs bent at the knees, one long bare leg showing outside the bed coverings. White-blond hair spilled across the pillows, partly covering her face. Her body was all shining silver and black shadow. She’s beautiful, Johnny thought.

“Running off so soon?” she murmured.

“Sky’s lightening in the east. Things’re gonna start happening. I’d best be up and doing.” Johnny was restless, couldn’t sleep. Eager to get to the showdown. He’d had the loving and was anxious to get to the killing. Usually he did it the other way around. Take care of business first, then have a woman for dessert. That’s how he liked it.

But it was fine this way, too. Just fine. He’d satisfied the lust for flesh. Now the need for action was rising in him.

His twin-holstered guns were hung over the top of the brass bedpost. He draped his gun belt over an arm.

Francine moved around in bed, reaching for him. He bent down to kiss her. Her mouth was warm, her breath sweet. After a while, he eased clear of her embrace. Taking his hat from the top of the bureau where he’d left it, he put it on his head and walked to the door.

He turned back to Francine. “See ya.”

“Be careful, Johnny. Stay alive. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He opened the door partway, light slanting into the room, laying an angled yellow rectangle on the floor and bed. Francine turned to him, raising herself up on an elbow. Her long unbound hair spilled across the smooth curve of bare shoulders down to her breasts. Her eyes shone and her lips were parted.

Johnny filled his eyes with her once more, then stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. It clicked shut. He buckled his gun belt low on his hips, settling holstered guns where the gun butts were within easy reach of his free-hanging hands.