William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

He took off his hat and combed his hair with his fingers, pushing it back from his forehead and over his ears, out of the way. He put on the hat, tilting it to the angle he liked.

He followed the balcony to the landing and descended the staircase. The long cabinet clock on the ground floor showed the time as a few minutes past four-thirty in the morning.

It was quiet on the main floor. Most of those gathered there, Anglos and Mexican-Americans, were asleep.

Luke sat at a nearby table, slumped in a chair. A sawed-off shotgun lay on its side on the tabletop, the fingers of his left hand resting lightly on the butt of the stock. His hinged wooden leg, straightened out and locked in place, extended in front of him, resting toes-up on the seat of a second chair. His head was propped up by his right arm, the side of his face resting against an open palm. His mouth, partly open, snored softly.

Johnny smiled. He smelled fresh-brewed coffee.

Morrissey stood behind the bar, sleepy eyes heavy-lidded, resting his weight on meaty forearms pressed against the counter. Sam Heller stood by himself at one end of the bar, eating a roast beef sandwich and drinking a cup of coffee.

Johnny went to them. “Coffee smells good. Can you do me a cup?”

“Coming right up,” Morrissey said, pushing himself off the counter.

“A shot of whiskey would go nice in that.”

“You got it.” Morrissey splashed whiskey in a cup, filling the rest of it with a hot black brew from the coffeepot. He set it down on the bar in front of Johnny.

“Thanks.” Swirls of steam rose from the surface of the liquid in the cup. Johnny held it under his nose. It smelled good, the rich, pungent coffee aroma mingling with raw whiskey fumes. It tasted even better.

He picked up the cup and took it down the bar to stand beside Sam Heller. “Latigo?”

“Dead,” Sam said.

“Sorry.”

“Me, too. He died game.”

“Can’t ask for more than that.”

“I reckon not.” Sam finished up his sandwich and drained his cup.

“What’s next?” Johnny asked.

“I’ll be heading for the church directly. Want to get there and be in place well before sunup,” Sam said.

“I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted. “In a hurry to get yourself killed?”

“I’m not one for sitting around. I like to take the fight to the enemy,” Johnny said. “’Sides, a Yankee son of a gun like you is a natural-born magnet for trouble. Figure I’ll stick to you and get me my share.”

“I don’t mind. Glad to have you,” Sam said.

A Mexican youth in his early teens had volunteered to serve as a runner. Sam charged him to tell Barton to send an extra horse along with the relief for the sentries in the church tower. The kid went out the front door and ran east along Trail Street to the jail, reaching it without incident.

A quarter-hour later, two riders halted in front of the Golden Spur, one of them trailing two saddled horses behind on a lead line.

“Let’s go.” Sam and Johnny went out the door, onto the front porch. The moon was low in the west, the star-spangled sky, tending more blue than black. The street was thick with purple-gray shadows. The early morning air was cool and fresh. The east end of Trail Street framed a vertical oblong of empty sky paling at the horizon.

Johnny glanced at the courthouse, wondering how Fay Lockhart was doing. Funny—he hadn’t thought about Fay once since he first laid eyes on Francine. He wondered what Fay was like in bed, hoping he’d live long enough to find out.

He carried a repeating rifle. In addition to two guns holstered at his hips, he wore a pair of gun belts slung over his shoulders, the guns holstered butt-out under his arms. Another pair of six-guns were stuck in the top of his waistband at his sides. It was how he armed, pistol-fighter style, when he rode with Quantrill. It was how he armed when he made war.

The high, tight feeling in his chest and the top of his belly was a not unwelcome tension. It contrasted with the relaxed looseness of his shoulders and arms, and his easy, catlike tread.

The two riders waiting outside were Bayle and Lockridge, Dog Star Saloon regulars who often served as posse men for Sheriff Barton. Bayle was a solidly built, brown-bearded six-footer; Lockridge had a thatch of unruly straw-colored hair and a long, bony face.

“Didn’t know you was coming along, Johnny,” Bayle said, surprised.

“Okay with you?” Johnny asked.

“Hell, yeah.”

Johnny and Sam mounted up.

Across the street in front of the feed store stood the barricade built along the store’s boardwalk. With wraparound wings on the sides, it would serve as a forward firing platform. The open walkway of the boardwalk between the barricade and the storefront was hemmed in to shoulder height on both sides.

Dark yellow-brown light showed in the squares where the front windows had been. Shortly after occupying the space, the Ramrod riders had broken the glass out of the windows and built a barricade inside the front of the store—tables turned on their sides, barrels, and hundred-pound grain and feed sacks.

Quent Stafford stood looking over the top of the bulwark. “Damn, it’s Johnny Cross. Somebody gimme a rifle.”

“Here you go, Quent,” Marblay said, pitching a rifle underhand at him. Quent caught it in both hands, his meaty paws slapping down on the long gun and pulling it out of the air. He started toward the front of the building.

Dan Oxblood moved to intercept him. “What’s your game?”

“I’m gone shoot that sum-bitch Cross,” Quent said.

“You ain’t got the sense God gave a chicken,” Oxblood said, shaking his head.

“Git out the way,” said Quent.

Oxblood stood unmoving. “What’ll you bet I can shoot your guts out before you get that rifle into play?”

Quent’s face paled, then reddened. He started to swing the rifle barrel up.

“Why, you—”

A six-gun filled Oxblood’s left hand, leveled at Quent’s middle. The hammer clicked, a small sound that was very loud in the large, shedlike space.

Quent froze.

“You lose,” Oxblood said.

Quent looked around, eyeing Ramrod riders grouped at the sidelines. He forced a laugh; it sounded sick. “You going up against all of us?”

“Who wants to get burned down to save yore hide? Anyone so minded, step up,” Oxblood invited.

Nobody stepped up.

“Looks like it’s just you and me,” Oxblood said.

Quent let go of the rifle like it burned his hands. It clattered to the floor, but didn’t go off. “I ain’t no gunfighter.”

“You’re wearing a gun. Use it.”

Quent shook his head. Cold sweat beaded on his lead-colored face.

“I’ll give you the same chance Bliss gave Damon.” Oxblood dropped his gun into the holster. “Now we’re even. What’s stopping you?”

Vince Stafford came up from the back of the store where he’d been napping, bullying his way to the fore. His men stepped aside, moving well back out of the line of fire. Clay came up behind his father.

“What is this?” Vince demanded.

“He’s goin’ against us, Pa!” Quent blurted, his voice thin and squeaky.

Vince frowned fiercely, white tufted eyebrows forming a V-shape, head thrust pugnaciously forward. He kept his hands empty and in plain sight, though. “Thought you was a professional gun, Red. You’re working for me.”

“Not when your idiot son tries to bushwhack Johnny Cross,” Oxblood answered.

“Cross ain’t paying you, I am.”

“I had a clear shot on Cross, but he stopped me, Pa!”

“Shut up, Quent. What about it, Red?”

“Damned right I stopped him.”

“What for? Cross is a dangerous man. Maybe the most dangerous man siding the gambler.” Vince said.