William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Three stragglers raced up. Johnny shot the lead rider off his horse. He swung his pistol toward the next man, but before he could pull the trigger a burst of gunfire sounded from behind him, blowing the rest of the stragglers out of their saddles. Their horses rushed past.

Johnny glanced over his shoulder to see where the shooting came from. Through drifting gun smoke he saw Sam Heller on horseback, the mule’s-leg in his hand. The Winchester Model 1866 was once more cut down for close action.

“Trust a Yankee to show up when the dirty work’s over,” Johnny croaked.

“Trust a Texan to bag the bragging rights,” barked Sam.

Johnny didn’t catch his drift. “Say again?”

“Don’t you know who you were tussling with?” Sam asked.

“Nope, ’cepting he was an ornery cuss even for a Comanche, and that’s saying some.”

“Take a better look.”

Johnny went to the body. It lay facedown. Working a boot toe under the corpse’s shoulder, he flipped it over on its back. The face meant nothing to him, but he saw that the dead man’s arms were painted from fingertips to elbows with scarlet signs and symbols.

“Red Hand.”

“The big chief.” Sam nodded.

“Huh. Ain’t that a caution?”

“Yup.”

“So that’s the one who kicked up all this fuss,” Johnny said. “Well, he’s stone dead now.”

“And he never looked better in his life.”

TWENTY-FIVE

You’ve got to hand it to Hangtown. No sooner does it get shut of one round of killings, than it gets set for another,” Sam muttered.

“I’m getting set,” Johnny retorted. “My name’s penciled in on this dance card.”

They stood near the Alamo Bar, off to one side, facing Four Corners, where the next big gunfight was shaping up.

Johnny was checking his hardware. One fully loaded gun was stuck in the top of his pants over his left hip. He transferred it to the empty holster on his right hip.

Sam stood puffing away on a corncob pipe, liking the way the taste of the rough-cut tobacco caught in his throat. He held the pipe with the bowl cradled in his left hand. His right hand hung down easily by his side, brushing against the butt of the holstered mule’s-leg.

Their horses were tied to a hitching post. Red Hand was stretched facedown across the back of Johnny’s horse.

“One loaded gun,” Johnny muttered. “Feels like I’m comin’ to the party half dressed!”

Sam drew the Navy Colt worn holstered under his left arm and proffered it to Johnny. “Try mine.”

Johnny took it. “Thanks.” Instinctively he checked the .36 revolver, making sure it was loaded.

Sam smiled, not offended by Johnny’s caution. Only a damned fool took a gun that wasn’t his without inspecting it first.

“Red Hand’s carcass should be worth something. Keep an eye on it for me, will you?” Johnny asked.

“Sure.”

“See ya.” Johnny started across the street.

“’Luck,” Sam said, giving the other a two-fingered salute.

The Comanche raiders had fled. The victorious townfolk were not minded to take up pursuit. Most were simply glad to be alive. Others had yet to slake their thirst for blood. Chief among those was Vince Stafford.

Now that the battle of Red Hand was done, Vince was moving fast to strike hard against the man he regarded as his main antagonist. Damon Bolt.

The sun was up. It was already hot. A light breeze from the west blew much of the smoke and dust out of town. The air was still hazy, and stank of cordite, blood, and death.

Four Corners bore all the marks of the war zone it was. A number of small fires burned where flaming debris had fallen on rooftops, porches, or boardwalks, sending up long, thin fingers of gray-black smoke. The street grid was pocked with the craters of exploded dynamite caches and strewn with the dead bodies of horses and men.

Wooden walls were riddled with bullet holes. An intact pane of window glass was not to be found for blocks. Glass shards littered the streets, reflecting sunlight like a diamond mosaic.

From all sides came a mixed chorus of the shrieks and groans of the wounded and the dying. A disemboweled horse lay on its side shrieking, legs churning empty air.

Vigilant and bloody-minded citizens roamed among fallen Comanches, delivering the coup de grâce to those still alive or any who looked doubtful.

A shot sounded and the wounded horse stopped shrieking. Frown lines in Sam Heller’s face smoothed out. The horse’s outcries had been getting on his nerves. He was glad someone had put it out of its misery.

Men were sure pure hell on horses. They were hell on each other, too, but at least they had a choice. The horses didn’t. Maybe the men didn’t have a choice, either, but that was the way of it, Sam told himself.

The Ramrod bunch, what was left of them, was mustering in front of the feed store to take their fight to the Golden Spur. They gathered around Vince Stafford as if by some law of gravitation, all the lesser satellites falling under his heavy sway.

Of the top guns, Dan Oxblood, Kev Huddy, and Clay Stafford were intact and unwounded. Ted Claiborne had been hit several times. None of the wounds was mortal, but he was out of action. Among the next rank, Duncan, Kaw, and Lord were unhurt or had received minor flesh wounds. Five other lesser, mid-range Ramrod gun hands were in shape for the showdown. Vince Stafford was unharmed, as was Quent.

Vince took stock of the situation and found it good. Most of the citizenry was still staying off the streets. Sheriff Barton and his men were busy at the Big Corral, shoring it up to prevent any horses from escaping.

Vince gripped a rifle, holding it horizontally across the tops of bowed, spindly thighs. An oversized horse pistol was strapped to his hip.

“I come out of that scrap all right, by God! I got my two strong sons to side me and more’n half my men alive,” he crowed. His face scrunched up, squinting across the street at the Golden Spur.

Clay and Quent Stafford fell in alongside Vince, flanking him, Clay on his left and Quent on his right.

Clay’s face was tiger striped with blood streaks from where a glass shard had opened a cut on his forehead. A blue bandanna was knotted around his forehead. It was stained a purple-wine color, but the makeshift bandage had stemmed the flow of blood from the wound. His hair was disarranged. It stood out in yellow-white spikes, some stained red. His face was taut, haggard, his eyes watchful. A smoking six-gun was held at his side.

Quent loomed large, a brutish hulk dwarfing his wizened father and tall, lanky younger brother. The battle had left not a mark on him. His little piggy eyes were bright and glowing. His wide mouth twisted into a leering grin.

“Where’s the gunfighter?” Vince asked.

“Right here,” Dan Oxblood said, stepping forward into the front rank. He took off his hat, running his fingers through sweat-damp, brick-colored hair. His face was soot smeared from the smoke. Green eyes glinted. No tremor disturbed those quick gunfighter hands.

Vince began to rally his troops. “Get set, men. We gone clean up on the Golden Spur crowd.”

“Now, Boss?” somebody asked.

“There’ll never be a better time,” Vince said. “The townsmen have had a bellyful of killing. Them that’s still alive ain’t gonna risk their precious skins to save the gambler’s hash. We finish it here and now.”

“What about all them Mexes forted up in the Spur?” asked another.

“If any of ’em buck us, kill ’em,” Vince snapped.

“They won’t fight. What’s Damon to them?” Clay said.

Quent spat. “Might as well clean up on them, too. They’s already too many of the dirty greasers around.”