William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

“Their money’s as good as anybody else’s, and we got beef to sell them—”

“Hell, brother, them beaners ain’t got a pot to piss in. To hell with ’em.”

“Shooting at them’s the best way to make them throw in with Damon,” Clay argued. “Why go picking fights when you don’t have to?”

“’Cause that’s what I like to do,” Quent said stubbornly.

“Clay’s right. Don’t go burnin’ down nobody less’n they throw in agin’ us,” Vince said, laying down the law in his best because-I-said-so tone of finality.

Quent changed the subject. “And the girl, Pa? Damon’s whore? What about her”

“I’ll tend to her later.”

“You still bulldogging that, Pa?” Clay said, not bothering to hide his disgust.

“You know me, son. Once I set my mind to a thing, it’s done. That’s the way it is and that’s how it’s always going to be, as long as I’m in charge of this outfit. And that’s gonna be a long, long time.”

“Let me do it, Pa. I’ll fix her,” Quent said, licking his lips. A little spittle drooled down the corner of his chin.

“Keep your mitts off her, boy. An overgrowed galoot like you don’t know your own strength. You git your paws on her pretty neck, you’re liable to snap it like a twig.”

“I might—after ...” Quent’s little round eyes were hot, dreamy.

“That’s too quick,” Vince said, his voice strident. “She’s gotta live as a warning and a reminder of what happens to those who trifle with a Stafford. She worked woe on poor Bliss and I’m gonna do the same to her and she ain’t never gonna forget it. And this town ain’t never gonna forget it, either.”

A couple dead Comanches and townsmen lay sprawled on the street in front of the gambling hall. The façade of the building was shot up. Shadows that could have been figures flitted behind boarded-up front windows.

“Looks quiet,” a Ramrod rider said.

“I pray the gambler still lives,” Vince said fervently. “Don’t do me out of the pleasure of killing him myself!”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Pa. Damon’s not dead,” Clay said, sour-faced.

“How do you know?” the old man demanded.

“Because there he is.” Clay gestured north toward the street between the Golden Spur and the courthouse.

Damon Bolt rounded the corner of the Spur, stepping into view, Creed Teece beside him. They halted, facing the Staffords and company, hands hanging low over holstered guns.

Vince bristled like a mountain cat getting its back arched for a fight.

A courthouse door opened. Out came Ace High Olcutt, poker faced, his complexion looking a little grayish. Moving alongside Damon, he stood with him and Creed Teece. Olcutt turned hard eyes on the Stafford crowd. He swept back his coattail, out of the way of the gun holstered on his hip. His hand hovered over the gun butt.

Damon smiled. “Decided to get in the game after all, eh, Ace High?”

“You know me, I’m a gambling man. I got to be where the action is.”

“Glad to have you. I made a bet with myself on you, and it looks like I won.”

Keeping his eyes on the Stafford party, Creed Teece said, “I take back what I said about you being a yellow belly, Ace High.”

“Thanks,” Olcutt said sarcastically.

Flint Ryan and Charley Bronco came out the front doors of the Golden Spur and took up a stance on the front porch. Ryan held a rifle. His long, thin horse face looked tired. His eyes were heavy lidded. Suddenly he showed a bucktoothed grin.

Charley Bronco was hatless, long dark hair hanging down to his shoulders. His face was sweaty, almost feverish. His slitted eyes glittered. He was a little unsteady on his feet, swaying slightly. His fringed buckskin shirt was stained with dark blood on his left side where he’d been hit. He’d been tagged high in the left arm, too. The arm hung down straight along his side. His right hand hovered over the gun on his right hip.

Barkeep Morrissey appeared at the window to the right of the front door, wielding a double-barreled shotgun.

Luke Pettigrew showed in the window at the left, thrusting a double-bored shotgun muzzle through the space between a couple boards nailed across the window frame.

Johnny Cross eased into view, anchoring the southeast front corner of the building, a .44 on his right hip and the Navy Colt worn butt-out in the top of his pants on his left hip.

“Hey, hoss,” Luke called to him.

Johnny grinned. “So you made it for the showdown, huh?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Luke said. “Hell, I can’t miss—not with this here scattergun.”

“The way you shoot, I ain’t so sure.”

“Spread out, men,” Clay Stafford said tightly. The Ramrod gunmen stepped to the sides to confront the Golden Spur bunch across the street. “You know what to do, Red.”

Dan Oxblood’s left hand hung loosely at his side, over his six-gun in its black leather holster decorated with silver stars and sunbursts. His tone was mild and conversational as if he were passing the time of day. “I got Creed covered.”

“You do, huh?” Creed Teece called, his voice as flat and even as his level-eyed gaze.

“That’s right.”

“Tell me another one.”

“Gambler! This’s Stafford, Vince Stafford!” the old man shouted.

“I hear you,” Damon Bolt said mildly.

“I’m calling you out!”

“Here I am.”

The hot morning air quivered with tension, hate, and the promise of more violence. Nerves were stretched thin. The contending parties were frozen for a timeless instant, like an electrical storm in the gap between a lightning strike and a thunderclap.

Sam looked at Sheriff Barton standing midway between Trail Street and the Big Corral. Deputy Smalls stood beside him, his head close to Barton’s ear, obviously speaking to him.

Barton frowned, eyes narrowed. Smalls pointed toward the Ramrodders. Barton’s frown deepened.

It occurred to Sam that it might be a good time to have a word with the sheriff. He untied his horse and Johnny’s from the hitching rail. Taking hold of both sets of reins, he walked the horses across the street toward the Big Corral.

Sam had a plan, or at least a strategem. He pitched it to Barton. Barton was game. But—

“We’ve got to act fast, there ain’t much time,” Sam said.

Deputy Smalls rushed to the Big Corral to round up some sidemen. They came back in quick time, fifteen men or more, mostly Dog Star hardcases and a handful of small ranchers. They all hated Vince Stafford’s guts. Barton gave them their orders.

Sam handed off the horses to Hobson’s boy for safekeeping, but not before reaching into his saddlebag. He had a few bundles of dynamite remaining. He took out a spare stick.

He and Barton went ahead of the others, approaching Trail Street. Sam shouldered the mule’s-leg. Barton held the stick of dynamite.

“No need to light the fuse,” Sam said.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” the sheriff said doubtfully.

“I hope you know how to throw.”

“Don’t worry about me, Yank.”

“Throw it high.”

“I will.”

“Don’t wait too long, the boys’re getting ready to pop. NOW!”

Barton threw the stick of dynamite underhand, tossing it high into the air above the middle of Trail Street.

Sam shot it at the height of its arc, tagging it on the wing and detonating it. He and Barton ducked back behind the corner of the feed store to avoid the blast. It shook things up pretty good. Smoke, fire, and a deafening blast knocked men down, shaking buildings and scattering debris.

The gunplay stopped before it could get started. Nobody in the fighting factions knew what the hell was going on.

Drawing his gun, Barton motioned for his men to move up. Their guns were drawn, too. As the smoke cleared on Trail Street. Ramrodders and Golden Spur faction members began picking themselves up off the ground where they’d been knocked down. No one was seriously hurt but they’d all taken a hell of a bruising from the concussion. They were stunned, shaken, and unsure.