William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Before they could recover their wits enough to get back in and fight, Barton and his men had poured into the street, guns drawn, and leveled. They had the drop on them—on both sides.

“Stand down!” Barton shouted, standing at the head of the militiamen armed with rifles, shotguns, and six-guns. Most were leveled on the Ramrod riders, but some covered Damon’s faction across the street.

Sam kept to the rear, off to one side. The situation was volatile enough without injecting his Yankee self into the picture. He’d done his bit; now it was the sheriff’s play.

Kev Huddy was one of the first to stagger upright. His front was all dirty and he had a nosebleed. He trembled with a skinful of adrenaline, his eyes bulging, and his neck cording. “You loco? What’d you do that for?”

“To get your attention,” Barton stated.

Huddy swore.

“I’ll overlook that, considering,” Barton said flatly.

“You crazy peckerwood!”

“That’s one too many. Mind your manners.” Barton wagged his gun in Huddy’s direction.

Big Quent Stafford was one of the few to have remained on his feet despite the blast. “I’ll kill you.” His hand closed on the gun butt, tensing to pull it from the holster.

Barton held his pistol at arm’s length, pointed at Quent’s head. Despite the ringing in everyone’s ears from the blast, the sound of the hammer clicking into place was loud indeed. “Pull that gun and I surely will blow out what little brains you got, Quent.”

Quent froze. “Don’t shoot, Sheriff!”

“Move that hand away and make sure it stays empty.”

Quent eased his hand off the gun butt, his thick fingers uncurling. He raised his hands shoulder-high, holding them there. Barton moved in, shucking Quent’s gun out of the holster and tossing it into the street.

“What do you think you’re doing, Sheriff?” Clay asked.

“Calling a cease-fire. There’s been enough killing today. Boot Hill’s running out of space to bury the dead.”

Flint Ryan was in disbelief. “You threw dynamite at us to get our attention ?”

“Worked, didn’t it?” Barton said, smug.

“What if you missed? We’d ’ve all got blowed up!”

Johnny Cross spotted Sam lurking on the sidelines. “Never mind, Flint. They got an hombre over there who don’t never miss.”

“Careful how you wave that rifle around, Ryan. It’s be a damned shame for you to get yourself shot this late in the game,” Barton said. “We’ve got the drop on all you boys—on both sides—so don’t anyone do anything stupid.”

Vince Stafford stood hunched up in a knot of outrage, fuming. “I told you we was gone tangle, lawman.”

“We’re tangling now. You want it so bad? Quit running your mouth and make your move, Vince.”

“You gonna give me a chance on a fair draw?”

“No. I told you, I’m calling a cease-fire. I’ll bury the first man to go for a gun.”

“You got the whip hand now, but it ain’t gonna end here.”

“Yes, it does.” Barton’s tone held a convincing note of grim fatality, enough to make Vince Stafford take a few steps back, hands held palms upright.

Vince cried, “No. Don’t!—”

Clay quickly interrupted. “You’re a sheriff. You can’t kill him in cold blood.”

“What’ll you bet?” Barton asked. “I’ve got a proposition. If this is a private war, let’s keep it that way. Limited to the interested parties. No sense any of the rest of you getting shot up for no good reason. You’re so all-fired set on gunning down Damon, Vince—fight him yourself. I’m talking about a fair fight between the two of you.”

“Sounds good,” Dan Oxblood opined.

Vince’s face purpled. “You’re working for me, damn you!”

“I quit.”

“Good for you, Red,” Johnny Cross called across the street.

“What do you say, Damon?” Barton asked.

“I’m agreeable.”

Vince scoffed. “Fair fight, you call it. He’s a gunman! I’m just an honest rancher. I make my living selling cattle. What’s fair about that?”

Sam stepped forward. “There’s a way to even it up so it’s a test of nerve rather than who’s the fastest gun.”

Heads turned his way, many with unfriendly eyes. Vince glared, worked up into quite a state. “Nobody asked you to throw your two cents in, Billy Yank!”

“His idea about the dynamite pits didn’t work out too badly. Hear him out,” Johnny Cross said.

“Fight an old-time duel, like the gentry used to do in New Orleans,” Sam suggested. “You ought to know about that, Damon.”

“I may have heard,” Damon allowed.

“Each man has a drawn gun. Stand back-to-back, walk five paces, turn and shoot. That’s all there is to it. Who’s faster on the draw won’t matter,” said Sam.

“Sounds fair to me,” Oxblood agreed.

“Sure—it ain’t your neck,” said Vince.

“Got a better idea? No? Anyone?” Barton asked. “Because one way or another this thing is gonna be settled for good. I don’t aim to have it hanging fire over me or the town. It ends here—now... .

“What do you say, Damon?”

“I have no objection.”

“Vince?”

“Goddamn you!”

“That a yes or a no, Vince?”

Vince was so mad he chewed his lower lip, a clot of froth bubbling in the corner of his mouth.

“Vince?” Barton prompted.

The man was silent. The silence went on for a long time.

“He won’t fight. He’s yellah,” somebody yelled.

Clay cleared his throat. He looked anguished. “Pa, for the honor of the family, the Ramrod brand ...”

“Is it a go, Vince?” asked Barton one more time.

“All right, I’ll do it. Damn your eyes! Nobody can say Vince Stafford ever backed off a fight.”

“Good.”

“A duel of honor,” Damon said mockingly.

Barton held up a hand palm outward. “First, though, we got to disarm both sides, in case there’s any soreheads. Take off your gun belts, boys, and you won’t get hurt.”

He motioned the militiamen forward. “You men move in and collect ’em.”

Somebody said, “The gambler’s men will slaughter us.”

“No they won’t, because we’re taking their guns, too,” Barton said cheerfully. “This ain’t a matter of choice. Anybody reaches ’ll get a bellyful of lead. That goes for you with the scatterguns in the windows. Am I joshing? No!”

“I trust you, Sheriff,” Clay said, unbuckling his gun belt.

“You’re a damned fool, brother,” Quent sneered.

“You didn’t seem so eager to throw down on Barton when you had the chance.”

Smalls led the militiamen doing the collecting. Some went among the Ramrodders, others circulated among the Spur faction, taking rifles and gun belts with holstered guns. Others of the militia held guns leveled on both sides.

“I don’t give up my guns to nobody,” Creed Teece said, when his turn came.

“You heard the man, Creed. Stand down,” Damon said.

Teece hesitated.

“What’re you afraid of? I gave up my guns,” Dan Oxblood called across the street.

“Hell, if you can do, I can,” Teece said, unbuckling his gun belt and handing it to one of the collectors.

“I’ll give my guns up to Mister Yankee.” Johnny Cross gave Sam his .44 and the Navy Colt. “What’d you do with Red Hand?”

“He’s in the Big Corral for safekeeping,” Sam said.

“Good. I got me a feeling that rascal’s hide’s gonna be worth big money.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The hardware made quite a pile. Two piles actually—one for the Ramrod guns, the other for the Spur’s.

“You’ll all get your guns back—afterward,” Barton promised.

Damon Bolt and Vince Stafford stood back-to-back in the square formed by the intersection of Trail Street and a cross street. Each stood holding a six-gun at his side, pointing down. Damon’s jacket was off. He wore a maroon vest and long-sleeved shirt. He was half a head taller than Vince.