William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Damon faced the north of the cross street, Vince faced south. It was blocked out that way so neither party had the disadvantage of facing into the morning sun.

Barton stood to one side, gun held level at his hip, pointed in the general direction of both men. “It’s simple enough. I’ll call out the count. You step off and keep the pace. At the count of five, turn and fire. Keep shooting till it’s done. Any questions?”

Silence.

“Anybody’s got any kick, speak now or forever hold your peace. Damon?”

“Ready.”

“Vince?”

“Get on with it.”

A crowd of spectators had gathered. Luke Pettigrew sat on a chair on the front porch of the Golden Spur, Morrissey standing beside him. The batwing double doors of the Spur swung open.

Out came Mrs. Frye, her long, ankle-length skirts swishing. Her face was taut and pale, her lips tightly pressed into a line. She and Damon crossed glances.

The Stafford brothers stood off to one side, Clay behind and to one side of Quent. Clay nudged Quent in the small of the back with something hard and metallic. “Hsst! Take it!” Clay whispered.

Quent started.

“Easy—don’t give away the game. Reach behind you,” Clay said.

Quent put his hands behind his back. Clay surreptitiously pressed a gun into the other’s palm, a short-barreled .32 revolver.

“A pocket pistol they forgot to look for. I’ve got one, too,” Clay said, low voiced.

Quent grunted. His oversized hand closed over the gun, hiding it. It disappeared inside his big fist.

“Not now, though. Wait,” Clay said. “Follow my play, in case Pa don’t make it.”

“I know what to do.”

“I thought you would,” Clay said, smiling.

The sheriff gave a last word to the duelists. “Start walking when I start counting. At the count of five, turn and shoot. Anybody turns before five, I’ll shoot him dead, savvy?”

“And if he misses, I won’t,” Squint McCray said from the sidelines.

Barton took a few steps back, away from the duelists. “Ready, gents?”

They were. Barton stood with his gun held hip high, elbow at his side, calling, “One!”

Damon and Vince stepped off, guns held pointed downward at their sides.

“Two.”

“Three ... Four ... Five! ”

Vince spun around, whippet-quick. Bringing the gun up, he jerked the trigger, banging away.

At the same time, Damon turned in one easy, fluid motion, leveling the pistol. A slug tore through the muscle at the top of his left shoulder. He fired once, shooting Vince Stafford in the chest.

Vince wavered, shuddering. He planted himself in a wide stance, stiff-legged, like a man trying to keep his balance on the deck of a storm-tossed ship at sea.

Damon squeezed out several more shots, cutting Vince’s heart to pieces. Vince fell, measuring his length in the dirt of the street. His right foot kicked several times, the way a dog’s might when it dreams of running. He stopped kicking. He was dead.

An inarticulate cry of rage and pain came choking from Quent. Clay rasped, “Now!”

Quent was already in motion, raising the gun in his hand. The pocket pistol looked like a toy in his big fist. He pointed it at Damon.

Clay slammed into Quent, pushing him to one side, into the open. Quent howled, outraged by the betrayal. His shots went wild, missing Damon.

Damon didn’t miss. Quent was huge, a monster of raw animal vitality; he could take a lot of body shots and keep on coming. Damon went for the headshot, planting a slug above Quent’s eyebrows.

Quent’s head snapped backward, as if kicked by a mule. A round black dot, coin-sized, flashed into being in the middle of his low forehead.

His massive form followed the violent snapback of his head, toppling. A jet of blood so dark as to appear black spurted from the wound, fountaining out, tracing a curving arc as it followed him down to the ground. He landed with a thump, head lolling to one side.

Damon stepped forward, gun raised, ready to continue the fray to a finish with the last of the Staffords.

Clay was having none of it. He wasn’t reaching, had never made a move toward his gun. He stood with his hands held way out away from his sides. Empty hands.

“You want some, too?” Damon asked.

“Not me,” Clay said, breathing hard. “I’ve got no gun.”

“Get one. I’ll wait.”

Clay shook his head. “No. It’s over.”

“Expect me to believe that?” Damon scoffed.

“Believe it.”

“Man, I just killed your father and brother!”

“That makes me boss of the Ramrod. Thanks.” Clay smiled then, slow and sardonic, a smile to give one pause.

“You sound none too grief stricken at that,” Damon conceded.

“You beat Pa in a fair duel. Quent threw down on you. I’m not kicking,” Clay said. “I’m not armed, either. Shoot me and it’s murder, cold-blooded murder, and you’ll be dangling from a rope on the Hanging Tree. Ain’t that right, Sheriff?”

Barton, more than a bit taken aback by the turn of events, said at last, “Uh, yeah. That’s right.”

Damon said warningly, “If this is a trick, Clay ...”

“No trick. Like the man said, there’s been enough killing today.”

Damon lowered the gun to his side. “Damned if I can figure you out.”

Clay turned, facing his riders. “None of us Staffords are big on explaining ourselves but I’ll give you all this much, once. Pa was—well, you know what he was like. The whole town could be sacked and burned by Comanches if that’s what it took for him to get his revenge. I didn’t see it that way, but there was no telling him different while he was alive.

“He’s dead now and I’m in charge and what I say goes. You take orders from me. Any of you don’t like it, draw your time and get out. You want to make war on the Spur, be my guest. But you’ll be doing it on your own, with no help from me. No help and no pay! I reckon you savvy that.

“This town’s going to need a lot of rebuilding. Let’s bury our dead and get on with it.”

Clay turned back to Damon. “I’m quits with it if you are. As far as I’m concerned, we’re square. You go about your business and I’ll do the same.”

“A smart man knows when to fold his cards and cut his losses,” Damon said thoughtfully.

“We’re square?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

“You’ll pardon me if we don’t shake hands. Peace or no peace, I prefer to keep my gun hand ready,” Damon said dryly.

“Do as you please,” Clay said.

“I generally do.”

“I don’t expect us to be chums, but at least we can stay out of each other’s hair.” Clay nodded toward Damon’s arm. “Better see to yourself. You’re leaking.”

Damon’s white shirtsleeve was bloody from left shoulder to elbow. Red droplets fell to the street. “I’ll live.”

“Then you can count it a good day, gambler,” Clay said, turning away. He almost bumped into Dan Oxblood.

“All dressed up and no place to go,” Oxblood said, grinning wryly.

“You’ll be paid for the work done, Red.”

“Thank you kindly, Clay.”

“If you want to try out Creed, though, it’s on your dollar.”

“Some other time, mebbe. See you,” Oxblood said, fading into the background, making himself absent.

Francine Hayes came out of the Golden Spur, going down the stairs and into the street. Breezing past Damon without a glance, she went to Clay, who rushed forward to meet her with open arms. Her eyes shone and her face glowed.

Clay swept her up, embracing her slim yet nicely rounded form. They went into a clinch, Clay crushing his mouth against hers, Francine kissing him back passionately. When they came up for air, Francine said, “Thank God you’re alive, Clay!”