William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Fay frowned, glancing toward the storefront windows.

“What’s all that commotion?” Nell said, sharp voiced with irritation.

“Some drunk, probably,” a stiff-faced rancher put in.

“Hmph! And before noon, too! I declare I don’t know what this town is coming to!” Nell exclaimed.

“He don’t sound like no happy drunk,” Johnny noted. He was just getting reacquainted with lovely Fay when a shot sounded.

“Uh-oh.” That’s Hangtown for you, he thought. A fellow can’t even strike up a chat with a pretty girl on Saturday morning without gunplay breaking out.

Fay started toward the door. Nell thrust out a hand as if to arrest her progress. “Fay, don’t—”

Others moved toward the storefront for a better look. Johnny, cat-quick, rushed up the center aisle, smoothly interposing himself between Fay and the open doorway. “You want to be careful when bullets are flying, Fay. Best wait here where it’s safe. I’ll go take a look.”

She started to say something but he was already out the door. The disturbance was centered two streets east on Trail Street. Only the one shot had been fired. The shouting continued, however, with no letup. It was louder and more abusive than before.

Johnny started toward it, then glanced back to see what Fay was doing. She stood just inside the doorway looking out but not following.

Glancing right, Johnny saw Luke standing along the rail of the Cattleman’s front porch, facing toward the ruckus. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks that Luke wasn’t involved in the fracas. Trouble had a way of finding Luke, and vice versa.

Of course, Luke thought the same thing about Johnny. They were both right, but at least, they were both well out of the trouble this time.

The street ahead was emptying. Scrambling for the sidelines, some sheltered in doorways, alcoves, or behind abutments. Others, farther away, thinking themselves safe, stood out in the open, craning to see what the ruckus was all about.

Men came out of the hotel lobby and dining room in a rush to see what was happening. They stood flattened behind upright pillars, crouched behind rocking chairs, peeking around corners. Staring oval faces clustered in the front entrance, others pressed against the windows.

Luke stood leaning for support against a porch column. Johnny pressed forward, boot heels scuffing on the plank boardwalk, until he crossed the street and climbed up on the porch. “Hey, Luke.”

“You’re just in time for the show.”

Two men faced off in the square where a sidestreet met Trail Street. They were at opposite ends of the square, one at the northeast corner, the other at the southwest, facing each other across the diagonal.

A man standing near Luke peeked out from behind a white column. “Bliss Stafford’s gunning for Damon Bolt! Called him out!”

“He must be crazy.” Another man stood on one knee, peering between the bars of the porch rail.

“Crazy drunk,” said a third.

“I seen it all,” said the first speaker. “Damon was going to the barbershop when young Stafford ran out of the hotel and drew on him.”

“He must’ve been inside laying for him,” the second man said.

Damon Bolt was the owner of the Golden Spur, a saloon and gambling hall frequented by a fast, hot-blooded sporting crowd. A riverboat gambler from New Orleans, he’d come west after the war, settling in Hangtown.

Johnny knew him casually. He liked the man, what he’d seen of him. Liked the way he handled himself. Bliss Stafford was unknown to him. It was the first time he’d heard the name.

Bliss Stafford stood with his back to the hotel. Hatless, he showed a mop of yellow-gold curls. His expensive clothes were rumpled and wrinkled, as though he’d slept in them. He crouched with a smoking gun in his right hand, swaying, as though reeling under a wind only he could sense.

Opposite him stood Damon Bolt. His right hand rested near the butt of a holstered gun worn low on the right hip. He was tall and thin, almost gaunt, with a high pale forehead and deepset dark eyes. The hair on his head and his mustache were raven black.

He wore a brown morning coat, red cravat, tan waistcoat, and brown pants. His neat, small feet were encased in shiny brown boots. He seemed calm and self-possessed, oblivious of being under a drawn gun.

Bliss Stafford circled around to one side, angling for a better line of fire on Damon. His movements showed his face in three-quarter profile to those on the hotel’s front porch.

He seemed younger than Johnny, and more immature. Handsome in an overripe way, his looks were spoiled by a sullen, sneering mouth. His face was flushed, his eyes were red.

Johnny nudged Luke. “Who’s this here Stafford?” he asked, low-voiced.

“Stafford family came in last year,” Luke said, speaking out of the side of his mouth. “Ranchers—a hard-nosed bunch. Bought up some prime land on the South Fork. Ramrod Ranch, they call it. Got more gun hands than cowhands riding for the brand. Bliss is the youngest, the baby of the family. A mean drunk and not much better sober.”

“He must be a damned fool, calling out Damon Bolt,” Johnny whispered.

The man standing by the white column turned and gave them a sharp look. “Walk soft, strangers. Bliss has killed his man and more. All the Staffords have. A bad outfit to buck.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Johnny said. “But thanks for the advice,” he added, seeing from the other’s demeanor that he meant only to pass along a friendly warning.

Bliss Stafford drew himself up. “I’m calling you out, gambler!”

“I have no quarrel with you, Stafford,” Damon Bolt said.

“I got a quarrel with you. You should never have got between me and Francine.”

Damon frowned. “This is hardly the time or place to bandy words about a lady, sir.”

“Things were fine between us until you horned in!” Bliss shouted.

“You are mistaken, sir. Miss Hayes has made it clear your attentions to her are unwelcome.”

“You’re a liar!”

Damon shook his head, seeming more in sorrow than in anger, almost pitying the young man.

Bliss’s face, already florid, reddened further as he went on. “You’re a fine one with all your fancy talk, making out like you’re a real Southern gentleman. You ain’t fooling nobody. Everybody in town knows what you are—a four-flushing tinhorn and whoremonger!”

Damon gave off a chill. “Have a care, sir. Say what you will about me, but I don’t care to hear the ladies in my employ being abused.”

“You don’t, eh? What are you going to do about it?”

“You’re the one with the gun. What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

A man stood at the head of a press of spectators thronging the front entrance of the hotel. He pushed forward, starting across the porch. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, good clothes, and shiny boots. He was fiftyish, trim, with a handsome head of silver hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and the beginnings of a double chin.

He was Wade Hutto, a powerful man in the town and the county. He descended the front stairs into the street, circling round into the intersection. Moving at a measured pace, he approached the face-off from the side, showing himself to both men yet careful not to get between them.

Johnny nudged Luke with an elbow. “Looks like the bull of the woods is sticking his horns in.”

“Must be something in it for him. Ol’ Wade don’t stick his neck out for nothing,” Luke said.

In the street, Hutto harumphed. “What the devil are you two playing at?”

“Ask Stafford. He threw down on me,” Damon said.

“You got a gun—use it,” Bliss Stafford spat out.

“Put that gun away, Bliss,” Hutto said.