William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

“Like hell! This is no business of yours, Hutto. Back off before you get hurt,” Bliss warned.

“Everything that happens in Hangtree is my business, you young jackaknapes,” Hutto said, coloring.

“You might throw some weight with these toothless townmen, but nobody tells Bliss Stafford what to do.”

“Vince might see it different.”

Some color came into Bliss’s face. “Yeah, well, Pa ain’t here now.”

“A good thing for you he’s not, otherwise he’d knock some sense into you,” Hutto said. “I’ve got a lot of respect for Vince, too much to let you go off half-cocked and get yourself into bad trouble, Bliss.”

“I kicked over the traces a long time ago. Now I do what I please. And it pleases me to give this tinhorn what he’s got coming to him.”

Hutto turned to Damon. “Maybe I can get a straight answer out of you, Bolt. What’s this all about?”

Bliss Stafford spoke first. “It’s about my girl, Francine. Damon’s trying to keep me from her, keep us apart. That’s why he’s got to die.”

Hutto looked grave, like a doctor giving a heedless patient bad news. “You’re playing with fire, Bliss. Vince told you to forget about Francine Hayes.”

“What does Pa know about it? He’s old. I’m young! I got blood in my veins, hot blood, not ice water. Francine belongs to me. She’s mine!” Bliss made a warning gesture with his free hand, dismissing Hutto. “I’m through talking. Slap leather, gambler!”

“Against a drawn gun?” Damon said lightly, the corners of his lips upturned in a mocking smile. “I think not.”

Bliss Stafford thought that one over. From his deeply lined brow and fierce frown, it could be seen that thinking was hard work for him. Coming to a decision, he shoved his gun back in the holster. “There! Now we’re even up. The odds good enough for you, now? There’s nothing to stop you from reaching. Why don’t you draw?”

“It’s too nice a morning for killing,” Damon said.

“Draw, damn you!”

Damon tsk-tsked in a tone of real or affected sadness. “You see how it is, Hutto? There’s just no reasoning with the boy.”

“Boy? Who you calling boy? You see a boy around here, kill him. Because I surely mean to kill you,” Bliss cried.

“Don’t do it, Bolt,” Hutto said.

“You’re my witness, Hutto. You and everyone else here. I gave him every out,” Damon said.

Bliss Stafford shook with rage. “Enough talk! I count to three and then I’m coming up shooting!”

“You’re making a big mistake, Bliss,” Damon said.

“One!”

“Still time to back off and save yourself.”

“Two!”

“Shoot and be damned, then.”

“Three!” Bliss drew his gun, clearing the holster.

A shot rang out.

Bliss jerked as a slug tore into his chest. The impact spun him around halfway, his leveled gun unfired.

Damon’s gun was held hip-high, pointed at Bliss. A puff of gunsmoke hovered around the muzzle.

Bliss looked surprised. He crossed gazes with Hutto, whose face showed pity mingled with contempt, but no surprise. Bliss toppled, falling sideways into the dirt. A final trembling spasm marked the last of the life leaving him.

Hurrying west on Trail Street—too late!—came Sheriff Mack Barton and Deputy Clifton Smalls.

Damon stepped back. Turning, he covered the newcomers with his gun. The lawmen slowed to a halt.

Barton, in his mid-forties, had a face like the butt end of a smoked ham. A wide straight torso hung down from broad, sloping shoulders; his legs were short and bandy. He wore a dark hat, gray shirt, black string tie, and a thin black vest with a tin star pinned over the right breast.

A Colt .45 was holstered on the right hip of a well-worn gun belt. He’d stayed alive for a long time by not rushing into things blindly. He was not about to start.

Deputy Smalls was tall, thin, reedy. Storklike. His gun stayed holstered, too. He took his cue from his boss.

Wade Hutto hauled from his jacket pocket a handkerchief the size of a dinner napkin and mopped his face with it. He’d sweated plenty during the face-off. “Nice work, Sheriff. You managed to get here too late to stop it.”

Few dared talk to Barton in that tone, including Hutto, except when he was rattled, as he was now.

“You got no call to speak to me like that, Wade,” Barton said.

Hutto had put Barton in as sheriff. For most intents and purposes he was Hutto’s man, but Barton had a stubborn maverick streak that showed itself when he was crowded—he was a real son of Texas. There was no sense in getting on his bad side anytime, but especially with a potential crisis brewing.

Hutto backed down. “You’re right, of course, Sheriff. I spoke out of turn in the heat of the moment. Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Barton said gruffly.

“This is a hell of a mess!”

Damon eased his gun into the holster, hand loitering not too far from the gun butt.

“Might as well inspect the damage.” Barton and Smalls edged around the body, Hutto joining them. Bliss Stafford lay twisted on the ground, upper body turned faceup. A dark red hole marked his left breast.

Barton glanced down at the body, making his quick, expert appraisal. “Dead.”

“Deader’n hell,” Smalls seconded, nodding.

Hutto turned to Damon. “You went and did it. You couldn’t just wing him. Oh no. You had to kill him. Now it’s Katie-bar-the-door! Oh, there’ll be hell to pay when Vince hears of this. Why didn’t you shoot the gun out of his hand, or just wound him?”

“Who do you think I am—Bill Hickock?” Damon retorted.

“You got him right through the heart. I call that pretty fair shooting!”

Damon shrugged.

Barton took off his hat, scratched his head. He heaved a great sigh. “What happened?”

“I was on my way to Lauter’s Tonsorial Parlor for a shave and a haircut when Bliss came gunning for me. I wouldn’t draw, but he fired on me anyhow,” Damon said.

“What for did he have a mad on?—as if I didn’t know,” Barton said.

Damon was silent.

“Things finally came to a head over the Hayes gal,” Hutto volunteered.

“Francine Hayes,” Barton said.

“If that’s her name, yes.”

“Don’t bull me, Wade. You know her name. We all do. Francine Hayes. Lord knows Bliss and Vince have been kicking up a ruckus about her lately. Little slip of a gal got Bliss all tied up in knots so he couldn’t think straight,” Barton said. “Not that he was ever much of one for using his head.”

“Bliss wanted Miss Hayes to run off and elope with him,” Damon said. “Impossible, of course, even if she was willing—which she wasn’t. Vince would never have stood for it. He even sent his son Clay around to buy her off. Francine was willing about that, but Bliss was having none of it. He threatened to kill his own brother if he tried to interfere. Francine held out, for which Bliss blamed me. He thought if I was out of the way he’d have a clear field.”

Damon looked around at the various witnesses and rubberneckers hemming in the scene. “You all saw it. Bliss would have it this way. He left me no choice. I had to defend myself.”

“Mebbe, but that won’t cut no ice with Vince,” Barton said.

“I can stand it.”

“You only think you can,” Hutto said.

Damon looked at him. Hutto was first to break eye contact, looking away.

“A clearcut case of self-defense, Sheriff. Everybody saw it,” Damon said.

“How many will swear to it at the inquest, though?” Barton asked. The milling crowd shrank back, sheepish, none meeting the lawman’s eyes. “Anybody?” Barton pressed.

“I will,” Johnny Cross said, standing at the porch rail.