Authors: William W. Johnstone
A Good Day to Die (3 page)
The storeclerk and the young woman set the packages down in the back of the cart and went back into the store.
“Good-looking gal,” Johnny stated. “Seems familiar, somehow.”
“That's FayâFay Lockhart, hoss,” Luke said, laughing. “Don't you recognize her?”
“She's filled out nicely since the last time I saw her. I'd have bet she would have been long gone from Hangtown. She always talked about how much she hated it here and couldn't wait to leave.”
“She's been gone, and now she's back. Like you.”
“And you!”
“No staying away from Hangtown, is there? Calls you home. Fay got married and moved away, but here she is, back at the same ol' stand.”
“Married to who?” Johnny pressed.
“Some stranger, name of Devereaux. Cavalry officer. Way I heard it, they met while she was visiting kinfolk in Houston. He was on leave. They courted in a whirl and got hitched. He went back to join his troops and got killed a month or two later. Fay came back here to live with her folks.”
Johnny thought that over. “Believe I'll go say hello to the widow.”
“That'd be right sociable of you.”
“I'm a sociable fellow, Luke.”
“With a pretty girl, you are.”
Johnny didn't deny it. “Coming?”
Luke shook his head. “She's your friend.”
“Yours, too.”
“I knew her to say hello to, back in the day. That's 'cause I was a friend of yours. Elsewise we moved in different circles. Them high-and-mighty Lockharts don't have no truck for us Pettigrews.”
“For the Crosses, neither,” Johnny said.
“You and her got along pretty good, I do recall.”
Johnny tried to wave it away. “Kid stuff.”
“She ain't no kid now,” Luke said.
“I noticed.”
Luke indicated some empty rocking chairs on the front porch of the Cattleman Hotel. “I'll set there for a while, take a load off.”
“Them stairs ain't gonna be a problem?”
“I can handle 'em.”
“I'll be along directly, then.”
“Take your time. Tell Fay I said hello, for what it's worth. If she even remembers me. Regrets about her dead husband and allâyou know.”
“Sure.” Johnny tossed the stub of his cigar into the street, where it landed with a splash of tiny orange-red embers. Crossing the street, he climbed the three low, wooden steps to the boardwalk. He took off his hat, running a hand through straight, longish black hair, pushing it back off his forehead and behind his ears. He put the hat back on, tilting it to a not-too-rakish angle.
Unconsciously squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath and went into Lockhart's Emporium for the first time in over five years.
It was a big rectangular space, with a short wall fronting the street. Rows of shelves filled with goods lined both long walls. Beyond the door lay an open center aisle flanked by trestle tables, bins, and barrels filled with merchandiseâeverything imaginable. From black broadcloth jackets and gingham dresses to bolts of cloth, needles, and thread. Hardware, including plows, tools, harnesses, traces and saddles. Cracker barrels and casks of nails, sacks of beans and flour, rows of canned goods. Luxuries and necessities, it was filled with a world of stuff.
Owner Russ Lockhart, Fay's father, was absent from the premises. No doubt he was at the big table in a private dining room at the Cattleman Hotel, where his brother-in-law, town boss Wade Hutto, held court every Saturday morning, attended by Hangtown's gentry of bankers, merchants, and big ranchers. The Saturday morning meets were one of the few things that could entice Russ Lockhart out from behind the store's cash register.
The store was busy, crowded with customers. Johnny didn't have to look hard to find Fay. She just naturally stood out from the rest as she showed a bonnet to a townswoman. Her aunt Nell, a sour-faced old biddy, was helping out.
A watchful young woman who kept a wary eye on the clientele, Fay glanced up to see who had entered. She saw a handsome, well-dressed young man about her own age, a not-so-usual sight that made her look twice.
“Would you take care of this lady, Aunt Nell? I'll only be a moment.” Not waiting for an answer, Fay put the bonnet down, scooting out from behind the counter and down the center aisle.
Nell started to squawk, choking it off as Fay kept moving toward the newcomer, her eyes shining, smiling warmly. “Johnny! Johnny Cross!”
“Howdy, Fay. Long time no see.”
She reached out with both arms, taking his hands, squeezing them warmly. He couldn't help noticing a thin gold band circling the base of her ring finger. Wedding band.
Unsure how to respond, he was a bit awkward.
Fay leaned forward, kissing him lightly on the cheek. His skin tingled at the contact. Some free-falling strands of her hair brushed his face, smelling sweet. Intoxicating.
She stepped back, still holding his hands, looking him over. “It's so good to see you!”
She released him, hands falling to her sides. “I heard you were back. I was wondering when we'd run into each other. Why didn't you come to see me sooner?”
“I've been busy getting settled back at the ranch, fixing the old place up,” he said.
“You've been busy, all right. Everybody's talking about how you cleaned up that awful outlaw gang. You're a hero, Johnny!”
“Don't believe everything you hear, Fay. These things are like fish stories, they get all puffed up in the telling. I just pitched in and helped out a little where I could, that's all.”
“Don't be so modest. It was a wonderful thing you did. Not a man or woman was safe with those killers on the loose.”
“Nice of you to say so, anyhow. I was sorry to hear about your loss, Fay. Your husband, that is. Real sorry.”
Fay's face clouded, emotion flickering across it. Her blue eyes were shadowed and sorrowful, her mouth turned down at the corners. “Thank you, Johnny. LamarâCaptain Devereauxâwas a gallant officer and a gentleman.”
“I'm sure.”
“You would have liked him.”
Johnny wasn't so sure about that, but he nodded as if he was.
Fay said, “Who hasn't lost someone in the war? Your brother, Cal ...”
Johnny shook his head. “No, Cal didn't make it.”
“That's what I heard. Now it's my turn to say I'm sorry.”
“Thanks.”
Behind the counter, Aunt Nell snapped, “Fay! I could use some help here!”
“In a minute, Aunt Nell. I'm talking with an old friend.”
Nell thrust her head forward, peering at the young man. “Johnny Cross! Land's sakes! I didn't recognize you. It's the first time I ever saw you in clean clothes.”
“Nell!” Fay said sharply.
Johnny touched the tip of his hat brim to the older woman. “And a good morning to you, ma'am.”
“Is it? We'll see,” Nell said, her tone and expression indicating otherwise.
“So you're going to be staying in Hangtree?” Fay asked.
“For a while,” Johnny answered.
“Good. I'm glad.” Faye smiled, putting the full force of her considerable personal appeal behind it.
Johnny felt it all the way down to his toes as he became distantly aware of some kind of commotion brewing outside. It was like the buzzing of a nearby fly that hadn't quite yet begun to pestify.
Somebody shouted out in the street. People in the store started moving up front to see what it was all about.
A man outside was yelling, going on about something at some length and sounding distinctly unhappy.
Muffled by distance, Johnny couldn't make out the words. But he didn't care for the man's tone. Something about it, some raw, ragging note of derision, made the back of his neck start to get hot.
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.
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'tâ”
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.
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