Authors: William W. Johnstone
A Good Day to Die (4 page)
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. “Ranchersâa 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 areâa 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 gunâuse it,” Bliss Stafford spat out.
“Put that gun away, Bliss,” Hutto said.
“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.
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 Streetâtoo late!âcame 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 crowdedâhe 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 amâBill 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?âas 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 willingâwhich 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.
Barton stood with fists on hips, looking up at him. “Now why does that not surprise me?”
Johnny shrugged. He and the sheriff had a history, going back to Johnny's boyhood days when Barton was deputy.
“I reckon we still got the right of self-defense in this country. That Stafford fellow was on the prod, spoiling for a fight. Damon did what he had to do. I would've done the same, so would any man here. That's how I'll tell it in court,” Johnny said.
“Me, too” Luke chimed in.
“Just a couple of public-spirited citizens, eh?'
“You know us, Sheriff. Always ready to help out the law,” Johnny said.
Barton laughed out loud without humor at that one. “You only been back for a month or two so you might not be up to speed yet. What do you know about Vince Stafford and his Ramrod outfit?”
“Not a thing.”
“A bad bunch to mess with.”
“That supposed to make a difference to me?”
“Not you, you're too ornery.” Barton turned to Luke. “You got no excuse, though. You've been back long enough to know the way of things.”
“I ain't worried, Sheriff. I got you to protect me,” Luke said, all innocent-faced.
“Yeah? Who's gonna protect me?”
“Deputy Smalls?” Johnny suggested.
“You boys don't give a good damn about nothing, do you? I like your nerve, if nothing else,” Barton said. “It's your funeral. Don't say I didn't warn you.”
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