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Authors: William W. Johnstone

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In the street, the three gunmen spun around to confront the newcomer. Moran started to go for his gun but thought better of it and held his hand. Totally flummoxed, Haycox and Kern made no move to reach at all.
The easy-walking stranger came to a halt a stone's throw away from them. His arms were at his sides, hands hanging easily over his guns. “I'm Cross.” He smiled. “Looking for me?”
S
EVEN
Marshal Mack Barton stood around jawing with smithy Hobson at the Hangtree livery stable passing the time. They were sharing a big jug of corn liquor, too.
Hobson cooked the home brew himself and it wasn't called White Lightning for nothing. He and the marshal were looking a bit thunderstruck.
Livery stable owner Hobson was a blacksmith, too, and looked the part. He stood six feet plus and 250 pounds of gnarly bone and muscle. He was bareheaded with tight-cropped brick-red hair and beard.
Marshal Barton was about the same size, maybe thirty pounds less, but was not in the same rock-hard physical condition. He had a spade-shaped face, long narrow eyes, and an iron-gray paintbrush mustache. A tin star was pinned to his vest over his left breast.
His face looked like it was cut into a permanent scowl, tight lips with the corners turned down, deep vertical lines bracketing his mouth. Dour, but not without a gleam in his eyes, put there perhaps by Hobson's home brew.
Nothing illegal about it because there was no law against making it. There might have been some law on the books about taxing it, but that was the kind of law Barton ignored.
He and Hobson stood inside the front of the stable barn to one side of the open double doors. A four-sided wedge of warm afternoon sunlight shone into the structure, though they stood in the shade. An open window let in light and air. Against the wall stood a wooden plank table where Hobson did what little paperwork his business required.
“Good brew,” Barton said, smacking wet lips.
“Mebbe you think I don't know it,” Hobson said, chuckling. He reached for the jug, hooking a meaty sausage-link finger through the bottle neck loop. Expertly balancing the jug in the crook of a brawny upraised arm, he raised it to his mouth, uptilted it, and drank deep.
His face was red, flushed, a permanent condition brought on by countless hours spent basking in the heat of a smith's forge. When he lowered the jug, a fresh new red tinge blossomed out on his weathered face, that part of it not masked by his scraggly brick-red beard.
His hair and beard were kept close-cropped by necessity to keep from setting them afire as he hammered white-hot iron and steel into shape at the anvil. Even so, parts of his eyebrows had been singed away, and his beard was mottled with scorch marks where red-hot embers had landed.
Forge fires were banked down low. It was lunchtime. Barton and Hobson were enjoying their midday break. If they wanted to spend their lunch hour drinking instead of eating, it was their business, and who to say them nay?
It was a warm midday. The stable barn was thick with the smell of horseflesh, manure, hay, and oats. They didn't even notice it. Horses were omnipresent in Hangtree and everywhere else, town and country. No one gave it a second thought.
The wide-open center space was bordered on both sides by a rows of stable stalls that stretched the length of the building. Most of the horses were outside in the corral, Hobson preferring to let then run free under the sun.
A mood of easiness generated a laid-back aura. Even the horses seemed to partake of it.
The only discordant note came from somewhere on Trail Street a few blocks north and out of sight. From that direction emanated a kind of braying or yammering that could have come from an ornery jackass.
They paid the noise no never mind. It was something to be ignored, like the buzzing of flies around a manure pile. No matter how clean a stable was kept—and Hobson kept his clean—there was no shortage of manure and flies.
It was the same way with a town, Marshal Barton thought when he put his mind to it. But at the moment, he had better things to occupy his attentions, like the jug of wicked sharp corn liquor.
Hobson's Livery barn fronted north, occupying the south edge of a five-sided dirt—well,
square
wasn't the word, not when the intersection had five sides. Call it a
pentangle
if you must, but to Barton it was just a tricky five-sided intersection.
The easygoing mood was disturbed by the sight of a figure who came running into view south along the street connecting with Trail Street. The blurred antlike figure made its way toward the stable barn at the far end of the street.
Marshal Barton sighed.
This can't be good
.
Hobson finished his turn and reached to hand off the jug to Barton.
“You better hold on to it,” the marshal said.
Hobson's eyebrows—what was left of them—lifted in surprise. “Something wrong with it, Mack?”
“Hell no, Hob. It's good as ever. You cook an almighty fine batch of home brew.”
“What then? You off your feed or something?”
“Duty calls.” Barton indicated the fast approaching figure.
Hobson squinted, eyeing the runner. “Why, I do believe that's Junior Lau.”
“So it is,” Barton said.
“Wonder what that punk kid's in such an all-fired hurry about?”
“Looking for me, probably,” Barton said, sighing.
“What makes you say that?”
“Experience. When folks hereabouts get stirred up enough to get off their lazy asses and get to hustling double quick, they're usually looking for the law.”
The figure neared, making a beeline for the livery stable.
“That's Junior Lau, all right,” Hobson confirmed.
Junior Lau was a freckle-faced teen who clerked at the feed store. He slowed as he neared the livery stable, looking all around as though in search of someone.
Barton stepped to the open entrance where the youngster could see him.
Junior did a take, starting forward. He had a bowl-shaped haircut, bulging eyes, jug-handle ears, and an oversized Adam's apple that looked like a walnut stuck in his throat.
Hobson set the jug down on the table and moved alongside Barton so he could follow the byplay. Junior rushed up, stopping short a few paces away, breathing hard.
“Looking for me, Junior?” Barton asked.
“Yes,
sir
!”
Barton glanced quickly at Hobson as if to say
told you so
. “How'd you know where to find me?”
“I went to the jailhouse first but it was locked up, nobody there,” Junior Lau said. “Fenton from the feed store said he saw you going this way and figgered that's where you might be headed. Better come quick, Marshal—there's trouble!”
“There always is,” Barton said more to himself than to the youngster. “What kind of trouble?”
“Bad trouble, Marshal Mack! Shooting trouble, looks like,” Junior rushed on excitedly. “There's some strangers in town kicking up a fuss outside the Golden Spur! Ornery looking fellows, too, real mean ones—hardcases!”
“Nothing new there. Only they're starting earlier than usual,” Barton said in an aside to Hobson.
“The leader calls himself Moran,” Junior Lau went on.
“Moran?” Barton said, his interest piqued. “Terry Moran?”
“That's the one!”
“Know him, Mack?” Hobson asked.
“I know of him. Him and his bunch have been cutting up a swath in Parker County.”
“That Moran fellow's calling out Johnny Cross!” Junior Lau blurted out.
“He better be careful. He just might find Cross.” Hobson chuckled.
“That's a break.” Barton relaxed. “Cross is out at his ranch.”
“No, sir, he's not,” Junior Lau said. “Him and Luke Pettigrew rode into town this morning.”
“Johnny Cross can take care of himself,” Hobson declared.
Barton frowned. “It ain't him I'm worried about. I don't want any of the townsfolk to get hurt. You say Moran's got some fellows stringing with him, Junior?”
“Yes sir. Looked like five of them in all. Mean-looking hombres, too.”
“I'll take care of it, Junior. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Oh, pshaw! Nothing to it. Glad to help out, Marshal.” Junior didn't leave but stood around waiting.
“Got a shotgun I can borrow, Hob?” Barton asked.
“Sure do,” the smith said. A big-bore double-barreled shotgun stood leaning against the front wall. He broke it to make sure it was loaded. It was. He handed it to the marshal.
“Thanks. That'll save me the time of fetching mine from the jailhouse,” Barton said.
Hobson handed him an open box of cartridges. Barton grabbed a handful, stuffing them into a vest pocket while Junior Lau watched goggle-eyed.
Hobson reached into a table desk drawer, pulling out a six-gun and sticking it into the top of his belt.
“What do you think you're doing?” Barton asked. “As if I didn't know.”
“I don't want to miss the fun,” Hobson said.
Barton shook his head. “I get paid for keeping the peace. You don't.”
“I ain't gonna horn in. I just aim to tag along,” Hobson said. “Can't go to a gunfight without packing one myself. I'd feel undressed . . . nekkid.”
“I reckon so,” the marshal allowed.
“Gonna send for Smalls?” Hobson asked. Smalls was Barton's deputy.
“He's out of town serving writs for nonpayment of taxes. Reckon I'll just have to handle this myself.”
“I got your back.” Hobson stuck a cork in the mouth of the jug, palm-heeling it into place. He stowed the jug out of sight under the table behind some boxes. “Now we can go.” Mock-serious, he looked at the teenager. “That jug better be there untouched when I get back, Junior.”
“Aw, Mr. Hobson! You know I wouldn't steal nothing or sneak a taste—”
“Why not? I'd have done it when I was your age.”
“Don't go giving the lad ideas, Hob,” Barton said.
Junior Lau looked from one to other, face coloring, head swiveling on top of a pipe stem neck. “I would never—”
“We're just funning you, boy,” Barton said.
He and Hobson started across the dirt yard and up the street to Trail Street, Junior Lau following at their heels. The men hustled along in quick time as gunfire sounded ahead.
“Looks like we're late to the ball,” Barton said, quickening his pace, the others matching it. He wasn't much of a one for running. He double-timed, something between jogging and hustling, as aging big men were wont to do.
Excited, Junior started running ahead of them.
“Wait up, Junior! I don't want you running into something you can't handle.”
“Aw, Marshal—”
“You stay well behind me and Hob and get under cover before we reach Trail Street.”
 
 
Johnny Cross's advent in the street had also taken the Randle brothers by surprise, giving them a jolt they tried not to show to the customers in the café.
“Why, that slippery son of a gun! How'd he get there?” Cort swore.
“I'm going to take a look,” Devon said. “Keep these folks covered. Don't want to tempt them into any foolishness. It would be the death of them.”
Cort stood with his back to the front wall, swinging the rifle barrel around to point at the diners.
Luke thought that his chance might have come, but he was doomed to disappointment. He might have been able to get under or around Cort's rifle, but Devon was advancing with gun in hand, putting Luke directly in the line of fire. It would be suicide to make a play, but time was running out.
Devon joined Cort at the front window. He turned his back on the crowd to look outside. “No mystery here. Cross must have sneaked out the back of the saloon and ducked down a side street.”
“Lucky for Terry and the boys that Cross didn't come out shooting from behind. He might have bagged them all shooting them in the back.”
“I'd have shot him first and that would have been the end of the High and Mighty Mr. Cross,” Cort said.
“Terry'd be powerful sore. He's got his heart set on adding Johnny Cross's notch to his gun,” Devon pointed out.
“So he's sore. That's better than being dead.”
Devon had no reply to that one.
“Where's Fly?” Cort asked. “He was posted behind the back of the Spur to set up a holler if he saw Cross making a sneak.”
Devon peered through the window. “I don't see him.”
“Reckon Cross got him.”
“We'd have heard the shooting, Cort.”
“Not if he used a knife. Let me see, Devon.”
“All right. I'll cover them.” Devon turned to cover the assembled customers.
Cort shifted positions at the window. He'd had his rifle pointed at the Golden Spur entrance, but he had to swing it around toward Johnny at the far left of the trio.
“Got a clear shot?” Devon asked.
“I've got him right square in my gun sights,” Cort said.
Luke tensed, ready to make his move.
Devon had more to say. “Well, don't shoot until Terry gives you the signal. He wants this to look like a fair draw.”
E
IGHT
Standing in the street in front of the Golden Spur, Moran, Haycox, and Kern tried not to show their complete surprise.
Moran was the first to recover. “Johnny Cross?”
“That's right,” Johnny said.
“So that's Cross? He don't look like much,” Haycox said low-voiced to Kern.
“He looks like a kid, wet behind the ears,” Kern said.
“Yeah, well, he ain't gonna get any older after today,” Haycox said.
Johnny Cross looked like the young man he was, barely a shade past twenty-one years of age. He had gone to Missouri at the start of the war and had spent the four long years of the conflict as one of Quantrill's guerrillas. The year after Appomattox was no picnic, either, but that's a tale for another time.
Johnny handled himself with an assurance far beyond his years. He was medium-sized, trim, and compactly knit. He was black-haired and clean-shaven, adding to the impression of youth.
Lack of facial hair of some sort was a rarity for most men, but he had his reasons. Too many old-time foemen might remember the wild-haired, scruffily bearded pistol-fighter who had spread such death and destruction in the border states during the war years. He had a new life now and wanted to keep the door to the past firmly shut . . . but was that possible?
Johnny wore a flat-crowned black hat, lightweight brown jacket, gray shirt with black ribbon tie knotted in a bow, and black denims worn over custom-made leather boots. He looked prosperous, another rarity in that time and place. Twin walnut-handled Colt .45s were worn low on lean hips. Nobody was going to take anything of his without a fight.
His lips were curved in a sort of half smile.
The three gunmen changed their grouping. All turned to face Johnny, Haycox and Kern fanning out to bracket Moran on the sides.
Moran stood with fists on hips in a posture of dominance. “Cross!”
“That's right.”
“You deaf or something? You must have heard me calling you out!”
Johnny nodded. “The way you were bawling, they must have heard you clear over to the next county.”
“You took your own sweet time showing your face,” Moran accused.
“I was finishing my drink.”
“Hope you enjoyed it, because it's going to be your last!”
“So it's like that, is it?” Johnny said after a pause, looking Moran up and down as though noticing him for the first time. “I didn't catch your name, friend.”
“Terry Moran,” the other said smugly, relishing the sound of his own name.
“Who?” Johnny asked, trying to get Moran's goat.
“Terry Moran,” the other repeated, nettled. “Don't make out you didn't hear me.”
“I heard you. I just never heard
of
you.”
Johnny had heard of Moran but said otherwise to rile him. It was a ploy to irritate the man, get under his skin, and make him lose his temper. An angry man was at a disadvantage in a fight.
Turned out it didn't take much to get Moran mad. He was hot-tempered, with a short fuse. His face swelled with indignation. “Like hell!” he spat out, red-faced, eyes flashing dangerously. “Don't give me that! You know who I am. Everybody does! I'm Terrible Terry Moran, the bull of the woods in these parts!”
“That so?” Johnny drawled mildly, underplaying. “What can I do you for, Moran?”
Finally, they were getting to the heart of it.
“They say you're fast on the draw,” Moran said.
“They do say that,” Johnny allowed.
“I say I'm faster!” Moran said belligerently, putting some teeth in it.
“There's one way to find out.”
Moran gave a short nod. “That's what I'm fixing to do.”
“Ask him about Fly first, Boss,” Kern prompted Moran.
“Good point. What'd you do to my man Fly?”
“Fly? That the little fellow with the big pop eyes playing lookout in the alley?” Johnny asked.
“He's the one. As if you didn't know!”
Earlier, when Moran was calling him out, Johnny had slipped out the back door of the saloon. Peeking around a corner of the building, he'd spotted Fly planted in the alley. He gave quick thought to what had happened and what to tell Moran.
Fly was looking for him, but Johnny saw him first. He stepped into view, gun leveled on the gunman. Fly was a dead man and he knew it.
With his free hand—the one not holding a gun—Johnny held a finger upright against his lips, motioning for silence. Fly realized he might have a chance of coming out of it alive if he cooperated.
Johnny motioned to Fly to come to him. Fly started forward up the alley, walking stiff-legged like a man trying to make his way against gale-force winds.
Johnny waited patiently for Fly to reach him, then herded Fly behind the back of the building, out of sight of anyone looking into the alley. “You want to live?” Johnny asked soft-voiced.
“Y-yes!” Fly nodded so vigorously his hat almost fell off his head.
Johnny again motioned for silence. “Shh. Turn around, facing the wall.”
Fly did as he was told.
“Take off your hat.”
Fly obeyed. Johnny clipped him, laying the gun barrel across the back of his head, a short savage blow. Fly's eyes rolled up and he went down, out cold.
Johnny holstered his gun and shucked Fly's gun from its holster, breaking it, swinging out the cylinder, and spilling the rounds into his open palm. He threw them away and returned the gun to its holster.
Grabbing Fly by the collar, he dragged him to the back of the building, propping him up in a sitting position. He arranged him so he looked like he was taking a nap or, more likely in Hangtree, sleeping off a drunk.
Fly's head was bowed, chin resting on his chest. Johnny put Fly's hat on top of the little man's head, pulling it down tight so it would stay in place.
“Have a nice siesta,” Johnny said, going down the alley. He peeked around the corner of the saloon to make sure no one else was laying for him.
No one besides Moran and the other two facing the front of the Golden Spur and watching for him. Satisfied, he stepped out into Trail Street to confront them.
“What'd you do to Fly?” Moran again demanded.
Johnny shrugged. He didn't bother to go into the whole scenario. Moran wasn't worth it. “He's having a little siesta behind the saloon. You'll have to get along without him.”
“I can take care of myself, mister, as you'll soon find out.”
“What're those two for, to hold your coat?” Johnny indicated Haycox and Kern.
“Insurance in case any of your pals tries to butt in.”
“You don't know Hangtown very well. Here, a man fights his own battles.”
“That suits me fine.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“You got a big rep, Cross. I rode all the way from Weatherford to try you out,” Moran said.
“You came a long way to die,” Johnny told him.
 
 
Ranchers Andy and Jed came out of the Feed and Grain store on the south side of Trail Street. They were arguing the merits of different types of oats and grains for feeding thoroughbred horses, not that they owned any. They'd been in the back room with the store's owner and were unaware of the trouble brewing on the street.
They were halfway to the cross street before realizing that they'd walked right into the middle of a showdown. Cal grabbed Jed's arm so hard that the other winced in pain.
Jed halted, face contorted. “Let go my arm Cal. You're hurting me. What the hell's the matter with you?” He caught sight of Johnny confronting three tough-looking hombres in the middle of Trail Street, and the implications sank in. “Let's get out of here!” he said, low-voiced and urgent.
The two glanced around, looking for a hole to hide in. The nearest refuge was Mabel's Café.
Cal ducked into a crouch, lunging for the café door with Jed close behind.
Cal grabbed the door handle, tearing at it. To his surprise and dismay it refused to open.
Jed crowded up against Cal in his eagerness to be off the street before the shooting started. “Get in there Cal, why don't you—?”
“Can't! Door's stuck. Won't open.”
Cal rattled the doorknob of the immovable door, alternating with quick glances over his shoulder at the gunmen squaring off in the street. “It's locked!” he moaned.
“Blamed fools!” Jed agonized.
Cal made a fist, thumping it on the door, pounding away. “Open up, ya blasted idjits!”
“Who's that on t'other side of the door?” Jed said, trying to see inside.
“Yuh got me. Don't know him from Adam.”
It was Devon Randle peering out from behind the flap of a lifted shade. He wanted no attention attracted to the café for fear of tipping Johnny Cross's notice to the planned ambuscade at Mabel's.
“Open up. Unlock the door and let us in!” Cal demanded.
“We're full up. Keep moving,” Devon growled.
Cal kept pounding away with the bottom of a ham-like fist, shaking the door, rattling it in its frame. “Quit your foolishness and open up that danged door before I bust it open!”
Frantic hammering knocked a square pane of glass clean out of the window frame. It fell to the café floor, shattering.
Cal was intent on reaching through the hole to unlock and open the door, but before he could do so Devon raised a gun to the open square where the glass had been. He pointed it at Cal, who froze.
The hombre meant business!
“My momma didn't raise no damn fools!” Cal said, choking.
Looking over Cal's shoulder, Jed could see the gun, too. “What's going on here?”
“Get out of here before I put a bullet in you!” Devon said. “Go on, git!”
Cal and Jed didn't need to be shot to convince them to move along. They got out of there, scurrying west to the next cross street, turning left around the corner, down the street, and out of sight.
 
 
“Opportunity knocks,” or so they say. In this case, literally.
Distraction and diversion. It was more than Luke had dared hope for. He planned to make a move no matter what—he
had
to—come what may at whatever cost to himself. Then Cal and Jed had blundered along, scared witless and thinking only of getting off the street before the shooting started. Their timely interruption broke the concentration of Cort and Devon Randle.
Standing at the far end of the three windows near where Luke was sitting on the edge of his seat, Cort's attention was focused on the Trail Street face-off, waiting for the signal from Moran.
Moran wanted the showdown to look like a fair fight, but he was taking no chances. The plan was to signal Cort to shoot Johnny at the same time Moran drew and fired his gun. It would look like Moran outgunned Johnny fair and square, so long as nobody examined the corpse too closely and found the bullet from Cort's rifle in Johnny's back.
Moran and his crew would stage-manage the aftermath of the killing to make sure their secret was protected. They had worked the dirty dodge before in other gunfights, or so Luke understood from picking up on the veiled hints and references in the conversations of the Randle brothers.
“Wait till Terry pushes his hat back on his head. That's the go-ahead to shoot,” Devon coached his brother.
“I know, I know,” Cort said, impatient and dismissive. “I'll put the first one in Cross's belly right above the gun belt. That'll take the starch out of him!”
Such must not be, Luke told himself.
Devon stood at the front door watching Cal and Jed scuttle away. He chuckled. “That got them going. Put them on the hop like a couple frightened rabbits.”
Cort couldn't help but glance away from the street to his brother. “Good! Can't have them tipping Cross that something's not right with the café.”
Luke grabbed his crutch, holding it in both hands, right hand uppermost, with its upper end (curved and padded) pointed at Cort's middle. Using a crutch constantly had endowed Luke with tremendous upper-body strength. He struck suddenly, savagely, without warning, thrusting the crutch at Cort's crotch, right square above where his legs forked. It was a wicked blow, vicious, and he didn't spare the horses any.
He'd been a champion first-class bayonet fighter back in the war, wielding the bayonetted musket with authority to club, smash, and spear. He hadn't lost his touch, he was happy to discover.
Luke slammed a wicked butt-stroke home into Cort's middle, right where it hurt the most. No man born of woman can withstand that kind of punishment.
Cort folded up, imploding. The impact rocked him back on his heels. He pancaked, folding at the knees. Breath whooshed out in a shocked gasp.
His face deathly pale, eyes bulging, mouth a black sucking O, Cort let the rifle fall from nerveless fingers and grabbed himself between both legs as he folded up.
The rifle clattered to the floor but didn't go off. Too bad. It would have tipped Johnny to the lay of the land.
It was all happening so fast there was no time for thought and to stall would be fatal.
Devon whipped around, guns in hand. He held death in each hand, but for a few fateful heartbeats he had no shot. Brother Cort was in the way.
Pushing off with his good right foot, Luke lurched forward and down, grabbing hold of the butt of his sawed-off shotgun where it sat fixed in the leather carrying strap across the back of the empty chair at the table. All came tumbling down with him. Luke, weapon, and chair crashed to the floor.
BOOK: Rebel Yell
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