A Good Day to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  The victors looked around, guns in hand. No more challengers presented themselves.

  The bullet-pierced mirror came undone all at once, splintering into what seemed like a thousand glittering crystal shards, clattering down on the wooden plank floorboards behind the bar.

  Zeb Fromes was still alive. He lay on his side, twitching, legs working like those of a dog who dreams of running. Johnny reached out with his pistol to deliver the coup de grâce, sending a bullet crashing through the mountaineer’s brain.

  After a pause, the office door at the rear of the building opened, an orange-haired head cautiously peeking around the corner of a doorframe. Mrs. Frye looked out, surveying the carnage. “God!”

  “You can come out now,” Damon said, his voice steady.

  Mrs. Frye emerged, stepping onto the main floor. “God,” she repeated, then, “What happened?”

  “I’m a mite bewildered myself.” Damon turned to Johnny Cross. “Perhaps you can shed some light on the subject, sir?”

  “Glad to,” Johnny said. “Luke and me were over to the Dog Star earlier, when we saw Wyck Joslyn and Stingaree getting together with the Fromes Boys.”

  Indicating the brothers’ three corpses sprawled around the foot of the staircase, Damon said, “I take it those are the gentlemen in question.”

  Johnny nodded. “No-account trash—cutthroats, back shooters. Only reason for Wyck Joslyn to be roping in the likes of them was to be cooking up some badness. When he and Stingaree came in here, it all fell into place. You was the target, Damon. Joslyn must’ve figured Stafford would pay big money for your scalp.

  “I had a hunch the Fromeses wouldn’t be too far off. Wyck was stringing you along, stalling for time while the brothers got in place. When they came charging in, I was ready for ’em. Luke, too.”

  “That’s right,” Luke agreed.

  At the left rear corner of the second floor, a vertical wooden ladder bolted to the wall rose to a square-shaped hatch in the ceiling. A head and pair of shoulders came thrusting out of the hatch. Monk looked down at the main room below. “You okay, boss?” he shouted.

  “Yes!”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Nobody important.”

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody made a bad bet.”

  Monk climbed down the ladder, a rifle in one hand. He was balding, bullet-headed, bearded, with powerful shoulders and arms, and bowed, bandy legs. He crossed to the edge of the balcony and leaned over the balustrade, surveying the carnage below.

  “Whoo-whee! Who’s them deaders—Staffords?”

  “Outriders trying to cut in,” Damon said.

  Mrs. Frye stood with hands on hips, head tilted, looking up at Monk. “Where were you when they sneaked in through the back?” she asked, indicating the bodies of the Fromeses.

  “Up on the roof,” Monk said.

  “A fine lookout you are!”

  “Staffords got to come in from the south. I was watching for them. I can’t look everywhere, Miz Frye, it’s a big roof!”

  “Get back up there and keep your eyes open this time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Monk went to the ladder, scrambling up through the trapdoor hatch and out of sight.

  Francine came out of her room and stood at the balcony rail. “Everyone all right?”

  “The ones on our side are,” Mrs. Frye said. “Come down and join the party.”

  “No, thanks.” Francine put a hand to her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.” Turning, she hurried back into her room, slamming the door shut.

  Damon faced Johnny. “Gutsy play that, turning your back on Joslyn and his partner to shoot it out with the brothers.”

  “I’m a betting man myself. I figured you and Creed could handle Wyck and Stingaree,” Johnny said.

  “Quite a gamble.”

  Johnny shook his head, smiling. “A sure thing.”

  “Your faith in us is heartening, if possibly misplaced. In any case, I thank you, sir. I thank you both,” Damon said, addressing Johnny and Luke. “And now I suggest you clear out while you can, before Stafford arrives.”

  “What! And miss all the fun?” Johnny joked, but he meant it, too.

  “Fun, he calls it,” Mrs. Frye said. “If you think tying into two dozen red-hot killers is fun.”

  “Happens, I do,” said Johnny. “It wouldn’t be the first time, neither.”

  “Why buck the Ramrod? Vince Stafford’s got no grudge against you,” Damon said.

  “It’s early yet,” Johnny said.

  “Wait till he gets to know us better,” Luke chimed in.

  Mrs. Frye’s eyes narrowed as she looked over the duo. “I don’t get it. What’s in it for you? I mean, why make this your fight?”

  “Damned if I know,” Johnny answered. “Maybe because the Spur is the one place in town with square-deal, straight-up card games and dice. No crooked tables or watered-down whiskey. Maybe I liked the way you handled yourself, Damon, when young Stafford braced you. Or maybe I was overdue to kill Zeb Fromes for kicking an ol’ hound dog who never did him any harm. I got distracted that day and Zeb got away from me.

  “Could be I’m just a natural-born Rebel with a liking for lost causes and kicking up trouble and siding with y’all promises to deliver plenty of both. Who knows? Like I said, I ain’t entirely sure why myself.”

  Mrs. Frye gave Luke the once-over, appraising him with cold-eyed calculation. “And you, where do you fit in in all this?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m with him.” Luke indicated Johnny. His attitude said that explained it all. For him it did.

  A slight smile played around Damon’s lips. “Betting on the Golden Spur now could be considered a long shot.”

  “Them’s the kind that pays off best,” Johnny said.

  Damon reached into one of his pants’ front pockets, pulling out a fat roll of high-denomination greenbacks. “The house always makes good.”

  “Whoa,” Johnny said, holding his hands up, palms-out. “Put your money away, I ain’t sniffing around for a payday.”

  “The workman is worthy of his hire, they say.”

  “When I sell my gun, that’s business. When I side with a man, that’s different. Money’s got nothing to do with it.”

  Damon stuffed the roll back in his pocket. “My apologies, sir. I misread the situation. No insult meant or implied.”

  “None taken,” Johnny said.

  “A couple of go-to-hell Texas gun hawks, in it for the fun of it?” Mrs. Frye said. “The funny thing is with you two, I almost believe it.”

  “ ’Course, you want to buy us a drink or ten to show your appreciation, we wouldn‘t take that as no insult, not even a little bit,” Luke said.

  “You got yourself a deal, stud,” Mrs. Frye said.

  “Let’s all step over to the bar and get better acquainted,” Damon said. Nobody found fault with his suggestion. They went to the bar, where Morrissey was already setting them up, laying out glasses on the countertop.

  “Drink up,” Damon invited, “as much as you want. It’s on the house.”

  All drank, several rounds.

  “I believe we got the best of that bargain. Ol’ Luke can sure put it away,” Johnny said.

  “I got me a hollow leg,” Luke said, nodding. He rapped his knuckles against his wooden limb. “For real.”

  “Never mind,” Mrs. Frye said airily, “Damon’ll win it all back in cards, and more.”

  Presently Damon, Mrs. Frye, and Creed Teece were all called away on various errands relating to the reception they were preparing for Vince Stafford and company. Morrissey was at the other end of the bar, removing bottles from the back shelf below the mirror and stowing them under the wooden counter for safekeeping.

  Johnny and Luke were by themselves for the moment. They spoke low voiced, for their own hearing alone.

  “I don’t get it,” Luke said. “Why not take Damon’s money, if he’s giving it out?”

  “The friendship of a man like Da
mon Bolt’s worth more than money. That’s a friend worth having, if we mean to stick in Hangtown,” Johnny said.

  “If he don’t get killed. Or we don’t.”

  “That’s where the gamble comes in. I’ll take a chance on him, and I sure ain’t gonna bet against us. Trust me, once the ball starts rolling, there’ll be plenty of money to pick up from action on the side.”

  “You’re calling it, hoss,” Luke said, shrugging. “Too much thinking makes my head hurt.”

  “I think that’s the whiskey,” Johnny pointed out.

  Luke studied his glass, peering into it, surprised to find it empty. “Thanks for reminding me. Believe I’ll have another.” Reaching for a nearby bottle, he refilled his glass. “You?”

  “Why not?” Johnny said. “This killing is thirsty work.”

  SEVEN

  Ten minutes after the shooting, Wade Hutto and Sheriff Mack Barton entered the Golden Spur. They came alone, just the two of them, to show their lack of hostile intent. Deputy Smalls and a half dozen hangers-on from Hutto’s party waited outside. The sheriff of Hangtown had no hangers-on, except maybe Deputy Smalls.

  Barton had the glum, stolid air of a man doing a disagreeable duty. “Now what?”

  “They came in looking for trouble,” Damon Bolt said, pointing to the five corpses littering the floor. “They found it.”

  “You’re in an all-fired hurry to get yourself killed,” Hutto snapped.

  “Yet they are dead, while I am still alive,” Damon said, smiling thinly.

  Johnny and Luke were at the bar. Creed Teece was there, too, standing slightly apart from them. Their faces were turned toward the newcomers. Morrissey was behind the bar, keeping out of Swamper’s way while the latter cleaned up pieces of broken mirror.

  Swamper wore grimy work gloves. He was picking up the bigger pieces of broken glass and making a racket as he tossed them into an empty bucket. He’d clean up the smaller pieces later with a broom and dustpan.

  Barton circled the three bodies stretched out in front of the staircase, each outlined by handfuls of sawdust Swamper had spread on the floor around them, to soak up the blood. The sheriff cheered up at sight of the corpses. “The Fromes Boys! It was only a matter of time before they got shot or hung. Saves the town the price of three hangman’s ropes. That’s a break.” The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled upwards.

  “Any reward on ’em?” Johnny asked.

  “Not in Hangtree,” Barton said, his good humor increasing at the thought that the county need pay out no funds to be rid of three such potential troublemakers. He went to the far end of the bar to look at the two corpses there.

  “Who killed Joslyn?” he asked.

  “I did,” Damon said.

  “And Stingaree?”

  “Mine,” said Creed Teece.

  Barton nodded. He didn’t take any notes. It wasn’t an investigation. He was just curious. He rejoined Hutto, who stood to the side, facing Damon.

  “That’s how it begins. Vince isn’t even in town and already there’s killing,” Hutto said.

  “It wipes five undesirables off the books, at no cost to the taxpayers,” Barton said.

  “There is that.”

  Mrs. Frye came out from behind the closed door of the office, where she’d been fortifying herself with a glass of whiskey and a laudanum chaser. A medicinal tincture of opium, laudanum was widely available with no prescription needed, despite its addictive properties. The drug contracted the pupils of her eyes to pinpoints. “How about getting those bodies out of here?”

  “Who, me?” Barton said, taken aback.

  “You’re the sheriff. They’re lawbreakers. That falls under your jurisdiction.”

  Barton snorted, shaking his head. “I’m a lawman, not an undertaker.”

  “In this town, there’s not much difference.” Mrs. Frye turned to Hutto. “What do I pay taxes for? Believe you me, I pay plenty! If the town won’t take them away, I’ll have them thrown out in the street.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Hutto said, making placating gestures. As the man whose slate of hand-picked candidates included the mayor and most of the town council, Hutto was ever mindful that it was an election year. The Golden Spur swung a nice handful of votes, or would, depending on how many of its staff and associates were still alive come Election Day.

  “We’re gonna need a place to put the bodies,” Barton said. “These, and more to come.”

  “Plenty more,” Hutto agreed grimly.

  “You own half the property in town and hold the paper on the other half. Any ideas?”

  Hutto rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We’ve got young Stafford in a storeroom at the courthouse, but that’s a special case.”

  “Oh yes,” Barton said, his tone flat, neutral. “Special.”

  “Can’t turn the courthouse into a mortuary.”

  “How about the carriage house behind the Cattleman?”

  “Not there,” Hutto said, shocked. “It’s the best hotel in town!”

  “There’s a storage shed behind the lumberyard,” Barton suggested.

  “That’ll do it.” Hutto motioned to his hangers-on standing outside looking through the front windows. A couple of them entered.

  “Run over to the lumberyard and tell Tuttle we’re temporarily commandeering his storage shed. Tell him I’ll square it with him so he’s not out of pocket for any inconvenience,” Hutto said.

  “Okay, Wade.” The fellows started for the door.

  “Wait a minute,” Hutto called after them.

  They paused and turned back.

  “Get a cart or wagon to haul the bodies out. Have Hobson at the livery stable fix you up,” Hutto said.

  “Right!” the hangers-on chorused, and out they went.

  Mrs. Frye turned some of her dissatisfaction on Barton. “What’s the law going to be doing when Stafford makes his move?”

  “I’m working on it,” Barton said evasively.

  “I bet.”

  “Try the Dog Star,” Johnny Cross said. He and Luke sat at a table between the bar and the front door. “I hear the Ramrod brand ain’t too popular around there.”

  “Where do you fit in this, Cross?” Hutto questioned.

  “Just helping out.”

  “Careful you don’t help yourself into Boot Hill!”

  “I’ll be careful, Mr. Hutto. Very careful,” Johnny said with mock solemnity.

  “Bah!” Hutto was one of those fellows who can say Bah! without looking ridiculous. He turned to Damon. “You could help by clearing out of town. And take that Francine Hayes with you.”

  Damon glanced with seeming mildness at the other. Hutto looked away, not making eye contact.

  “You touch me on a point of pride, sir,” Damon said. “Miss Hayes is entirely blameless in this matter. She’s the offended party here. It’s no fault of hers that a boor like the late Bliss Stafford tried to force unwanted attentions on her. I’m sure you agree that I did what I had to do, and that no Southern gentleman could do less.”

  Hutto backed off. “I’m not arguing the point. Legally you were in the right. Isn’t that so, Sheriff?”

  “A clearcut case of self-defense,” Barton said.

  “But Vince Stafford won’t see it like that,” Hutto pressed. “He’ll make it a blood feud, him and Clay and Quent. They’ll have twenty guns and more backing them up. You’re a gambler, you know better than to buck those odds. Get out of town.”

  “That would make things easier for you,” Mrs. Frye said.

  “You’re damned right it would!” Hutto said fervently.

  “If you were me, would you run?” Damon asked.

  “I’m not you and right now I’m damned glad of it!”

  “And you, Sheriff? Would you run?”

  “It’s not the same.” Barton fidgeted, uncomfortable with the question.

  “Why not?”

  “I wear a badge. A lawman who runs is finished, washed up.”

  “It’s the same
with me.”

  “You’re dead if you stick,” Hutto warned.

  “I’ll take that bet,” Damon said.

  Mrs. Frye thrust her face forward. “All your fine talk about the law! What about Damon? The law’s supposed to protect him, too. Where’s Hangtown going to be if you let Stafford ride roughshod over it?”

  Hutto was silent.

  Barton looked troubled, angry. “I’ll do what I think is best for every man, woman, and child in Hangtree. What happens to them if I get killed trying to keep Vince from doing what he’s hell-bent for leather on doing, namely evening up on Damon for killing Bliss? Who stands between him and them then? I’ll do what I can to head him off, but don’t expect miracles.”

  Damon said, “Not a gambling man, Sheriff?”

  “Not when the whole town is part of the ante. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll pull my own chestnuts out of the fire.”

  An awkward silence followed, broken by Hutto clearing his throat. “We’re through here.” He looked at the sheriff. “Coming, Barton?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hutto started for the front door. Barton followed, taking a few steps, then pausing. “I’ll do what I can, but I ain’t making no promises.”

  “Can’t ask for more than that,” Damon said.

  “For what it’s worth—good luck,” said Barton. He and Hutto went out.

  EIGHT

  Sam Heller cleaned up in the aftermath of the Comanche raid on the Fisher ranch. Climbing down off Dusty, he hitched the horse to the corral fence, away from where the Comanche horses were hitched. He holstered the mule’s-leg and took hold of his Navy Colt .36, holding it in his right hand.

  He crossed to the front entrance of the house, eyeing the braves sprawled in the yard for any signs of life. He’d put a bullet in any who so much as twitched. None did.

  The house had to be cleared, to make sure no one was lurking inside, foe or, less likely, friend. Sam went through the open doorway, into the west room. He walked softly, gun ready. The smell of gunpowder hung heavy; gray-white gunsmoke drifted in midair.

  Sam looked around, his hearing pitched to the highest level for a whisper of sound betraying the presence of anyone within. It was tricky work—a panicked settler could kill him just as dead as a Comanche could.