A pair of hardcases, Haycox stood on his left, Kern on his right.
The Golden Spur, a stand-alone building with no adjoining structures, lay on a diagonal, opposite Mabel’s Café. The Spur being a favorite watering hole of his, Johnny Cross was inside.
When Moran and company stepped out of the sidelines to stride boldly along the middle of Trail Street, those nearby hadn’t needed to be told that trouble lay ahead. They knew the drill—Hangtree was a wild town.
Loafers and passersby made themselves scarce. They’d absented themselves from the scene even before Moran started shouting. Some had moved east, some had moved west, some had ducked into north and south cross streets, others into alleys or doorways. They all had scrambled for cover. More than a few got clear but not so far away that they’d miss the show.
“Woo-wee, see how they run!” Cort Randle had crowed.
“The fat’s in the fire now,” brother Devon had noted with approval.
Batwing double doors of the Golden Spur’s entrance remained inert, unopened.
“Cross! John Cross! This is Moran speaking. Terry Moran!” He shouted with his left hand cupped to his mouth. “I’m calling you out, Cross!” Moran cut sidelong glances at Haycox and Kern.
Time passed with Johnny Cross a no-show and no one else in the saloon stupid enough to stick their head out to see what was happening.
“He ain’t in no hurry to show himself,” Haycox said, spitting.
“Can you blame him? I wouldn’t be in no hurry to go up against Terry Moran neither,” Moran said, preening.
“There’s movement behind those windows,” Kern noted.
“Hell, it’s probably folks crowding to get a better look at me,” Moran said.
“I got my eye on the window on this side,” Haycox said. “I see anything that looks like a gun sticking out, I start blasting.”
“You cover the window on your side, Kern,” Moran said.
“That ain’t Cross’s way. Not from what I heard,” Kern said. “He’s so puffed up, got such a swellheaded opinion of himself, the poor fool actually thinks he’s gonna win.”
Moran resumed shouting. “Come out, Cross! You don’t want folks to think you’ve gone yellow, do you?” To his fellows, he said, “That ought to bring him out.”
No one exited the saloon.
“Hell, maybe he is yellow,” Moran said after a brief wait. “Not that that’ll save him.” He started in again. “Don’t make me come in after you, Cross. I wouldn’t want any innocent folks to get hurt!”
“Ain’t no innocents in Hangtown,” Haycox growled.
“That’s okay. Even if there was, I don’t mind hurting them, anyhow,” Moran confided. He shouted some more. “What’s the matter, Cross? You gone yellow? You can’t hide! Come out or I come inside after you!”
“You sure he’s in there, Slug?” Moran asked, frowning.
“Sure I’m sure!” Haycox said, indignant. “Fly gimme the high sign no more than five minutes ago and we’ve been watching the front ever since.”
“Maybe he sneaked out the back.”
“Fly would have tipped us.”
“Go check with Fly to make sure Cross didn’t pull a sneak,” Moran said.
“He’d have to be almighty shifty to get past Fly,” Haycox said.
“Go look anyhow.”
“You’re the boss.” Haycox went to the nearest cross street west of the saloon.
It was empty. Haycox paused, looking around, uncertain. He glanced back at Moran and Kern, then walked forward and turned on Commerce Street, following it to the far end. He looked right—looked left—looked right again—looked up and down. He was looking for Fly but couldn’t find him. Puzzled, Haycox scratched his head and ass with equal lack of result. After a moment, he turned, hurrying back down the cross street, emerging on Trail Street. “Fly’s gone,” he told the others, mystified.
“What do you mean, gone?” Moran demanded.
“He ain’t there,” Haycox said. “I thought he might be behind the back of the building, but he ain’t there, either.”
“He must be somewhere.”
“Well, he ain’t there.”
“Maybe he went into the Spur to keep a closer watch on Cross,” Moran suggested.
“Went in for a drink, more likely,” Kern said.
“If he did, I’ll peel the hide off him,” Moran said feelingly.
The stall was starting to get on the Randle brothers’ nerves.
“Something’s going on,” Cort Randle said, standing at the window of the café.
“What?” Devon demanded, more short-tempered than his brother.
“I don’t know. Terry and the other two are standing around jawing,” Cort said.
“Never mind that, what’s Cross doing?” Devon asked.
“He’s not showing,” Cort said definitely.
“Smart,” Devon said. “Maybe he means to have Terry go in after him. Being the defender would give Cross the advantage.”
“Reckon he tumbled that you and me are laying for him?”
“He’s not that smart, Cort.”
Moran wasn’t handling the frustration well, not one for taking in stride being balked. His face swelled, darkening to a deeper shade of red. His pop eyes seemed on the verge of starting from their sockets. Still standing in the middle of the street, he yelled, “Cross! Come out, ya yellow bastid!”
“Howdy, gents,” a voice called to Moran, Kern, and Haycox. The speaker was a young stranger wearing twin belted .45s. He stepped into view from the mouth of the northbound cross street west of the one Haycox had explored, taking Moran and his two sidemen by surprise.
From inside the café, Luke had been surreptitiously monitoring the doings on Trail Street. That give ’em a jolt. Derned near jumped out of their skins. He could have laughed out loud but didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
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?”
SEVEN
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 braw
ny 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, hea
d 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.
Rebel Yell Page 8
