Rebel Yell

by William W. Johnstone

  Cort pitched sideways, joining Luke on the floor.

  Cort had gotten his left arm up in time to absorb much of the force of the blow which otherwise would have cracked his skull if not busted it wide open. His dull glazed eyes could not hide the hate blazing inside. He’d battle all the way to death, no quarter asked or given, by any means necessary.

  He rolled over to meet Luke, to destroy him if he could. He pulled his gun, clearing it from the holster. Snakelike, Luke wriggled toward him, reaching him at the same time but striking first, stabbing overhand and down with the splintered end of the crutch as his striking point. He drove the sharp stake-like crutch below Cort’s chin, spearing his neck.

  Cort spasmed, thrashing. Luke squirmed atop him, pinning him down, using his weight to drive the spear-point tips home.

  Cort writhed, booted heels drumming against the floor. He choked, heaving and wriggling. A final shudder and he was done. All life fled.

  Luke collapsed on top of him, spent, panting for breath.

  Outside, gunfire erupted.

  NINE

  Showing no signs, Johnny was aware that some kind of commotion had broken out at the café where Luke had gone earlier to grab some chow while he had hastened to the Golden Spur to get an early start on drinking himself up a skinful.

  He tracked the fracas out of the corner of an eye and by ear. His primary focus was on Moran and company but not too tight a focus. He had to be aware of all that was going on around him, for danger could come at any time from any direction.

  He guessed that some of Moran’s bunch was somehow entangled with Luke, in which case, they’d soon find out they had a wildcat by the tail.

  But Johnny couldn’t afford to bear down too hard on one factor to the exclusion of all others.

  That could be fatal. On the other hand, he dare not become distracted from the issue at hand. He had to keep his balance while walking a fine line. A tightrope. A razor’s edge.

  That was the way of it as a professional gun.

  But he sure wished he knew what was happening in the café.

  If Luke had come to harm, Johnny would peel the hide off the guilty an inch at a time.

  But not now. Revenge was for later. At the moment, thoughts of it were it a distraction—dangerous.

  No sign of inner turmoil ruffled the surface of Johnny’s bland smiling face.

  “I came all the way from Weatherford to try you out,” Moran said again.

  “What are you waiting for?” Johnny asked.

  With his left hand, Moran pushed his hat back on his head, tilting the brim upward at a sharp angle. It was the prearranged signal alerting Cort to shoot Johnny Cross dead. Moran took no chances with his foes. His rifleman would shoot Johnny first, then Moran would draw and fire. In the confusion, it would seem as though Moran had beaten his opponent in a fair draw.

  Gunfire broke out in the café but not the kind Moran was expecting. To his consternation, Johnny remained upright and unhurt.

  Johnny filled his hands with guns.

  Haycox outdrew Moran, pulling his gun while Moran was still reaching. But Johnny’s guns were firing before the others’ weapons cleared holsters.

  Johnny crouched, blazing away with a Colt in each fist. It was not his usual fighting stance, but one he’d taken in hopes of thwarting any ambushers in the café. He fired two shots into Haycox’s chest, the reports coming so close together that they sounded as one. Haycox was thrown down.

  Moran’s gun finally sprung from holster to hand. His bullets cut the air to Johnny’s left, close.

  Johnny dropped two slugs into Moran’s middle.

  Moran was hit so hard that for an instant it felt like an express train had churned its way through his guts. His gun fell silent as he stopped shooting. Almost immediately, he ceased to feel anything at all, his upper body seemingly disconnected from its lower half.

  A slug tugged at the right-hand flap of Johnny’s coat. Kern was doggedly plugging away at him, his eyes wild above a snarling mouth full of bared yellow teeth.

  The gun in Johnny’s left hand barked, pumping slugs into Kern. One hit him high in the side, knocking him off balance and spinning him around.

  Kern stumbled, still shooting blindly, breaking a window across the street. More slugs ripped through him. He fell to the ground, joining Haycox, who already lay crumpled in the street.

  From the café came the reassuring boom of a shotgun blast, followed by another. Reassuring to Johnny because it meant that Luke was not only alive but taking an active hand in the game.

  Strangely enough, Moran was still on his feet while his henchmen were down. He stood upright and reeling between Haycox and Kern sprawled in the dirt on either side of him.

  Johnny stood opposite him, eyes slit in a hard-lined face, guns held level hip-high. A cloud of gun smoke partly veiled him.

  Moran looked at his gun hand, peering blearily at it. His vision was hazy, fading in and out.

  For a flash, his vision cleared and he saw that his gun hand was empty. He stared at it, unable to remember letting go of the gun. Where was it?

  He looked down. It was laying on its side in the street.

  The last effort of looking down was too much for him. Moran reeled, swaying back and forth. He lifted a foot to take a step and crashed down, the scene dizzyingly shifting from vertical to horizontal. He didn’t feel a thing when he hit the ground. He saw Haycox stretched out beside him, still moving, trying to raise the gun in his hand.

  Haycox shook with the strain of his effort as though trying to lift not a shooting iron but an anvil. His mouth gaped open, black blood spilling from it. He got the gun barrel some ten or twelve inches up from the dirt but was unable to hold it steady, muzzle wavering every which way.

  A gunshot sounded as Johnny finished off Haycox at point-blank range. Haycox’s hand fell back into the dirt, raising a small cloud of dust.

  Moran would have liked to see more but blackness engulfed him, swallowing him up. Nightfall, he thought. Odd, he’d thought it was the middle of the day.

  His heart beat its last and he thought no more because he was dead.

  Johnny swung around, shifting position. He stepped back and to the side so he could cover the trio sprawled in the dirt while covering the café at the same time. It took only a moment to realize Moran and sidemen were done. Johnny warily turned his attention toward the café and quickly reloaded.

  The café was silent, no more shots or shrieks, but motion showed behind the windows. From within came a shout. “Don’t shoot, Johnny boy!”

  “Luke? That you?” Johnny called.

  “Sure ’nuff!” came the reply.

  “Show yourself!”

  “Can’t!”

  “Why not? You hit?”

  “Nope!”

  “You okay, Luke?”

  “Yup! But my crutch is busted!”

  Johnny smiled to himself. “Everything squared away in there?”

  “I hope to tell you! And I will. Yee-haw!” Luke’s wild outcry seemed part coyote howl, part wolf call, and part banshee shriek. Rising to earsplitting heights, it was a sound to send shivers along a brave man’s spine.

  It was a battle cry well-known during the late war, heard from Bull Run to the border states, from Gettysburg to Goleta Pass, from the Louisiana bayous to the Tennessee mountains.

  It was the rebel yell of the fighting men of the Confederacy. A wild, skirling war cry that had curdled the blood of countless brave foemen when they heard it preparatory to a cavalry charge or infantry advance by gray-clad Sons of Dixie.

  The rebel yell! Hearing it, Johnny Cross knew that he and Luke had yet again won through another life-and-death struggle.

  TEN

  The shooting had stopped. The last echoes of the last shot faded away on Trail Street.

  On the veranda of the Cattleman Hotel, the man called Top stood up after being hunched over the wheelchair-bound Mallory, serving as a human shield to stop any stray bullets that might c
ome Mallory’s way. Top was Mallory’s man. His name was a nickname for Top Sergeant, a rank he’d held during the war. His real name was A. C. Quarles. When pronounced correctly, it rhymed with Charles.

  Kale Dancer, dandified and gun-toting, had moved to protect Ashley Mallory, rushing her into the entryway of the hotel and out of the line of fire.

  Piney hadn’t done anything. He’d just stood in place on the big front porch watching the show, a thin line of drool clinging to the corner of his open mouth.

  Dancer held Ashley backed against a wall, pressing close, face-to-face, his body against hers. She’d quivered anew as each shot rang out, whether out of fear or excitement Dancer couldn’t tell. Knowing Ashley, he guessed it was the latter. She was not one to shrink from a little gunplay.

  It was exciting for him to feel her high-breasted, long-legged form squirming in his embrace. Her mouth was close to his ear, so close her warm breath tickled his flesh. Her breath was warm and sweet but not her words. “You can let me go now, Mr. Dancer.”

  “I hate to do so. This is the closest I’ve been to you in days,” he murmured.

  “I don’t need protection, and I can take care of myself. Now, please release me. I don’t appreciate being pawed in public, thank you very much.”

  Reluctantly, Dancer broke contact, stepping back to let her go.

  She was in a state of high excitement. Her eyes sparkled and red dots of color showed on her cheeks. Her moist lips were parted, breath coming fast. She brushed past Dancer without a second glance and went out the doorway to the veranda.

  He watched her go, smiling ruefully to himself, yet not without sincere admiration for her feminine charms.

  Ashley went to Mallory, making a show of fussing over him. “Thank the Lord you’re safe, Father!”

  “I was never in any danger, my dear. Thanks to Top.” Mallory turned to his manservant. “Thank you, Top, but in the future, please take no unnecessary risks on my behalf. After all, I’ve been under fire before, as we both have reason to know, eh?”

  “No harm must come to the commanding officer, sir,” Quarles said.

  “The war is over, Top. I appreciate your concern and your valor, but small loss to the world should any harm befall an aging invalid such as I. I trust you understand.”

  Quarles nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Mallory smiled thinly and started to wheel his chair around. Quarles moved to help, but Mallory forestalled him by raising a warding hand. “I can do for myself, Top.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Mallory worked the wheels to turn his chair to face east, appraising the carnage on Trail Street with a cold, shrewd expert’s eye. Johnny Cross stood over the three sprawled bodies of men he’d shot down while an unseen party vented a rebel yell.

  The sound thrilled along Mallory’s nerves, prompting an involuntary shiver. “By heaven, there’s a sound to warm a Southern heart!”

  “That it is, sir,” Quarles agreed almost reverently.

  Other folks were beginning to stir along the street. Faces showed behind windows, peering out. Heads peeked out from behind walls, doorways, and corners.

  Dancer went to Mallory, standing beside him, eyeing the victor of the gunfight on Trail Street. “These Texans know how to put on a show.”

  “The gunfighter looks familiar somehow. I can’t get over the feeling that I’ve seen him before,” Mallory said. “Do you know him? Ever seen him before?”

  “He’s a stranger to me. I know his type, though. A gunslick. A killer.”

  “A rare breed, a fighting man!” Mallory enthused.

  “Not so rare in Texas,” Dancer said as if tasting something sour.

  “Many have the spirit, but few have the ability to shoot like that.” Mallory lowered his voice. “That’s the kind of man we need.”

  “It could be that we’ll have to go up against him,” Dancer said, doubtful. “His allegiance might be to the town.”

  “It’s been my experience that gunmen generally owe their allegiance to the dollar. Find out who he is.”

  “All right.”

  People were starting to come out of doors. A number of them emerged from the hotel lobby, where they’d taken cover during the shooting.

  Ashley took her place at Mallory’s side. Looking long and hard at Johnny Cross, she decided she liked what she saw. “Quite a man, whoever he is.”

  Dancer was irked, not liking the throbbing tone of admiration in her voice.

  “Damn it, you killed those men!” Marshal Barton said, standing in the middle of Trail Street.

  “They came to kill me,” Johnny Cross said cheerfully enough.

  And why not? They were dead and he was alive and unharmed. Luke, too.

  “A clear-cut case of self-defense,” Johnny said.

  “I reckon so,” Barton said grudgingly.

  Johnny smiled obligingly, holstering his guns,

  “Go ahead. I’ll take care of these three,” Barton said wearily. “It won’t be the first time I’ve had to clean up one of your messes.”

  “In case you don’t recognize him, Marshal, that’s Moran from Weatherford. A killer and robber many times over. They don’t—didn’t—call him Terrible Terry for nothing. I reckon his sidekicks are no better. Hell, I’m doing you a favor cleaning up on them.”

  “Yeah, well, they wouldn’t have been here if not for you,” Barton said. “Moran was looking to build a reputation. The Man Who Killed Johnny Cross.”

  “His epitaph. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to check up on my partner.”

  “I’ll get things squared away here,” Barton said, sighing. “I want to talk to you later. Not about this. Something different. You and Luke stop by my office.”

  “Will do,” Johnny said. “By the way, Terrible Terry is—was—a wanted man. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a reward on him, maybe some of his gang, too. I know I can count on you to see that I get what’s coming to me . . . me and Luke.”

  “A silver lining to every cloud, huh?” Barton scowled.

  “I’ll take mine in gold, thanks. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  “I ain’t stopping you,” Barton said gruffly.

  Johnny nodded, starting toward the café. “See you later, Marshal.”

  “Make it sooner rather than later.”

  Now that they were free to come and go as they pleased, most of the patrons of Mabel’s Café made a mass exodus out the door and into the street. Some wanted to get away from the sight and smells of blood and violent death.

  Others sought to slip away without paying their bills. Only something as severe as the concussing of owner McGurk could have put them out of his watchful reach. He was coming around but still groggy.

  Those who left were brought up short by the spectacle of three more corpses sprawled in the street out front. Of those who stayed behind, some were friends or associates of McGurk and were helping him out, as well as helping themselves to what snacks they could lay their hands on. Others were still too stunned or in shock to move.

  And there was Luke Pettigrew, a one-legged man with a broken crutch. He wasn’t going anywhere, at least not until he could scare up a replacement crutch.

  Also not going anywhere, at least not under their own power, were Devon and Cort, the Randle brothers—deceased.

  Johnny Cross picked his way carefully through the café, avoiding the dead men and the pools of blood surrounding them. The blood drew flies, of which the café already had more than its share. The space was hazed by clouds of gun smoke that were slow to break up.

  Luke sat upright, having managed to haul himself up on a chair at a table which hadn’t been overturned in the melee. His sawed-off shotgun rested on its side on the tabletop, near at hand.

  He had reloaded it with a pair of fresh shells. Also in view was a knife with which he had cut the chaw of tobacco bulging in the pocket of one cheek.

  Owner McGurk, too, sat upright, having been helped into a chair by some solicitous
citizens. Helpful hands braced him on either side, keeping him from falling off the chair, still somewhat dazed as he was.

  “So filled with piss and vinegar, he’s too ornery to stay down,” old-timer Pete Conklin said of McGurk.

  “You think he’s ornery now, wait till he finds out how many customers beat him for the check,” one of Conklin’s cronies cracked.

  The words seemed to rouse McGurk from stunned confusion into some semblance of his fighting self. “I’ll get ’em, each and every one. I know who was in here and what grub they et . . .”

  Johnny pulled up a chair and sat down at Luke’s table. “Howdy, Luke.”

  “Mr. Cross,” Luke said, nodding.

  “Tsk-tsk. Seems I can’t leave you on your lonesome without you getting into mischief.” Johnny shook his head in mock sorrow.

  “Funny, I was thinking the same about you,” Luke said.

  “Who were they?” Johnny asked, indicating the corpses.

  “Called themselves the Randle brothers. I never heard of ’em.”

  “Me neither.”

  “They was laying for you, hoss. Cort there—the one wearing what’s left of my crutch in his neck—was fixing to bushwhack you with his rifle before you could draw on Moran.”

  “Hardly seems sporting, does it?” Johnny said sadly.

  “Not hardly,” Luke agreed. “And you know what a stickler I am for fighting fair.”

  “I can see that,” Johnny said, looking around.

  “The other one, Devon, was covering the customers.”

  “Both of them Moran’s creatures, eh?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m beholden to you, amigo. That were a close one,” Johnny said. “I owe you.”

  “You’d have done the same for me.” Luke made light of the sentiment with a disparaging gesture.

  “Lucky for me you came in here for chow.”

  “That’s me. I’m a fool for luck,” Luke said, not without bitterness. “All this fuss and I didn’t even get to finish my lunch!”

  “That’s a damned shame. Still, I reckon Mr. Morrissey over to the Golden Spur can fry up a couple steaks for you. McGurk doesn’t look like he’ll be doing much cooking for a while.”