A Good Day to Die

by William W. Johnstone

“Health,” said Luke, gesturing with his cup.

  They drank up. McCray tossed his back like it was water, with as little seeming effect. Johnny drained his cup without flinching, but a deep red flush overspread his bronzed face. Luke did the same, eyes watering, an involuntary twitch firing a couple times at the corner of his mouth.

  “Good for what ails you,” McCray said cheerfully.

  “Smooth,” Johnny said, a mite breathless.

  “Yeah,” Luke coughed out.

  “It’s my special brand, for them what appreciates the quality,” McCray said. “The secret’s in the aging.”

  “A whole week, huh?” Luke said sarcastically.

  “Eight days! It’s that extra day that makes the difference.”

  “As long as you’re in the neighborhood, might as well hit ’em again,” Johnny said, “and don’t skip yourself.”

  McCray refilled the three tumblers. “This one’s on the house, boys.”

  “Thank you kindly, Squint,” Johnny said.

  “Right generous of you,” Luke said.

  They all three drank the round slower, a sip at a time.

  “Ain’t seen much of you boys lately,” McCray remarked.

  “We’ve been out at the ranch, mustanging,” Johnny said.

  “You picked a good day to come in, what with the shooting and all.”

  “You see it, Squint?” Luke asked.

  “And leave the place to those no-account thieving kinfolk of mine? Not on your life, brother. Although it almost would’ve been worth it to see Bliss Stafford get a bellyful of lead.”

  “No bellyful. Shot through the heart,” Luke said.

  “You seen it, huh?” McCray leaned forward eagerly, elbows on the bar.

  “Sure ’nuff. A sweet piece of gunplay it was, too.”

  “Worked out good for me.”

  “How’s that, Squint?”

  McCray looked around the saloon, his good eye glinting. “Nothing like a killing for bringing ’em in,” he said, beaming. “Saturdays is always good, but we’re doing a land office business. It’s the shooting what done it. Folks like to talk it up over their cups, kick it around.”

  “What’re they saying?” Johnny asked.

  McCray looked around, then leaned in farther. There was little worry about being overheard amid the noise and tumult of the hard-drinking, rowdy crowd. But the Dog Star was the kind of place where patrons naturally put their heads together as if cooking up some scheme—crooked, more likely than not.

  McCray was just being confidential and cautious. “You ain’t gonna find too many tears being shed over Bliss Stafford. Too bad about Damon, though.”

  “What for? He ain’t the one who got kilt,” Luke said.

  “Not yet. But he’s not long for this earth.” McCray shook his head, the corners of his mouth downturned. “Damned shame, though. Him being a genuine hero of the Confederacy and all.”

  “That right?” Johnny said.

  “Ain’t you heard? Damon was part of that outfit that whupped that Yankee General Banks and his army at the junction of the Teche and Atchefalaya rivers. Chased ’em clear out of the Red River country.”

  “That’s hard country. Swampland when it rains, near-desert when it don’t, and not much good any time.”

  “Sounds like you been there,” McCray said shrewdly.

  “Just passing through,” Johnny said. After the war, he’d knocked around for a while in the East Texas Louisiana borderland with Lone Star hellions Cullen Baker, Bill Longley, and such. Johnny was still wanted in those parts.

  “Reckon the Staffords will come gunning for Damon?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Depend on it,” McCray said flatly. “The old man’s a mean one on the best of days, and this ain’t gonna be one of them, not with his fair-haired boy dead with Damon’s bullets in him.”

  “A fair duel,” Johnny said.

  “That won’t make no never-mind to Vince Stafford, no sir. Them other sons of his are a handful, too. Fact is, they could all use killing. Hard to beat, though. Clay’s pure hell with a gun and Quent’s meaner than a rattlesnake. And they won’t come alone. They’ll bring the whole Ramrod bunch, and that’s a passel of bad hombres.”

  Two men came in through the front door, one at a time, cutting the conversation short.

  The first was about forty, round faced, with a neatly trimmed black beard. His eyes were bright, calculating. He looked like a prosperous rancher or businessman, well fed, well dressed. Those types were at a premium in Hangtown ... in all of postwar Texas, for that matter.

  A pair of big-caliber guns were worn holstered low on his hips, below a soft swelling roundness of belly. The bright shrewd eyes and low-slung guns didn’t quite fit the image of man of affairs that he presented.

  The second man was in his mid-twenties. His hat was set back on his head so the brim tilted up at a near-vertical angle. A brown hat with a round crown, broad flat brim, and a snakeskin hatband. He was thin, bony, sharp-featured, with slitted eyes, a knife-blade nose, and a thin-lipped mouth. A holstered gun was slung low on his right hip, his hand hovering near it.

  The duo moved apart, so that neither stood with his back framed by the open doorway. They stood at the front of the saloon, facing the rear, eyeing the place as if looking for something, or more likely, someone.

  Johnny recognized them. The older man was Wyck Joslyn, the younger was known only as Stingaree. Joslyn was a gun for hire, a professional with many kills under his belt. Johnny had heard that Joslyn had tried to sell his services to town boss Wade Hutto. But Hutto already had top gunhand Boone Lassiter on his payroll and wasn’t hiring. He wasn’t looking to make trouble, either, not with a Yankee cavalry troop garrisoned upcountry at Fort Pardee. Stingaree was a fast young gun looking to make a name for himself.

  Joslyn and Stingaree were regulars at the Alamo Bar, the pricey establishment patronized by a high-living, free-spending crowd. A fellow could burn through a lot of money fast at the Alamo. Both being at somewhat loose ends, the two had fallen in together.

  They were suspected of having pulled several stagecoach and highway robberies farther east in Palo Pinto and Tarrant counties, but nothing had been proven against them yet. They’d stayed out of trouble in Hangtown, giving Sheriff Mack Barton no cause to brace them.

  Wyck Joslyn’s restless gaze brushed Johnny’s, making eye contact for a brief beat. Johnny nodded, tilting his head an inch or two in casual acknowledgment, not making a thing out of it one way or the other.

  Joslyn’s gaze moved on, looking beyond Johnny to others, seeking. Finding what he was looking for, he started forward, Stingaree falling into step beside him. Stingaree was a small man who carried himself like a big man, swaggering all cock-o’-the-walk.

  They went down the center aisle and even in that rough crowd, men made way for them, moving aside.

  Some men at the far end of the bar called out for more whiskey. “Like to stand around jawing with y’all, but we got some thirsty folks here,” McCray said.

  Johnny slapped a dollar coin down on the bar.

  “Thanks, gents,” McCray said, scooping it up and scuttling off to serve some more customers.

  “Some barkeeps, you buy ’em a drink, they say, ‘I’ll have it later,’ or ‘I’ll have a cigar, instead.’ Not ol’ Squint. You buy him a drink, he drinks it, by God! I like that,” Luke said.

  “Hell, he’ll even buy you one on the house once in a while,” Johnny said.

  “I like that, too.”

  “Wyck Joslyn’s a long way off his stomping grounds,” Johnny said, a bit too casually.

  Luke cut him a side glance. “The Dog Star’s a far cry from his usual fancy digs. What do you figure he’s doing here?

  “Maybe we’ll find out.”

  Joslyn and Stingaree reached the end of the long aisle. At the left rear corner an odd trio sat huddled around a table, hunched over their drinks like vultures over carrion.

  Wild and woolly characters
, they looked more like mountain men than cattlemen. All had long hair and stringy beards. Ragged scarecrow figures with harsh bony faces and hard eyes, they shared a family resemblance

  Each of the three wore some part of a Confederate Army uniform. One sported a gray hat with a faded, frayed yellow-braided hatband. Another was wrapped by a long, tattered knee-length gray overcoat. The third wore baggy gray breeches tucked into the tops of black cavalry boots.

  A long-barreled, single-shot smoothbore musket was leaning up in a nearby corner.

  Johnny and Luke eyed the trio nonchalantly, as if they weren’t looking at them.

  “The Fromes Boys,” Johnny said.

  “You know ’em?” Luke said, surprised.

  “I’ve seen ’em around. In Quinto, up in the Nations.”

  Quinto was a flyspeck town in the middle of a sun-baked plain in what would someday be the Oklahoma Territory, a refuge for deserters, drifters and outlaws.

  “They’re brothers from the Tennessee hill country, wanted all over the map. They’re on the dodge, so they never stay in any one place for too long,” Johnny said.

  “Man! They’s really unreconstructed,” Luke said, shaking his head.

  “They never was constructed in the first place,” Johnny said dryly. “Zeb, Tetch and Jeeter. Zeb’s the one with the Billy Goat chin whiskers. Tetch is the big one. Jeeter’s the red-haired, sneaky looking one. The Fromes Boys. Three of the meanest faces you ever did see.”

  “They look mighty unsociable at that,” said Luke.

  “Zeb’s so sour he’d cross the street to kick a sleeping dog,” Johnny said. “I seen him do it once. I should’ve shot him then.”

  Despite the crowded conditions in the saloon, the other patrons had left a space around the brothers. The Fromeses sat off by themselves, hunched over their whiskey, glaring out at the world.

  They looked none too welcoming, but Wyck Joslyn was undeterred. He went to their table, Stingaree lagging behind.

  The brothers looked up as one. Three sets of hard eyes fastened on Joslyn, pinning him. Zeb, the oldest, was possessed of a particularly forbidding gaze. Dark irises were completely surrounded by white eyeball, giving an intent, spooky quality to his unblinking stare.

  Few men could have stood under those gun-sight eyes without qualms, but Wyck Joslyn seemed unabashed.

  Joslyn did some fast talking and not much of it. Just as well—the brothers weren’t much for palavering. Whatever his pitch, he must have put it over.

  The Fromeses exchanged glances, Tetch and Jeeter looking to Zeb for guidance.

  Zeb nodded grudgingly. That went by his way of being an invitation. Joslyn pulled a chair from a nearby empty table, drew it up to the Fromes’s table, and sat down. He motioned to Stingaree, telling him something, giving him instructions.

  Stingaree went to the bar, shouldering aside several patrons. They were no pushovers, but when they saw he was associated with the evil-eyed Fromeses, they sidled off without protest.

  Stingaree got a couple bottles and two cups from McCray, bringing them to the brothers’ table. He dragged a chair away from the wall and sat down at the table.

  Neither Joslyn nor Stingaree sat with his back to the front door. Both angled their chairs around to the sides so they were partially turned to the front and could keep an eye on it. The chairs extended out from the table like wings.

  Joslyn uncorked the bottle and filled Zeb Fromes’s cup, followed by Tetch’s and then Jeeter’s. Then he poured for Stingaree, and lastly, himself. All drank, with no particular evidence of good fellowship, cordiality, or even relish for whiskey. Joslyn did some more talking, not drinking much.

  “Quite a coalition.” Johnny stepped away from the bar. “Let’s mosey. I could use some fresh air.”

  Luke nodded. Fixing the crutch under his left arm, he swung around facing the door. He and Johnny went out, into the street. No porch or boardwalk fronted the Dog Star saloon, just hard-packed dirt under their feet.

  High overhead the noonday sun beat down, blanketing the surroundings in bright hot glare.

  “Now, what do you suppose Wyck Joslyn’s about with the Fromes Boys?” Johnny asked.

  “Cooking up some mischief,” Luke said.

  “Sure, but what?”

  “Whatever it is, it’ll probably come to fruit before too long.”

  Johnny nodded. He lit a cigar and got it going. South of the Dog Star the buildings were few and far between. A wide expanse of bare dirt mixed with patches of short, tough grass was broken by a handful of straggly trees and bushes.

  Beyond lay Mextown, where the Spanish-speaking people of the town lived. A cluster of whitewashed adobe huts and wooden shacks grouped around an oval plaza centered by a shallow, water-filled basin. The area was watered by irrigation troughs fed by a stream snaking across the plains south of town. Small yards and vegetable gardens were marked off by wooden pole fences. A burro hitched to a pole walked around in circles, turning a waterwheel. A youngster walked beside the animal, beating its hindquarters with a stick when it slowed.

  West of Mextown lay a big open green space with a rivulet running through it. It was used as a camping ground by westbound wagon trains, Hangtown being the last settlement until New Mexico.

  The site was occupied by Major Adams’s outfit. About two dozen wagons were in motion. Most were Conestoga-style covered wagons but there were some freight wagons and even one or two high-sided caravan wagons. Hitched to the wagons were teams of horses, mules, or oxen.

  Scores of men, women and children thronged the scene. Families for the most part, along with scouts and others of Major Adams’s crew.

  The wagon train was breaking camp and moving out. It was a slow, laborious process with lots of jockeying for position, balky animals, and clumsy wagon handling.

  One by one, the wagons began forming into a long, single-file column. The movement kicked up a tremendous amount of dust, brown clouds rising skyward, shot through with shafts of sunlight. The line of the column angled northwest to pick up the Hangtree trail outside the town limits.

  “There go the pilgrims,” Johnny said.

  Luke, chawing tobacco, let fly with a spurt of brown juice. “Them greenhorns can’t even hardly form up in a single line without fouling up. It’s like herding cats.”

  “Smart to move ’em out now. The Major knows what he’s doing. Those folks could only get into trouble in Hangtown on a Saturday night—’specially this Saturday night.”

  “They’ll wish they stayed put if they cross trails with any Comanches out on the Llano,” said Luke.

  “They’re gonna link up with the cavalry out at Anvil Flats.”

  “Anything that keeps the bluebellies out of town is all right with me.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “Where to now, Johnny?”

  “How about the Golden Spur?”

  “I knew that was coming.”

  Johnny tried to look innocent. “Don’t you want to see the famous Francine Hayes, who drives men wild?”

  “The Staffords would like to see her too, I bet,” Luke said. “All hell’s gone break loose when that bunch hits town.”

  “It’ll take some time for them to round up their men and ride in from South Fork,” Johnny said.

  “They’ve had time.”

  “We’re just going for a looksee, Luke. We’ll have a drink or two and be on our way before the storm breaks.”

  Luke laughed. “You probably even believe it.”

  “Sure I do, or I wouldn’t have said it.”

  “Some folks, trouble follows them. But you, Johnny—you follow trouble.”

  “I start it. Hell, that’s where the fun is.”

  Luke sighed. “When you put it that way, I cain’t say no.”

  Johnny grinned. “Things have been getting too blamed quiet lately, anyhow.”

  Luke shook his head. “Not for long. I got me a feeling.”

  SIX

  The Golden Spur and the courthouse were
next-door neighbors. A side street ran between them. The rear of the courthouse faced the Golden Spur, as if turning its back on all the drinking, gambling, and whoring of the pleasure palace.

  Occupying its own square lot, the Golden Spur was isolated from its neighbors. The two-story wooden frame building fronted south on Trail Street, a rectangle whose long sides ran north-south.

  A portion of the façade extended above the roofline, forming a broad, flat flare on which the name GOLDEN SPUR was blazoned in big, bold red letters trimmed with gilt paint. Behind the flare, concealed by it, a man with a rifle sat perched on the flat rooftop. He was Monk, the saloon’s bouncer. He was keeping watch for the Staffords and their Ramrod Ranch riders.

  The usual gang of loafers and regulars found sitting in the shade on the front porch was absent. They had gone elsewhere to avoid being in the line of fire when the Ramrod bunch came to town.

  The entrance of the Golden Spur opened on a large, high-ceilinged space. A long bar stretched along the right-hand wall; on the left side were tables and chairs, most of which were set aside for gambling. It was set with card tables, a Wheel of Chance, and birdcage dice games.

  Opposite the front door, toward the rear of the building, a wide central staircase rose to a second-floor mezzanine, with balcony wings extending along two long side walls. Under the mezzanine were rooms used as offices by the saloon’s owners, Damon Bolt and his business partner, Mrs. Frye.

  Ordinarily, by the noontide hour on a Saturday the Golden Spur would have been doing a brisk trade in gambling, women, and whiskey. Now, it was all but deserted. Abandoned but for its staffers, a number of whom were about to take their leave.

  Seated alone at a card table was Damon. Facing the front door, he was playing solitaire, dealing out the cards to himself, arranging them in neat rows by suit and number.

  The big room was quiet, hushed. The soft slap of each card could be heard as it was laid down faceup on the table. A pistol lay near his right hand. A bottle of bourbon and a glass stood by his left.

  Morrissey, the barkeep, stood behind the bar, wiping the countertop with a damp cloth. It didn’t need wiping, but he liked to keep busy. He looked like a barkeep should look, big, bluff, with hair parted down the middle, a black handlebar mustache, and wearing a striped shirt with sleeve garters.