A Good Day to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  Behind him, the wall showed the ghostly outline where the mirror had hung before a stray slug had shot it to pieces. The horizontal oblong was discolored compared to the rest of the cream-colored wall.

  Across from the barkeep, Creed Teece sat on a long-legged stool at the bar, eating a late lunch. “Damned if I’m goin’ off my feed on account of a dustup that ain’t even happened yet,” he said with his mouth full. The thick, juicy steak that Morrissey had cooked covered his plate, the slabbed beef looking about as big as a doormat.

  Teece went at it hard with knife and fork, his face almost parallel to the plate as he wolfed down his food. Strong white teeth tore at red-dripping meat, the juices running down his chin. The knotted clumps of muscle at the corners of his square jaw worked hard to chew the steak. From time to time he washed it down with great gulps from a tumbler full of whiskey, which the barkeep was quick to refill when it showed signs of running out.

  Monk the bouncer was still up on the roof of the building, keeping watch.

  Johnny Cross and Luke Pettigrew sat at a table off to the side of the bar, with a clear view of the main floor and front entrance. They drank beer out of solid, long-handled glass mugs. They’d switched from whiskey to beer earlier to keep from getting too big a skinful too early in the day.

  “We got enough hands here to work up a decent poker game,” Luke said, looking around.

  “The cards’d only get in the way of your drinking,” Johnny said.

  “You ain’t exactly been on the water wagon yourself.” Luke drained his glass, setting the empty mug down on the table and smacking his lips. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Pushing his chair back, he reached down under the table, straightening the wooden leg that had been bent at a right angle and extending it in a straight line out to the side. His fingers worked on the hinge screws of the artificial limb, locking it into place.

  He gripped the back of his chair with one hand and the edge of the table with another. Johnny took hold of the table to steady it. Luke hefted himself up out of the chair, on to his feet. Bending forward, he picked up the crutch which lay across a third chair at the table.

  Luke snugged the crutch’s padded crossbar under his left arm and planted its tip firmly on the floorboards. “Got to see a man about a horse.”

  Johnny nodded absently, watching tiny bubbles rise in his beer. Luke made his way limping to the bar. “Where’s the donnicker?”

  “Through that door and down the hall, first door on your right,” Morrissey said, gesturing at a swinging door set in a near corner of the rear wall.

  “Much obliged,” Luke said, making his way to the convenience.

  Johnny sipped some beer. Holding the mug up, he gazed at the wash of foamy suds sliding down the inside of the glass. From behind came soft footfalls, the rustle of a long skirt and petticoats. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Francine Hayes coming out of a back room.

  She went to the bar and spoke softly to Morrissey. Reaching under the bar, he set an unopened bottle of whiskey on the countertop. He put two glasses down beside it. Francine picked up the bottle and glasses and started toward Johnny.

  Johnny eyed her admiringly without getting overheated about it. She was a good-looking gal, a real beauty. Champagne-colored hair, blueberry eyes, a ripe red mouth that turned up at the corners. A dress of some shiny, satiny material hugged her slim, well-formed body. It was a pleasure just to watch her move.

  Francine stood at the table, smiling. “Buy you a drink, cowboy?”

  “That’s a switch. Usually it’s the fellow who buys a gal a drink,” Johnny said.

  “It’s an unusual day.”

  “And it ain’t hardly even got rolling yet.”

  “Compliments of the house,” she said, brandishing the bottle.

  Johnny rose, indicating an empty chair. “Please.”

  “Thank you.” Francine set the bottle and glasses down on the table.

  Johnny held the back of the chair, pushing it toward the table after she sat down. He tasted her perfume in his nostrils, light and elusive, yet making his senses tingle.

  “You’re a gentleman, sir.”

  “Shoot, all us Texas boys is gentlemen.”

  She cut him a sceptical side glance, a wry twist to her lips. “Not all.”

  “Maybe not,” he allowed as he sat down, turning his chair to face her.

  Indicating the bottle, Francine said. “If you would be so kind ...”

  “Glad to.” He broke the seal and uncorked the bottle, loosing the rich, dark scent of prime Kentucky bourbon. It smelled almost as heady as her perfume. Almost, but not quite. He filled a shot glass, setting it down before her. “No water for a chaser?”

  “Why, do you need one?” she countered.

  “I was thinking of you.”

  “I take it straight. Especially today.”

  “Can’t say as I blame you.” Johhny filled the other glass, raising it.

  Francine raised her glass. “Here’s luck.”

  “Mud in your eye,” Johnny said.

  They drank. She tossed hers back in a gulp, drinking it down, shuddering a little. Color came into her cheeks, some of the tautness leaving her face.

  “Good.” Johnny smacked his lips.

  “Have another,” Francine invited.

  “Why not?” He refilled their glasses.

  She sipped hers. Johnny slowed down, too.

  She studied his face, thoughtful. “I know you.”

  His eyebrows rose. “I’d remember if we ever met before. I never get that drunk.”

  “I mean, I know who you are. You’ve been in here before. You and your friend were pointed out to me.”

  He’d forgotten about Luke. Where was he? Looking up, he saw his buddy standing at the bar, chatting with Morrissey. Catching Johnny’s eye, Luke winked at him behind Francine where she couldn’t see him. Johnny grinned to himself. Luke had nice timing. He knew when not to show up. Now that was a friend.

  “You’re John Cross, the gunfighter,” Francine said.

  Johnny smiled, shaking his head. “I’m Johnny Cross, the mustanger. I catch and sell wild horses for a living.”

  “Why be coy? I’ve seen what you can do with a gun.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “You’re very good.”

  “You’re pretty good yourself, Miss Hayes.”

  “It’s Francine ... John.”

  “Call me Johnny, Francine.”

  “All right, Johnny. How is it we never met before?”

  “Luke and I are kind of busy out at the ranch. We don’t get into town much. You’re new here.”

  She nodded. “I’ve only been at the Spur for a few weeks. Long enough to get into trouble, though.”

  “No shortage of that in Hangtown. Is it too late for you to clear out?”

  “Is that polite? Trying to get rid of me when you hardly know me. Usually it takes longer than that for someone to tire of me,” Francine said, pouting.

  “What am I saying? I must be drunk.”

  “And here I thought you were a gentleman.”

  “You must be drunk.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I meant that the party is liable to get rough when the Ramrod crowd rides in,” Johnny explained.

  “I’ve got nowhere to go. Why are you sticking?”

  Johnny shrugged. “Maybe I don’t like to see a pretty gal get pushed around.”

  “I was hoping that was the reason,” Francine said huskily, gifting him with a full-force smile he could feel clear down to his toes.

  “Or maybe I’m just an ornery critter that likes to fight,” he added.

  “That I believe!” she said, laughing. “You like me, Johnny?”

  “Sure, what’s not to like?”

  “I know you do. I can tell. I like you, too. But watch out.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m dangerous.”

  “All women are dangerous.”

  Francine’s smile faded, th
e corners of her mouth turning down as she got serious. “I mean it. Look at Bliss Stafford. He got killed because of me.”

  “Don’t talk dumb,” Johnny said, frowning, his yellow cat eyes glinting. “I saw it. Stafford got hisself killed because he was a damned fool, a troublemaker who thought he was fast with a gun. He picked a fight with someone who was faster. That’s all.”

  “You knew him?” Francine asked.

  “Hell, no.”

  “You described him pretty well.”

  “I know the type. There’s some like him in every saloon from here to the Mississippi. Too many. Seems I happen to meet more than my share, and they all want to fight me.”

  Francine showed a quirked smile. “Bliss. Bliss! Was ever anyone so misnamed? All he ever brought was heartache and trouble. He was a swine who thought he was God’s gift to women. The harder I tried to discourage him, the more he wanted me. He kept after me, wouldn’t let me be.”

  “No need to explain. What’s done is done.”

  “I want you to understand.” Francine put her hand on his, squeezing it. “I like you, Johnny. I like you a lot.”

  She let go of his hand. “His brother Clay came to see me a couple times. I suppose you heard about that?” Francine asked, studying his face.

  “No.” he said, though in truth he had heard a few comments along those lines earlier.

  “Clay Stafford offered me money to leave his kid brother alone and go away. As if that would have done any good! I’d have gone away for free if I hadn’t known Bliss would follow me wherever I went. I begged Clay to ride herd on Bliss and keep him out of my life. He couldn’t stop him. Not even Vince Stafford himself could hold Bliss in line. At least here I knew that Damon would protect me.”

  “Bliss ain’t gonna bother you no more, Francine.”

  “No. But his father and brothers will come for my scalp.”

  “They ain’t gonna bother you. Not while I’m around ... and I’ll be around.” Johnny’s youthful face was set in hard lines, his eyes bright and cold. None could doubt that he meant business and when he was in that mood few would dare to balk him.

  “Thanks, Johnny. You’re sweet.” Francine blinked back tears. Leaning forward, she rested her slim, long-fingered hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. Her long, white-blond hair brushed his face.

  “I better go before I make a fool of myself by crying my head off.” She rose from her chair and crossed to the staircase. Climbing to the second floor, she walked along the mezzanine and into her room, closing the door behind her.

  Luke returned to the table. “What happened, hoss? Looked like you and that little gal was getting along nicely, then up she jumps and runs away.”

  “Who knows why women do what they do?” Johnny wondered. “At least she left the bourbon,” he said, reaching for the bottle.

  Mrs. Frye came out of the office to check on some item of business with Damon. Standing at his side, she laid an open ledger on the table before him, pointing out an entry about which she had some questions. While they were talking, a man came in through the front entrance.

  He was Ace High Olcutt, a card dealer employed by the Golden Spur. He was thin faced, with wavy black hair slicked back and a pencil-thin mustache. He walked fast, a sheepish expression on his face.

  “I thought we’d seen the last of you, Ace High,” Mrs. Frye said, a cynical twist to her mouth.

  “I got a week’s wages owing,” Olcutt said, avoiding her eyes, and Damon’s.

  “What’s the hurry? Going somewhere?” She needled him, already knowing the answer.

  “I’m clearing out,” the dealer said.

  Damon looked up, his expression calm and mild. He smiled gently. “Quitting us, Ace High?”

  Olcutt squirmed, uncomfortable and awkward. “I’m a gambler, not a gunman.”

  Damon nodded. “The Golden Spur always pays in full, you know that. If you would be so good, Mrs. Frye?”

  “I’ll take care of it, Damon. Come in the office and we’ll settle up, Ace High.” Mrs. Frye turned, heading to the rear of the building.

  “Thanks.” Olcutt followed her into the office.

  “Looks like Ace High is running out on us,” Morrissey observed.

  “He’s a yellowbelly.” Creed Teece spoke without rancor, as if commenting on a change in the weather.

  “I thought he had more sand than that.”

  “Now you know better.”

  The business transacted quickly. Olcutt soon emerged from the office. He went upstairs to his room. A few minutes later he came out, carpetbag in hand, descending the staircase. He started toward the front.

  “Paid in full?” Damon asked.

  Olcutt halted. “Yes.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Olcutt squirmed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Well ... I’ll be on my way.”

  “Sorry to see you go,” Damon said.

  “You know how it is, boss. No hard feelings?”

  “No hard feelings.”

  Mrs. Frye stood by the Wheel of Chance, an oversized numbered gaming wheel mounted vertically on a table stand. Her arm was bent at the elbow, one hand resting on the Wheel’s rim. “You’re a gambling man, Ace High. Care to make a sporting proposition? Stake your wages on a turn of the wheel? Red or black, double or nothing?”

  Ace High looked like he was thinking about it for a few seconds before shaking his head. “No thanks, I’ll pass.”

  “Too rich for your blood, eh? Looks like the house holds its edge after all,” Mrs. Frye said.

  Damon had already returned to his game of solitaire.

  “Well—so long,” Olcutt said lamely.

  “Good luck,” Damon said indifferently, his attention elsewhere.

  Olcutt scuttled away toward the front entrance. Mrs. Frye gave the wheel a turn, setting it motion. It made a loud clickety-clacking noise as it spun, causing Olcutt to flinch.

  “Hah!” Mrs. Frye’s mocking laughter was a harsh crow’s caw.

  Olcutt went out, not looking back.

  Mrs. Frye crossed to Damon. “Can you beat that. Damon? After all you’ve done for him, pulling him out of the gutter and giving him a good job, and then the louse walks out on you!”

  “I took a chance on him. Can’t win them all.”

  “Burns me up anyway.” She stood beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder, watching silently as his restless hands worked the cards.

  “What about you, Mrs. Frye? Can’t I persuade you to find a safer place, at least for now?”

  “Nobody runs me out of the Golden Spur, Damon. Nobody! I worked too hard for my half of it. So let’s have no more nonsense.”

  “As you will. I never argue with a lady.”

  “I’m no lady.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “That’s arguing.”

  Damon took her hand, raising it to his lips and kissing the back of it.

  Outside was the sound of riders pulling up in front of the place. Not many, no more than a few. And not the Ramrod bunch. Monk on the roof would have given the alert. Still, everyone in the Golden Spur looked up to see what it was about, things being what they were.

  A delay of a half minute or so occurred while the newcomers tied up their horses at the hitching post. Boot heels clattered as they climbed the stairs, crossing the front porch to the entrance.

  Inside, Mrs. Frye gripped the back of Damon’s chair, her knuckles whitening.

  The batwing doors swung open, admitting two men. One was tall and lean, with a long horse face, bright eyes, and buck teeth. Flint Ryan.

  The other was square built, muscular, with long black hair and a thin mustache that came down on the sides of his mouth. He was Anglo with Mexican blood, maybe some Indian blood, too. He was Charley Bronco.

  Tension eased in the Spur. The newcomers were friends.

  “Sorry, gents, this is a private party,” Mrs. Frye said.

  “We know. We brung some party favors.” Bronco p
atted twin-holstered guns.

  “We rode in as soon as we heard the news. Afraid we’d be late for the fun,” Flint said, “but it looks like we got here in time.”

  Damon rose, looking thoughtful, troubled. “I appreciate the sentiment, gentlemen, but I can’t allow you to put yourselves in harm’s way.”

  “Save your breath, Damon. You can’t fancy-talk us out of this go-round. Hell, you’re our favorite gambling man. Losing to you in a poker game is the next best thing to winning,” Flint said.

  “We got a right to be here. You can’t turn us down, not with all the money we’ve lost at the tables,” Charley Bronco said.

  Damon shrugged in a gesture of hopelessness. Turning to Mrs. Frye, he said, “What can you do with men like this?”

  “I know what I do, but you don’t have the anatomy for it. Best say ‘welcome aboard’ and give them a drink,” Mrs. Frye said.

  Damon did exactly that. Handshaking and backslapping all around was followed by a round at the bar.

  Flint exclaimed, “Free drinks, Bronco!”

  “No wonder the man was trying to get rid of us,” Bronco answered.

  Morrissey poured, filling glasses for all including Damon and Mrs. Frye, and one for himself.

  “We was down in Waco when you boys had that dustup with the Harbin gang. Sorry we missed it,” Flint said to Johnny and Luke.

  “This one has all the makings of a pretty good shooting match,” Johnny volunteered.

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Damon raised his glass, the others following. “A toast, gentlemen ... and lady”—he nodded to Mrs. Fry—“confusion to the enemy!”

  “That—and plenty of hot lead!” Luke chimed in.

  They drank. His glass empty, Damon threw it in the corner, shattering it. An instant later, Mrs. Frye did the same, followed by Morrissey and Creed Teece.

  “What for did you do that?” Bronco asked.

  “For luck,” Mrs. Frye said.

  “Busting the glasses?”

  “Glasses we’ve got plenty of, cowboy.”

  Bronco and Flint exchanged glances. “Must be one of them fancy New Orleans ways,” Bronco said, shrugging.