A Good Day to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  Quent loomed large, a brutish hulk dwarfing his wizened father and tall, lanky younger brother. The battle had left not a mark on him. His little piggy eyes were bright and glowing. His wide mouth twisted into a leering grin.

  “Where’s the gunfighter?” Vince asked.

  “Right here,” Dan Oxblood said, stepping forward into the front rank. He took off his hat, running his fingers through sweat-damp, brick-colored hair. His face was soot smeared from the smoke. Green eyes glinted. No tremor disturbed those quick gunfighter hands.

  Vince began to rally his troops. “Get set, men. We gone clean up on the Golden Spur crowd.”

  “Now, Boss?” somebody asked.

  “There’ll never be a better time,” Vince said. “The townsmen have had a bellyful of killing. Them that’s still alive ain’t gonna risk their precious skins to save the gambler’s hash. We finish it here and now.”

  “What about all them Mexes forted up in the Spur?” asked another.

  “If any of ’em buck us, kill ’em,” Vince snapped.

  “They won’t fight. What’s Damon to them?” Clay said.

  Quent spat. “Might as well clean up on them, too. They’s already too many of the dirty greasers around.”

  “Their money’s as good as anybody else’s, and we got beef to sell them—”

  “Hell, brother, them beaners ain’t got a pot to piss in. To hell with ’em.”

  “Shooting at them’s the best way to make them throw in with Damon,” Clay argued. “Why go picking fights when you don’t have to?”

  “’Cause that’s what I like to do,” Quent said stubbornly.

  “Clay’s right. Don’t go burnin’ down nobody less’n they throw in agin’ us,” Vince said, laying down the law in his best because-I-said-so tone of finality.

  Quent changed the subject. “And the girl, Pa? Damon’s whore? What about her”

  “I’ll tend to her later.”

  “You still bulldogging that, Pa?” Clay said, not bothering to hide his disgust.

  “You know me, son. Once I set my mind to a thing, it’s done. That’s the way it is and that’s how it’s always going to be, as long as I’m in charge of this outfit. And that’s gonna be a long, long time.”

  “Let me do it, Pa. I’ll fix her,” Quent said, licking his lips. A little spittle drooled down the corner of his chin.

  “Keep your mitts off her, boy. An overgrowed galoot like you don’t know your own strength. You git your paws on her pretty neck, you’re liable to snap it like a twig.”

  “I might—after ...” Quent’s little round eyes were hot, dreamy.

  “That’s too quick,” Vince said, his voice strident. “She’s gotta live as a warning and a reminder of what happens to those who trifle with a Stafford. She worked woe on poor Bliss and I’m gonna do the same to her and she ain’t never gonna forget it. And this town ain’t never gonna forget it, either.”

  A couple dead Comanches and townsmen lay sprawled on the street in front of the gambling hall. The façade of the building was shot up. Shadows that could have been figures flitted behind boarded-up front windows.

  “Looks quiet,” a Ramrod rider said.

  “I pray the gambler still lives,” Vince said fervently. “Don’t do me out of the pleasure of killing him myself!”

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Pa. Damon’s not dead,” Clay said, sour-faced.

  “How do you know?” the old man demanded.

  “Because there he is.” Clay gestured north toward the street between the Golden Spur and the courthouse.

  Damon Bolt rounded the corner of the Spur, stepping into view, Creed Teece beside him. They halted, facing the Staffords and company, hands hanging low over holstered guns.

  Vince bristled like a mountain cat getting its back arched for a fight.

  A courthouse door opened. Out came Ace High Olcutt, poker faced, his complexion looking a little grayish. Moving alongside Damon, he stood with him and Creed Teece. Olcutt turned hard eyes on the Stafford crowd. He swept back his coattail, out of the way of the gun holstered on his hip. His hand hovered over the gun butt.

  Damon smiled. “Decided to get in the game after all, eh, Ace High?”

  “You know me, I’m a gambling man. I got to be where the action is.”

  “Glad to have you. I made a bet with myself on you, and it looks like I won.”

  Keeping his eyes on the Stafford party, Creed Teece said, “I take back what I said about you being a yellow belly, Ace High.”

  “Thanks,” Olcutt said sarcastically.

  Flint Ryan and Charley Bronco came out the front doors of the Golden Spur and took up a stance on the front porch. Ryan held a rifle. His long, thin horse face looked tired. His eyes were heavy lidded. Suddenly he showed a bucktoothed grin.

  Charley Bronco was hatless, long dark hair hanging down to his shoulders. His face was sweaty, almost feverish. His slitted eyes glittered. He was a little unsteady on his feet, swaying slightly. His fringed buckskin shirt was stained with dark blood on his left side where he’d been hit. He’d been tagged high in the left arm, too. The arm hung down straight along his side. His right hand hovered over the gun on his right hip.

  Barkeep Morrissey appeared at the window to the right of the front door, wielding a double-barreled shotgun.

  Luke Pettigrew showed in the window at the left, thrusting a double-bored shotgun muzzle through the space between a couple boards nailed across the window frame.

  Johnny Cross eased into view, anchoring the southeast front corner of the building, a .44 on his right hip and the Navy Colt worn butt-out in the top of his pants on his left hip.

  “Hey, hoss,” Luke called to him.

  Johnny grinned. “So you made it for the showdown, huh?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Luke said. “Hell, I can’t miss—not with this here scattergun.”

  “The way you shoot, I ain’t so sure.”

  “Spread out, men,” Clay Stafford said tightly. The Ramrod gunmen stepped to the sides to confront the Golden Spur bunch across the street. “You know what to do, Red.”

  Dan Oxblood’s left hand hung loosely at his side, over his six-gun in its black leather holster decorated with silver stars and sunbursts. His tone was mild and conversational as if he were passing the time of day. “I got Creed covered.”

  “You do, huh?” Creed Teece called, his voice as flat and even as his level-eyed gaze.

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me another one.”

  “Gambler! This’s Stafford, Vince Stafford!” the old man shouted.

  “I hear you,” Damon Bolt said mildly.

  “I’m calling you out!”

  “Here I am.”

  The hot morning air quivered with tension, hate, and the promise of more violence. Nerves were stretched thin. The contending parties were frozen for a timeless instant, like an electrical storm in the gap between a lightning strike and a thunderclap.

  Sam looked at Sheriff Barton standing midway between Trail Street and the Big Corral. Deputy Smalls stood beside him, his head close to Barton’s ear, obviously speaking to him.

  Barton frowned, eyes narrowed. Smalls pointed toward the Ramrodders. Barton’s frown deepened.

  It occurred to Sam that it might be a good time to have a word with the sheriff. He untied his horse and Johnny’s from the hitching rail. Taking hold of both sets of reins, he walked the horses across the street toward the Big Corral.

  Sam had a plan, or at least a strategem. He pitched it to Barton. Barton was game. But—

  “We’ve got to act fast, there ain’t much time,” Sam said.

  Deputy Smalls rushed to the Big Corral to round up some sidemen. They came back in quick time, fifteen men or more, mostly Dog Star hardcases and a handful of small ranchers. They all hated Vince Stafford’s guts. Barton gave them their orders.

  Sam handed off the horses to Hobson’s boy for safekeeping, but not before reaching into his saddlebag. He had a few bundles of
dynamite remaining. He took out a spare stick.

  He and Barton went ahead of the others, approaching Trail Street. Sam shouldered the mule’s-leg. Barton held the stick of dynamite.

  “No need to light the fuse,” Sam said.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” the sheriff said doubtfully.

  “I hope you know how to throw.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Yank.”

  “Throw it high.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t wait too long, the boys’re getting ready to pop. NOW!”

  Barton threw the stick of dynamite underhand, tossing it high into the air above the middle of Trail Street.

  Sam shot it at the height of its arc, tagging it on the wing and detonating it. He and Barton ducked back behind the corner of the feed store to avoid the blast. It shook things up pretty good. Smoke, fire, and a deafening blast knocked men down, shaking buildings and scattering debris.

  The gunplay stopped before it could get started. Nobody in the fighting factions knew what the hell was going on.

  Drawing his gun, Barton motioned for his men to move up. Their guns were drawn, too. As the smoke cleared on Trail Street. Ramrodders and Golden Spur faction members began picking themselves up off the ground where they’d been knocked down. No one was seriously hurt but they’d all taken a hell of a bruising from the concussion. They were stunned, shaken, and unsure.

  Before they could recover their wits enough to get back in and fight, Barton and his men had poured into the street, guns drawn, and leveled. They had the drop on them—on both sides.

  “Stand down!” Barton shouted, standing at the head of the militiamen armed with rifles, shotguns, and six-guns. Most were leveled on the Ramrod riders, but some covered Damon’s faction across the street.

  Sam kept to the rear, off to one side. The situation was volatile enough without injecting his Yankee self into the picture. He’d done his bit; now it was the sheriff’s play.

  Kev Huddy was one of the first to stagger upright. His front was all dirty and he had a nosebleed. He trembled with a skinful of adrenaline, his eyes bulging, and his neck cording. “You loco? What’d you do that for?”

  “To get your attention,” Barton stated.

  Huddy swore.

  “I’ll overlook that, considering,” Barton said flatly.

  “You crazy peckerwood!”

  “That’s one too many. Mind your manners.” Barton wagged his gun in Huddy’s direction.

  Big Quent Stafford was one of the few to have remained on his feet despite the blast. “I’ll kill you.” His hand closed on the gun butt, tensing to pull it from the holster.

  Barton held his pistol at arm’s length, pointed at Quent’s head. Despite the ringing in everyone’s ears from the blast, the sound of the hammer clicking into place was loud indeed. “Pull that gun and I surely will blow out what little brains you got, Quent.”

  Quent froze. “Don’t shoot, Sheriff!”

  “Move that hand away and make sure it stays empty.”

  Quent eased his hand off the gun butt, his thick fingers uncurling. He raised his hands shoulder-high, holding them there. Barton moved in, shucking Quent’s gun out of the holster and tossing it into the street.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Sheriff?” Clay asked.

  “Calling a cease-fire. There’s been enough killing today. Boot Hill’s running out of space to bury the dead.”

  Flint Ryan was in disbelief. “You threw dynamite at us to get our attention?”

  “Worked, didn’t it?” Barton said, smug.

  “What if you missed? We’d ’ve all got blowed up!”

  Johnny Cross spotted Sam lurking on the sidelines. “Never mind, Flint. They got an hombre over there who don’t never miss.”

  “Careful how you wave that rifle around, Ryan. It’s be a damned shame for you to get yourself shot this late in the game,” Barton said. “We’ve got the drop on all you boys—on both sides—so don’t anyone do anything stupid.”

  Vince Stafford stood hunched up in a knot of outrage, fuming. “I told you we was gone tangle, lawman.”

  “We’re tangling now. You want it so bad? Quit running your mouth and make your move, Vince.”

  “You gonna give me a chance on a fair draw?”

  “No. I told you, I’m calling a cease-fire. I’ll bury the first man to go for a gun.”

  “You got the whip hand now, but it ain’t gonna end here.”

  “Yes, it does.” Barton’s tone held a convincing note of grim fatality, enough to make Vince Stafford take a few steps back, hands held palms upright.

  Vince cried, “No. Don’t!—”

  Clay quickly interrupted. “You’re a sheriff. You can’t kill him in cold blood.”

  “What’ll you bet?” Barton asked. “I’ve got a proposition. If this is a private war, let’s keep it that way. Limited to the interested parties. No sense any of the rest of you getting shot up for no good reason. You’re so all-fired set on gunning down Damon, Vince—fight him yourself. I’m talking about a fair fight between the two of you.”

  “Sounds good,” Dan Oxblood opined.

  Vince’s face purpled. “You’re working for me, damn you!”

  “I quit.”

  “Good for you, Red,” Johnny Cross called across the street.

  “What do you say, Damon?” Barton asked.

  “I’m agreeable.”

  Vince scoffed. “Fair fight, you call it. He’s a gunman! I’m just an honest rancher. I make my living selling cattle. What’s fair about that?”

  Sam stepped forward. “There’s a way to even it up so it’s a test of nerve rather than who’s the fastest gun.”

  Heads turned his way, many with unfriendly eyes. Vince glared, worked up into quite a state. “Nobody asked you to throw your two cents in, Billy Yank!”

  “His idea about the dynamite pits didn’t work out too badly. Hear him out,” Johnny Cross said.

  “Fight an old-time duel, like the gentry used to do in New Orleans,” Sam suggested. “You ought to know about that, Damon.”

  “I may have heard,” Damon allowed.

  “Each man has a drawn gun. Stand back-to-back, walk five paces, turn and shoot. That’s all there is to it. Who’s faster on the draw won’t matter,” said Sam.

  “Sounds fair to me,” Oxblood agreed.

  “Sure—it ain’t your neck,” said Vince.

  “Got a better idea? No? Anyone?” Barton asked. “Because one way or another this thing is gonna be settled for good. I don’t aim to have it hanging fire over me or the town. It ends here—now... .

  “What do you say, Damon?”

  “I have no objection.”

  “Vince?”

  “Goddamn you!”

  “That a yes or a no, Vince?”

  Vince was so mad he chewed his lower lip, a clot of froth bubbling in the corner of his mouth.

  “Vince?” Barton prompted.

  The man was silent. The silence went on for a long time.

  “He won’t fight. He’s yellah,” somebody yelled.

  Clay cleared his throat. He looked anguished. “Pa, for the honor of the family, the Ramrod brand ...”

  “Is it a go, Vince?” asked Barton one more time.

  “All right, I’ll do it. Damn your eyes! Nobody can say Vince Stafford ever backed off a fight.”

  “Good.”

  “A duel of honor,” Damon said mockingly.

  Barton held up a hand palm outward. “First, though, we got to disarm both sides, in case there’s any soreheads. Take off your gun belts, boys, and you won’t get hurt.”

  He motioned the militiamen forward. “You men move in and collect ’em.”

  Somebody said, “The gambler’s men will slaughter us.”

  “No they won’t, because we’re taking their guns, too,” Barton said cheerfully. “This ain’t a matter of choice. Anybody reaches ’ll get a bellyful of lead. That goes for you with the scatterguns in the
windows. Am I joshing? No!”

  “I trust you, Sheriff,” Clay said, unbuckling his gun belt.

  “You’re a damned fool, brother,” Quent sneered.

  “You didn’t seem so eager to throw down on Barton when you had the chance.”

  Smalls led the militiamen doing the collecting. Some went among the Ramrodders, others circulated among the Spur faction, taking rifles and gun belts with holstered guns. Others of the militia held guns leveled on both sides.

  “I don’t give up my guns to nobody,” Creed Teece said, when his turn came.

  “You heard the man, Creed. Stand down,” Damon said.

  Teece hesitated.

  “What’re you afraid of? I gave up my guns,” Dan Oxblood called across the street.

  “Hell, if you can do, I can,” Teece said, unbuckling his gun belt and handing it to one of the collectors.

  “I’ll give my guns up to Mister Yankee.” Johnny Cross gave Sam his .44 and the Navy Colt. “What’d you do with Red Hand?”

  “He’s in the Big Corral for safekeeping,” Sam said.

  “Good. I got me a feeling that rascal’s hide’s gonna be worth big money.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  The hardware made quite a pile. Two piles actually—one for the Ramrod guns, the other for the Spur’s.

  “You’ll all get your guns back—afterward,” Barton promised.

  Damon Bolt and Vince Stafford stood back-to-back in the square formed by the intersection of Trail Street and a cross street. Each stood holding a six-gun at his side, pointing down. Damon’s jacket was off. He wore a maroon vest and long-sleeved shirt. He was half a head taller than Vince.

  Damon faced the north of the cross street, Vince faced south. It was blocked out that way so neither party had the disadvantage of facing into the morning sun.

  Barton stood to one side, gun held level at his hip, pointed in the general direction of both men. “It’s simple enough. I’ll call out the count. You step off and keep the pace. At the count of five, turn and fire. Keep shooting till it’s done. Any questions?”

  Silence.

  “Anybody’s got any kick, speak now or forever hold your peace. Damon?”

  “Ready.”

  “Vince?”