A Good Day to Die

by William W. Johnstone

“Get on with it.”

  A crowd of spectators had gathered. Luke Pettigrew sat on a chair on the front porch of the Golden Spur, Morrissey standing beside him. The batwing double doors of the Spur swung open.

  Out came Mrs. Frye, her long, ankle-length skirts swishing. Her face was taut and pale, her lips tightly pressed into a line. She and Damon crossed glances.

  The Stafford brothers stood off to one side, Clay behind and to one side of Quent. Clay nudged Quent in the small of the back with something hard and metallic. “Hsst! Take it!” Clay whispered.

  Quent started.

  “Easy—don’t give away the game. Reach behind you,” Clay said.

  Quent put his hands behind his back. Clay surreptitiously pressed a gun into the other’s palm, a short-barreled .32 revolver.

  “A pocket pistol they forgot to look for. I’ve got one, too,” Clay said, low voiced.

  Quent grunted. His oversized hand closed over the gun, hiding it. It disappeared inside his big fist.

  “Not now, though. Wait,” Clay said. “Follow my play, in case Pa don’t make it.”

  “I know what to do.”

  “I thought you would,” Clay said, smiling.

  The sheriff gave a last word to the duelists. “Start walking when I start counting. At the count of five, turn and shoot. Anybody turns before five, I’ll shoot him dead, savvy?”

  “And if he misses, I won’t,” Squint McCray said from the sidelines.

  Barton took a few steps back, away from the duelists. “Ready, gents?”

  They were. Barton stood with his gun held hip high, elbow at his side, calling, “One!”

  Damon and Vince stepped off, guns held pointed downward at their sides.

  “Two.”

  “Three ... Four ... Five!”

  Vince spun around, whippet-quick. Bringing the gun up, he jerked the trigger, banging away.

  At the same time, Damon turned in one easy, fluid motion, leveling the pistol. A slug tore through the muscle at the top of his left shoulder. He fired once, shooting Vince Stafford in the chest.

  Vince wavered, shuddering. He planted himself in a wide stance, stiff-legged, like a man trying to keep his balance on the deck of a storm-tossed ship at sea.

  Damon squeezed out several more shots, cutting Vince’s heart to pieces. Vince fell, measuring his length in the dirt of the street. His right foot kicked several times, the way a dog’s might when it dreams of running. He stopped kicking. He was dead.

  An inarticulate cry of rage and pain came choking from Quent. Clay rasped, “Now!”

  Quent was already in motion, raising the gun in his hand. The pocket pistol looked like a toy in his big fist. He pointed it at Damon.

  Clay slammed into Quent, pushing him to one side, into the open. Quent howled, outraged by the betrayal. His shots went wild, missing Damon.

  Damon didn’t miss. Quent was huge, a monster of raw animal vitality; he could take a lot of body shots and keep on coming. Damon went for the headshot, planting a slug above Quent’s eyebrows.

  Quent’s head snapped backward, as if kicked by a mule. A round black dot, coin-sized, flashed into being in the middle of his low forehead.

  His massive form followed the violent snapback of his head, toppling. A jet of blood so dark as to appear black spurted from the wound, fountaining out, tracing a curving arc as it followed him down to the ground. He landed with a thump, head lolling to one side.

  Damon stepped forward, gun raised, ready to continue the fray to a finish with the last of the Staffords.

  Clay was having none of it. He wasn’t reaching, had never made a move toward his gun. He stood with his hands held way out away from his sides. Empty hands.

  “You want some, too?” Damon asked.

  “Not me,” Clay said, breathing hard. “I’ve got no gun.”

  “Get one. I’ll wait.”

  Clay shook his head. “No. It’s over.”

  “Expect me to believe that?” Damon scoffed.

  “Believe it.”

  “Man, I just killed your father and brother!”

  “That makes me boss of the Ramrod. Thanks.” Clay smiled then, slow and sardonic, a smile to give one pause.

  “You sound none too grief stricken at that,” Damon conceded.

  “You beat Pa in a fair duel. Quent threw down on you. I’m not kicking,” Clay said. “I’m not armed, either. Shoot me and it’s murder, cold-blooded murder, and you’ll be dangling from a rope on the Hanging Tree. Ain’t that right, Sheriff?”

  Barton, more than a bit taken aback by the turn of events, said at last, “Uh, yeah. That’s right.”

  Damon said warningly, “If this is a trick, Clay ...”

  “No trick. Like the man said, there’s been enough killing today.”

  Damon lowered the gun to his side. “Damned if I can figure you out.”

  Clay turned, facing his riders. “None of us Staffords are big on explaining ourselves but I’ll give you all this much, once. Pa was—well, you know what he was like. The whole town could be sacked and burned by Comanches if that’s what it took for him to get his revenge. I didn’t see it that way, but there was no telling him different while he was alive.

  “He’s dead now and I’m in charge and what I say goes. You take orders from me. Any of you don’t like it, draw your time and get out. You want to make war on the Spur, be my guest. But you’ll be doing it on your own, with no help from me. No help and no pay! I reckon you savvy that.

  “This town’s going to need a lot of rebuilding. Let’s bury our dead and get on with it.”

  Clay turned back to Damon. “I’m quits with it if you are. As far as I’m concerned, we’re square. You go about your business and I’ll do the same.”

  “A smart man knows when to fold his cards and cut his losses,” Damon said thoughtfully.

  “We’re square?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want.”

  “You’ll pardon me if we don’t shake hands. Peace or no peace, I prefer to keep my gun hand ready,” Damon said dryly.

  “Do as you please,” Clay said.

  “I generally do.”

  “I don’t expect us to be chums, but at least we can stay out of each other’s hair.” Clay nodded toward Damon’s arm. “Better see to yourself. You’re leaking.”

  Damon’s white shirtsleeve was bloody from left shoulder to elbow. Red droplets fell to the street. “I’ll live.”

  “Then you can count it a good day, gambler,” Clay said, turning away. He almost bumped into Dan Oxblood.

  “All dressed up and no place to go,” Oxblood said, grinning wryly.

  “You’ll be paid for the work done, Red.”

  “Thank you kindly, Clay.”

  “If you want to try out Creed, though, it’s on your dollar.”

  “Some other time, mebbe. See you,” Oxblood said, fading into the background, making himself absent.

  Francine Hayes came out of the Golden Spur, going down the stairs and into the street. Breezing past Damon without a glance, she went to Clay, who rushed forward to meet her with open arms. Her eyes shone and her face glowed.

  Clay swept her up, embracing her slim yet nicely rounded form. They went into a clinch, Clay crushing his mouth against hers, Francine kissing him back passionately. When they came up for air, Francine said, “Thank God you’re alive, Clay!”

  “It was you I was worried about, darling.”

  Mrs. Frye stood beside Damon. He looked surprised; she was level-eyed, her mouth quirked in a cynical, knowing twist. Arm in arm, Clay and Francine went to them.

  “Something you want to tell us, Francine?” Mrs. Frye said, her tone lightly mocking.

  Clay spoke. “It happened when Pa sent me as a go-between to buy off Francine to leave Bliss alone. Turned out I had things upside down. She didn’t have her hooks into him, it was he who wouldn’t leave her alone. That’s when I learned what a fine girl Francine is. I couldn’t help it, I
fell in love with her. I only hope she feels the same about me.”

  “You know I do, Clay. I love you!” Francine said.

  “I mean to make her my wife, if she’ll have me,” said Clay, with a show of sincerity.

  Francine squealed with delight. “Of course I will, darling!”

  “I hope that meets with the approval of you two,” Clay said guardedly.

  Damon Bolt and Mrs. Frye exchanged glances.

  “Miss Hayes is a free agent, as are all the ladies in the employ of the Golden Spur. As long as your intentions are honorable, sir, you have my blessing,” Damon said.

  “I want to marry this woman,” Clay declared. Francine squealed some more.

  “I’ll send for Pastor Fulton,” Mrs. Frye said, adding, “before you change your mind.”

  “No worry about that, ma’am!” Clay said quickly. Francine kept a tight hold on his arm anyway.

  “Now come along, Damon. I’ll patch up that arm while you’ve still got some blood in you,” Mrs. Frye said.

  She and Damon went into the Golden Spur. A runner was sent out to fetch the pastor. Francine stuck close to Clay, showing every sign of staying glued to him until she was safely wed as Mrs. Clay Stafford.

  Standing nearby were Sam Heller and Johnny Cross. Johnny said, “Now don’t that beat all? Women! Who can understand them?”

  “Not me,” Sam said. “I reckon Clay found something he liked filling his hand with better than a gun.”

  Johnny made a sound of disgust.

  They left the center of the street and went to the Big Corral. A knot of onlookers clustered around Red Hand’s corpse, gawking.

  “Is that him? The big chief?” somebody asked.

  “Sure,” another said, “you can tell by the war paint. That’s him all right!”

  A third sneered, “Huh! He don’t look so big now!”

  Johnny had heard enough. “You should’ve seen him coming at you, charging with that lance. He looked big enough then.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Comanches fled north, most of them. A cavalry force from Fort Pardee eventually set off in pursuit, accomplishing little.

  Two days later, Sam Heller took Latigo’s body to Rancho Grande. He wanted to bring back Lydia Fisher, and, no less important, get Dusty, his horse. Pastor Fulton had found a home for Lydia with one of the families in his church.

  Johnny Cross went with Sam. “I liked Latigo. He had sand.”

  Johnny had borrowed a wagon to take the body back. Nobody would lend a wagon to the Yankee. Latigo was laid out in a handsome coffin of dark, shining wood fashioned by master artisan and carver Joe Delagoa. The box was secured to the wagon bed.

  Riding north out of Hangtown, they crossed green prairie under blue skies. The ranch’s white adobe walls shone in the sun. Closer, the ramparts showed signs of battle. Ironbound, old oaken gates showed scorch marks where unsuccessful attempts had been made to burn them down.

  The portals opened for the wagon to enter. Sam pulled up inside the courtyard. He and Johnny climbed down from the wagon.

  They were greeted by the foreman, the segundo, big, bluff, swaggering Hector Vasquez. “Hey, gringo! I knew you would come through all of this. You must have had an easy time of it in town while we men were doing the real fighting here, no?”

  “No,” Sam said.

  “And you, the young hawk, the young falcon with the quick gun! Still fast as ever?”

  “Faster,” Johnny said.

  “No need to prove it. For once even Vasquez has had his share of fighting. And ... Latigo?”

  Sam indicated the back of the wagon with a tilt of his head. Vasquez looked inside, saw the coffin.

  “I thought as much, when I did not see him riding with you, yet I hoped he was but wounded,” Vasquez said.

  “He was a brave man. He killed many enemies,” Sam said.

  “He was an hombre,” the segundo agreed, sighing.

  “Was it bad here?” Johnny asked.

  “The Comanche bravos lost their taste for fight after a few cannon balls,” Vasquez said, smiling at a memory of epic destruction.

  Two figures came out of the front entrance of the hacienda, crossing the tiled plaza. Lydia Fisher hurried into the courtyard, Lorena Castillo following at a more measured pace.

  “Hey, Sam! I knew you was just too plumb ornery to kill!”

  “That’s what I figured about you. Lydia, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Johnny Cross. Johnny, this is Lydia Fisher, one of the bravest gals I’ve ever known ... and she can shoot, too!”

  “Glad to know you, miss,” Johnny said, taking off his hat and sweeping it before him in a kind of courtly bow.

  Lydia blushed, suddenly shy and withdrawn, demure. “Uh ... howdy, mister,” she said, small voiced.

  “Call me Johnny.” His big, friendly grin made her face light up.

  They grow up fast, Sam thought. His eyes were on Lorena, making her way toward them. Her hair was a magnificent mane, her eyes were bold, and her red lips were curved at the corners.

  Sam politely touched the tip of his hat. “Buenas dias, señora.”

  “Buenas dias, hombre,” she said, smiling radiantly. “A good day, no?”

  “Yes, a good day.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  They hanged Red Hand. No matter that he was dead, dead as they come. They hanged him anyway, as a kind of object lesson, stringing him up on a limb of the Hanging Tree.

  Noose around the neck, he hung with moccasined feet head-high above the ground, swaying slightly, pendulum-like, according to the whim of the winds. The taut hempen rope creaked under his weight.

  A three-man guard was posted to watch the body at night, for the Comanches were ever-bold, unlikely to be chastened by their recent stinging defeat.

  The crows first pecked out Red Hand’s eyes. The crows were always first on the scene after a hanging and the eyes were always the first to go. Later, bigger birds arrived. Buzzards, battening on to the corpse, tearing it apart bit by bit, bite by bite. It wasn’t pretty. After a few days under the hot Texas sun, the aroma got pretty ripe.

  Four days and three nights had passed since the riotously happy folk of Hangtown had hoisted the corpse. The night guards kept their distance, sitting around under a mesquite tree, smoking and passing around a bottle of redeye. A blurred horned moon floated in and out of high, thin, hazy clouds.

  “He’s gone to rot and ruin. Ought to take him down and bury him. It ain’t Christian,” a guard said.

  “Neither was he,” said another.

  “What’re they gonna do, leave him up till he’s nothing but bones?”

  “I reckon.”

  The guards were being watched by hidden lurkers, nearby, but unseen. Arrows came whizzing out of the darkness, striking the guards, slaying them. They fell in a heap, bodies bristled with feathered shafts.

  A small band of Comanches rode up Boot Hill, leading a riderless horse. A brave cut the hempen rope, dropping Red Hand’s corpse into the arms of the others reaching up for him. Wrapping the body in a blanket, they threw it across the back of the horse, binding it in place.

  The dead guards were plundered of weapons and personal belongings, their hair lifted by scalping knives. Their horses were taken away on a lead rope.

  The braves fled north, taking Red Hand home. The remains would be buried in a secret place where the Texans would not find it.

  In a camp hidden in the heart of Comancheria, two aging warriors sat around a low fire late at night.

  “It is well,” Wahtonka claimed. “It was not fitting for the Texans to delight in the birds picking clean the bones of Red Hand.”

  “He had a vision of great slaughter,” Laughing Bear remarked.

  “The slaughter was of our braves, not the whites. The vision was false. It led Red Hand to his own doom.”

  “Waugh! It is so.”

  The fire burned very low. In its wan red glow, the faces of Wahtonka and Laughing Bear were like a pair of old ceremonial
masks.

  Laughing Bear threw some kindling on the fire. It flared up, burning hotter and brighter. All too soon it played out, the darkness drawing in, darker than before.

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2012 William W. Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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  ISBN: 978-0-7860-3035-4

  Notes

  1 See Savage Texas, the first volume in the series.