Now the horses were really pulling, and the hitching rail’s post grunted and budged. Dooley saw Blue turn around and find the new assailant, but Dooley said, “It’s all right, Blue.” He reached across the trough, grabbing the reins to General Grant. “Easy,” he said. “Easy.”
Two of the horses did not listen. Both broke their tethers and galloped down the street. Another pulled free, too, but seemed to understand the excitement had ended and just backed out into the center of the street.
“Easy,” Dooley told his horse again, and looked back at the old messenger as he opened the breech of the Parker ten-gauge, extracted the remnants of the fired shotgun shells, and replaced the loads in the barrels before the shotgun clicked shut.
Dooley looked at the boots in the darkness—they still did not move—and the rifle on the boardwalk, and at Blue, and then at the grizzly bear who had been playing poker.
The grizzly named Horatio yelled at the still-shut front doors.
“It’s all right, Chester. Ever’thin’s done that needed to get did.”
Dooley found his voice. “How?” He couldn’t hear himself. He coughed and tried again.
“How . . . I mean . . . why . . . why did you help me out?”
The bear of a man looked at Dooley as if he were the dumbest man in Colorado.
“That cur was gonna shoot you in the back.” He spit tobacco juice into the mud. “That ain’t right.”
The door opened, and light bathed the front of the saloon. Chester, the stagecoach driver, stepped out, followed by a saloon girl, a bouncer, and a man in a silk top hat who swore and said, “Damn, you won the bet, Milton. The guy with the dog’s still alive.”
Suddenly, Blue growled, and Horatio spun, bringing up the shotgun. Dooley spun, too, and saw the flash of a rifle from across the alley.
Dooley remembered that he had thrown his revolver through the Starr’s window. But the bouncer had a Remington, and he fired from the hip. Once. Twice. The rifle in the far alley roared again. The people in the saloon door screamed and dived back inside, and the horses in the middle of the street stampeded. By then, however, men came riding down the street.
“It’s the marshal!” a woman on her knees in the saloon doorway shouted.
“Across the street!” Dooley yelled. “He’s in the alley yonder.”
The lawman and his deputies ran that way, swallowed by the shadows, and Dooley started to thank the stagecoach guard named Horatio and the bouncer.
The thanks died on his lips.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the series Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Flintlock, Those Jensen Boys!, Savage Texas, Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, and The Family Jensen. His thrillers include Tyranny, Stand Your Ground, Suicide Mission, and the upcoming Black Friday.
Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J. A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone.
The elder Johnstone began tutoring J.A. at an early age. After-school hours were often spent retyping manuscripts or researching his massive American Western History library as well as the more modern wars and conflicts. J.A. worked hard—and learned.
“Every day with Bill was an adventure story in itself. Bill taught me all he could about the art of stor ytelling. ‘Keep the historical facts accurate,’ he would say. ‘Remember the readers—and as your grandfather once told me, I am telling you now: Be the best J. A. Johnstone you can be.’”
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