“I am,” Bo had replied without hesitation as he reached for his hat and his gun.
That was how they had come to be riding into Fort Worth on this warm late spring day. Any thoughts of putting down roots were far behind them and could stay there, as far as the two pards were concerned.
They rode along the top of the bluff until the trail they were on became an actual street that followed a tree-lined course between rows of big, impressive houses where the leading citizens of Fort Worth lived. They took that street to the part of town known as Hell’s Half Acre, which was famous—or notorious—for its saloons, gambling dens, dance halls, and houses of ill repute. Most of those enterprises were clustered within an area of just a few blocks, and businesses that were more legitimate thrived all around them.
At the moment, Bo and Scratch weren’t interested in legitimate businesses. They needed something to cut the trail dust from their throats.
Scratch looked along the street, pointed, and laughed.
“There you go, Bo,” he said. “That’s the perfect place for us to do our drinkin’.”
Bo’s eyes followed his friend’s pointing finger and saw on the front of a building a sign that read THE LUCKY CUSS SALOON.
“We’re lucky cusses if anybody ever was,” Scratch continued. He angled his horse in that direction. “Let’s try the place out.”
“I expect one place is as good as another,” Bo said as he followed Scratch’s lead.
The hitch rail in front of the Lucky Cuss was full, and while Bo and Scratch might have been able to wedge their horses in with the others tied there, neither of them wanted to do that. Horses could get skittish and start to fight when they were forced up against other horses they didn’t know.
Instead, they swung down from their saddles and looped the reins around the rail in front of the business next to the saloon, which, according to a cardboard sign propped up in the window, was Strickland’s Domino Parlor. Judging by the horses tied up there, it wasn’t as busy as the Lucky Cuss.
Bo and Scratch had to walk past the mouth of an alley to reach the saloon, and as they did so, Bo heard something that made him pause.
“What was that?” he asked Scratch.
“What was what?” the silver-haired Texan wanted to know.
“Sounded like somebody yelling for help back there in that alley somewhere.”
Scratch cocked his head to the side in a listening attitude, then, after a moment, said, “I don’t hear a thing.”
“Well, it stopped kind of short, like somebody made it stop.”
Scratch frowned and said, “What you heard was most likely a cat yowlin’. There may not be panthers sleepin’ in the streets of Fort Worth anymore, but I’d bet a hatful of pesos there are still plenty of cats in the alleys.”
“This wasn’t a cat,” Bo said as he turned and started toward the narrow passage between the domino parlor and the saloon.
“What it ain’t,” Scratch said as he followed, “is any of our business. We don’t know anybody in Fort Worth.”
“That doesn’t matter. We’re not in the habit of turning our backs on folks in trouble.”
“Yeah, and that’s how come we wind up in trouble more often than you’d expect for such peaceable hombres. Don’t forget, there are beers with our names on ’em waitin’ for us inside that saloon—”
A cry of pain from somewhere not far off interrupted him. It was on the high-pitched side, but definitely human, not feline.
“Shoot,” Scratch said. “That sounded like a woman, or maybe a little kid.”
“I know,” Bo said as he increased his pace. He didn’t see anything ahead of them in the alley except a rain barrel and a few pieces of trash. The cry had come from somewhere past the end of the alley He and Scratch were both trotting by the time they got there.
Both of them were still keen eyed in spite of their age. As soon as they emerged from the back end of the alley, they spotted several men to their right, in a dusty open area between the rear of the Lucky Cuss and the back of the buildings on the next street over.
Four men, Bo noted after a quick count, had surrounded a fifth man. The four hombres were roughly dressed in range clothes. From what Bo could see of their faces, they were cruel and beard stubbled.
The fifth man was dressed in a black suit and had a derby on his head. A fringe of mostly gray hair ran around his ears. Spectacles perched on his nose, and judging by the way they made his eyes look bigger, they had to be pretty thick. He was short, a little on the stocky side, and clearly no physical threat to anybody.
In a high-pitched voice, he said, “I’m telling you I don’t have any money other than what I already gave you. Please, just leave me alone—”
“Two dollars,” said one of the men surrounding him. “Two measly dollars. You’re lyin’, mister. Fancily dressed little pissant like you’s got to have more dinero than that.”
The man in the derby shook his head and said, “I swear I don’t.” He flinched as one of his assailants reached for him. “Please don’t hurt me again.”
“Mister, we ain’t even started hurtin’ you yet.” They shoved the little man roughly back and forth, so hard that his head jerked from side to side. He made another mewling sound, confirming that the noises Bo and Scratch had heard hadn’t come from a woman or a child or a cat, but from this unfortunate victim of these would-be robbers.
“Well, this just puts a burr under my saddle,” Scratch said quietly.
“Mine too,” Bo agreed. “We taking cards?”
“Damn straight.”
At that moment, one of the men roughing up the little fella in the derby hat noticed them and stopped what he was doing. He said, “Hey, Birch, look there.”
The man called Birch turned and saw Bo and Scratch standing about ten yards away. He laughed and said, “You old geezers go on and get outta here now. This ain’t none o’ your business.”
He turned back to the others, as if confident that Bo and Scratch would do what he had told them, and motioned to two of his companions.
“We’ve wasted enough time,” he went on. “Grab his arms and hang on to him. I’ll wallop him a few times, and he’ll stop bein’ so stubborn.”
Bo raised his voice and said, “Hold on a minute.”
Two of the robbers had grabbed the little man’s arms, like Birch had told them to. They hung on, and the fourth man stood just off to the side as Birch swung around again with a look of annoyance on his scraggily bearded face.
“Are you still here?” he said. “I told you to skedaddle!”
Bo ignored him and said to the man in the derby, “Mister, what’s your name?”
“M-Me?” the man managed to say.
“That’s right.”
“I . . . I’m Cyrus Keegan.”
“Well, I have a question for you, Mr. Keegan,” Bo said.
Birch glared and said, “I didn’t tell you, you could ask any damn questions! I’m fast losin’ my patience with you, you mangy old pelican—”
Bo held up an open hand to stop him. “Mr. Keegan, who’s the law in Fort Worth these days?”
“The . . . the law? Why, M-Marshal Jim Courtright.”
Bo nodded solemnly and said, “All right. When Marshal Courtright shows up here in a little while, you just tell him the truth about how these fellas tried to rob you. Can you do that?”
“I . . . I . . . Sure, I guess so—”
Birch yelled, “Now hold on! Nobody’s gonna be talkin’ to the damn law. If anybody’s got anything to say, it’s gonna be us.”
“You boys won’t be doin’ any talkin’,” Scratch said.
“Oh?” Birch put his hands on his waist and demanded, “Why the hell not?”
“Because if you don’t let go of that fella and get the hell out of here right now, you’re gonna be dead,” Scratch said. “That’s why not.”
Birch stared at him for a couple of heartbeats, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what he had just heard.
CHAPTER 2
Bo and Scratch had been in enough gunfights over the years that they didn’t have to talk about what they were going to do or even exchange a glance. They just knew instinctively how to proceed in this deadly confrontation.
Bo went left and Scratch went right, splitting apart to make themselves more difficult targets.
The Colt leaped into Bo’s hand as if by magic. Scratch was just a hair slower hauling out the Remingtons but faster on the draw than most men.
Birch and one of his companions cleared leather before the other two would-be thieves, so they were the biggest danger. Bo targeted Birch. They fired at almost the same time, the reports coming so close together, they sounded like one shot.
Bo felt as much as heard the wind-rip as Birch’s slug passed within a couple of inches of his ear. It missed because a shaved fraction of an instant earlier, Bo’s bullet had slammed into Birch’s chest and had caused him to jerk his hand slightly.
Birch took a step back and swayed a little as he gazed down in horror at the blood bubbling from the hole in his chest.
Then he folded up like an empty paper sack being crumpled in a giant hand.
A few yards away, Scratch fired while on the move. Both long-barreled, ivory-handled Remingtons roared and bucked in his hands.
The man he targeted got a shot off, too, but it went wide to Scratch’s left, passing harmlessly between him and Bo. Meanwhile, the two .44 slugs from Scratch’s revolvers pounded into the man’s body, one striking him in the chest while the other ripped into his Adam’s apple.
The man went over backward, crimson fountaining from his bullet-torn throat.
The other two had managed to get their guns out by now, but seeing what had happened to their companions unnerved them. One yelled a curse and fired, but his shot didn’t come anywhere close to either Bo or Scratch.
With more time to aim, Bo drilled the third man through the shoulder, shattering bone and spinning him halfway around. The man cried out in pain and dropped his gun, then clutched his wounded shoulder with his other hand as he fell to his knees. Blood welled redly between his fingers.
If he was lucky, he might be able to use his right arm again, at least a little, but it would take a long time for him to recover that much. He was out of the fight now, that was for sure.
The fourth and final man who had been trying to rob Cyrus Keegan saw Scratch’s revolvers swinging rapidly toward him. He dropped his gun so vehemently that it flew a good six feet in front of him before it thudded to the ground.
“Don’t shoot!” he cried as he thrust both hands into the air. “For God’s sake, don’t kill me!”
Scratch’s thumbs had both hammers drawn back. He held them there and said, “Don’t move, hombre. If you do, I’ll let daylight through you, sure as hell.”
“I . . . I won’t. I swear! I don’t want any trouble!”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Bo said. “It looked to me like you and your pards were trying to rough up and rob this fella.”
“We . . . we were just gonna take his money. You didn’t have to kill Birch and Sadler!”
“They shouldn’t have thrown down on us,” Scratch drawled. “That’s the reason they’re dead.”
Bo motioned with his gun and said, “Back away, mister, but don’t try to run off.” He looked at the intended victim. “Are you all right, Mr. Keegan?”
Cyrus Keegan had stood stock-still while the shooting was going on. He was pale and wide eyed but still composed. He nodded and said, “I think so. They hadn’t gotten around to really trying to hurt me yet. But they would have.”
“More than likely,” Bo agreed. “Step off to the side over there, just in case either of these varmints gets any more ideas.”
That seemed pretty unlikely. The wounded man was still on his knees, clutching his shoulder and whimpering, while the man who had surrendered still had his hands in the air and looked too scared to try anything.
The gun thunder had been enough to attract plenty of attention. Bo heard shouts from the street, then running footsteps. A couple of men carrying shotguns burst into the alley from the passage beside the saloon.
Seeing law badges pinned to the newcomers’ shirts, Bo and Scratch pouched their irons and stood easy, hands in plain sight. Making a man holding a scattergun nervous was never a good idea.
The deputies pointed the weapons at Bo and Scratch. One of them demanded, “What in blazes is goin’ on here?”
“Gentlemen,” Keegan said as he moved forward a little, “I can explain everything.”
One of the deputies swung his shotgun toward Keegan and snapped, “Hold it right there.”
Keegan stopped and hastily thrust his hands up, too.
“I’m unarmed,” he said. With a nod toward Bo and Scratch, he added, “And these two men haven’t done anything wrong. They kept me from being robbed, and they may well have saved my life.”
“Are those fellas dead?” the second deputy asked as he stared at the robbers called Birch and Sadler, who lay motionless in slowly spreading pools of blood.
“If they ain’t, they’re doin’ a mighty good imitation of it,” the first deputy responded with a note of impatience in his voice. “Of course they’re dead!”
“I’d be glad to explain everything,” Keegan said again.
“Save it for the marshal.” The first deputy glanced over his shoulder. “Here he comes now.”
Indeed, another man had entered the alley behind the buildings. He strolled unhurriedly toward the scene of the shootings, but Bo noted that the lawman kept his hand on the butt of the gun at his hip, just in case he needed it. Such caution was common among men who packed a star.
This man was well built, a little taller than average, wearing a brown suit and vest and hat. His badge was pinned to his coat lapel. A luxuriant mustache adorned his upper lip, and thick, wavy hair came down over his ears and touched his collar. He was a handsome man and obviously a bit of a dandy.
The deputies spread out a little so the marshal could step up between them. He came to a stop and said, “Mr. Keegan, is that you?”
“Yes, Marshal,” Keegan replied, putting his hands down.
With an amused smile on his face, despite the carnage in the alley, the marshal said, “For a man in your line of work, you seem to find yourself in the middle of trouble fairly often.”
“I know, and I can’t explain it, Marshal. You know what a peaceable man I am.”
The lawman just grunted and said, “Tell me what happened here.”
“These men”—Keegan waved a hand to indicate the two bodies, the wounded man, and the one with his hands still in the air—“grabbed me off the street, brought me back here, and were going to assault and rob me. I was quite in fear of losing my life, not just my money and valuables, when these two gentlemen came along and intervened on my behalf.”
Coolly, the marshal regarded Bo and Scratch, then asked, “And who might you be?”
“Bo Creel,” Bo said, introducing himself.
“Scratch Morton,” Scratch added.
The marshal appeared to consider for a moment before saying, “I don’t recognize the names from any wanted posters.”
“That’s because there ain’t any dodgers out on us,” Scratch said.
That might be stretching the truth just a little, Bo thought. He and Scratch had run afoul of lawmen—usually, but not always, crooked ones—in the past, and a few, mostly spurious, charges had been levied against them here and there. Nothing serious enough to have bounty hunters tracking them down, but there were areas in the West where rewards were still posted on them.
As far as they knew, however, they weren’t wanted in Texas, so there was no need to bring up any of those other places.
“You killed those two men?” the marshal asked as he nodded toward Birch and Sadler.
“We gave them a chance to walk away,” Bo said.
> “They weren’t of a mind to,” Scratch said. “They drew first.”
Keegan said, “That’s very true, Marshal, and I’ll testify to it if I need to.”
“You’ll need to,” the marshal said. “There’ll have to be an inquest on these deaths.”
He relaxed and hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets as he looked at Bo and Scratch.
“But I don’t doubt that they’ll be ruled justifiable killings. Because of that, I’m not going to take you two gents into custody. In fact, you may have the thanks of the community coming to you. There’s been a rash of such violent robberies recently. A couple of the victims have been beaten so badly they died. So there’s a good chance you just rid Fort Worth of a pair of murderers and will be responsible for two more being locked up.”
The robber who had surrendered blurted out, “I never killed nobody, Marshal. That was all Birch’s doin’. If anybody tried to put up a fight, he’d get mad and hit ’em too much and too hard.”
The lawman smiled and said, “We’ll be sure that’s entered into the record at your trial.”
He turned to his deputies. “Get the prisoners out of here. That one’s shoulder will need patching up, but you can send for the doctor once you’ve got them behind bars, where they belong. And get the undertaker back here, too.”
To Bo and Scratch, he said, “As I said, you’re not under arrest, but don’t leave town until after the inquest is held.”
“We weren’t plannin’ to, Marshal,” Scratch said. “We just got here.”
“And found yourselves up to your necks in a shooting scrape almost right away,” the lawman mused. “Does trouble seem to follow you around?”
“It’s sort of stubborn that way, all right,” Bo said.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the bestselling series Smoke Jensen, the Mountain Man, Preacher, the First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Flintlock, and Will Tanner, Deputy U.S. Marshal, and the stand-alone thrillers The Doomsday Bunker, Tyranny, and Black Friday.
Bullets Don't Argue Page 28