Paid in Blood
Page 32
“You took an interest in growin’ corn, Billy?”
Shocked because he had assumed Perley had a room in the hotel, same as he had, and terrified because he remembered the efficiency with which Perley had gunned down Jeb and Luke, Billy was unable to move a muscle. To do so would surely mean his death. He stood in the dark stall, desperately trying to come up with a believable story to explain his presence.
After what seemed a long moment of hesitation, he managed to find his voice and came up with the first thing he could think to say. “This ain’t w-what it l-looks l-like,” he stuttered.
“That so?” Perley responded. “I’m glad to hear that ’cause I’ll tell you what it looks like to me. It looks like you were fixin’ to steal some of my seed corn, and I told you how hard that corn is to come by in Texas.”
Desperate to think of something to save his life, Billy swallowed hard and blurted, “I was only gonna take a handful. Just to see if it would grow in Cheyenne. I didn’t think you’d notice a handful missin’.” He knew without a doubt that Perley was hiding something in those sacks of corn, but he was afraid to say so. It might mean his instant death.
“If you’da asked me for a handful of corn, I mighta gave it to ya,” Perley said, still playing the charade that the sacks contained nothing more than valuable seed corn. “But I can’t abide a lowdown thief.” Grabbing a coil of rope hanging on a peg in the wall, he stepped up behind Billy and ordered him to unbuckle his gun belt. When Billy did so, Perley ordered, “Turn around. Put your hands together.”
“Whatcha fixin’ to do?” Billy complained when he turned to face him. “I wasn’t gonna take nothin’ but a handful of corn.”
“Put ’em together,” Perley barked and raised his .44 to point at Billy’s nose.
“All right, damn it!” Billy yelped and clasped his hands together. “Don’t go shootin’ off that gun.”
Before Billy could pull them apart again, Perley quickly looped the rope around his wrists, and with the same speed with which he could draw a weapon, took a couple of turns of the rope and tied a knot.
“What the hell?” Billy blurted and started to raise his hands, but Perley suddenly looped the rope around Billy’s chest, continuing to use up all of the coil of rope as he tied Billy’s arms down tightly to his body.
“All right,” Perley said. “Start walkin’.” He gave him a shove and started him out of the stalls and into the barn. Curious, Buck plodded along behind his master.
“If you’re thinkin’ ’bout takin’ me to the sheriff,” Billy said, “there ain’t none at Hat Creek. Me and you might as well join up. I’ll split my gold dust with you and you split whatever you’ve got in those sacks with me.”
“I told you, there ain’t nothin’ but seed corn in those sacks,” Perley said again as he grabbed another coil of rope he saw hanging on a post in the barn. “And stealin’ a man’s seed corn is a hangin’ offense.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Billy exclaimed, thinking Perley must surely be insane. With his arms pinned tightly to his crotch, his only option was to run, so he bolted toward the barn door. Expecting as much, Perley was right behind him. He kicked Billy’s boot, causing his feet to tangle and Billy to trip. He landed heavily on the barn floor with no way to catch himself. Perley was on him at once, looping the rope around Billy’s boots. Then he pulled the rope up to take a turn around the rope wrapped around Billy’s chest. With Billy bound like a mummy and helpless to resist, Perley pulled his bandanna from his neck, and when Billy started to protest, Perley shoved it in his mouth. With nothing else to use, he took his own bandanna off and used it to secure the gag in Billy’s mouth.
With the would-be thief lying helpless on the barn floor, Perley dragged him underneath a crossbeam and threw the loose end of the rope over it. “I reckon we’re ready for the hangin’,” he announced. “You got any last words?”
Billy attempted to protest, but could not talk.
Perley concluded, “No? Well let’s get on with it. Come here, Buck.” When the bay gelding came to him, Perley looped the end of the rope around the big horse’s withers and hauled Billy up to the beam. Billy was not a big man, but his weight was enough to cause Perley to strain when he took the end of the rope off Buck and managed to loop it around a support post quick enough, so Billy dropped only about a foot. Perley stepped back and appraised his work, satisfied that Billy was hanging upright but helpless, looking pretty much like a cocoon dangling from a web.
With an idea toward putting some distance between himself and Billy, and perhaps discouraging any further contact with him, Perley saddled Buck, loaded his other horses, and led them out of the barn. “It’s still in the middle of the night,” he said to Billy as he went past. “Robert will likely be in early to cut you down, but you oughta have enough time to make up a good story to explain what you’re doin’ here. I expect it’ll be a real interestin’ story, but I ain’t gonna hang around to hear it. I don’t expect to see you anymore after tonight.” He sincerely hoped that would be the case.
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 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 storytelling. ‘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.’”