A Dangerous Man by William W. Johnstone Page A

shot, only one.”
    â€œBill’s right,” Tate said. “Ain’t nobody better with a long gun than he is.”
    â€œYou listen to them shots, Sullivan? That’s your name, right? Tam Sullivan? I got it off the hotel register.”
    â€œWho read it for you?” Sullivan asked.
    Longley smiled. “You’re a funny man, Sullivan, a real hoot. You an’ me are gonna give this hick town some snap.”
    Sullivan quickly disagreed. “You and me aren’t gonna do anything. Try to ambush me again, I’ll come shooting, not jawing.”
    â€œDamn it, I thought you were smart,” Longley said. “Didn’t you listen to the shots?”
    â€œNo. I was too busy running for my life.”
    Longley shook his head again. “I carry a forty-four Henry. Them shots fired at you were from a big gun, a Sharps fifty or a fifty-five sixty Spencer. A Henry don’t make a big bang like that.”
    â€œYou know your rifles, huh?” Sullivan stomped more mud off his boots.
    â€œWell, I was in the army, at least for a spell.”
    â€œWhat caliber was used on Sheriff Harm?” Sullivan asked.
    â€œI’m not catching your drift.”
    â€œHe was murdered this morning along with two other men.”
    â€œWas that what all the stir was about?” Longley shifted on the rocker.
    â€œThis morning I saw you follow the wagon carrying Crow Wallace’s body. Seems like you’d something hidden under your coat, a Henry rifle, maybe.”
    Longley and Tate exchanged glances, then Tate said, “Bill likes to take a stroll of a morning. He calls it his constitutional.”
    Sullivan waved a hand in the direction of the windy, sleety turmoil of the street. “In this? With a rifle?”
    â€œBears,” Longley answered. “I always carry a rifle when I go for a walk as protection against big, growly bears. Ain’t that so, Booker?”
    â€œYou murdered the sheriff and two other men and took pots at me.” Sullivan looked Longley in the eye. “I want to hear the reason from you, not Booker.”
    The bounty hunter raised a hand when Longley opened his mouth to speak. “What I can’t figure out is the why of it.”
    â€œThere ain’t no why of it,” Longley said. “And I’ll shoot any man who accuses me of killing Harm and them other fellers.”
    â€œI just did,” Sullivan said.
    â€œYeah, but Bill never shoots the village idiot,” Tate said. “He likes to keep him around fer laughs, like.”
    Sullivan turned to Tate. “Booker, you’re really starting to be a burr on my butt. Don’t irritate me any longer, because when I get irritated bad things happen.”
    â€œBooker means no harm,” Longley said. “Just joshing with you.”
    â€œJoshing with me can get a man killed,” Sullivan said.
    â€œLook at us, Sullivan,” Longley said, spreading his arms wide. “What do you see? I’ll tell you what you see—just two honest, peaceful citizens who plan to winter in this town and then, come spring, ride on.”
    â€œAfter you rob the bank, I imagine.”
    â€œAll righty then, maybe that’s part of my plan. So now we come down to it . . . are you with us or agin us?”
    â€œNeither, I’m standing pat.” Sullivan leaned against a pole holding up the roof.
    â€œThen you can expect no trouble from us. Ain’t that right, Bill?” Tate put in.
    Sullivan said, “Don’t let him speak again, Longley. I’m too close to drawing down and scattering his brains, if he’s got any.”
    â€œBooker, shut your trap. Can’t you see you’re getting on the gentleman’s nerves?”
    One fact about a sure-thing killer, if you tell him to shut the hell up he will. It’s when you turn your back on him that he’ll kill you.
    So Tate sat in silence, took what Sullivan was dishing out and said nothing,