Forty Times a Killer by William W. Johnstone

Colt.”
    â€œI know. It was the one with all the cylinders charged.”
    â€œDamn it. I thought I taught you how to load a gun,” Wes said, a hint of anger in his voice.
    â€œI didn’t have the price of powder and shot. All the money we have is in your pocket.” I was a little angry myself, getting little thanks for walking past a named man killer like Alan Dillard with a contraband revolver stuck down my pants.
    Wes’s smile was a little forced, I thought.
    â€œWell, at least you brought the sour drops,” he said, glancing at the paper sack in my hand.
    â€œThey didn’t have any at the general store, so I bought you molasses taffy.”
    â€œI don’t like molasses taffy,” Wes said, pouting again. “I declare, Little Bit, can’t you do anything the hell right?”
    I stifled the sharp retort on my tongue as he reached through the bars and pulled me closer to him.
    â€œListen, earlier the black woman brought me coffee and said she’d be back around one with my lunch. Dillard came in with her and he opened the cell to let her inside.”
    This time John Wesley’s smile was genuine. “I’ll kill them both, then make a run for the livery. Have the horses saddled, ready to go.”
    He scowled. “Think I can trust you to do that right?”
    I didn’t answer his question. “Wes, Jas. Glee, prop. says Dillard is a real good gun. I think he’ll be hard to kill.”
    I saw it again, as I’d seen it so often before. Wes puffed up and his handsome young face took on that everybody-look-at-me expression that was so difficult for me to stomach.
    â€œHard to kill for you, maybe, but not for me. Dillard may be good with a gun, but on his best day he can’t shade John Wesley Hardin.”
    I was Wes’s only audience, and not much of a one at that, so all he wanted to hear were his own boasts . . . and he believed every single word of them.
    In the event, his plan came to naught.
    The door slammed open so violently it banged against the partition wall and two men stepped inside, their spurs ringing.
    One of then carried manacles, the other a rope.

CHAPTER NINE
Yankee Assassins
    The man with the manacles was E.T. Stakes, the other, holding a rope that I thankfully noted didn’t end in a noose, was Constable Jim Smalley. Alan Dillard, the cell key in his hand, stood behind them.
    â€œWe’re taking a ride, John Wesley,” Stakes said, “so gather up what’s your’n.”
    For a moment, Wes’s eyes were calculating, figuring his chances against three guns. He obviously decided against making a play. “Where are you taking me, and why?”
    â€œWaco,” Stakes said. “Where you’ll get a fair trial before you’re hung.”
    Stakes had pouched black eyes and the small, tight, intolerant mouth you sometimes see in elderly nuns. When he smiled, the effect was most unpleasant. “I’ll hang bunting on the scaffold myself, John Wesley. Make it look festive for your send-off, like.”
    â€œWaco is two hundred miles away,” Wes said.
    â€œA hundred and seventy-five to be exact,” Stakes said. “But never fear, Mr. Hardin, I’ll do everything I can to make your trip an enjoyable one.”
    â€œYou’re a damned liar,” Wes said.
    Stakes smiled with his lips shut, like a closed steel purse. “Ain’t I, though?”
    He turned to Alan Dillard. “You took his guns?”
    The jailer nodded. “Yeah, they’re locked in my desk.”
    â€œWho is he?” Jim Smalley looked at me the same way a man does the sole of his boot after he’s stepped in dog doo-doo.
    â€œHe’s nobody.” Dillard turned to Stakes. ”I’ll release the prisoner.”
    Before the jailer stepped to the cell, I said, “I want to tag along with John Wesley.”
    It was Stakes’ turn to gut me with a withering stare. “What