Gut-Shot by William W. Johnstone Page A

don’t give a damn one way or the other,” Flintlock said. “I’m paid to stop you getting hung, that’s all.”
    â€œThat’s cold,” McPhee said.
    Flintlock shrugged. “You want a shoulder to cry on, find somebody else’s. Damn it’s hot in here.”
    He stepped to the window and lifted it open.
    A dozen armed men stood on the opposite boardwalk and one of them pointed.
    â€œIt’s him!” the man yelled.
    A moment later Flintlock realized that the town of Open Sky was as angry as hell and playing for keeps. A fusillade of shots hammered through the window and he dived for the floor as showering shards of shattered glass cascaded around and over him.
    â€œGet down!” he yelled at McPhee.
    Showing commendable alacrity, the young man joined him on the floor.
    â€œThey’re trying to kill us,” McPhee said.
    â€œNo kidding? That would be my guess too. But they’re mad at you, not me.”
    â€œWhat do we do?”
    â€œStay right where we’re at until them fellers tire of taking pots at the window.”
    McPhee pushed up on his arms.
    â€œI’ll talk to them,” he said.
    Flintlock grabbed the young man by the front of his shirt. “Are you crazy? By the time they’re finished shooting holes in you, you’ll look like a colander.”
    â€œI must convince them of my innocence.”
    â€œThem fellers are already convinced . . . that’s why they want to hang you.”
    Still on all fours, McPhee shook his head and teardrops splashed on the floor between his hands. “Oh, Polly,” he whispered. “What happened to us? We were so happy.”
    â€œYou quit that, McPhee, and quit it right now” Flintlock said, his face stern. “Grown men don’t cry. I’m downright embarrassed for you. I’ve never in all my born days seen such a thing, a man crying.”
    â€œI don’t care,” McPhee said. His cheeks were wet, eyes rimmed red. “Polly is gone and I should just surrender myself and get it over with. Just . . . have them shoot me and end my miserable life”
    â€œDamn you, boy, quit that or I’ll put a bullet in you myself. I never in all my born days—”
    â€œHey, you in the hotel!”
    The roar came from the street, harsh, loud, commanding.
    â€œWhat the hell do you want?” Flintlock yelled.
    â€œI want to talk to you! Come to the window!”
    â€œI ain’t that stupid,” Flintlock hollered.
    â€œI give you my word you won’t be harmed.”
    â€œAnd who is you?”
    â€œTrace McCord. I own a ranch hereabouts.”
    â€œYou can trust him, Sam.”
    This from Marshal Tom Lithgow, shouting from the street.
    â€œYeah, but can I trust you?”
    â€œYou know you can.”
    â€œNo, I don’t.”
    Nonetheless Flintlock got to his feet and stood to the side of the window. “State your business, McCord,” he said. “And your intentions.”
    â€œCome now, let’s not yell back and forth like savages,” McCord said. “Make your way down to the porch and we’ll talk like civilized human beings.”
    Flintlock made no answer.
    â€œWell?” McCord said.
    â€œI’m studying on it,” Flintlock said.
    â€œI will be unarmed,” the rancher said.
    â€œI’ll vouch for that,” Lithgow said.
    â€œYou’re a snake, Marshal. But I’ll come down anyway.”
    â€œThey’ll kill you,” McPhee said. “It’s a trap, Sam.”
    â€œNah. Right now they plan to offer terms. The killing will come later.”
    Flintlock took a powder horn and ball from his saddlebags and quickly charged the Hawken.
    â€œYou’re taking that?” McPhee said.
    â€œYeah. It impresses the hell out of folks, makes them think of Boone and Bridger an’ my old grandpappy Barnabas. A true American won’t shoot a man who’s carrying his