Gut-Shot by William W. Johnstone Page B

grandpappy’s Hawken. It just wouldn’t set right with him.”
    Flintlock settled his battered hat on his head. “McPhee, no more crying like a girl, understand?” he said. “I’m dealing with men here and I don’t want you to make me look bad.”
    â€œI don’t care. My life is over anyway.”
    â€œI don’t want to hear that either,” Flintlock said.
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    Sam Flintlock stood on the narrow porch in front of the hotel, the beautiful Hawken cradled in his left arm. He was wary, but relaxed, waiting for whatever was to come. He’d deal with it then.
    He stared at the man astride a big American stud and saw trouble.
    Trace McCord was a tall, wide-shouldered man, big-boned and as handsome as the day is long. But his face revealed a touch of cruelty, even sadism, his arrogant expression born of raw, unbridled power and an ability to ride roughshod over lesser men. A foot taller than Flintlock and fifty pounds heavier, McCord was a man who cut a wide swath . . . a man to be reckoned with, in his own time or in any other.
    â€œSo you’re Sam Flintlock,” McCord said, his eyes wandering to the Hawken. “I said no guns.”
    â€œYou said it, not me,” Flintlock said.
    The rancher sat a black, silver-mounted saddle, shined up, a rig no puncher could own even after a lifetime of saving. The stud McCord rode would cost a top hand a year’s wages.
    The man had wealth and he didn’t mind flaunting it.
    â€œYou know what I want to talk about,” McCord said.
    â€œI can guess,” Flintlock said.
    â€œYou’re harboring a murderer.”
    â€œThat’s what a feller hired me to do.”
    â€œWhatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it.”
    â€œYou mean to hand over Jamie McPhee.”
    â€œTo hand over a cold-blooded murderer.”
    â€œWhen I take a man’s money I ride for the brand, McCord. So no deal.”
    Two things angered the rancher about that statement. The first was the refusal itself.
    McCord was a man who’d grown used to getting his own way, with tough men or beautiful women, and now Flintlock, an illiterate frontier thug by the look of him, had turned him down. Defied him, by God.
    The second was the use of his name without the respectful honorific.
    Everyone in this part of the Oklahoma Territory, rich and poor alike called him Mister McCord. He didn’t demand it and never had, but he expected it . . . especially from his social inferiors.
    This was an affront that could not stand.
    McCord turned his head.
    â€œLithgow!”
    The marshal hurried across the street and stood beside the rancher’s horse.
    â€œYes, Mr. McCord?”
    From his great height, the rancher stared down at the lawman then said, “I am not in the habit of addressing riffraff and low persons. Talk some sense into this fellow.”
    â€œFlintlock, listen to Mr. McCord. Give us Jamie McPhee,” the marshal said, his face pleading. “We don’t need all this unpleasantness.”
    â€œLynching a man is pleasant?” Flintlock said. “The law says he’s innocent and that’s where you should stand, Lithgow.”
    â€œTell him five hundred dollars for McPhee,” McCord said. “That’s more money than a saddle tramp like him will ever see in one place in a lifetime.”
    â€œYou know he’s as guilty as all hell, Flintlock. Mr. McCord is making you a generous offer,” Lithgow said. “Tell me you heard him.”
    â€œI heard him,” Flintlock said.
    McCord’s thick lips drew back in a vicious, disdainful grin.
    â€œLithgow, tell him a hemp rope can choke both him and the chicken he’s got around his neck,” he said.
    Flintlock was on a slow burn. He swung the muzzle of the Hawken and centered it on the rancher’s chest. “Come use your rope, McCord,” he said. “I await your convenience.”
    Staring into the cold