MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone Page B

looking into, Mosley finished the last bite of his cake and the last swallow of his coffee, then stood up.
    “Deputy, you sure you don’t want another cup of coffee?” Millie offered. “Second cup is free.”
    “Thank you, no, Miz Turley,” Deputy Mosley answered. “I’d better be getting on.”
     
     
    For Kingsley, the horses were inviting, and he thought about getting on one and just riding away right now. But the horses would still be here, and even more inviting for the moment was the thought of a cool beer. He had made his selection and, giving that horse a pat on the neck, he stepped up onto the porch, then pushed through the batwing doors to go inside.
    The shadowed interior of the saloon gave the illusion of coolness, but it was an illusion only, for the heat was just as oppressive inside as it was outside. Kingsley stepped up to the bar and slapped a dime onto the counter.
    “Beer.”
    The bartender drew the beer, then made change for the dime. Kingsley left the nickel on the bar, then picked up the beer and drained it without even putting the mug down. Finished with the first beer, he used his finger to slide the nickel across the bar toward the bartender.
    “I’ll have another one,” he said.
    “Mister, you sure come in here with some kind of thirst,” the bartender said. “What you been doin’ that’s got you so thirsty?”
    “What business is that of yours?” Kingsley replied, and, stung by the unexpected hostility of the retort, the bartender said nothing else. He merely refilled the mug.
    Kingsley put another dime onto the bar. “I’ll have ten of them Long-Nine cigars,” he said.
    Taking the dime, the bartender turned to the glass cabinet that contained loose pipes and chewing tobacco, makings for roll-your-own cigarettes, various kinds of snuff, and a box of long black cigars. Taking ten of those from the box, he handed them to Kingsley, who put all ten of them into his shirt pocket. He had just put them away when he heard a loud, accusing voice from just inside the door of the saloon.
    “Mister, what was you doin’ lookin’ at them horses so close?” The questioner’s voice sounded a little like a locomotive letting off steam. Turning toward the front door, Kingsley saw a big man, easily six feet four inches tall, staring at him. The man was also wearing a badge.
    At first the badge startled him, then he realized that if the lawman knew who he was, he would have called him by name. Instead, he was only questioning Kingsley’s interest in the horses.
    “I’m a man that appreciates horses,” Kingsley said. “I was just lookin’ at them.”
    “You walked into town, didn’t you?” The man had a mustache that curved up at each end, like the horns on a Texas steer. He was wearing a long-barreled Colt sheathed in a holster that was tied halfway down his leg. He had an angry, evil countenance, and looking directly at him was like staring into the eyes of an angry bull.
    “Suppose I did?”
    “It just makes me wonder, is all,” the lawman said. “I mean, you havin’ such an appreciation for horse flesh.”
    “My horse stepped into a hole just outside of town. He broke his leg and I had to shoot him.”
    “Why didn’t you bring your saddle into town?”
    “It’s ten, maybe twelve miles out of town. Too far to be carryin’ a saddle.”
    “Well, I’m a generous man,” the lawman said. “Why don’t I hitch up a buckboard, and we’ll just go out there and get your saddle?”
    Kingsley thought of the three men he had just killed, lying out there by his dead horse. At least one of them, he knew, was wearing a deputy’s badge. It wouldn’t be good for this lawman to see that.
    “No need,” Kingsley said. “I’m pretty tired from the walk. I plan to just leave it out there for now. Thought I might go back after it tomorrow.”
    “That ain’t no problem, Mister. You don’t have to go. I’ll go get it for you.”
    “No, you don’t have to do that.”
    There were