Massacre Canyon by William W. Johnstone Page A

ain’t it, friend?”
    â€œIt is indeed,” Luke said. “Longfellow claimed that the best thing a man can do when it’s raining is to let it rain.”
    The bartender frowned slightly.
    â€œCan’t say as I know the gent you’re talkin’ about, but he’s right. Can’t do a blamed thing about the rain except try to stay out of it.”
    â€œWhich is exactly what I’m doing,” Luke said. “Can I get a beer?”
    â€œSure.” The man filled a glass mug that was also heavily coated with fingerprints and slid it across the hardwood. “Four bits.”
    Luke dropped coins on the bar and picked up the mug. The beer was as bitter and tasteless as he expected it to be, but at least it cleared his throat a little.
    â€œDon’t think I’ve seen you in Skunk Creek before,” the bartender said as he went back to his futile glass polishing.
    â€œI just rode in,” Luke said.
    The man laughed.
    â€œI hope you’re just passin’ through. There’s not much here worth stayin’ for.”
    â€œYou own this saloon?”
    â€œNaw,” the bartender replied with a shake of his head. “Just work for the old man who does. He’s got the rheumatism, so he don’t get around very well anymore, especially when the weather’s damp like this. But I don’t have anything else to do, so I don’t mind runnin’ the place pretty much full time.”
    He held the glass up to the light, studied it for a second, sighed in defeat, and set it aside. Then he stuck out his hand.
    â€œHarvey Lawdermilk’s my name.”
    â€œNow that’s funny,” Luke said as he took the man’s hand. “Ever since I came in the door, I’ve been thinking that you look familiar to me, but that’s not the name I put with your face.”
    Alarm lit up in the man’s eyes as Luke suddenly tightened his grip.
    â€œI would’ve sworn you were Andy Eggleston,” Luke went on.
    The bartender tried to pull away, but Luke jerked him forward over the bar and at the same time reached across his body with his left hand and palmed out the Remington in the right-side cross-draw holster. He brought the gun crashing down on Eggleston’s head.
    Eggleston collapsed across the bar. His arm hit the mostly full mug of beer and sent it sliding off to crash on the floor in front of the bar. Luke leaned back and hauled harder. Eggleston wound up sprawled senseless on top of the bar.
    Luke heard chair legs scraping on the rough floor and glanced over his shoulder to see the three cowboys starting to their feet with startled expressions on their beard-stubbled faces. He swung the Remington in his left hand in their general direction and said sharply, “Sit back down, boys. There’s nothing going on here that you need to be involved with.”
    â€œBut you walloped Harvey!” one of the men exclaimed.
    â€œAre you holdin’ up the place?” another asked.
    â€œNow, if I were an outlaw I think I could find a more lucrative place than this to rob,” Luke said. He took the folded reward dodger from his pocket, shook it a couple of times to straighten it out, and held it next to the face of the unconscious “Harvey Lawdermilk” to be sure he was the same man.
    â€œSon of a bitch!” the third cowboy said. “That’s Harvey on that ree-ward poster.”
    â€œThat means he must be an outlaw,” one of the other men said.
    â€œThat’s right,” Luke told them. With that explained, he holstered the revolver and reached for one of the rawhide strips he carried so he could tie Andy Eggleston’s wrists behind his back before the fugitive came to.
    One of the cowboys said slowly, “That means . . . you must be a bounty hunter, mister.”
    â€œRight the first—” Luke began.
    The sound of guns being cocked interrupted him.
    He glanced over his shoulder, saw all