Showdown by William W. Johnstone Page A

and by God I done it.”
    â€œOne less for you to have to deal with,” Bob said softly.
    Frank nodded his head in agreement and sipped his cooling coffee. He set the cup down on the table and said, “I’m hoping a lot of that will go on before the actual hunt begins.”
    â€œIt would shore cut the odds down some, for a fact.”
    The body of the dead man was dragged out of the saloon and the barkeep tossed some sawdust on the blood spots on the floor.
    The gunslingers resumed their drinking, talking, and playing cards.
    The Easterners had not made an appearance since retiring to their rooms and wagons. Bob finished his drink and left, saying he had to get back to his livery.
    Frank sat alone at the table, drinking coffee and smoking, his eyes constantly moving, studying the crowd in the packed saloon.
    The rain continued to come down from the dark, sullen skies. Not a hard downpour, but a quiet steady drizzle.
    The Olsen cousins, Brooks and Martin, entered the saloon and found a place at the crowded bar. They had cleaned up, including changing their clothing. Both of them were dressed in black suits, with black shirts, open at the collar, and both were wearing two guns, tied down. Frank sensed they both were primed and cocked, hunting trouble.
    Damn good place to find it, Frank mused.
    Brooks bumped into the man standing next to him—accidentally or deliberately, Frank couldn’t tell—causing the man to spill some of his drink.
    â€œWatch what the hell you’re doin’, boy!” the man snarled at Brooks.
    â€œDon’t call me boy, Skunk Breath!” Brooks popped right back.
    â€œSkunk Breath?” the gunslinger yelled, turning to fully face the younger man. “Why, you damn mouthy little punk!”
    Brooks stepped away a couple of steps, brushing back his coat. “What’d you call me, Skunk Breath?”
    â€œI called you a mouthy punk!” the gunfighter said. “Are you hard of hearin’ or just plain stupid?”
    â€œI’ll kill you for that!” Brooks said, his face flushing and his eyes narrowing down. His hands were poised just above the butts of his guns.
    â€œYou damn shore got it to do, boy,” the older man said.
    Brooks backed up, putting a few more feet between them. The crowd at the bar stepped away, out of the line of fire.
    Frank watched the building confrontation without moving or changing expression. He was sure Brooks had intentionally provoked this moment. He did not know the older gun-handler, had never seen him before.
    â€œDrag iron,” Brooks told the man.
    â€œAfter you, boy. I ain’t never pulled on no damn punk kid and I shore don’t intend to start now.”
    â€œYou got a big fat mouth, mister,” Brooks said.
    â€œFill your hand, kid,” the man said.
    Brooks was fast, Frank had to give him that much. He pulled and shot the older man before the man could clear leather. The gut-shot gunslick staggered back and fell against the bar, his pistol still in leather.
    Brooks giggled like a girl, and Frank concluded then that the young man was possibly about half crazy.
    â€œDamn punk,” the dying man said.
    Brooks shot him again, then put another slug into the man’s chest. The older man fell to the floor, dead.
    Brooks slobbered down his chin and giggled.

Seven
    The kid is fast, Frank thought. And crazy as a lizard.
    Bad combination.
    One of the gunslingers that Frank knew casually, name of Fargo, turned and looked at Frank for a few seconds. Frank shrugged slightly, and Fargo nodded, then turned back to the bar.
    â€œYou got him good, Brooks!” Martin said. “Man, did you drill him proper.”
    â€œI did, didn’t I?” Brooks said as he holstered his six-gun.
    He didn’t reload, Frank noted. That’s a real bad move, kid. You popped three caps, and now you’ve got at the most three rounds left in that hogleg . . . two if you’re smart.