Town Tamers by David Robbins Page B

livin’. You can’t do that by goin’ against the law.”
    “Who says?” Asa asked a second time.
    “You’re supposed to be on the side of law and order.”
    “The only side I’m on,” Asa said, “is mine.”
    Byron laughed. “Imagine that.”
    Asa had forgotten he was standing behind the bar. “You might want to move.”
    “No one has explained this to me yet,” Tyree Lucas said.
    “The Town Tamer, here,” Byron said, “is fixing to shoot the two of you.”
    “What? Why?”
    “It’s what he does.”
    “You’re serious, boy?” Tyree said.
    “I am,” Byron said, and nodded at Asa. “And so is he.”

18

    E xperience had taught Asa that Tyree Lucas would be the one to throw common sense to the wind and he was right.
    Lucas swore and clawed for his six-gun. He was fast, although not as fast as some Asa had gone up against.
    Unfortunately for him, all Asa had to do was whip the Winchester’s muzzle up and cut loose. He fired one-handed. Where the recoil might have torn the shotgun from the hand of most men, it didn’t with him. He practiced firing one-handed every chance he got, and knew to hold firm and to move his arm with the force of the recoil.
    It caught Tyree Lucas square in the chest. The impact lifted him off his boots and flung him a good five feet. He crashed down on his back with blood squirting from some of the holes the buckshot had made. He’d never cleared leather, and his limp fingers waved wildly while his mouth opened and closed as he gurgled blood.
    Old Tom had his hands in the air and was gaping at his pard. “No,” he bleated.
    Asa jacked the lever, feeding another shell into the chamber, and pointed the Winchester at him.
    Tyree Lucas tried to speak. His words consisted of bubbles of blood, but the look in his eyes was meaning enough. Then he thrust his legs out, convulsed, and was gone.
    Old Tom swallowed and regarded Asa and the shotgun. “Hold on, now. I ain’t goin’ for my smoke wagon. My hands are empty, as everyone here can plainly see.”
    “Doesn’t matter to him,” Byron said.
    “Byron, please,” Noona said from somewhere slightly behind Asa.
    “How is it you know him so well?” Old Tom asked Byron.
    “He’s been my nightmare since I realized snuffing wicks isn’t a profession—it’s vengeance.”
    “You dream about him?” Old Tom said in confusion.
    “Not if I can help it,” Byron said.
    Old Tom seemed to think that by talking to Byron he could somehow keep Asa from shooting. He said, “Explain that to me, if you would.”
    Byron pointed. “He’s my pa.” Again he used the exaggerated, hill-folk way of saying it.
    Old Tom’s eyes widened. “Wait until the others hear this.”
    “They won’t hear it from you,” Asa said. By then he had tucked the stock to his shoulder and he shot the old outlaw full in the face.
    Anyone who had ever shot melons with a shotgun could have predicted what would happen. Old Tom’s head exploded in a shower of bits and chunks and larger pieces including one with an eye and half of Old Tom’s nose. Deprived of its brain, the body swayed and the fingers twitched, and it melted into a heap.
    Someone somewhere gasped out, “God Almighty.”
    “You didn’t have to do that,” Byron said.
    “I did once you told him,” Asa said.
    “Don’t blame it on me.”
    “Who said anything about blame? When you exterminate vermin, you don’t feel sorry for it.” Asa worked the lever and turned to the stunned onlookers. None acted disposed to object to the killings. To make sure they understood, he said, “These men and their friends murdered Ed Sykes and his wife. They murdered your marshal. They’ve robbed and rustled.”
    “You don’t need to tell us, mister,” said a man holding a cigar. “We live here.”
    “You did right,” said another.
    “Listen to them,” Byron said. “Maybe they’ll erect a statue in your honor when it’s over.”
    “Byron,” Noona said.
    “It’s come to this, has it, son?”