Trigger Gospel by Harry Sinclair Drago

night,” he said. “I didn’t sleep much for worryin’ about him. Now you tell me what happened.”
    Chalk’s account was to the point.
    â€œHe shouldn’t have done it, Bill,” he finished. “I told him so last night. It was n’t up to him to kick his life away for somebody else’s money—”
    â€œYou’re wrong, Chalk,” Little Bill broke in. “He only knew one way to play the game. We mustn’t take that away from him. Luther and me will get the hombres that cooked this up. I don’t care how long it takes, we’ll square it in full!”
    He had ridden into Bowie ahead of Tascosa and the others, as he had said he would, intending only to linger for a few minutes. Martha Southard’s dark eyes had been haunting him for months. No word of his had yet acquainted her with his romantic devotion, for with becoming humbleness he believed himself quite unworthy of her. And yet, whenever he was in town, he found certain crumbs of comfort in her apparent happiness at seeing him again that sent him away to dream of her for another five or six weeks. On the trail or in some lonely cow camp he became bold enough in his thoughts to foresee the time when he would speak frankly to her.
    It had been in his mind to do so this trip. His run-in with Beaudry had changed his plans and he had come in this morning hoping for no more than a word or two with her.
    He had circled around town to reach home. All that had been temporarily erased from his mind. It came back to him now with startling clearness.
    â€œWhat about Beaudry?” he asked. “Is he back?”
    â€œYeh, came in last night. Waco was talkin’ to him.”
    â€œSo? Was anythin’ said about me?”
    â€œOnly that he had seen your outfit on the river.” Chalk glanced at him shrewdly. “Was there anythin’ else that should have been said, Bill?”
    â€œPlenty, Chalk. Beaudry is out to slam me into jail.”
    He acquainted the old man with the facts.
    â€œDamn his yellow hide!” Chalk cursed. “He better go slow about startin’ anythin’ with you with yore pa lyin’ dead here! You got friends in this yere town—and that’s somethin’ Beaudry’s got none of!”
    â€œI don’t reckon that’ll stop him,” said Little Bill, his face grim. “It don’t matter; I ain’t runnin’ now —and nobody is slappin’ me into jail until I get the party or parties that did this.”
    â€œIt’ll be around town in a few minutes that you’re here,” Chalk warned him. “The shootin’ must have been heard down the street.”
    â€œLet ’em come,” Little Bill ground out. “Is Pop’s mustang in the barn?”
    â€œHe is. Why—”
    â€œYou get him saddled pronto,” the red-headed one cut him off. “I want you to go for Luther. They must be this side of Cain Springs by now. You tell him what’s happened—that I want him in a hurry. Luther will know what to do. You get goin’ right now, Chalk. I’ll carry Pop up to the house.”
    He saw the old man glance at Six-gun, standing patiently, reins dangling over his head.
    â€œIt would save time if I took him,” said Chalk.
    Little Bill shook his head.
    â€œYou can’t ride him, Chalk.”
    â€œI could handle him. You don’t have to worry about my leg.”
    â€œIt ain’t that. He’s my horse; nobody ridin’ him but me.”
    â€œWell, I ain’t hankerin’ to ride him,” Chalk said sharply. “I’m superstitious of them claybanks. Like as not this would never have happened but for you ownin’ that—”
    â€œDon’t say it!” Little Bill snapped. “No man’s turnin’ me against him! You get movin’!”
    Chalk clumped away, muttering to himself. Little Bill gathered his father’s body up into his