Free Borden Chantry by Louis L’Amour Page A

Johnny McCoy.”
    Ed’s face was serious. “It surely wasn’t. Marshal, I liked that man. Like I said, he was a warm, generous fella, give you the shirt off his back. If you catch the man who did it, I’d like a hand on the rope.”
    â€œI’ll get him.” Chantry spoke with confidence, and surprised himself, for it was a confidence he did not feel. Or did he? Where had that quick reply come from? He was never a man given to making flat statements of what or what not he would do. Yet the words had come as if springing from a deep well of belief within himself.
    â€œI’ve got to get him, Ed. This is a good town, a law-abiding town, and I took an oath to keep it so. We’ve had shootings and cuttings, but mostly not among the townfolk, and there’s a change of feeling, Ed. The old days are gone.”
    â€œMarshal, I’m going to leave the door open. There’s some meat on that tray, along with some bread and butter. There’s coffee in the pot…fresh-made. I had me an idea you’d be around most of the night, so I made it for you.
    â€œYonder in the case there’s a half of apple pie. Be stale tomorrow. You he’p yourself. I’m going to turn in now.”
    â€œAll right. Mind if I keep one light burning?”
    â€œFigured on it. Night, Marshal. See you tomorrow.”
    Borden Chantry carried the pot from the stove to a table along with some slices of meat, bread, and a quarter of the pie.
    The light was in the kitchen, and where he sat it was in the shadow. It was dim and quiet, the room smelling faintly of coffee. Straddling a chair, he reached around the back and put a thick sandwich together. Then with his right hand he reached back and took the thong off his gun.
    Facing the street from the darkened room, he ate his sandwich and sipped coffee, ears tuned for any slightest sound, eyes for any movement.
    The old building creaked slightly as the heat left it. A lone dog trotted across the street, pausing to sniff some object lying in the gutter. Gradually, his eyes became more and more accustomed to the dark, and from where he sat, invisible himself, he could look northeast past the corner of the bank toward Hyatt’s house, across the street at the Corral Saloon, lighted but empty, and southwest past the rear of the Mexican restaurant toward Mary Ann’s.
    The kitchen was on his left, the wall of the building behind him, and beyond that the dark area that divided the restaurant building from where his own home stood.
    He ate his sandwich, drank his coffee, and then poured a new cup and tied into the apple pie. He was lifting the second bite to his mouth when his eye caught a faint shifting of shadows near the rear of the bank.
    For a moment he was very still. Had he deceived himself? Had something really moved? Or—?
    He put down his fork and wiped his hands on the rough napkin. He got up, stepping back from the chair, and on cat feet he went to the door.
    Nothing moved.
    Yet he had seen something. Was it the old dog? His mind told him no.
    The door opened easily under his hand, with only the faintest of squeaks. He stepped out on the boardwalk, crossed it with one more step and started across the street vaguely lit by the light from the Corral Saloon. He swore softly. If anybody was watching, they could not help but see him.
    The saloon seemed empty. There was no sign of anybody around. He went quickly to the corner and looked past it toward Mary Ann’s…A shadow moved against the curtain, but there was no sound of music. Then he remembered. Mary Ann was ill.
    The Mexican café was dark.
    Holding close to the wall of the saloon, he walked toward the rear, and looking past the corner he could see the great bulk of the Simmons barn. All was black and silent.
    He rested a hand on his gun, straining his eyes toward the old barn. Yet he saw nothing…it was something he
heard
.
    Something he
felt
.
    Hesitating only a second,