Free Rebel Yell by William W. Johnstone

in Hangtree that the Randles were liable to be gunning for. That was Johnny Cross, Luke’s best friend and partner.
    Funny . . . Luke couldn’t think of any reason why the brothers would be after Johnny. As far as he knew, there was no bad blood between Johnny and the Randles or their gang boss Terry Moran. Not that some of the Texas fast guns needed any more reason than trying to build a reputation to put them on the hunt for another gunslick.
    Could be it tracked back to Moran, the Randles’ chief? “Terrible Terry” as he was known. An overbearing ambitious outlaw and gunhawk looking to make a name for himself.
    No better way to shoot his name into fame than by burning down Johnny Cross. Even if it took a couple back shooters to do it.
    No surprise, either, that the Randles dare not face Johnny out in the open—the yellowbellies! They lacked the sand to face him in a fair fight, them and their headman Moran.
    â€œNo point in wondering what it’s all about,” Luke told himself. The question was, what was he going to do about it?
    The clock was working against him. Johnny had gone down the street to the Golden Spur for a few quick ones while Luke, a real chowhound, grabbed some lunch first. Any minute, Johnny was liable to come looking for him without knowing he was heading into a death trap.
    One thing worked in Luke’s favor. The Randles hadn’t known him. They hadn’t done their homework. Otherwise, they’d have known that Johnny Cross had an ally who always covered his back in a fight. He was a young, wolfish, one-legged Texas Reb named Luke Pettigrew. Either that or they hadn’t spotted him yet.
    The latter possibility was unlikely. Cort was standing little more than a man’s length away from Luke at the front of the café. It seemed like he didn’t know Luke from Adam. And Devon could see Luke sitting there with his crutch propped up in a corner nearby.
    So they weren’t on to him. That gave him something of an edge, no matter how slim.
    The café showed a narrow end to the street. The entrance door was closed to keep out dust and flies. To the right of it, a row of three windows stretched across the upper half of the front wall. The windows were open. To protect against the hot Texas sun, their upper halves were covered with dark green pull-down shades and the lower halves were covered with thin blue-and-white checked curtains strung along a thin brass rod. Only a narrow strip of windowpanes was uncovered, affording passersby a minimal view into the café.
    Outside, folks were about their business, going somewhere to eat their lunch, coming from having eaten it, using the lunch hour to run some errands, or just ambling along enjoying the fine fall weather. Their outlines could be seen flitting past the curtained, shaded windows. Their voices rang out as they hailed each other in casual conversation.
    A person inside the café need merely call out to them for help—and catch a fatal bullet or two in swift recompense from the Randle brothers. So the captives within stayed silent, tight-lipped.
    Luke was a good shot with a long gun but only fair with a handgun. That’s why he toted around a sawed-off shotgun, usually slung over his shoulder by a leather carrying strap. Unfortunately, it was hanging by the strap over the round knob across from where his cap hung on the extra chair at his table. It hung muzzle-down.
    The chair was tucked under the table; the tabletop screened the weapon from the view of the Randle brothers. Or so Luke suspected; in any case they hadn’t called him on it. The piece was within reach, but if he made a play, the Randles were sure to pick up on it and tag him before he could get the gun in play.
    Cort Randle spoke to the diners. “Lest any of you get the wrong idea, I’d like to point out that this is a private matter that don’t concern y’all. It would be a shame to get killed meddling in