Free Rebel Yell by William W. Johnstone Page A

something that ain’t none of your affair. Keep your hands where I can see them and keep on eating before your food gets cold.”
    â€œI’d best clear the kitchen,” Devon said
    Cort nodded. “Go ahead. I’ve got them covered.” To the diners, he added, “You folks don’t want to make a liar of me in front of my brother.”
    Devon turned and faced the kitchen doors, toeing one so that it swung inward. He stepped into the doorway, holding the door open with his booted foot.
    On the other side of the threshold, the cook stood ready to attack. He was taken by surprise, caught in the act.
    He was Brand McGurk, owner and proprietor of the café. He was a grizzled middle-aged man, balding and bearded. A hard item, he was almost as tough as the lean stringy cuts of meat he sent out of the kitchen to the dining room.
    McGurk wore a dirty white bib-front apron over a green flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows, baring brawny, hairy forearms. One arm was held upraised, bent at the elbow, poised to strike with a meat cleaver whose handle was clutched in a raw-knuckled fist. The keen-edged cleaver was the only spot of brightness about the man.
    Click! The hammer of a gun was thumbed into place, muzzle pointed at McGurk’s potbelly. “Whoa, pardner,” Devon drawled.
    McGurk froze. Behind him, deeper in the kitchen, stood his kid helper Josh, a gangling pimply-faced adolescent.
    â€œPlanning on a little meat cutting?” Devon said sarcastically.
    McGurk said nothing, staring down at Randle’s guns.
    Devon waved his gun. “Set the meat ax down on the counter. Gently, gently.”
    McGurk obeyed, laying the meat cleaver down on its side and stepping away from the counter. He held his hands up chest high.
    â€œI ought to shoot you for that, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry,” Devon said. “Go out front in the dining room with the others.”
    McGurk moved toward the doorway stiffly, like a man going to the gallows. Josh stood frozen in place, trembling, knock knees quaking.
    â€œAnybody else back there?” Devon demanded.
    Josh started to speak, but fear had left his mouth so cotton-dry that he had trouble speaking.
    â€œSpit it out, sonny,” Devon said impatiently.
    â€œN-no, sir. Nobody but me,” Josh said.
    â€œYou go out, too,” Devon said, indicating the youngster.
    Josh shuffled forward. McGurk sidled past the gunman and through the doorway into the dining room.
    Suddenly, savagely, Devon lashed out with the gun, clouting McGurk behind the back of his skull.
    A few diners winced in sympathy. A female patron cried out, abruptly stifling herself by bringing a fist to her mouth and gnawing on a knuckle.
    McGurk groaned, staggering. His glazed eyes swam in and out of focus. He had a hard head, though, and stayed on his feet. Devon clouted him again.
    McGurk’s face scrunched up as if squeezed in a vise. His eyes crossed, then rolled up into the tops of the sockets, the whites of his eyeballs showing. He folded up at the knees, falling on the wood-planked floor.
    â€œThat’s what he gets for trying to play hero.” Devon wagged the gun, motioning along Josh, who’d stopped moving when the gunman laid out McGurk. “Into the dining room, junior.”
    The youth lurched forward, scuttling past Devon. Just when he thought he was safely clear of the gunman, he was the recipient of a well-planted boot to the rear. The kick lifted him off the floor into the air.
    â€œQuit dawdling! No wonder the service here is so slow,” Devon said with a mean grin.
    Cort chuckled indulgently, as if to say, Who wouldn’t be amused by the antics of such a loveable rogue?
    The kid stumbled over McGurk’s inert form, spilling his length on the floor with a loud outcry.
    â€œQuit your squalling, brat,” Devon said.
    â€œYou scum!” an elderly spinster lady spat, no longer able to restrain