Free Rebel Yell by William W. Johnstone Page B

herself.
    A middle-aged woman eating at the same table urged, “Stay out of it, Miss Phoebe—”
    â€œYou his ma?” Devon demanded of the older woman.
    â€œNo, I’m not,” Miss Phoebe began, “but no decent woman would coutenance that kind of brutality toward a youngster, or anyone else for that matter!” She was trembling with indignation.
    â€œHush up now, ma’am,” Cort said good-naturedly, amused.
    â€œYeah,” Devon said, “don’t get yourself into trouble over some punk kid who ain’t no kin of yours, you old bat.”
    â€œWell!” Miss Phoebe clamped her mouth shut, white-lipped, rigid.
    Josh got up on hands and knees, looking around. A few men sitting at a table nearby started up out of their chairs to help out.
    Cort Randle swung the rifle to cover them, shaking his head no. “As you were, gents.”
    Burly ranch hands from the look of them, they were rough and ready and on the boil, but being under the gun, there was nothing for them to do but take it. They sat back down, eyes downcast, looking away.
    Josh rose shakily and stood swaying on unsteady feet, his dark eyes popping in a drawn white face.
    â€œSit down at one of those tables and stay out of the way,” Devon said. “And the next time you’re told to do something, hop to it.”
    â€œYes, sir!” Josh’s voice cracked in mid-phrase.
    Devon laughed cruelly.
    Josh lurched toward the nearest table with an empty chair. He was limping, hurt. He sat down, elbows on the table, head hanging down so low his chin touched his chest.
    Devon Randle studied McGurk, still sprawled facedown on the floor, motionless. Blood trickled from a lumpy purple goose egg on the back of his head
    â€œY’all who was so eager to lend a hand to Sonny Boy can make yourselves useful now,” Devon motioned with a gun, indicating McGurk. “Yeah, you,” he said to the cowboys who’d started up to help Josh. “Move that side of beef out of the way. Somebody might trip over him and hurt themselves.”
    The cowboys stayed seated, not moving.
    â€œSomebody’s sure ’nuff going to get hurt if you don’t haul ass out of those chairs and get to it,” Devon said.
    Chair legs scraped against floorboards as the cowboys pushed back from the table and stood up. They went to McGurk, walking soft like they were walking on eggs. They stood around McGurk, his face lead-colored, watching Devon out of the corners of their eyes, hating him.
    â€œHe don’t look so good,” one said.
    â€œHe still breathing?” asked another.
    â€œCan’t tell.”
    â€œHe’ll live, but some of you won’t if you don’t get to it,” Devon snapped.
    The cowboys reached down, taking hold of McGurk’s limbs.
    â€œAll together now, boys.”
    Grunting exhalations of strain, they lifted McGurk off the floor by arms and legs, forcing a muffled groan from the unconscious man.
    â€œSet him there against the wall,” Devon said, indicating the long wall on the left-hand side of the room.
    The cowboys tried to position McGurk in a kind of sitting position with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out on the floor, but he kept leaning to one side or the other and toppling over. After several attempts, they succeeded in wedging him upright so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood.
    â€œThat’ll do,” Devon said. “Leave him there and sit down.”
    The cowboys returned to their table.
    A thought struck Devon, something he had neglected. “I’m going to lock the back door, Cort.”
    â€œOkay, brother. I’ll hold the fort.” Cort motioned with his leveled rifle to emphasize his words.
    Devon went into the kitchen, doors swinging shut behind him.
    Cort stood with his back to the wall, positioned between the front door and the windows, screened from the view of passersby on sidewalk or street. “Keep