Free Preacher's Peace by William W. Johnstone Page A

made way for Art, the woman, and Dog.
    â€œHey!” the man behind the bar called. “You can’t bring your dog in here.”
    â€œHe’s not my dog, and I’m not bringing him anywhere, he’s just with me.”
    â€œGet him out of here.”
    â€œYou get him out,” Art said.
    â€œYou two, get him out,” the man behind the bar said, pointing to a couple of the patrons. The two men started toward Dog, but he bared his wolflike fangs at them and growled. They stopped in their tracks.
    â€œGet him yourself, LaBarge,” one of them said.
    LaBarge came out from behind the bar, looked at Dog, then shrugged. “He can stay if he don’t cause no trouble,” he said.
    The others laughed.
    Art walked all the way to the rear of the saloon, then chose a chair that put his back to the wall and gave him a good view of the entire room. Dog trotted along with him, then curled up alongside. Art was sitting next to an iron stove. The stove was cold and empty now, but still smelled of smoke and charcoal from its winter use. Once again, the proprietor, LaBarge, came out from behind the bar.
    â€œCarla, I expect you’d better get back to work now,” LaBarge said.
    â€œYes, Mr. LaBarge.”
    â€œGive her a chance to catch her breath,” Art said.
    â€œYou paying her wages, mister?” LaBarge asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI am. So she’ll do what I say. Get back to work, Carla. And be more careful ’bout spilling beer on the customers.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Carla said. Looking at Art, she smiled. “What can I get you?”
    â€œA beer.”
    â€œIt’s on the house,” LaBarge said.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œI reckon you done what you thought was right, hittin’ Shardeen like that. But it’s goin’ to get you kilt. Shardeen ain’t a man you want to mess with.”
    A moment later Carla brought Art his beer and, smiling shyly, set it in front of him. From the folds of her dress, she removed a couple of boiled eggs, wet from the brine in which they were stored. “These here two hen’s eggs is from me,” she said.
    â€œThank you, Carla,” Art said, smiling up at her.
    Carla walked away, and had just returned to the bar when the front door burst open and the man Art had encountered, the one LaBarge had called Shardeen, rushed inside. He was carrying two charged pistols, one in either hand.
    â€œWhere is that son of a bitch!” he yelled angrily. His nose was flattened almost beyond recognition, his eyes were black and shiny, and his beard was matted with blood.
    When Shardeen entered, everyone else in the saloon scattered, moving so quickly that chairs tumbled over and tables were pushed out of the way. Art’s rifle was leaning against the wall behind him. It was loaded, but not primed, so even if he could get to it, it wouldn’t do him any good at this moment.
    Seeing Art in the back of the saloon, Shardeen let out a loud bellow and shot at him. There was a flash of fire and a puff of smoke. The bullet crashed into the smokestack of the stove, sending out a puff of soot. With a shout of frustrated anger over his miss, Shardeen raised his other pistol and fired it as well. This one slammed into the wall behind Art. Art had not moved a muscle since the big man had entered the tavern.
    Dog jumped up and growled at Shardeen.
    â€œNo, Dog,” Art said quietly. “I’d better handle this myself.”
    With both pistols empty, Shardeen pulled his knife and, with an angry roar, rushed across the room toward Art. Now Art moved. He pulled his own knife and waited for him. At the last moment, Art danced to one side, rather like a bullfighter avoiding a charge, and like a bullfighter, thrust toward Shardeen. His knife went in smoothly, just under Shardeen’s rib cage. With a grunt, Shardeen stopped, then staggered and fell. Art twisted his knife so that, as Shardeen went down, the