Free Stryker's Revenge by Ralph Compton

Joe Hogg stepped into it.
    “Jake Allen, do you know me?” he asked.
    Allen sneered. “Why the hell should I know you, grandpa?”
    “Because I know you. You’re Jake Allen, out of Waco, Texas, the famous back-shooter and woman killer.”
    Allen had wanted to kill before, but now he was in a homicidal rage. “Damn your eyes, give your name,” he snarled. “Let me hear it before you die.”
    “Why, it’s Joe Hogg, as ever was.”
    Allen didn’t move an inch, but everybody in the saloon saw him mentally back up a step. “I have no quarrel with you,” he said. His cheeks were suddenly chalk white. “My gripe is with the soldier boy.”
    The young man had quietly resumed his seat. Suddenly he wanted no part of what Joe Hogg had to offer.
    “Lieutenant Stryker is my friend, Jake. If you have a gripe with him, you got one with me.” He smiled. “You’re wearing double irons, Jake, let’s see how fast you shuck ’em and get to your work.”
    Allen swallowed hard. Eating crow never comes easy, but he had to force this down. “No harm done, Joe. I was somewhat in depressed spirits this evening, is all. Now, if you’ll give me the road, I’ll be on my way.”
    The scout made a bow and a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Just make it a long way, Jake.”
    Allen hesitated. “Hell, man, the Apaches are out.”
    Hogg smiled. “I know.”
    Allen, aware that every eye in the saloon was on him and of the triumphant smile on the carmine lips of the whore, knew he had it to do. He could walk out with his tail between his legs or trust to his gun.
    How many men had Joe Hogg killed? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to remember. All that mattered was that a man who had plans to go on living didn’t draw down on him.
    Stryker gave him an out.
    “Get on your horse and ride, Allen,” he said. “If you are not off the post in ten minutes I’ll toss you in the guardhouse and throw away the key.”
    Allen grabbed at it like a drowning man clutching a straw.
    “I’ll go, soldier boy,” he said, “but we’ll meet again when you ain’t got a gunfighter to hide behind.”
    “The pleasure will be all yours, I assure you.”
    Allen turned to the young man who was sitting at the table, his hands in view and very still. “Let’s go, Sam,” he said.
    The man called Sam shook his head. “Reckon I’ll stick right here, Jake.”
    Allen had run out his string. He turned on his heel and walked out of the saloon, the mocking laugh of the whore scorching his ears.
    Hogg turned to Stryker. “Like to live dangerously, don’t you, Lieutenant?”
    “He’s that fast, huh?”
    “Faster than you can ever imagine. By the time you got your holster flap unbuttoned, Jake Allen would have emptied his Colt into you.”
    “But you seemed mighty sure you could take him.”
    “No, I wasn’t sure, not sure a-tall. And, Lieutenant, what I said about you being my friend, don’t go. That was just for ol’ Jake’s benefit.”
    “And mine?” Stryker smiled.
    “Take it how you want.”
    The whore moved to the bar, her hips taking their time to catch up with the rest of her. “Can I buy you boys a drink?” she asked. “I’ve known Jake Allen since I was working the line in Deadwood a few years back, and I ain’t never seen anybody put the crawl on him before.”
    Without waiting for Stryker or Hogg to answer, she said to the bartender, “Tom, let’s have the Hennessy from under the bar.”
    The man looked surprised. “That’s gonna cost you a dollar a shot, Lorraine.”
    “Yeah, well, it’s worth it, ain’t it?”
    The bartender poured cognac for the two men, then filled the woman’s glass. She raised it high. “Here’s to you boys.”
    After they drank, Lorraine ordered the glasses filled again. Her eyes moved to Stryker’s face. “What the hell happened to you?”
    “A man rearranged my features with a shackle chain. Does it bother you?”
    The woman shrugged her naked shoulders, the white skin scarred all over