Free Bullets Over Bedlam by Peter Brandvold Page A

making a travesty of the U.S. Constitution—a travesty of my job and my beliefs.” Flagg rose stiffly on the balls of his feet and exhaled a deep breath, smoke streaming from his nostrils. “I’d say a vigilante of his caliber warranted a few harsh measures , wouldn’t you, Bill?”
    Houston stared at him. He smiled woodenly, nodded, then walked back down to where the others stood with the horses. Flagg remained atop the knoll, smoking. Annoyance plucked at him, a parasite squirming deep in his loins.
    He hadn’t told Houston the truth.
    He hated Hawk, all right. But not only for the reasons he’d given the Texas lawman. Several months ago, Flagg had watched Hawk do away with a gang of killers south of the Mexican border. Flagg had had Hawk in his rifle sights, and he hadn’t killed him, out of sympathy.
    Since then, the rogue lawman had eluded Flagg for nearly a year. And because he hunted and killed known criminals with no regard for any law but his own, he was cheered on by the public. In many towns Flagg had visited while stalking Hawk, he’d come upon local lawmen and express agents who’d refused to post Wanted dodgers bearing Hawk’s likeness.
    In making a travesty of the bona fide law of the land, Gideon Hawk had become a damned hero.
    And bona fide lawmen like D.W. Flagg had become laughingstocks.
    Flagg took the last drag off his cigarette and stared at the high, blue mountains. His fury burned anew. He dropped the butt, mashed it out with his boot toe, and walked back down the knoll.
    He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Mount up!”
    Â 
    That afternoon the lawmen were climbing out of a shallow canyon between two stark, sunburnt ranges when they heard guns popping to the south.
    Flagg halted his steeldust, sat staring in the direction of the shots, one eye slitted.
    â€œWhat the hell you s’pose that is?” said Franco Villard, sitting his own horse to Flagg’s right.
    â€œThat’s Charley’s Wash yonder. When I was deputy sheriff of Tucson, mule trains were always getting am-bushed in there.”
    Flagg paused, frustrated. He looked ahead along the trail, ran a gloved hand across his mouth, cursed. “We’d better check it out.”
    By the time Flagg reached the base of the ridge, the shooting was growing intermittent, the sporadic shots spanging off rocks and drowning the muffled pleas of wounded men.
    As the deputies caught up to him, Flagg swung down from the saddle. He slid his Winchester from the boot, angrily rammed a shell into the breech, and started up the ridge. “Watch your heads. I need every man for Hawk!”
    He jerked sideways to avoid a coiled rattler, leapt over a clump of Mormon tea, and spurred himself into a jog.
    The shots grew even more sporadic, as if the fight on the other side of the ridge were winding down.
    Press Miller squinted against the sun glare. “Mescins, you think, Marshal?”
    Flagg was breathing hard, watching where he planted his boots. “No doubt. They kill each other for farting upwind around here.”
    â€œDamn,” Garth said. “I’d like to shoot a Mexican, take his ears home to a whore I know.” He hurried to add, “But only if they’re breakin’ the law, of course.”
    Flagg cocked an eyebrow at him.
    â€œShe hates Mexicans,” Garth explained. “One gave her a vicious knife scar a few years back in Abilene. Keeps askin’ me if I shot any Mescins. She wants to wear the ears around her neck.”
    â€œIf you’re gonna bring Mex ears to a whore,” asked Miller through a grin, leaping a barrel cactus, “what’re you gonna bring your wife?”
    A shrill cry rose from the other side of the ridge. “No!” The seven lawmen stopped, raised their rifles, and peered toward the ridge top.
    â€œPlease, don’t . . . don’t shoot me!”
    The last word hadn’t died on the man’s lips