Free Reprisal by William W. Johnstone Page B

with the floor threw his aim off, and his bullet struck Ben in the hip and the man collapsed to the floor.
    Martha and Colleen began screaming from the saloon side of the stage stop, joining in with the shouting and cussing of the traveling men.
    Hal crawled to his feet and banged a shot in Frank’s direction, the bullet thudding into the wall behind where Frank was kneeling on the floor.
    Frank snapped off a round just as Hal dropped to the floor. The bullet knocked a chunk out of the wall.
    Cussing loudly, Ben fired, his round missing Frank by several feet. Frank returned the fire and did not miss. Ben was slammed backward, a hole in the center of his forehead, his eyes wide open, a startled expression on his face.
    Hal staggered to his feet, and this time Frank’s aim was on the mark. Hal fell back against the wall, his heart shattered. He slid down to the floor, his pistol falling from suddenly dead fingers.
    Frank rose wearily to his feet and reloaded as the big room began filling with people.
    â€œDamnedest thing I ever seen,” the stage driver said.
    â€œI damn shore never seen nothin’ like it,” the stationmaster said.
    â€œThis is terrible!” Martha Overhouser bellowed. “I shall never ride this stage line again.”
    â€œGood,” the driver told her. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks. You ain’t done nothin’ but moan and complain all the way.”
    â€œDon’t you speak to me in that tone of voice, you lout!” Martha hollered.
    â€œCome on,” Frank said. “I’ll help you carry the bodies out to the shed.”
    â€œWhy don’t you stay out there with them, the both of you,” Martha yelled.
    â€œAin’t she a sight to behold?” the driver said to Frank.
    Frank said nothing, just shook his head.
    Frank and the driver stored the bodies in the shed, and the driver said, “They just might stay here for several months, you know? They get good and froze, they’ll keep ’til spring.”
    â€œThat’ll be a lovely sight, for sure.”
    â€œWon’t it, though.”
    â€œYou want their guns?” Frank asked.
    â€œNaw. I got me a good pistol and a fine rifle I carry on my runs. That’s all I need. Got several more of each at the house. Don’t need no more. But thanks for offerin’.”
    â€œI’ll help you fix that axle come daylight.”
    â€œThat’s white of you, Mr. Morgan. I’ll take you up on that too.”
    â€œI’ll be around.”
    After the driver left, Frank went through the pockets of the man-hunters. He found some cash, and would give that to Jeff. He took their guns, carried them back into the stage stop, and hung the belts on pegs.
    â€œHow many men does that make you’ve shot dead, Mr. Gunfighter?” Martha asked.
    Frank did not reply. He had had just about all he was going to take of Mrs. Overhouser.
    â€œThat’s not fair, Martha,” Colleen said. “All Mr. Morgan did was defend himself. He didn’t start the trouble.”
    Martha snorted her contempt at that.
    Frank poured a fresh cup of coffee and sat down at the table. He was suddenly very tired.
    â€œYou want me to fix you a plate of food?” Colleen asked.
    â€œNot now, miss. I’ll maybe get something later. But thank you.”
    â€œWell . . . I’m going to try to get some rest. Good night.”
    â€œNight, miss.”
    Frank sat at the table for a long time, drinking coffee. The only way he could get the bounty on him lifted was to get rid of Lawyer Dutton. But Frank doubted that Dutton would ever again come west of the Mississippi. So that left him . . .
    â€œLiving with a fifteen-thousand-dollar bounty on my head,” he muttered.
    He finished his coffee and looked around him. People were sleeping all over the station. Frank went into the kitchen and found some scraps of food, and took them outside for Dog. After