Free Gut-Shot by William W. Johnstone Page A

wages in advance. I hope you’re worth it.”
    Before Flintlock could answer, the lawyer turned his attention to McPhee again. “Sir, my efforts on your behalf should not be construed as a belief in your innocence. I don’t know if you murdered Polly Mallory or not.” Constable’s thin face was grim. “Do we understand each other?”
    The young clerk looked shocked and opened his mouth to speak, but Constable silenced him by raising his cane like a fence picket.
    â€œAs a member of the legal profession, I could not remain idly by and see a man railroaded into a noose without proof of his guilt. And there for now matters must stand.”
    â€œWhat about the real murderer of Polly Mallory?” McPhee said.
    â€œIf he or she is to be found, I will find him.” The lawyer touched the brim of his derby hat and gave a little bow. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
    Â 
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    After the lawyer left McPhee said, “He thinks I’m guilty.”
    â€œHe says he doesn’t know,” Flintlock said.
    â€œDo you think I murdered Polly?”
    â€œI already told you, what I think doesn’t matter.”
    â€œI’m sorry I got you into this, Sam.”
    â€œYou didn’t get me into anything.” Flintlock waved the envelope Constable had given him. “I’m doing it for wages.”
    â€œWell, I swear that I didn’t kill her.”
    â€œYou swore me that already.”
    â€œThe question is: Who did?”
    â€œAnd the answer to that,” Sam Flintlock said, “is that it’s none of my damned business. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
    â€œUntil you’ve convinced yourself of my innocence,” McPhee said.
    â€œNow that may take time,” Flintlock said. “Providing, of course, we live that long.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
    Young Steve McCord rode his horse into the pines then swung out of the saddle. He tethered the black to the slender trunk of a sapling and slid a new .44-40 Winchester from the boot.
    From now until the job was done he’d go on foot.
    The afternoon had not yet started its slow shade into evening and the sky was still blue, now bannered with cloud the color of polished brass. The young man climbed the timbered rise to a bench of shale rock that overlooked the Circle-O home ranch and bellied down to wait.
    Old Brendan O’Rourke’s place lay among shallow, rolling hills covered with good grass and here and there stands of piñon and juniper flourished. A windmill turned slowly in the languid summer breeze and the horses in the corral grazed on recently thrown hay. The cookhouse fire was lit for supper and rising smoke from its iron chimney tied bows in the air.
    The ranch seemed deserted and still, and young McCord’s frustration grew. He needed a target. Now, before it grew too dark.
    Long minutes passed then the cookhouse door opened and a red-faced, big-bellied cook stepped outside and threw a basin of scraps to the ducks that congregated nearby.
    The cook wiped off his sweating face with the bottom of his apron and stared at the sky.
    Kill the cook?
    The twenty-year-old weighed that option.
    Good cooks were hard to find and this one had a lot of gray in his hair and might prove difficult to replace. But would his death be enough to start a war?
    Would killing a Circle-O puncher be better? Or putting a bullet in Frisco Maddox’s skull better still?
    But Steve liked Frisco. The big foreman had always stood up for him when his father went into one of his rages.
    Anyway, Frisco was nowhere in sight. But the cook was.
    Steve McCord grinned. A bird in the hand . . .
    No bacon, beans and biscuits for the Circle-O hands tonight!
    He centered the rifle sights on the cook’s broad chest.
    The man seemed to be singing . . . or was he calling out to the ducks? Not that it mattered a damn. He was going to die real soon.
    Steve McCord took up the slack on the trigger, let his breath