Free Gut-Shot by William W. Johnstone Page B

out slowly and fired.
    The cook took the hit square in the chest. He fell hard, probably dead when he hit the ground.
    Now to give them something to think about and keep their heads down.
    McCord triggered shots into the ranch house, the bunkhouse and dropped a couple of horses in the corral. The cow ponies dropped kicking and screaming.
    He grinned, watching men run hither and yon like disturbed ants, diving for cover, calling out to one another. A few punchers fired shots at shadows but none came near him.
    Yee-hah! He’d sure played hob. But now it was time to light a shuck.
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    Steve McCord scrambled down the slope, mounted his horse and headed at a canter in the direction of Open Sky.
    He checked his back trail but saw no rising dust.
    It would take the Circle-O a while to mount a chase and by then he’d be long gone. Besides, he was riding across rough and broken country just north of Limestone Ridge and it would take an Apache to track him.
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    The youth rode into Open Sky just as dusk fell and both sides of the street were ablaze with light that cast orange and yellow color so vividly on the boardwalks that Steve fancied he was riding past spills of wet paint. He reminded himself to include that allusion in his next poem. Maybe an ode about killing a man and how good—no, satisfying—it felt.
    Oil lamps glowed behind the windows of the First Bank of Open Sky as the boy drew rein and looped his horse to the hitching rail.
    A tall, gangling youngster dressed in dusty range clothes, he took the steps up the bank and walked inside. A bell jangled above his head.
    A teller looked up from a ledger and said, “He’s expecting you. Go right inside.”
    Steve McCord opened the gate at the end of the counter and walked to the back office.
    â€œCome in,” a man’s voice said to the youth’s knock.
    The massively obese man behind the desk smiled. He looked self-satisfied and as sly as the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
    â€œClose the door behind you and sit yourself down, Steve,” he said. “It’s good to see my old friend and business partner again.”
    After McCord closed the door behind him, he parked in an uncomfortable wooden chair opposite the banker and said, “Well, I did it, Mr. Tweddle. It’s started.”
    Lucian Tweddle placed his linked hands on his great belly, and his thick, fleshy lips twisted into his repulsive reptilian smile.
    â€œWhat did you start, dear boy?” he said.
    The youth giggled. “Killed the cook. Gunned the Circle-O biscuit shooter, by God.”
    Tweddle took time to absorb this, his piggy little eyes thoughtful. “That will hurt them,” he said finally. “A hungry man is an angry man, or so I’m told.”
    â€œDamn right it will. The fat is well and truly in the fire.”
    â€œSteve, how did you make it clear that the shot came courtesy of the McCord ranch?” The banker’s voice was low, almost menacing.
    McCord was taken aback. Well, I . . . I didn’t. I mean, I figured my father will be the number one suspect. He’s got everything to gain by a war with the Circle-O.”
    â€œReally? Then I’m totally confused. A missed shot from a deer hunter. A passing Indian taking a pot just for the hell of it. A disgruntled ex-employee nursing a beef with the cook. One of the Circle-O’s own punchers for a similar reason. A vengeful and scorned lover. There’s all kind of motives for a murder like that, and not all of them point to Trace McCord.”
    The youth looked crestfallen and he hung his head.
    â€œI never thought—”
    â€œDon’t think, Steve. Write your poetry, dream of the day the ranch will be yours and leave the thinking to me.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mr. Tweddle.”
    â€œNo real harm done. But don’t make any further moves against the Circle-O until you hear from me.”
    He steepled his fat fingers, gold signet