Free The Forbidden by William W. Johnstone Page A

I find any of you Diamond .45 people, or Circle Snake riders, or Lightning hands on my property, I’ll kill you and I won’t ask questions before I do it. I’ll just blow you out of the saddle and leave you for the buzzards and the bears. You understand all that?”
    Wells’s eyes bugged out and his face flushed from sudden rage. His hands gripped both arms of the chair until the knuckles turned white. “That’s hard talk, Morgan.”
    â€œYou are damn right it is. And I mean every word of it. I’m no helpless woman or child. Or a man who isn’t used to guns. And if you doubt it, stand up and get ready to drag iron.”
    Wells slowly relaxed and leaned back in the chair, being careful to keep his hands away from his pistol. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Drifter?”
    â€œI’m no drifter anymore, Wells. I own a farm and a small ranch, and I’m also looking after the cattle that belong to the Wilson family. The same rules apply to the Wilson property.”
    â€œThat’s mighty nice of you, Morgan,” a .45 hand said. “You liftin’ the skirts of that fine-lookin’ woman for payment? She give you a good roll in bed for all your help?”
    Frank was away from the bar in a heartbeat. He reached the mouthy cowboy in the next heartbeat, just as the man was getting to his boots, both hands balled into fists.
    â€œFinish him, Cort!” one of the hands yelled.
    Frank hit Cort in the mouth with one big fist. Cort’s boots flew out from under him and he landed on the table behind where he’d been sitting. He rolled and got to his feet, his lips dripping blood.
    â€œI’ll kill you for that, Drifter,” he said, calling Frank the nickname that an Eastern writer had hung on him in an article.
    â€œCome do it,” Frank told him.
    Cort charged him and Frank met him square on with both fists, a series of lefts and rights to the stomach and face that sent Cort stumbling backward. Frank pressed the .45 hand hard, hitting him solidly on the side of the jaw with a right fist that glazed the man’s eyes and caused his knees to buckle a bit.
    Cort backed up, shaking his head and spitting out blood. Frank came on without hesitation, coldly and mercilessly. He slammed a left to the man’s belly and a right to his face. Cort’s nose flattened and the blood and snot flew. He backed up, hurt and dazed and shaking his head, splattering blood.
    â€œYou son of a bitch!” Cort said, taking a swing at Frank.
    Frank grabbed the man’s arm, just at the wrist, and using his forward momentum, threw the man out one of the front windows of the saloon. Cort bounced on the boardwalk and rolled off into the dirt of the street.
    Frank was out the batwings after him before Cort could get up and get his shaky legs under him. The Diamond .45 hand was bleeding from a dozen cuts from the broken glass, but he was still game. He tried to climb up on the boardwalk. He didn’t make it. Frank kicked him in the belly, and Cort doubled over and went to the ground, both hands holding his belly and horrible gasping, choking sounds coming from his mouth.
    Frank stepped off the boardwalk and then for the next several minutes, methodically beat the man to a bloody pulp. Like a steam-driven piledriver, Frank’s fists smashed Cort’s face and belly. When he finished, Cort was unconscious, his face torn, bloody, and unrecognizable. The Diamond .45 puncher was slumped against a water trough, his chin resting on his chest. Incredibly, Cort had not landed even one blow on Frank.
    Frank splashed water from the trough on his face and stepped back onto the boardwalk, walking up to the Diamond .45 foreman. “Have I made my point, Langford?”
    â€œYeah, I reckon you did, Morgan,” Wells said tightly. “But it ain’t gonna be forgot no time soon.”
    â€œI hope you never forget it. And be sure and tell your boss about