Free Showdown by William W. Johnstone Page B

fadin’.”
    â€œGood,” the Arkansas back-shooter said in a too-loud voice. “Go on and die.”
    â€œShut up, Jack,” another gun-handler said. “Let the man die in peace.”
    â€œYou want to try to shut me up?” Jack challenged.
    â€œDoc!” Jimmy yelled.
    â€œBlood’s a-pourin’ out of his mouth, Doc,” a man standing close to Jimmy said. “I don’t think he’s long for this world.”
    Raven left Frank’s side and knelt down beside Jimmy for a moment. Jimmy began to convulse on the floor.
    â€œWhat the hell’s he doin’ now, Doc?” a man asked.
    â€œLosing consciousness,” Raven replied.
    â€œWhy?”
    Raven’s sigh was evident even where Frank stood. “The bullet probably traveled upward and nicked a lung . . . or both lungs.”
    Jimmy’s legs began jerking, his boot heels drumming on the dirty floor.
    â€œWhat a horrible way to die,” one of the bar’s soiled doves said, moving closer to where Jimmy lay.
    â€œHow much for a good hump?” a man asked her.
    She leaned down and whispered in his ear.
    â€œIt better be a good one for that price,” the man said, standing up.
    She led him toward the rear of the saloon, and they disappeared into the darkness of a hall.
    Jimmy yelled once more and then was silent, his body ceasing its jerking and convulsing. His head lolled to one side.
    â€œThat’s all,” Raven said. “He’s gone.”
    â€œ ’Bout damn time,” Jack Miller said. “Gimmie another beer,” he told the barkeep.
    â€œSome of you men carry these bodies out of here and over to the undertaker’s,” Raven said. The bodies were dragged outside, sawdust was sprinkled over the blood spots, and the card games and talking resumed.
    Doc Raven finished his coffee and picked up his black bag. “See you in the morning, Frank.”
    â€œI sure hope so, Doc.”
    Frank stood at the bar for a few moments, then pushed his way through the crowd and walked out of the bar. He stood for a moment on the boardwalk, breathing in the cold wet air of fall and mulling over his situation. What had Vanderhoot said? As soon as the rain ceased the hunt would begin.
    Frank walked down the boardwalk toward the barn. He’d sleep in the loft this night. He was sure the saloon would be noisy until the wee hours. There were few lamplights shining; the locals had gone to bed.
    â€œGood idea,” Frank muttered. In the livery, he got his blanket roll and climbed up into the loft. He was asleep in the hay a few minutes after closing his eyes.

Nine
    Frank awakened at Dog’s low, almost inaudible growl in the stall beneath where he slept in the loft. He lay still, listening, his right hand silently closing around the butt of his Peacemaker. Dog did not repeat his growl.
    Then Frank heard the very faint scrape of a boot. It sounded as though it came from just outside the livery. Frank eared back the hammer of the .45 and waited.
    After a few quiet moments, he heard boot steps moving away from the livery, slowly fading into the night. Frank did not know what time it was, but he had awakened feeling refreshed, so he knew it must be close to his normal getting-up time. He pulled on his boots and silently climbed down to the floor of the livery. He let Dog out back to do his morning business, and without lighting the lantern, slipped out the front of the stable and stood for a time in the early morning darkness, listening. The rain had slackened off to an irritating drizzle. He could hear no sound except the soft sighing of the cold wind.
    Frank stepped back into the huge livery, silently closing the door, and popped a match into light, checking his watch. The hands read 3:30. He let Dog back in, and the big cur immediately went to the stall with Horse and lay down in a corner.
    â€œYou stay put,” Frank told him.
    Frank walked to the cafe. It was dark.