Free Savage Texas: The Stampeders by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone Page B

it coming to you.”
    “How much?”
    “Don’t recall right off. It’s on the Wanted notice. Good likeness of this gent, too. Good enough that it really looks like him. A lot of them pictures, hell, they could be about anybody.”
    “Tell you what, Mack, I want that money to be given to the Hangtree Church. They got a steeple that’s going to blow down flat in the next stout wind. Let Preacher Fulton use that reward, whatever it is, to get that steeple in good shape.”
    “Mighty big of you to do that, Sam.”
    “I don’t need the money. I got aplenty of it. Not saying it to brag, just stating the fact.”
    “The reverend and his congregation are going to be mighty grateful.”
    “Like I said, I don’t really need it myself. Might as well do some good for the town with it.”
    “I got some improvements that could be made at the jail,” Barton said.
    “Can’t solve every problem myself,” Heller said. “I’ll stick with the church for this one.” He looked down at the pallid-but-freckled face of the red-haired corpse. “One of the Black Ear gang, huh? Mighty strange, considering that the dead man out on the Hangtree Road was one of the Black Ears himself. And that old fellow who got his teeth knocked out by that pretty young lady in Sunday services awhile back . . . his name was Josiah Enoch, and I heard it said over at the Cattleman Hotel that he had some connection with the Black Ears, too, going back quite a few years.”
    “Makes a man wonder,” Barton commented. “Why is it everybody coming into town lately has ties to Black Ear Skinner, may he rot in hell?”
    “I’ve wondered the same myself, even before this one here came along,” Heller said, indicating the dead man lying supine before them. “It’s a mighty odd coincidence, no question about it. Why would folks associated with an outlaw who’s been dead for five years all at once show up in such an out-of-the-way place as Hangtree?”
    “No idea,” said Barton. “But I don’t like it. Puts me on edge.”
    “Amen to that,” said Heller. “Seems like the only newcomer to Hangtree lately who ain’t tied in with the Black Ear gang is that pretty woman who knocked that man’s teeth out in church.”
    “She’s been going about town with Johnny Cross, you know,” said Barton.
    “That’s only because she ain’t had the chance to meet me yet,” replied Heller, and grinned.
     
     
    The man named Bill Creed who had joined the late Hiram Tate in tormenting Timothy Holt turned out to have a Wanted poster of his own, but with a relatively miniscule award attached. There was no known connection in his case to the infamous and allegedly defunct Black Ear gang beyond the fact he had traveled to Hangtree with Hiram Tate. Quizzed closely by Barton as to what had led Tate to come to Hangtree at all, and whether Bill had any knowledge of why the other dead Black Ear, Toleen, had come to Hangtree as well, Bill Creed professed no knowledge of either matter.
    Barton, alone in the jail with Bill Creed, who was chained to a chair, pulled a gleaming knife from a sheath and pressed the tip directly beside Creed’s Adam’s apple, hard enough to barely break the skin. A small red drop trickled down Creed’s neck.
    Barton’s voice was a snarl. “Listen to me, you dog: I’m the sheriff of this county, and this is one sheriff who gets mighty nervous when members of one of the foulest criminal gangs on this side of the nation start turning up in his county. We’ve got one of the Toleen brothers rotting in his grave on Boot Hill, killed by God-only-knows-who while he was heading toward this town. We’ve got your partner Hiram, a known Black Ear, causing trouble in our streets and getting himself killed. And we had an old fellow who used to be a Black Ear years ago trying to rob a Sunday morning church congregation. Ever heard of such a thing? Bothers me to see such things happening in my county and my town. But you know what really bothers me about