Free The King Hill War by Robert Vaughan Page B

for the murder of his brother,” Colmes said. “And for paying you to kill Muley Thomas and Quint Weathers.”
    Morgan went back to his card game. “Well, there you go,” he said. “It looks like you got your man.”
    “All he did was pay you to do the job,” Colmes said. “But when you come right down to it, you are the one who killed those two boys.”
    “Like I said, I had a warrant,” Morgan said. “And whether it was real or not isn’t my problem.”
    “Oh, but it is your problem,” Colmes said. “I’m taking you back.”
    Morgan got up from the table then and stepped out to one side. He let his hand hang loosely by the pistol he had strapped at his side.
    “No,” Morgan said. “I don’t think I want to go back.”
    Because he had been there for about a week now, the other patrons of the saloon had come to an uneasy acceptance of Morgan’s presence. They had even come around to enjoying, in some macabre way, the fact that they were drinking with a man as notorious as Clay Morgan, realizing that this was something they would be able to tell their grandchildren years from now.
    But it was now clear that Clay Morgan’s peaceful stay in the little town of Eagle Rock was about to come to an end. Realizing that in all likelihood shooting was about to break out, the patrons of the saloon began moving out of the way.
    “You don’t have much choice, Morgan,” Sheriff Majors said, emphasizing his comment with a little thrust of his shotgun.
    “I see. You plannin’ on helping him, are you?” Morgan asked.
    “There’s no helpin’ to it,” Sheriff Majors replied. “You’re going to unbuckle your gun belt, then stick your hands outso we can put your wrists in cuffs.”
    Morgan said nothing in response, and the silence became palpable.
    Sheriff Majors pointed the shotgun at Morgan and pulled back both hammers. They made a loud, double click in the room.
    “I said, unbuckle your gun belt,” Majors repeated.
    Morgan shook his head. “I’m not going to make it easy for you, Sheriff.”
    The three men stared at each other for one long moment. Not only the three principals, but not one other person moved or talked, creating an eerie tableau, a scene that could have been reproduced in Harper’s Weekly . The silence was broken only by the measured tick tock of the clock that hung on the wall by the piano.
    Then, suddenly, Morgan drew his pistol, drawing and firing so fast that those who were watching were barely able to make the transition between seeing the pistol in his holster and the pistol being fired in his hand.
    As soon as he saw Morgan start his draw, Sheriff Majors pulled the trigger on both barrels of his shotgun, but it was too late. By the time he reacted to what he was seeing, it was over. The double-aught charges from his shotgun tore large, jagged holes in the floor of the saloon, even as the heavy bullet from Morgan’s gun was slamming into his heart.
    Deputy Colmes was the most surprised man in the room. He had not even bothered to draw his pistol, believing that, since Majors had the drop on Morgan with a double-barreled shotgun, the situation was well in hand. He realized, too late, that he was wrong, because even as his pistol was clearing leather, Morgan’s second shot crashed into his forehead. Colmes went down, dead before his body hit the floor.
    “I reckon you fellas all saw this,” Morgan said, his voice as deadly calm as if he had done nothing more that spill his drink. He pointed to the two bodies. “They drew on me first.”
    “Of course they did. They was lawmen,” someone said. “They was here to arrest you.”
    “Arrest me, or kill me?” Morgan said. “Did any of you see a warrant?”
    “I didn’t see no warrant,” one of the saloon patrons said.
    “Me neither. If you ask me, it was self-defense,” one of the others said.
    “Are you crazy, Michael? It can’t be self-defense if they wasn’t doin’ no more than tryin’ to arrest him.”
    “It was