Free Brotherhood of Evil by William W. Johnstone Page A

place as Zeke’s. No other name was necessary. The two-story log building was the centerpiece of a small community that had no name at all, situated in a winding canyon far from the main trails. Tall and brooding, the canyon walls cast a never-ending shadow over the buildings.
    In addition to the big house, the settlement had a barn with an attached blacksmith shop, a small trading post, and a squalid little cabin where a gnarled old man lived. He was a master gunsmith, known far and wide among the men on the wrong side of the law as someone who could repair or modify any gun ever made. His services were usually in demand . . . but not as in demand as the services of those who worked in the big house.
    Zeke had three bartenders pouring drinks around the clock as long as there were customers. A frock-coated gambler addicted to laudanum ran a poker game . . . and it was honest. One rule for dealing with outlaws and killers was to play straight with them. They wouldn’t stand for anything else.
    Busiest of all were the six soiled doves who sometimes worked delivering drinks in the saloon but spent most of their time in the rooms upstairs. Zeke—again, the only name anyone knew him by—made a good living.
    He was a tall, thin, gray-haired, gray-faced man who nearly always had an unlit cheroot clenched between his teeth. He wore a gray suit and sat at a table in the corner, taking the cigar out of his mouth now and then so he could sip from a tumbler of whiskey. As a rule, he didn’t say much.
    He sat up straighter when three newcomers came in. One of them had his right arm in a crude sling. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his elbow. Another man had a crimson-stained rag tied around his left thigh. The third one, who didn’t seem to be wounded, helped his companions to a table and then went over to the bar.
    â€œWe’re lookin’ for Jonas Trask,” he said to the bartender. “He’s supposed to be here.”
    The bartender glanced past the man and looked across the room at Zeke.
    Zeke took the cigar out of his mouth and crooked a finger at one of the doves, who had just set some drinks down at another table. “Go upstairs and tell Mr. Trask some of his boys are here,” Zeke said to the woman when she stood at his table.
    She was a tall, skinny redhead with fair skin. The scattering of freckles stood out as the order made her turn pale. “I-I hate to disturb him,” she stammered.
    â€œDo what I told you,” Zeke snapped. He put the cheroot back in his mouth and clamped his teeth on it as the dove headed hesitantly for the staircase.
    He understood her reluctance. Most of the time Jonas Trask was friendly enough, but twice during the time he had been there, somebody had prodded him. In both cases, the other man was a known gunman, but Trask had bested both, wounding them and ending the fight.
    What had happened after that was worse. Neither Zeke nor anyone else had tried to stop it. In such a place, a man handled his own problems. If he bit off too big a chunk, no one was going to come to his aid.
    Especially when it meant crossing a man like Trask and running the risk of getting the same treatment.
    Over at the bar, the man who had asked for Trask said impatiently to the apron, “Well? Didn’t you hear me?”
    Zeke stood up. Most of the eyes in the room followed him as he sauntered over to the bar. He said in a deceptively mild tone of voice, “Take it easy, my friend. I’ve sent someone to fetch Mr. Trask.”
    â€œOh.” The newcomer looked a little uneasy. “You’re the fella who runs this place, ain’t you? The one they call Zeke?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Zeke said around the cheroot.
    The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Well, I’m sorry for the ruckus. My pards and I have been ridin’ hard, and they’re hurt.”
    â€œBottle,” Zeke said to the bartender.
    The man set it