Free The Savage Trail by Jory Sherman

Cheyenne, but maybe, he thought, since Ollie and Rosa had ridden all night without any sleep, they might hole up in Cheyenne for a day or so.
    â€œYou really think killing Ollie will end it for you, Johnny?” Ben asked, turning to face Savage, who was squatted down, refilling his canteen from the spring again.
    â€œYeah, I do. Ollie’s the one I want.”
    John stood up, corked the wooden canteen, slung it over his saddle horn.
    â€œWill that finish if for you, Johnny? Really?”
    â€œI expect so. Why? You worried about something?”
    â€œOllie ain’t the only one left out of that killing bunch.”
    â€œI know. If I run across the others, I expect I’ll call ’em out. Mandrake’s one. Who’s the other?”
    â€œDick Tanner.”
    â€œYeah. I’m not going to waste time hunting those two. Olliewas the one who called the shots. When he’s down, I’ll ride on through the rest of my life.”
    â€œThat won’t end it,” Ben said, his tone solemn.
    John shot him a sharp look.
    â€œSo you say. What do you know?” John asked.
    â€œThem other two. They’ll be the same as you. They’ll come after you. They’ll want blood for blood.”
    â€œLet ’em come.”
    â€œAnd if you put them down? What then?”
    â€œThat should take care of it, I reckon,” John said.
    â€œYou think so, Johnny? Hell, you cut yourself a long trail here. Be somebody after Mandrake and another after Tanner. And then another and another. Ain’t no end to it.”
    John snorted.
    â€œYou know something, Ben? You just think too damned much.”
    â€œAnd you don’t think enough. Give it up now, John. Let Hobart go. He’ll meet his own end someday. It don’t have to be you who finishes him off.”
    John felt the anger rise in him, as if from some well deep in his bowels licked by flames, the liquid turning to steam. His eyes narrowed and he licked his lips as if to quench the heat beginning to pour from him. He glared at Ben, sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again to hot, black slits.
    â€œBen, you’ve been riding me and riding me about all this and I’m plumb fed up with your worrywart mouth and your simple platitudes. You don’t like doing what you’re doing, you can ride off right now, or wait until we get to Cheyenne. Either way suits me. I just want to get shut of you trying to talk me out of hunting down that bastard Hobart and sending him straight to hell with a forty-five slug. I’ve been tolerant of you, but I’m running out of patience and kindliness toward you.”
    Ben reacted as if John had come up to him and slapped him backhanded across the face. He froze for a moment and his face blanched. He balled up his fists, then relaxed his fingers, balled them up again, and flexed them back to normal.
    â€œJohnny, you hadn’t ought to have said what you did to me. But you said it and I’m just going to ask you one question beforeI ride on.”
    â€œOne question,” John said tightly.
    Ben’s eyes blazed with the coals of anger seething inside him.
    â€œYou got a conscience, Johnny?”
    â€œWhat the hell kind of question is that?”
    â€œYou heard me. You got a conscience? You have a still, small voice inside you that whispers to you when somethin’ ain’t right and you got to think about doin’ something bad beforeyou do it?”
    â€œI have a conscience, Ben. Yes.”
    â€œI reckon not.”
    â€œWho are you to judge whether I have a conscience or not?”
    â€œWell, that’s all I’ve been to you this whole time. I’m your conscience, Johnny, because you ain’t got one. Now, you want to kick me in the ass and boot me out of your life. Hell, I’m the only conscience you got, son, and if I go, ain’t nobody ner nothin’ to tell you what’s right and what’s