Free Death In Helltown by John Legg Page A

off with both feet, smashing his captor’s back against the edge of the bar. He smiled as he heard ribs crack. The man released him.
    A cowpuncher was moving up on his left, six-gun in hand. Bloodworth grabbed his beer glass, whirled and hurled it at the man, who ducked. Bloodworth leaped forward and smashed a fist into the drover’s face, then again, and once more, driving the man to the ground. He scooped up the man’s pistol. He spun to face another cowboy coming at him with a knife. Once more he kicked out, and the man crashed to the floor.
    He heard someone else coming, and turned, thumbing back the hammer of the pistol. The man skidded to a stop. “You don’t want to die, friend. Especially over the likes of him.” He jerked his head in Tucker’s direction.
    The man looked at him in puzzlement.
    “He and his pals robbed a stage north of Dodge, killed a woman and damn near killed the driver. Hell, the driver might even have gone under by now. Now, you don’t look like some heartless bastard who’d think little of gunnin’ down a woman, and a high-class one at that but if you are that kind of man, you best think to pull the trigger on that hogleg.”
    The man hesitated only a second before he half knelt and set the pistol on the plank floor. “I got no argument with you, Mister,” he said, stepping away from the weapon.
    Bloodworth nodded and looked around. “Anyone else of you aim to make stink about this?”
    No one said anything. Until someone shouted, “Behind you!”
    Bloodworth knew it might be a trick, but he couldn’t take the chance. He whirled. Tucker had almost regained his breath and was reaching for the six-gun stuck in his belt. Bloodworth shook his head. “That would be unwise,” he said, realizing that he was breathing heavily. It was disconcerting to look at Tucker’s off kilter eyes. He shook off the feeling.
    “To hell with you.” Tucker started to snatch out his Colt. Bloodworth fired, aiming to shoot Tucker in the arm, but with his uneven breathing and the slight unsteadiness after the fight, he missed by a bit. The bullet caught Tucker high on the chest, in the meat just below the collarbone.
    “Seems you ain’t the shot I thought you was,” Tucker said with a sneer mingling with a grimace of pain. “Don’t know how in hell you ever made a livin’ as a bounty hunter.”
    “You ever think I shot you there because I wanted to? I aim to take you back to face justice.”
    “Well, I ain’t aimin’ to go. You’ll just have to force me.” He sneered.
    “You are one dumb son of a bitch, Tucker,” Bloodworth said. He stepped up and slammed a boot heel into Tucker’s chest.
    The outlaw’s eyes widened in shock and he gasped in pain as he struggled to breathe again. Bloodworth pulled Tucker’s Colt from his belt and tossed it aside, then knelt in front of him. “I can stand here all night and kick you every couple of minutes,” he said in a soft, cold voice. “Makes no difference to me, though it might be some enjoyable. Still, all these boys’d likely object to havin’ the games of chance and their drinkin’ disturbed by such doings, so I suggest you get smart and ready yourself to take a short journey. ’Course, at the end of that little journey, you’ll face a judge, and likely the hangman, but maybe you’ll get lucky and get a judge who ain’t so harsh.”
    “Piss off,” Tucker croaked.
    Bloodworth shook his head. He fought to control his anger. Every time he looked at Tucker’s off-kilter eyes, the picture of Edith’s bloody body flooded into his mind. He gritted his teeth and stood. He tossed away the drover’s pistol and picked up his own Remington. As he turned back to face Tucker, the outlaw had drawn a belly gun and was bringing it to bear.
    “Stupid son of a bitch,” Bloodworth muttered. He thumbed back the hammer of his pistol and fired. The bullet tore through Tucker’s off-center right eye, spraying blood, brains and bone on the lower bar