Free The Eye of the Hunter by Frank Bonham Page A

Hotel was on the right. Not far beyond, sprawled in a chair before the sentry box, a soldier sat puffing a pipe, a rifle leaning against the fence. Not much like guard duty in Cuba, thought Henry.
    â€œYonder’s the newspaper office,” said Leo Lucas. “Ben may not be there, but if he ain’t, the general will be.”
    â€œThat’s Milo Stockard? Brave tracker of the wily Apache?” Henry was aware of being feverish. Was it malaria or excitement?
    â€œYes, sir,” said Leo. “That’s the old general. Tougher’n a night in a south Georgia jail.”
    Henry ran his eyes up and down the tall, narrow building, like a carpenter, maybe; or a demolitions expert deciding where to place his charges. Downstairs, a light burned behind the mullioned window. The name of the newspaper was emblazoned on the glass in gold leaf and boldly outlined in black. Above the walk, turning slightly in the breeze, the golden globe hung from a wooden boom extending over the sidewalk. In the final rays of the sunset it had the greenish look of a tarnished catalogue watch.
    Rubbing the Winchester’s gun stock thoughtfully, Henry said, “Why don’t you boys have a beer while I talk to Ambrose? I don’t want him to say he was outmanned.”
    They scattered, one of the Grand Army men hurrying into the hotel and the others heading for saloons, obviously planning to pass the word that the famous Kansas City gunman was calling Ambrose’s bluff. He swung the loading lever down and back to punch the first of fifteen shells into the chamber with a slick, oily sound; a fat .44-105 bottleneck shell was now hammer-ready, a cartridge nearly as large as his index finger. He snapped his fingers and set his feet apart.
    â€œBen Ambrose!” he shouted. “You lying gasbag! Get your polecat carcass out here!” Is that wild Western enough? he wondered.
    A man came into the doorway and stared at him, his sleeves rolled up and a printer’s stick in his hands. He was a short, bandy-legged, grizzled old badger of a man with a bald head and a black patch over one eye, and he was Captain Logan’s old commanding officer.
    â€œHe’s not here, friend!” he called. “But do you know who I am?”
    â€œYes, sir. Indeed I do. Do you know me?”
    â€œReckon I do! You’re Black Jack Logan’s boy!”
    â€œNo, sir, I’m just plain Henry Logan. It’s between Ambrose and me. My father don’t come into it.”
    â€œSuit yourself. Come back tomorrow morning.”
    â€œI will. But I beg to leave a message.”
    â€œShoot,” the general said.
    â€œRight, General! Right in the old ten-ring. That’s exactly what I had in mind.”
    He squeezed the gun stock between his biceps and ribs and fired the first crashing shot without aiming. The general yelled and ducked. After the golden lightning flash of flame, the thunderclap that followed shook windows all along the street. He heard horses snorting and stamping. The golden globe resounded with a loud whanggg ! It leapt and began to swing, while glittering strips and sequins of gold leaf drifted in the air. On the hotel veranda, men were laughing and yelling and stamping on the wooden deck.
    Henry bared his teeth, snapped another shell into the chamber, and started a deafening rapid-fire fusillade.
    The big metal ball rocked and swung; it clanged and thumped against the front of the shop as the big blunt-nosed slugs hammered at it, caving it in, tearing pieces of tin loose. Ambrose’s personal world lurched and danced, banged hollowly, and shed gilt in patches like sunburned skin, or butterflies, or certain kinds of fireworks.
    The smoke from the gunfire generated some coughing, and Henry’s ears rang. He was aware that the hotel veranda was clustered with yelling, howling, laughing men, while others lined the walks bawling encouragement. With only a few shells left, he lowered the gun and