Free Blood Valley by William W. Johnstone Page B

the brand and loyal to it . . . except for the last brand. I asked De Graff about that.
    He was silent for a moment, the only sounds the striking of our boots on the boardwalk and the jingle of our spurs. “Mills and Lawrence is evil people. There ain’t no goodness in neither of ’em. They’ll do anything to take control of the area. Anything. They’re both power-crazy, and I don’t know what changed ’em. Maybe they was always thataway and me and Burtell couldn’t see it. But we just couldn’t take no more of it.”
    â€œBut they got everything now!”
    â€œSeems thataway, don’t it? You or me or Rusty or Burtell, hell, most people, we’d be happy with just a little-bitty portion of what they got. But they want it all. And they’re bound and determined to get it, anyways they can. And I’ll tell you something now, Sheriff. Judge Barbeau is gonna cut A.J. and Mike a-loose. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it this time. Bet on it.”
    â€œThat’s the feelin’ I get.”
    We stopped in the mouth of an alleyway, off the boardwalk, after first checkin’ the alley for any trouble-hunters. It was clear. But over across the street, leanin’ up agin’ a hitchrail, was a young man I’d seen ridin’ in with Jim Hawthorne, and he had trouble written all over him.
    De Graff had spotted him, too. “That punk’s gonna try us, Sheriff.”
    â€œYeah. But not us—just me. It had to come sooner or later.”
    Out of the corner of my eyes, I seen Rolf Baker and Pepper, standin’ in front of a store. If something was going down, at least they was out of the line of fire.
    The punk kid across the street, wearin’ two guns, tied down low, called out, shoutin’ a terrible ugly name at me. I stepped out of the alley, into the street, facin’ the kid, still a pretty good distance between us.
    â€œGo on back to the saloon, boy!” I told him. “I got no quarrel with you.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Sheriff?” the young man yelled, grinnin’ at me, his hands clawed, hovering over his gun butts. “You scared?”
    â€œNo, boy. I ain’t scared of you.” I took a couple of steps toward him.
    â€œI’m just as good as Jack Crow!”
    I doubted that, but I still wasn’t afraid. Maybe I don’t have enough sense to be afraid. But I think it’s thisaway with anybody who’s handier than he ought to be with a short gun. Everything just sort of narrows down in your field of vision. You know they’s people watchin’ but you really don’t see nobody except the man you’re facin’. Time seems to pause for the draw. And you can hear the slightest sound, from far away.
    â€œThe sheriff’s a coward!” the young man hollered, laughing.
    I took another couple of steps toward him. Since I’d brung A.J. and Big Mike to jail, I’d been wearin’ my right-hand .44 without the hammer thong, just a-waitin’ for something like this to happen, knowin’ in my heart it was soon comin’ at me. And here it was.
    â€œYou’re bracin’ an officer of the law, boy. You’re in trouble from the git-go, don’t you know that?”
    â€œI just figure I’m facin’ a tinhorn who ain’t got the guts to draw!”
    â€œYou wrong, boy,” I said quietly.
    â€œJack Crow’s gonna have a long ride for nothin’,” the kid hollered, “’cause when he gits here, you gonna be dead!”
    There it was again. Jack Crow. Looked like he was sure on the way in. I took a breath and two more steps. “You’re wrong, boy.” My voice was just loud enough for him to hear. “Get on your horse and ride on out of here. I’m givin’ you a chance to live. Take it. Think about your momma, how this is gonna bother her.”
    â€œI figure she’ll be right proud of me, Cotton.