Stand Up and Die - William W. Johnstone The Jackals

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extra sense told McCulloch not to worry about the man behind him. Looking for him would put his back to the four horsemen. Besides, he already knew where they were.

      The Colt leaped into his right hand, and he fanned back the trigger and shot the long-haired redhead off his black horse. McCulloch moved just as the Spencer barked. From his new position, he took careful aim while the big Mexican was cocking the rifle on his stutter stepping horse. McCulloch touched the trigger and dived before the smoke cleared.

      The Indian boy fell as the knife he had ripped out of the ground sailed. McCulloch rolled over in the grass, glanced behind him, and saw a man in leather pants and a white beard trying to pull the rusted knife blade from his belly. His hands kept slipping off the bloody deer-horn handle already coated with crimson blood. Then the man’s eyes glazed over and he fell to his side. The Indian boy didn’t move. McCulloch did. He fired the next three shots as fast as he could, while crawling toward the Winchester. A bullet punched a hole in the dirt to his left, but he grabbed the lever, pulled the rifle to him, and fired from the prone position.

      By then, Linton was hightailing it as fast as he could, and the guy with the eagle feather in his hat was trying to control his paint while helping the redhead onto the back of his saddle. Although McCulloch could have shot him out of the saddle, he drew aim on Linton, whose dapple was raising dust like there was no tomorrow. If McCulloch hadn’t rushed his shot, there wouldn’t have been a tomorrow or even another hour for Linton. He could have chanced another shot, or he easily could have shot Bert in the back as he was carried off to lift scalps another day.

      Backshooting bushwackers was all right, he figured, for some people. But even a jackal might not be willing to do some things.

      CHAPTER SIX

      Hank Benteen held a short barreled Colt revolver, the front sight filed down for a faster draw, and grinned. “Looks like you two deputies are—”

      “He ain’t no deputy,” Titus Bedwell said. “I’m arrestin’ him for bustin’ up one of our saloons.”

      “He don’t look like he got busted up much,” Hank said.

      Sean Keegan chuckled. “I appreciate the compliment, Hank. I did all right, if I have to say so myself.”

      “You mean to tell me the law here just left one deputy to guard my cousin?” Hank Benteen looked insulted.

      “County’s dirt cheap,” Bedwell told him. “The Purgatory City Council is even tighter with a coin. That’s why we got only one jail for the city and the county.”

      “Will you get me out of here, Hank?” Tom Benteen pleaded.

      Hank Benteen waved the pistol. “You heard Tom. Open the cell, Pops, and we’ll swap out prisoners. Maybe you can hang the big mick instead of Tom. I mean, you don’t want to disappoint the crowd that’ll be coming in here directly, expecting to see a man swing.”

      Bedwell looked at the pistol on his hip, and Keegan stopped grinning, hoping his friend wouldn’t be so foolish. Hell, that would likely get them both killed, and all Keegan wanted right now was a place to sleep off a rip-roaring good drunk. He could care less what happened to Lovely Tom Benteen or the rest of those killers.

      “Pops,” Hank Benteen said. “I ain’t got all day.” He raised the revolver.

      With a sigh, Bedwell started to unbuckle his gun rig, but Hank’s head shook. “No time for that. Tom’ll take that hogleg when you let him out. Get moving, old man. Now.”

      Bedwell nodded and passed Keegan on the way to the cell. For half of half of a second, Keegan considered the odds of him managing to jerk the pistol out of Bedwell’s holster and plaster Hank Benteen’s blood over the wanted posted by the door. The odds convinced Keegan to just stand here with that stupid grin on his face and his hands raised high, reminding him of just how bad he needed a bath, too.

      Besides, Bob Benteen, Uncle Zach, and anyone riding with the Benteens would likely be outside, spread out so not to get too much notice.

      “What time’s the hanging?” Keegan asked.

      “Two this afternoon,” Bedwell answered.

      “That late? Why not dawn?”

      “Big to-do.” Bedwell had the big key and jammed it into the lock. “Wanted to give folks plenty of time to get here. Everybody in this part of Texas wanted to see Lovely Tom swing.”

      “Watch your mouth, you dumb piece of horse dung.” Tom Benteen spit.

      The door opened, the iron bars moved in front of Keegan. Keeping the keys in his hand, Bedwell stepped back and raised his arms. Lovely Tom Benteen came out, jamming on his hat, then jerking the hogleg from Bedwell’s holster.

      “Vámanos, cousin,” Hank Benteen said. “Folks are startin’ their day.”

      “I’m comin’, Hank.” Tom grinned evilly, thumbed back the hammer of Bedwell’s Schofield, slammed the barrel into the old horse soldier’s gut and—as Keegan yelled, “Nooooo!”—pulled the trigger.

      The impact of the bullet sent the old-timer flying back to the town marshal’s desk, scattering papers, pencils, and an empty jar over the floor. Bedwell sat on the edge of the desk for a moment, trying to beat out the flames on his vest started by the closeness of the revolver. Then he gave up, stiffened, and sank onto the floor, blood spilling and sizzling against the burning cloth. The old man shuddered, gasped, and fell to his side in front of the desk.

      “You stupid chucklehead!” Hank roared. “The idea was to get you out of here quietly!”

      “I don’t take no insults, cousin,” Tom said, and started to turn around.

      All of this had happened in mere seconds, almost too fast for Sean Keegan, drunk as he was, to comprehend. But suddenly, he did not feel one ounce of all the rotgut liquor he had been drinking throughout the night and into the dawn. He became sober, alert, and intent.

      “Come on!” Hank Benteen turned and moved toward the open door. Outside, horses whickered, hooves stomped, and men cursed. Another pistol sounded from outside.

      “I’m coming,” Lovely Tom said, “But first I got to give this Irish pimp what he’s got comin’, too.”

      The cold-blooded killer was turning, but Keegan was already moving, gripping the iron bars and shoving the door with all his might. The connection of iron against bone and flesh sounded almost as loud as the deafening pistol shot that had left the room in a cloud of acrid, white smoke. Down went Lovely Tom with a thud, and the big Schofield slid across the room. Keegan caught just a glimpse of the killer’s bloody face, the broken nose, and the dazed eyes.

      He wouldn’t comprehend all of that until later, when he had the chance to recall everything with clarity—when he wasn’t so busy trying to keep from getting killed.

      Keegan slid past the iron-barred door and dived for Bedwell’s .45. He heard a curse from the doorway, then his ears were ringing and his cheek stinging as Hank Benteen snapped a shot from the doorway, the bullet hitting a bucket and sending slivers of oak into Keegan’s face. The next bullet ricocheted off the stone wall. By that time, Keegan had slid to the corner, pulled his legs up, and quickly fired a shot at the real Benteen.

      Benteen fired again, kicking up dust from the stone, and Keegan cocked the revolver. He glanced at Lovely Tom, who had rolled over and pushed himself onto hands and knees, shaking his head, trying to regain his faculties. If he lifted a leg, he’d look just like the pathetic, mangy cur dog he was. It took every ounce of self-control for Keegan not to put a bullet in the outlaw’s head. Titus Bedwell had served in this man’s army for forty years. They didn’t make a soldier any better. For him to be cut down, unarmed, for no damned good reason—Keegan slid down about a foot, then fired another shot at the doorway.

      “Tom!” Hank barked. “Get out now or get hung!”

      Horses thundered outside. Bullets started

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