Bad Men Die by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page A

boots.
    â€œI wouldn’t want to put you out—”
    â€œYou won’t be putting anybody out,” Hatfield insisted. “I know what you’re probably thinking. I don’t have anything against bounty hunters, though. Every outlaw you put behind bars—or in the ground—is one less hardcase to wander into my town and cause trouble. Keeping the peace here in Rattlesnake Wells is my one and only concern, Mr. Jensen. Well, that and my boy.”
    â€œAll right, then.” Luke’s instinctive liking for this young man grew. “I’ll be back by later, after I’ve tended to my horse and gotten something to eat. Can you point me to Peterson’s Livery Stable? Marshal Elliott over in Rimrock recommended it.”
    Hatfield gave him directions, they shook hands, and Luke took his leave of the young marshal. He led both horses down the street until he came to the cavernous livery barn.
    After turning over the mounts to the proprietor, a gangling, dark-haired, garrulous man, and making arrangements for them to be kept there until he returned from Cheyenne, Luke headed for Bullock’s Saloon.
    Having been in business for a while, it was one of the permanent buildings in town, a fairly impressive two-story frame structure. He crossed the street, dodging wagon teams and saddle mounts along the way, and had just stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the batwing entrance when a hand fell hard on his shoulder and jerked him around.
    â€œLuke Jensen!”

CHAPTER 7
    Instinct made Luke’s hand flash to the butt of a gun. He pulled and had the Remington halfway out of leather before he realized the man who’d accosted him wasn’t making any threatening moves.
    The man stood there on the boardwalk staring at Luke as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. “Luke?” he asked in an astonished voice. “My God, Luke Jensen. Is that really you?”
    The man was as tall as Luke but leaner, wearing brown whipcord trousers, a gray shirt, and a darker brown hat. His slightly lantern-jawed face was clean-shaven but as rugged and weathered as Luke’s. Obviously, he spent most of his time out in the open, as well. His hair was sandy and starting to gray.
    As soon as Luke saw the man, a chord of recognition went through him. He was certain he knew the hombre from somewhere, but he couldn’t come up with a name or recall where they had met.
    The man had called him by his real name, which meant Luke probably didn’t know him from the years spent as a bounty hunter. Most of that time, until the past couple years, he had used the name Luke Smith. He knew he hadn’t met the man that recently, or he would have remembered him.
    â€œI’m sorry—”
    â€œI thought you were killed at Richmond.” The man grabbed both his shoulders. “But you’re alive!”
    That was all it took. The mention of Richmond made the memories come flooding back into Luke’s mind. The long, bloody siege that had left most of the once beautiful city in ruins. The growing sense of numbing despair and defeat. The last-ditch plan to smuggle a fortune in Confederate gold to safety so that it could continue to finance the struggle against the Yankees. Greed, betrayal, sudden death, the smashing pain of a bullet in the back . . .
    Luke shook his head to clear out the memories. But Derek Burroughs hadn’t been there for that part of it. That was the man’s name. Luke knew it now as well as his own. Burroughs had fought side by side with him in the hellish battles of the Wilderness and Cold Harbor, when General Lee was trying desperately to keep that butcher Grant from closing in on Richmond. Luke and Burroughs had been friends—not close friends, but the comradeship known only to men who have been through combat together. The last time Luke had seen him was when Burroughs was wounded at Cold Harbor.
    â€œI heard you made it and were sent back