Forty Times a Killer by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page A

that read H AVE Y OU W RITTEN TO M OTHER ?
    It seemed that the town fathers of Longview were big on instructing the criminal classes.
    Wes wrapped his long, fine fingers around the black iron bars of his cell and pushed his face closer to mine. “Little Bit, bring me a pistol. I can break out of here real easy.”
    I felt like pinching myself to make sure I was awake. “Wes, that’s nigh on impossible, This here jail is built like the First National Bank of Texas.”
    â€œListen, and listen good,” Wes said. “Dillard said a Negro woman will bring me grub twice a day. Once I have the gun, I’ll squeeze out tears, pretend I’m broke up about hanging an all, and set them at ease, figuring I’m just a scared kid. But when the woman brings in the tray I’ll”—he made a gun of his thumb and forefinger—“Pow! Pow!—kill her and then Dillard.”
    â€œIt’s way too thin, Wes.” In fact, I was horrified. John Wesley’s words were emotionless, as though murdering two people meant nothing to him.
    â€œThe hell it is thin. Just bring me the Colt and I’ll do the rest.”
    I had to unload the thought churning in my head. “Wes, you’re talking about killing a lawman . . . and a woman.”
    â€œSo what?”
    â€œIt ain’t right, Wes. It can’t be right.”
    â€œWould you rather see me hang?” Wes asked.
    â€œNo, I—”
    â€œThen it isn’t my fault. Dillard and the black woman are just two more damned traitors shoving me toward the gallows. They both need killing.”
    The jailhouse was a solid building, but I heard the relentless rush of the wind, the hiss of driving sand, and the curses of a muleskinner in the street, his team balking at the storm.
    I looked into Wes’s eyes, so cold to be almost colorless, like ice in winter.
    â€œWell, Little Bit, will you help me or will you help drag me to the gallows with all the rest?”
    My guilty conscience was the joker in the deck, but nonetheless I decided to play the hand Wes dealt me. “I’ll bring the pistol,”
    The ice in John Wesley’s eyes melted away in the sun of his smile. “I knew I could depend on you, Little Bit. Come back tomorrow morning and bring the gun.” Wes thought for a spell, then said, “And a bag of sour drops.”
    â€œSour drops?”
    â€œSure. Dillard won’t suspect that a kid with a bad leg and a bag of sour drops in his hand is hiding a pistol, now will he?”
    The key rattled in the door that led to the cell, and Wes said urgently, “Make sure all six of the Colt’s chambers are charged. I’ll have some fast shooting to do.”
    I nodded and turned away from Wes as Dillard said, “Time’s up, son.”
    â€œI’ll see you tomorrow, Wes,” I said. “I’ll bring you some sour drops.”
    Dillard didn’t even blink. He had no way of knowing that the words I’d just uttered sounded his death sentence.
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    I slept that night at the livery and next morning bought candy at the general store. They had no sour drops so I substituted molasses taffy, long a favorite of mine.
    When I returned to the stable, I ate some more of Jas. Glee, prop.’s stew, cold and congealed with fat though it was, then searched through Wes’s saddlebags for the old Colt revolvers.
    To my considerable distress, only the gun with the loose cylinder was fully charged. The other had three empty chambers.
    Wes was adamant that he wanted a fully loaded pistol, and since I had no money for caps, powder and shot, I decided that the defective revolver would have to do.
    I had a deal of confidence in John Wesley’s shooting skills with any kind of firearm, including a Colt that was falling apart.
    As I’d seen Wes do, I shoved the revolver into the waistband behind my back and covered it with my coat.
    Glee walked into the livery carrying a fine