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

English sidesaddle and caught me in the act. He placed the saddle on a rack, then stared at me for a long time before he spoke.
    â€œI hope you’re not thinking of doing anything foolish, young feller. If you’re planning to brace Al Dillard, forget it.” A fly landed on his cheek and he brushed it away with an irritable hand. “Draw down on Dillard and he’ll kill your fer sure, like he’s done to seven or more afore ye, all of them bigger and meaner men than you.”
    My belly churned and I racked my brain for the right . . . no, any words.
    Finally I managed to say, “Wes and me have a lot of enemies. I figured I should go armed.”
    Glee looked at me, through me, then said, “Can you shoot?”
    â€œSome.”
    â€œ Some don’t cut it, young feller. But real good does. Can you shoot real good?”
    â€œNo, I guess not.”
    â€œThen best you leave the pistol here.”
    â€œJas. Glee, prop., that’s probably sound advice, but I won’t take it.”
    Glee shook his head. “Then suit yourself, boy. But mind what I said about Dillard. He don’t take kindly to sass.”
    Glee took up the sidesaddle again, studied a small tear in the leather of the cantle, then his eyes shifted to me again. “What I said about Dillard taking no sass, tell that to John Wesley as well.”
    I nodded. “I surely will.”
    â€œMakes no difference, really,” Glee said. “He won’t listen.”
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    I’d slept late, so by the time I headed for the jailhouse the sun was high in the sky. All traces of yesterday’s sandstorm had fled but for grit on the boardwalks and in the corners of windowpanes. A few innocent white clouds drifted in the indigo sky like lilies on a pond and the air smelled fresh with the promise of the new day.
    Despite the beckoning morning, I felt ill at ease and the breakfast I’d eaten was a red-hot cannonball in my belly.
    I never carried a gun in those days. My wrists were too thin and weak to absorb the recoil, and on those occasions when John Wesley bade me try, I never once managed to hit a mark, be it at ten paces or two.
    Thus I was very conscious of the three-pound Colt that dragged down the back of my pants and I was sure that everyone I passed in the street could see it.
    In truth, several men gave me slit-eyed looks as they walked by, but that was probably because a ragged little runt who looked like he’d missed too many meals in his childhood, limping along with his left leg in a steel cage, was a sight to see.
    When I stepped into the jailer’s office, Alan Dillard glanced up at me from a leather-bound ledger and said, “What you got in your poke?”
    My heart jumped in my chest. Had he tumbled to the revolver?
    I hesitated, and Dillard prompted, “In your hand, boy.”
    I was so relieved, I felt like I’d been touched by an angel. “Oh this?” I held up the candy sack. “It’s molasses candy. Wes is right partial to it and I thought it might cheer him up.”
    â€œNever cared for it myself,” Dillard said, making a face. He pointed at the door to the cell with the steel pen he’d been using. “It’s unlocked. Ten minutes, mind. No longer.”
    I nodded my thanks and stepped through the door into the wretched half-light of the cell area.
    Wes was lying on his cot. When he saw me he jumped up and a quick stride took him to the bars.
    â€œDid you get it?” He looked like an excited kid asking about a birthday present.
    I nodded, moved close to the bars, and turned my back. “Hurry.” My anxious eyes were fixed on the door.
    It took only a moment. Wes grabbed the revolver and in a trice, fourteen inches of Colt disappeared into his waistband.
    It always surprised me that a man with such a narrow, sharply defined face and thin lips could pout. But Wes did.
    Sounding petulant, he said, “You brought me the bust-up