Gut-Shot by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online

God, I’ll kill any man who moves closer!” he roared.
    The crowd shrank back, stunned.
    â€œThen be damned to ye,” a man yelled. “We’ll string up the damned judge.”
    But the baying pack read the signs. The long-haired marshal was not a man to mess with.
    Flintlock rose to his feet and slipped out the door. What happened in the courtroom was no longer his concern. But Jamie McPhee was.
    A few steps along the boardwalk took him to Marshal Lithgow’s office. But Pike Reid, a star on his vest, lounged against the door and blocked his way.
    â€œWhat the hell do you want?” the deputy said, his buzzard eyes sullen.
    â€œI’m here on business,” Flintlock said.
    â€œBeat it,” Reid said.
    â€œOh dear,” Flintlock said.
    He grabbed Reid by the front of his pants and pulled him into the short, choppy right he threw from the shoulder. When Flintlock’s fist hit, the left side of the deputy’s face seemed to crumple like a stepped-on hatbox and he fell in a heap onto the boardwalk.
    â€œI can’t abide an uncivil lawman,” Flintlock said.
    â€œHell, I can’t even abide a civil lawman.”
    But Reid didn’t hear. His tongue lolled out of his mouth and his eyes rolled in his head.
    Flintlock stepped inside and met Tom Lithgow as the marshal rushed to the door.
    â€œWhat happened out there?” he said.
    â€œYour deputy fell down and hurt his jaw, Lithgow,” Flintlock said. He closed the door behind him. Then, “Where’s McPhee?”
    â€œBack there in his cell. What happened to Reid?”
    â€œI told you. He fell down. Get McPhee out here.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI’m his guardian angel.”
    â€œFlintlock, are you crazy?” Lithgow said. “I can hear the damned crowd from here. Those folks will be coming with a noose and they’ll kill anybody who gets in their way.”
    â€œWhen I take a man’s money, I ride for the brand,” Flintlock said. “Now get McPhee out here.”
    â€œWell, I got no reason to hold him,” Lithgow said.
    â€œUh-huh. That’s right, you don’t.”
    â€œThen it’s your funeral.”
    â€œTell me something I don’t already know,” Flintlock said.
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    Jamie McPhee was a tall, thin, round-shouldered man in his early twenties with a pointy, hairless chin. He had pale hair and eyes and his desk clerk’s pasty face now bore a terrified expression.
    â€œScared?” Flintlock said.
    The young man swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing.
    â€œYes, I am. Who are you?”
    â€œName’s Sam Flintlock and I’m scared too. I’m being paid to keep you breathing. Lithgow, you got a back door in this place?”
    â€œHell, Flintlock, it’s a jail. No, I don’t have a back door.”
    â€œNot the best news I’ve heard today.” Flintlock’s face was grim. “Then let’s go . . . Jamie. Hell, that’s a sissy name to call a man. I don’t even like to say it.”
    â€œThen you can call me McPhee.”
    â€œGood. It sure as hell beats Jamie.”
    â€œFlintlock, I heard you got a thing going in your head about names,” Lithgow said. “But you’re about to get hung in a moment if you don’t get the hell out of here.”
    â€œNow Sam is a good name,” Flintlock said as though he hadn’t heard. “Samuel, Sam’l, Sammy, they’re all crackerjack. But Robert is good too. Rob, Robbie, Bob, Bobby, and the French pronounce it Robair. The French can make any name sound good.”
    â€œFlintlock . . .” Lithgow said.
    â€œYeah, I know. We’re going.”
    â€œI can’t help you. I got to live in this town.”
    â€œIt’s my job, Marshal. I’ll go it alone.”
    â€œI feel bad. But you see how it is with me.”
    â€œYeah, I see how it is with you.”
    â€œWhere will you take