God, Iâll kill any man who moves closer!â he roared.
The crowd shrank back, stunned.
âThen be damned to ye,â a man yelled. âWeâll string up the damned judge.â
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 Lithgowâs office. But Pike Reid, a star on his vest, lounged against the door and blocked his way.
âWhat the hell do you want?â the deputy said, his buzzard eyes sullen.
âIâm here on business,â Flintlock said.
âBeat it,â Reid said.
âOh dear,â 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 Flintlockâs fist hit, the left side of the deputyâs face seemed to crumple like a stepped-on hatbox and he fell in a heap onto the boardwalk.
âI canât abide an uncivil lawman,â Flintlock said.
âHell, I canât even abide a civil lawman.â
But Reid didnât 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.
âWhat happened out there?â he said.
âYour deputy fell down and hurt his jaw, Lithgow,â Flintlock said. He closed the door behind him. Then, âWhereâs McPhee?â
âBack there in his cell. What happened to Reid?â
âI told you. He fell down. Get McPhee out here.â
âWhy?â
âIâm his guardian angel.â
âFlintlock, are you crazy?â Lithgow said. âI can hear the damned crowd from here. Those folks will be coming with a noose and theyâll kill anybody who gets in their way.â
âWhen I take a manâs money, I ride for the brand,â Flintlock said. âNow get McPhee out here.â
âWell, I got no reason to hold him,â Lithgow said.
âUh-huh. Thatâs right, you donât.â
âThen itâs your funeral.â
âTell me something I donât already know,â 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 clerkâs pasty face now bore a terrified expression.
âScared?â Flintlock said.
The young man swallowed, his prominent Adamâs apple bobbing.
âYes, I am. Who are you?â
âNameâs Sam Flintlock and Iâm scared too. Iâm being paid to keep you breathing. Lithgow, you got a back door in this place?â
âHell, Flintlock, itâs a jail. No, I donât have a back door.â
âNot the best news Iâve heard today.â Flintlockâs face was grim. âThen letâs go . . . Jamie. Hell, thatâs a sissy name to call a man. I donât even like to say it.â
âThen you can call me McPhee.â
âGood. It sure as hell beats Jamie.â
âFlintlock, I heard you got a thing going in your head about names,â Lithgow said. âBut youâre about to get hung in a moment if you donât get the hell out of here.â
âNow Sam is a good name,â Flintlock said as though he hadnât heard. âSamuel, Samâl, Sammy, theyâre 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
âFlintlock . . .â Lithgow said.
âYeah, I know. Weâre going.â
âI canât help you. I got to live in this town.â
âItâs my job, Marshal. Iâll go it alone.â
âI feel bad. But you see how it is with me.â
âYeah, I see how it is with you.â
âWhere will you take