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

McPhee?”
    â€œTo my hotel room. If we make it that far.”
    â€œGood luck, Sam Flintlock.”
    â€œYou too. Now I got to go.”
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    Flintlock stepped onto the boardwalk in time to see Judge Drummond and Marshal McCrystal lighting a shuck out of town. It seemed that neither man cared to face the wrath of the good people of Open Sky. Flintlock smiled, the situation amusing him, then motioned for Jamie McPhee to follow him onto the boardwalk. The morning was clear, clean and bright as a newly minted penny.
    People spilled out of the courthouse and stood in knots talking, their faces grim and determined. Then they caught sight of McPhee and their mood became menacing.
    â€œGet behind me,” Flintlock said to the young man. “And don’t do anything real sudden like you were reaching for a gun.”
    â€œWhat will they do?” McPhee said. His voice was unsteady.
    â€œWhat a mob always does,” Flintlock said. Then to the crowd, “Stay back. This man is in my legal custody and I’ll kill any man who reckons otherwise.”
    Sam Flintlock was a skilled revolver fighter and such men were always exclamation points of danger in Western towns. The crowd, baying for McPhee’s blood, recognized him for what he was and a few already looked uncertain, weighing the costs. To kill McPhee they’d lose some of their own and where was the bargain—or the fun—in that?
    It was then a real possibility that Flintlock and his charge could have made it to the hotel unmolested and in one piece.
    But every town had its bully, the local gun slick who’d killed his man and figured he was cock of the walk—and usually was.
    Hamp Collins was such a man. And only a lowlife like him would carry a hemp noose along with his arrogance.
    Big, heavy, dressed like a puncher although he’d never been near a cow in his life, Collins pushed his way through the crowd then stopped and yelled to Flintlock, “You, step aside. I want that murderer.”
    Sam Flintlock, a seasoned manhunter, looked Collins up and down and saw no real sand, only bluff and bluster. Such men were a dime a dozen on the frontier and none ever amounted to a hill of beans.
    â€œFollow close,” he said to McPhee. “We’re getting it done.”
    He stepped from the boardwalk into the dusty street, the morning sun warm on his face. A little calico cat sat on the rail of the hotel porch opposite and with green eyes watched the fun.
    â€œWait up there tattooed man!” Collins roared. “I’m talking to you!”
    He had a massive chest, thighs as big around as tree trunks and looked as though no force on earth could move him.
    Flintlock, his face as composed as a nun’s in church, walked on, McPhee now stepping in front of him. He looked as beaten down as a whipped pup.
    Hamp Collins, aware of the eyes of the townspeople on him, knew he’d been caught flat-footed. The tough-looking man with the strange tattoo on his throat had ignored him and made him look bad.
    And that was mighty hard to take.
    Collins rolled the dice.
    He drew and fired.
    Dirt kicked up an inch in front of Flintlock’s left boot and his anger, always an uncertain thing, flared.
    â€œStop right where you are!” Collins yelled, his confidence returning.
    Flintlock turned and faced the man, his mouth a hard line under his mustache. “Mister,” he said, “I’m getting mighty tired of you.”
    The crowd behind Collins parted, out of the way of any flying lead.
    â€œI want McPhee,” Collins said. “I aim to hang him. So step aside.” He tossed a nickel into the dirt at Flintlock’s feet. “There. Go buy yourself a beer.”
    â€œYou want him, then come get him,” Flintlock said, resignation in his tone.
    Collins grinned. He’d put the crawl on the ranny with the tattoo and hell, that must look real good to the crowd.
    Collins hefted the noose in his