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

hand and walked toward Flintlock.
    â€œMcPhee,” he said, still grinning, “say your prayers an’ git ready to meet your Maker.”
    Flintlock timed it perfectly.
    He waited until the big gunman got within striking distance then pulled the Colt in his waistband. The revolver crashed hard against the right side of Collins’s face, completing the fast, fluid motion. The big man staggered, but didn’t go down. For a moment, as though the ground heaved beneath his feet, Collins spread his legs, trying to maintain his balance. Like skeletal scarlet fingers, blood poured down his cheek from a deep cut above his eye.
    Flintlock moved again, no let-up in him.
    His right boot kicked upward, slammed between Collins’s legs and smashed into the man’s groin. The big gunman’s face contorted in pain and he went down like a felled redwood, frantically clutching at his mashed manhood.
    A groan went up from the male members of the crowd and even a few of the ladies winced.
    Collins writhing and cussing at his feet, Flintlock addressed the onlookers. “McPhee is in my custody and I will protect him with my life. Those are the facts so state your intentions.”
    A respectable-looking man in the crowd stepped forward and said, “That murderer should be hung.”
    Others roared their approval.
    â€œThe judge thought otherwise,” Flintlock said. “You all heard him.”
    â€œJudges can be wrong,” the respectable man said. “And this time the judge admitted he had to deliver a wrong verdict.”
    â€œRight or wrong, this man is under my protection,” Flintlock said.
    â€œWe’ll come for him, tonight,” another man said. “You can lay to that.”
    â€œThen you’ll step over the bodies of your own dead to take him,” Flintlock said. “Lay to that.”
    Collins, bloody and in pain, got up on all fours and began to slowly crawl away.
    Flintlock, who laid no claim to being a merciful or forgiving man, kicked the gunman in the butt and said, “You stay right there, boy.”
    Collins collapsed onto his belly and lay still.
    â€œMcPhee, walk to the hotel and step inside,” Flintlock said.
    His Colt was up and ready and his eyes roamed over the crowd, a little cowed since their Goliath was felled, but still angry.
    â€œShame on you,” a plump woman in a poke bonnet said. “You know that man is guilty.”
    Flintlock made no answer but backed toward the hotel.
    Then he pointed at Collins with his Colt and said, “You folks take care of this man. He’s gonna walk funny for a spell.”
    He turned, crossed the street and stepped into the hotel.
    Behind him a rock thudded onto the porch.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Hamp Collins, steeping his hurting parts in a bowl of warm water and brandy, was in a killing rage.
    â€œI’ll gun him, Nancy,” he said. “I’ll shoot him down on sight.”
    â€œThey say his name is Sam Flintlock,” Nancy said, a long-serving whore with a heart of iron. “Funny name.”
    â€œIt ain’t funny to me,” Collins growled. “I had to ride in here sidesaddle and it’s a long way from town.”
    The Gentleman’s Retreat cathouse was situated a mile north of Buzzard Gap and its back porch gave a fine view of Blue Mountain. Once a stage station, the original building had been burned by Apaches, rebuilt and then extended, an extra floor added. The madam was a four-hundred-pound Frenchwoman named Josette and she boasted a bigger mustache than most of the cavalry officers who visited the place.
    Since it was still early in the afternoon the brothel was not busy—the sporting crowd from Open Sky and the surrounding ranches would not arrive until evening.
    Boredom, not a concern for Collins’s hurting private parts, kept Nancy Pocket in the room with the injured man.
    â€œFeeling better?” she said. “They say brandy works wonder for men in