Outlaw Hell by Len Levinson Read Free Book Online

gutter still flowed through his veins. “Sounds like humbug to me,” he declared. “I say yer a lyin’ sack of shit. What're you a-gonna do about that?”
    Duane realized the time had come to stop making excuses, because nothing would stop the man. “What're you gonna do?”
    Somebody laughed, and Jones thought a joke had been made at his expense. Warped anger billowed through his brain as he reached for his Remington. His finger touched the ivory grip at the same instant that Duane's Colt fired. A bullet pierced Jones's heart, and his lights went out instantly, but he was still on his feet, gun in hand, ready to fire. Everybody stared at him in morbid fascination as he collapsed onto the floor.
    It was silent in the saloon, acrid gunsmoke filled the air, and everyone's ears rang with the shot. Duane aimed his gun at Mundy, then at Cassidy, and finally at McPeak. “Any of you boys want a piece of me?”
    The three outlaws glanced at each other, and Duane saw calculation in their eyes. They were wondering how they could take him in tandem, so he dropped his Colt into his holster, assumed his gunfighter stance, and said, “Go ahead, if you've got the sand.”
    They hesitated, then backed away slowly, tofight another day. All eyes turned toward the young angel of death in black jeans, black shirt, and black hat with silver concho hatband. “Must really be the Pecos Kid,” somebody said.
    Duane backed toward the rear door of the saloon, as everyone got out of his way. He reached behind him, turned the knob, and landed outside. Cool fragrant desert air struck him. He looked at the sky and decided that Steve was going for a ride whether he liked it or not. He was heading for the stable when the saloon door opened behind him. He spun around and aimed at the figure advancing through the night.
    â€œIt's only me,” said Twilby. “Where the hell you a-goin'?”
    â€œSome little cave in the middle of nowhere, because every time I come to a town, there's somebody who wants to fight me. I've got so much blood on my hands, I'll never get clean again. Why don't people leave me alone?”
    The old stablemaster scratched his chin thoughtfully, like Saint Jerome the scholar. “I guess men git jealous of you. Yer kind've good-lookin’, and some folks don't like who they are.”
    â€œAre you jealous of me, Twilby.”
    â€œI can live with myself, but some fellers can't. Are you really the Pecos Kid?”
    â€œIt's just a name some dirty, lying newspaper reporter gave me.”
    â€œWho taught you to shoot like that?”
    â€œClyde Butterfield. Ever heard of him?”
    â€œSure did. They say he was one of the craziestsons of bitches who ever came to Texas. How'd you know ‘im?”
    â€œHe just started talkin’ to me on the main street of a town called Titusville one day. Turns out he knew my father.” The last sentence was out of Duane's mouth before he could stop it.
    â€œWho's yer father?”
    â€œJust another cowpoke. Nobody special.”
    Twilby took a step backwards and cocked an eye. “He wasn't the boss of the Polka Dots, was he?”
    Duane was at a loss for words, but recovered quickly. “I thought you never heard of the Polka Dots.”
    â€œWhen you first asked me, fer all I knew, you could've been John Law. Sure I heard of the Polka Dots, and yer Duane Braddock, eh? Well, the Polka Dots was famous up in the Pecos country. I saw yer father onc't in a little cantina down Tampico way. He was thar with some of his boys. If I'm not mistaken, that's when Clyde Butterfield was a-ridin’ with ‘im.”
    â€œYou saw my father?” Duane asked. “You don't understand ... he went away when I was one year old, and I don't know anything about him. What was he like? Did you palaver with him?”
    The old stablemaster chuckled. “It's a long story, so let's sit down and have us a whisky.” He