Rough Justice by Lyle Brandt Read Free Book Online Page A

“Aim!”
    Truscott was leaving, leaping off the stage, trailed by his last two bodyguards. Ryder ran after them, was almost close enough to touch them when they met a second file of soldiers jogging toward the park along Mesquite Street, from the north. Truscott stopped short, pushing his men in front of him, as others from the fleeing crowd caught up and found their angle of retreat cut off.
    The bodyguards stepped forward without hesitation, obviously seasoned fighters from the war years, with their pistols raised. Before they had a chance to fire, though, someone in the blue ranks shouted, “Charge!” The troops came racing toward them, polished blades adding a good foot to the forty-inch barrels of their Springfield rifles. Ryder saw his opening, moved forward, Colt Army in hand, and clutched Chance Truscott’s arm.
    The startled rabble-rouser jerked around to face him, saw the pistol and recoiled, but Ryder’s grip restrained him. “Follow me,” Ryder demanded, “if you want to live the night.”
    After a heartbeat’s hesitation, Truscott did as he was told. Behind them, as they fled, the charging troops skewered a wall of frightened flesh, more gunshots ringing out, men shouting, cursing, wailing as they fell.
    Ryder led Truscott on a tangent from the park, leaving its battleground behind. He wished the soldiers well but had no sympathy for any of the Rebels or the painted doxies whohad come to take advantage of their gathering. They must have known trouble was likely when they came together, and they’d gotten what they asked for.
    Ryder ran all-out for three blocks, then slowed down and turned to look back at the park. Gun smoke hung in a haze over the scene, but active fire had nearly petered out, resistance broken. Members of the crowd were running hell-bent from the troops in all directions, and that seemed to satisfy the soldiers as they finished mopping up, arresting those they could identify as having fired on them during the clash.
    â€œWho are you?” Truscott asked him, breathless.
    â€œGary Rodgers,” said Ryder, plucking the name from thin air.
    â€œYou’re a Yank!” Truscott pegged the accent.
    â€œBorn and raised. Doesn’t mean I agree with the government.”
    â€œOh?” Glancing at the Colt Ryder still held in his right hand.
    He put the gun away. Told Truscott, “Look, you needed help back there, to keep from being gutted. Now we’re clear, you go your way and I’ll go mine.”
    He turned from Truscott, took two steps before the voice behind him said, “Hold up a minute.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI’m grateful for your help,” Truscott replied. “Least I can do is stand you to a drink.”
    *   *   *
    T he saloon was called the Southern Cross. It wasn’t old, per se, but had seen better days before the war. The bartender was nearly bald and compensating for it with a thick black beard. He put two whiskies on the bar at Truscott’s order, backed by mugs of beer.
    Trustcott thanked Ryder one more time for helping him, then downed his whiskey in a single gulp. Ryder did likewise, liquid fire searing his throat, and wheezed, “No problem.”
    â€œBut it would be,” Truscott said, “if I’d been killed back there, or taken into custody.”
    â€œBecause you head up the resistance?” Truscott eyed him, didn’t answer. Ryder forged ahead, saying, “It stands to reason. You’re the spokesman. ’Less you’ve got a boss somewhere, afraid to show his mug.”
    â€œNo, you were right the first time,” Truscott granted. “What brings you to Corpus Christi?”
    â€œCattle. I’m a buyer out of Wichita.”
    â€œI know some people. Get ahold of me tomorrow or the next day, and I’ll make the introductions.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œLeast I can do, considering.”
    As Truscott spoke, a