Killing Ground. William W. Johnstone

to needle me into drawing, just like you two are doing. He tries to get under my skin, to make me mad, to make me careless.” Frank shook his head. “It’s never worked that way before, and it’s not going to work now.” He chuckled again. “But you boys go right ahead with whatever routine you’ve worked out. You might get me to laughing so hard that it might just give you a little bit of an advantage. I don’t think so, but you never know.”

      “Why…why you crazy old fart!” Rand sputtered. “Don’t you know who we are?”

      “He’s Rand Johnson, and I’m Brock Johnson,” the younger brother said. “We’re the Johnson brothers!”

      Without looking around, Frank asked, “Those names mean anything to you, Jack?”

      “Not a damned thing,” the deputy replied. “I never heard of ’em. But then, I can’t keep up with every loco kid who thinks he’s fast with a gun.”

      “I killed Sammy Carlisle!” Rand said. “And Brock gunned Wichita McHenry and Pete Cragg! We’re gonna be more famous than Frank and Jesse James or the Daltons!”

      “I think I sorta heard o’ that McHenry fella,” Jack said, “but I ain’t sure.”

      “I saw Pete Cragg in Yankton a few years back,” Frank said. “He was a two-bit owlhoot and slow as mud on the draw. Carlisle’s a new one on me. He must not have been around for very long.”

      Both of the Johnson brothers were red in the face with fury now.

      “Quit your jabberin’, damn it!” Brock said. “You’ll know who we are when you got our lead in your carcass, blast you! Now fill your hand, Morgan!”

      Frank shook his head. His joking demeanor was gone as he said, “I don’t want to kill you, son. But that’s what’s going to happen to you and your brother both if you don’t get on your horses and ride out of here right now. What you’re doing is foolishness, sheer foolishness, and I don’t want any part of it. Go find somebody else to kill you, if you’re that determined to die.”

      For a moment, he thought they were going to listen to him. He thought this might be one of the rare occasions when his words actually got through those lying dreams of fame and glory that had led many a young man to the grave.

      But then Rand and Brock Johnson both snarled and grabbed for their guns, clawing the weapons out of their holsters.

      Frank had no way of knowing which one was faster. Brock claimed two kills while Rand had mentioned only one, so Frank took him down first, smashing a slug into Brock’s chest that caused the young man to stumble back against the bar.

      Then, faster than the eye could follow, the muzzle of Frank’s Colt tracked to the right and spewed flaming death once again. Rand was moving and trying to bring his gun up as Frank fired, so the bullet hit him on the right side of the chest instead of dead center in his heart. It tore through his lung, though, and instantly filled that organ with blood. Rand gasped in shock and pain as he began drowning in it. He managed to stay on his feet and tried again to raise his gun.

      Frank fired a third shot, and this time the bullet found Rand’s heart, putting an end to his suffering as he crumpled to the floor. The sawdust that normally soaked up spilled beer caught the crimson stream that flowed from the young man’s mouth instead.

      Brock was still on his feet, leaning against the bar. He should have gone down by now, but somehow he had found the strength to stay upright. His gun slipped from nerveless fingers and thudded to the floor as he gasped, “You…you…nobody’s that…fast!”

      “That was your mistake, son,” Frank told him. “Somebody, somewhere, is always that fast.”

      Brock’s eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he pitched forward on his face, dead when he hit the floor.

      “Son of a gun,” Catamount Jack breathed. “Neither of ’em even got a shot off! Not that I was expectin’ ’em to,” he added hastily.

      Frank took fresh cartridges from the loops on his gunbelt and replaced the spent rounds in the Colt’s cylinder.

      “I imagine somebody’s gone to fetch Claude Langley already,” he said, “but if they haven’t…”

      “I’ll take care of it,” Jack said.

      Frank holstered his gun and looked at Carter behind the bar.

      “Sorry, Willie. I’d just as soon not kill people in here if I didn’t have to.”

      “It’s all right, Marshal. You gave those two every chance in the world to light a shuck outta here. It’s their own dumb fault that they didn’t.”

      That was true…but it didn’t make Frank feel any better about adding two more graves to Buckskin’s Boot Hill.

      People crowded around to congratulate him as he left the saloon, of course. They always did. Frank accepted their words with polite nods, but then the sight of a rider trotting along the street caught his attention. The man on horseback was the fella he had sent to Carson City with the wire for his lawyers in San Francisco.

      “Howdy, Phil,” Frank hailed him. “You get a reply back from that telegram?”

      “Sure did, Marshal,” the man said as he reined in. He reached into the pocket of his cowhide vest and took out a folded paper. “Here you go.”

      “I’m much obliged.” Frank took the paper and handed Phil a gold eagle in turn. The man had worked as a miner until he developed a cough that kept him from spending long hours underground. He still had a family to feed, though, so Frank had him doing odd jobs and running errands such as this whenever the need arose.

      Frank opened the message, read it, and nodded in satisfaction.

      “What’s it say?” Catamount Jack asked.

      “Leaving immediately for Buckskin, stop. Will arrive Friday latest, stop. Am confident of victory, stop. Look forward to meeting you Morgan, stop. Signed, Turnbuckle.”

      “That’s one o’ those lawyer hombres, right?”

      Frank nodded. “One of the best lawyers west of the Mississippi, or at least he’s supposed to be. I reckon we’ll find out whether he is or not.” He looked around. “Claude Langley?”

      “Here he comes with that meat wagon o’ his right now.”

      More work for the undertaker, Frank thought. All because two young fools had thought more of gun glory than they did of their own lives.

      He bet his coffee was cold by now, too.