Forty Times a Killer by William W. Johnstone

Estelle said.
    â€œThat’s fine, we won’t,” Wes said.
    â€œHallelujah!” Goldie exclaimed. “That means you will.”
    â€œNo, it means we won’t,” Wes said.
    Now, I don’t know how this unreal conversation would have ended, probably with Wes shooting somebody, but the flat report of a rifle shot shattered the shadowed night . . . and we were again in a heap of trouble.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Terrible Fright
    A V of dirt spurted between John Wesley’s legs, then, over the rack of a Henry rifle, a man’s voice said. “Don’t make a move, Hardin. I can drop you from here real easy.”
    Without turning his head, Wes said. “How many, Little Bit?”
    I glanced briefly behind me. “Three that I can see. Two shotguns.”
    â€œThey got the drop on me.”
    â€œSeems like.”
    Feet pounded behind me and a man pushed me aside, so roughly that I stumbled and fell.
    Wes cursed and rounded on the man, his hand reaching for his gun.
    Too late!
    The walnut stock of the Henry swung and crashed into the side of Wes’s jaw. He went down in a heap and lay still.
    The man who’d pushed me and hit Wes raised his rifle, covering the people around the fire. “You folks kin of his?”
    â€œYes we are,” Isaac said.
    â€œThen I’m arresting you all on the charge of harboring a fugitive from justice,” the man said. “There’s an eleven hundred dollar reward on this man’s head.”
    From the ground, I said, “They’re Contrarians.”
    The man glanced at me. He had a huge, hooked nose and under it his gray mustache looked like the bow wave of a steamer. “What the hell does that mean?”
    â€œThey live backward and say the opposite of what they mean. They’re no kin of Wes’s.”
    The man looked confused.
    I explained. “We rode into their camp looking for coffee.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t lie to me, boy, would you?” the man said.
    I shook my head. “Not about them, I wouldn’t. They’re all crazy.”
    Wes groaned and the man leaned over and relieved him of his revolver. “I’m Constable Chance Smith.” He nodded to the bearded men with him. “Constables Davis and Jones.”
    I struggled to my feet.
    Smith stared at me, measuring me. “Ned Stakes told me you’re harmless, youngster. Looking at you, I’d say he was right.” He turned to one of the other lawmen. “Search him. I’d still like to know where Hardin got the gun he shot Jim Smalley with.” The constable shook his head as he stepped toward me. “He was mean as a snake in your drink.”
    After patting me down, the lawman said, “He’s clean.”
    â€œGood, now you and Davis get Hardin on his feet,” Smith said. Then, as though he thought he owed Isaac and his crazy kin an explanation, he said, “We’re taking this man to Austin where he’ll get a fair trial and then be hung.”
    Isaac shook his head, and the two women looked distressed.
    â€œNo, that is not right,” Estelle said. “You’re doing that all wrong.”
    â€œYou got something agin hanging, lady?” Smith asked.
    â€œShe means it’s not the Contrarian way,” Isaac said. “A man should be hung and then tried.”
    Smith pulled a long-suffering face then nodded. “Whatever you say, mister.”
    He pushed Wes toward his horse. “Mount up. We’re riding.” He gave me a hard look. “You too, runt. Hell, I never hung a dwarf with a tin leg afore, but there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”
    Â 
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    As we rode through the darkness, the three lawmen passed a bottle back and forth. They seemed to be in good spirits, maybe because of the eleven hundred dollars reward posted by Hill County for John Wesley’s apprehension.
    After an hour, more than slightly drunk, Chance Smith declared that he