Rebel Yell by William W. Johnstone

your heads down, folks. Don’t kick up a fuss and you won’t get hurt.”
    The kitchen was small, hot, and steamy. Piles of dirty dishes lay heaped up in the sink and adjacent sideboard.
    Devon holstered his right-hand gun and went down the aisle past the steam table and grill to the back door. It was open. He stuck his head outside and looked around. The view opened on the south side of town. Clumps of wooden frame buildings dotted a wide flat area. There were more vacant lots than structures, a lot more. Few people were out and about in that part of town; none seemed to be taking an interest in the café.
    Devon closed the door, bolted it, and went back into the dining room. “Y’all wouldn’t be so quick to shovel in that slop you call a meal, if you got a look at that kitchen. It’s a pigsty!”
    Nobody in the dining room was eating. Mounds of food sat cooling on their plates unattended. Being held under the gun tended to quash even the heartiest appetites.
    â€œAnything happening out there?” Devon asked Cort, indicating the street.
    â€œAll quiet so far as I can tell. Mostly I’ve been keeping my eyes on the folks here.”
    Devon crossed to the unoccupied table bracketing the kitchen doors, pulled out a chair, and sat down facing front, his back to the wall. His hands rested on top of the table, a gun in each fist covering diners on both sides of the center aisle. “Take a look now, Cort.”
    â€œRight.” Cort turned toward the window. He paused to give Luke a hard look, one that said, Stay put and don’t try anything funny .
    At least that’s how Luke read it. He sure didn’t want to be recognized. That could only change the situation for the worse by delivering a prime hostage into the hands of the foe.
    Trust Johnny to make some damned fool self-sacrificing play to save Luke’s neck. If it should come to that—No, Luke wouldn’t let it come to that. He’d make a play that would force the Randles to shoot him and upset their whole applecart.
    If they did for him—well, what of it? He was already half a man and it wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice for him to go the whole route. No great loss to the world . . . or him, either.
    So went the wild bubbling froth seething in Luke’s brain. He had no worries for himself and that was an asset. The plain truth of it was, he just plain didn’t give a good damn whether he lived or died.
    It was important to win, to foil the enemy. Take the initiative and turn the tables on them. About that, he was unyielding, filled with the old die-hard Rebel spirit.
    No sign, no hint of the inner turmoil showed on Luke’s face. He kept a poker face, not making eye contact with Cort because that’s the way a cowed citizen would react.
    To show defiance would be a mistake. If Cort or Devon Randle thought he had fight in him, they’d watch him more closely, ready to call him out if he made trouble. It would lessen his chances when he finally did make his play.
    That he would was a foregone conclusion. Of that, there could be no doubt.
    The question was, When?
    Pretty damned soon from the look of things. Time was running out.
    Most of the diners were armed, the men anyhow. It might not be too far-fetched to suggest that more than one woman was packing a little low-caliber ladies’ pistol in a purse or handbag. But the Randles hadn’t bothered to disarm the patrons of the café. Too big a job, too burdensome, too many guns to handle at once. The brothers counted on keeping the crowd buffaloed.
    From their point of view, it was better, easier and more practical to cover the diners en masse and ventilate any who reached for a weapon—or looked like they were reaching. The brothers were counting on the universal truth that sensible folks were not minded to risk their own necks to intervene in somebody else’s private quarrel. Not when it was a killing matter.
    Cort stood