Rebel Yell by William W. Johnstone Page A

beside a window, holding his leveled rifle below the sill—an extra precaution against being seen by outsiders. Although the curtains screened him from the view of passersby, he avoided showing himself as much as possible. His rifle was pointed at Luke in a seemingly offhanded manner but that was deceptive. Those restless eyes of his didn’t miss much.
    He looked out the window, scanning the scene. Along Trail Street coursed a small but steady stream of traffic—horseback riders, singly or in groups, carts, and wagons. People on foot crossed to and fro, none giving the café a second glance—and why should they? From all outward appearances, nothing was unusual, nothing untoward going on there. More important were their own errands and private business.
    Three men stood loitering in the street at the southeast corner of the Cattleman Hotel, “best in town,” farther west on the north side of Trail Street. It was the place where the big buyers and wealthy ranchers stayed. Its private dining rooms served as meeting places for the gentry from near and far while its expansive bar served as their exclusive watering hole. On the veranda, rocking chairs and wicker couches were set out for the use of hotel clientele.
    Three idlers were tough-looking hombres—very tough. They didn’t look out of place. Hangtree was a town where hard men were the rule rather than the exception. The trio was well-armed with a formidable array of six-guns. They were intently looking east along the street, eyeing the café as if waiting for someone or something.
    â€œTerry and the others are in place,” Cort said, noting the threesome.
    â€œGive them the high sign,” said Devon.
    Cort went to the front door, opening it partway and leaning outside. He held the rifle so it was hidden behind the door. He waved the trio on the corner in front of the hotel. One of them waved back. Cort ducked back inside, closing the door and bolting it shut. “They’re ready to go.”
    â€œNow all we need is Johnny Cross,” Devon said.
    â€œHe’ll show when Moran calls him out.”
    â€œThat’ll be any minute now.”
    â€œYou boys fixing to go up agin’ Johnny Cross?” The speaker was Pete Conklin, a gray-bearded oldster who’d fought in the Texas War for Independence against Mexico’s Santa Anna, the U.S War against Mexico in 1846.
    More recently, he’d served in the Lone Star Home Guard militia during the War Between the States. He hadn’t served in the regular Confederate army because the recruiting officers had said he was too old. They wouldn’t budge on their decision, so for Conklin, the militia it was, where he rode as long and hard as men half his age.
    A salty old character, Conklin sat at one of the round tables with a handful of likeminded old cronies. They’d been having lunch before the Brothers Randle came storming in. He knew Luke Pettigrew well, and Johnny Cross, too. He’d been a Hangtree resident for as long as Luke could remember.
    As a crotchety middle-aged man he’d loosed more than one shotgun barrelful of rock salt at the fleeing backsides of Luke, Johnny, and some of their buddies when they’d made nighttime raids to steal fresh fruit from the apple trees in his orchard. Now he was a crotchety old man still full of piss and vinegar.
    Luke listened carefully. He surely hoped that mouth of Conklin’s wouldn’t give away who he was.
    â€œWe’re not going against Cross. Our pard is,” Cort smiled.
    â€œAnd who might that be?” Conklin challenged.
    â€œTerry Moran—Terrible Terry Moran! I reckon you’ve heard of him.”
    â€œNope,” Conklin said flatly. Maybe it was true or maybe he didn’t want to give the brothers the satisfaction.
    â€œYou’re not fooling anybody, old-timer,” Devon said, rising to the bait, irked. “You’re not so far off from Weatherford and