Rebel Yell by William W. Johnstone Page B

Parker County that you haven’t heard of Terrible Terry and his gang. Nobody could be that ignorant.”
    â€œWe got enough real fire-eaters out this way without having to keep track of a lot of Weatherford trash.”
    â€œYou got a nasty mouth on you, old man.”
    â€œTruth hurts, huh?” Conklin said, emphasizing his words by elbowing one of his cronies in the ribs.
    â€œHaw! That’s a good one, Conk,” cried one of his cronies at the table.
    Devon rose from his chair. “That’s enough out of you, you old fool—”
    â€œEasy, brother. He’s just trying to get your goat,” Cort said, playing peacemaker.
    Devon sat back down. “Sure, you’re right, Cort. What else can you expect from a passel of backwards hayseeds?”
    Cort shrugged. “Let them talk. They don’t mean nothing by it. Even if they did, what could they do?”
    â€œFixin’ to shoot Johnny Cross in the back, are ye?” Conklin asked.
    â€œWe’re not fixing to shoot him at all,” Cort said. “Terry Moran doesn’t need us to do any back shooting. Not Terrible Terry, Fastest Gun in All Texas—”
    â€œThink so, do ye? Heh, heh, heh!” Conklin gave him the horse laugh. “Maybe you got another think comin’! That Johnny Cross is a ring-tailed whizzer with the plow-handles and no mistake—”
    â€œNot fast enough to beat Moran on the draw.”
    â€œDon’t bull me, mister. I know a bushwhacking when I see one.”
    â€œI believe it! Bushwhacking and back shooting are what put Hangtown on the map,” Cort said. “We’re going to make sure it doesn’t happen to Terry when he downs your boy.”
    â€œHangtree don’t work like that, mister. You must’ve got us confused with Weatherford.”
    â€œThis is Cross’s town, see? He’s got lots of friends here,” Cort went on. “We’re here to make sure none of them interfere or side him at the showdown. It’s going to be a fair draw between Terrible Terry and Cross, savvy?”
    â€œJohnny Cross don’t need nobody to fight his battles. He does for hisself,” Conklin said, careful not to look in Luke’s direction.
    The old buzzard still has his wits about him! thought Luke.
    Cort said, “We’re also backing Moran’s play against interfering lawmen.”
    â€œHuh! No worry about that with what passes for the law in this town!” Conklin cracked.
    â€œPretty soon, Terry’s going to call Cross out and then we’ll see who’s who and what’s what.”
    â€œWe sure will!”
    â€œNow hesh up and eat your soup,” Devon snapped.
    â€œIt’s gone cold,” Conklin complained.
    â€œEat it anyway.”
    â€œHold it! Something’s happening outside,” Cort said, a note of urgency in his voice.
    Devon rose, guns in hand.
    â€œThis is it,” Cort said.
    Terry Moran strode east down the middle of Trail Street, flanked by his two sidemen Slug Haycox and Justin Kern. They halted facing the front entrance of the Golden Spur Saloon, which lay on the north side of Trail Street fronting south.
    Terry Moran cupped a hand to his mouth to amplify his bellowing. “Cross! Johnny Cross! Come on out!”

S IX
    A newly arrived coach stood in front of the Cattleman Hotel, offloading passengers. A onetime stagecoach—battered but serviceable—it had been converted to private use. It was drawn by a six-horse team yoked in tandem. The wheels’ iron rims were hammered thin and fraying from traveling over endless miles of hard road. A thin coat of reddish brown paint covered the vehicle but could not disguise the peeling wooden panels beneath.
    It showed the signs of a recent road trip. The coach was powdered with dust. Mixed with sweat, it formed a kind of paste on the hard-breathing horses. They seemed grateful for the rest; weary, they were slumping in the