Scream of Eagles by William W. Johnstone

down his spoon and cut his eyes to the four men. “Shut up,” he said. “You’re beginning to bother me.”
    Woody flushed a deep red. “Old man, do you know who you’re talkin’ to?”
    â€œNo. And I don’t care. Now shut your mouth and let me enjoy my meal.”
    Woody pushed back his chair and stood up. He wore two guns, Remington conversions, Jamie noted.
    â€œWoody,” the barkeep said. “That’s Jamie Ian MacCallister.”
    â€œI don’t give a damn who it is,” Woody said. “Far as I’m concerned he’s just a noisy ol’ fart who eats like a hog and probably hasn’t had a bath since last summer. Get up, old man, and make your apologies for sassin’ me.”
    Jamie smiled, and then bluntly and very profanely told Woody where to go, how far to venture, in what part of his anatomy he should stick his pistols, and added that he could ram his horse up there, too, for if that part of his behind was anywhere near as large as his mouth, there would be ample room.
    â€œGoddamn you!” Woody finally screamed, after recovering from his shock at being spoken to in such a manner. Back where Woody had come from—Missouri—he was known as a real tough fellow. A man who liked to hit women, fight smaller men, and strut around on Saturday nights, showing off his fancy guns. “Make your play, you old bastard!”
    Jamie lifted the sawed-off 12 gauge with his right hand and pulled the trigger. The buckshot took Woody in the center of his swelled-up chest and knocked the man off his boots, flinging him backward to land on the table he’d just left. The legs of the table collapsed and pinned one of Woody’s pals to the floor. The other two jumped out of the way and grabbed for iron.
    Jamie fired the other barrel of the Greener and then added his left-hand Colt to the fracas. The whole thing had taken about five seconds.
    â€œDearJesusChristAmighty!” the thug pinned under the table and Woody’s leaking body bellered. “Don’t kill me, I’m out of this!” He cut his eyes first to one of his friends lying mortally wounded to his left, and then to the other friend, lying as dead as a hammer to his right, his face unrecognizable from the heavy blast of buckshot.
    The man who had stood at the bar and warned Woody shook his head. “I told you, boy,” he muttered. “MacCallister is a ring-tailed tooter.”
    Jamie opened the shotgun and pulled out the empties, loading up full. Then he loaded up the Colt’s cylinder and laid both weapons on the table. “I’m tired of punks and hooligans woolin’ me around,” he said. “I’ll not take no more of it. Not from this day forward. Goddamn young people nowadays have no respect for their elders.”
    â€œYou want some more stew, Mr. MacCallister?” the barkeep asked in a nervous voice.
    â€œHalp!” the thug pinned under the table and Woody’s body hollered. “Halp!”
    â€œShut up,” Jamie told him. “You’re getting on my nerves, boy.”
    â€œYes, sir,” the trapped thug said weakly. “Whatever you say, sir.”
    Jamie walked over to the wounded man, lying to the left of the thug with the table and the body on top of him. Jamie had fired just as the man was turning, and dusted him, the bullet going in one side and blowing out the other.
    The man blew blood bubbles and gasped, “Guess we made a . . . real bad mistake, didn’t we, Mr. MacCallister?”
    â€œIt certainly appears that way.”
    â€œI really don’t want to die, Mr. MacCallister.”
    â€œI never met anybody who did.”
    â€œMaybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll get better.”
    Jamie stood over the young man and watched him close his eyes. A few seconds later, he slipped quietly beyond the veil. Jamie looked over at the barkeep. “You know these fellows?”
    â€œThey been