Hell Town. William W. Johnstone

His face was a little too rugged to be called handsome. His clothes were nothing special: well-worn boots, denim trousers, a buckskin shirt, and a broad-brimmed brown hat that sat on thick dark hair touched with gray. The high crown of the hat was pinched in a little on the sides.

      Two things were impressive about the newcomer—the holstered Colt Peacemaker on his right hip, and the badge pinned to his shirt.

      “Leave the gun alone, Professor,” the newcomer went on. “In fact, it might be a good idea if you got up and found another place to sit.”

      Burton nodded and started to scrape his chair back, but Conwell snapped, “Keep your seat, you son of a bitch. I ain’t through with you yet.”

      “Oh, you’re through all right, kid,” the lawman said. “You’re through in Buckskin. You’re leaving town tonight.”

      Conwell faced him and sneered. “Who in blazes are you to be tellin’ me what to do?” he asked. “You think I’m gonna pay any attention to what some broke-down old geezer of a star-packer tells me to do?”

      Conwell’s two companions were studying the newcomer more closely than Conwell was, and signs of recognition and surprise appeared on their faces. As their eyes widened, one of the men said, “Hold on, Conwell. You don’t know who that fella is.”

      A harsh laugh came from the kid. “I don’t know and I don’t care! Nobody threatens to throw me out of town and gets away with it!” He stepped away from the table, giving Burton the opportunity to stand up and hurry out of the line of fire. In a gunfighter’s crouch, Conwell went on, “I’m gonna kill me a marshal!”

      “You damn fool,” the other gunman said in a tight voice, “that’s Frank Morgan!”

      It was Conwell’s turn to let his eyes go wide with shock. Even in his drunken, troublemaking state, he recognized the name. “Morgan?” he repeated. “The Drifter? What the hell’s Frank Morgan doin’ totin’ a badge?”

      “I’m the marshal of Buckskin now,” Morgan said. Without taking his eyes off Conwell, he asked the kid’s two companions, “You boys want any part of this?”

      “Not hardly,” one of them said without hesitation. “If the kid wants to push it, then it’s his fight, not ours.”

      “Damn right,” the other man agreed.

      Conwell glanced over at them. “Fine pair o’ partners you two are,” he said in disgust.

      “Shoot, kid, we’ll back your play in most anything, you know that. But not this.”

      A faint smile touched Morgan’s lips. “That puts it up to you,” he told Conwell. “You’re leaving one way or the other. But either way, you’ll leave quiet.”

      His message was unmistakable.

      For a long moment, the youngster stood there, nostrils flaring, breathing heavily. Then he muttered a curse and said, “All right. I don’t feel like dyin’ today.”

      “Always a wise decision,” Morgan said.

      The fancy spurs on his high-heeled boots clinking, Conwell stalked toward the door. Morgan moved aside to let him past. Conwell said over his shoulder, “You two bastards just steer clear o’ me from now on. We ain’t ridin’ together no more.” His ire was directed toward the two men at the bar.

      One of them grunted and said, “That’s fine with us. We’re tired of pullin’ your chestnuts out of the fire, anyway.”

      Sneering, Conwell slapped the batwings aside and went out into the night. Everyone in the saloon heard his boots stomping on the boardwalk outside as he walked off.

      Frank Morgan came over to the bar and gave the kid’s former companions a curt nod. “Appreciate you not taking a hand,” he told them.

      “We got no quarrel with you, Morgan. You the town marshal?”

      Morgan nodded. “That’s right.”

      “Well, we ain’t broke any laws in your town and don’t plan to, so you don’t have any reason to worry about us.”

      Morgan’s smile was genuine. “I’m glad to hear that.”

      Johnny Collyer noticed that the men didn’t claim not to have broken any laws elsewhere, but Frank Morgan only had jurisdiction here in Buckskin, although he might stretch a point every now and then and deal with problems in the heavily wooded foothills around the reborn ghost town.

      Morgan continued. “I think I know you boys. Hap Mitchell and Lonnie Beeman, right?”

      The men nodded. “Yeah, that’s us,” one of them said. “But like we told you, we’re not hunting trouble.”

      “Fact of the matter is,” the other one said, “once we finish our drinks, we’ll probably be movin’ on.”

      Morgan nodded. “That sounds like a good idea to me.”

      Now that the trouble was over, Johnny said, “You want a drink, Marshal?”

      “No, thanks,” Morgan said. “But if there’s any hot coffee left, I’d admire to have a cup.”

      Johnny smiled. The lawman’s response didn’t surprise him. Morgan took a shot of whiskey or a cold beer every now and then, but for the most part he preferred coffee.

      “I reckon we can manage that,” Johnny said as he started down the bar toward the cast-iron stove at the far end. The weather was mild these days, but he kept a fire banked in the stove anyway so the coffeepot would stay warm on it.

      He was just reaching for the pot when something crashed on the boardwalk outside and then an instant later, a man riding a horse burst through the doors, knocking the batwings off their hinges. The horse didn’t want to come inside the building and was fighting against its rider, but the man raked his spurs against the animal’s flanks, making it whinny in pain as it lunged forward. The man in the saddle let out an animal-like howl of his own as he sent his mount plunging toward the bar and the men who stood there. The guns in his hands spouted lead and flame.

      Chapter 2

      Frank Morgan had only a second to recognize the rider as the kid called Conwell. Then he threw himself across the bar, rolling over it and grabbing Johnny Collyer. He hauled the bartender to the floor behind the bar as Conwell’s shots shattered several bottles sitting on the backbar.

      Frightened, angry shouts filled the air as the saloon’s customers scattered. Some of them turned over tables and dived behind them, seeking cover as the kid’s Colts blasted wildly and sent bullets flying around the room.

      Gun in hand, Frank surged up behind the bar. He fired, but Conwell pulled his mount into a tight turn at the same instant. The panicky horse reared up and pawed at the air with its front hooves. Frank’s slug plowed a furrow in the horse’s shoulder instead of knocking Conwell out of the saddle. The horse screamed in pain, twisted and bucked, and came down hard. Floorboards cracked under its weight. The horse arched its back, sunfishing madly.

      With a startled yell, Conwell flew out of the saddle. He came crashing down on a table, busting it to kindling. His left-hand gun slipped out of his fingers and skittered away across the floor.

      He managed to hang on to his other Colt, however, and as he clambered up out of the debris of the broken table, he swung the weapon toward Frank.

      Before Conwell could fire again, the Peacemaker in Frank’s hand roared a second time. This shot didn’t miss. It caught Conwell in the chest and threw the youngster backward. His finger tightened on the trigger and the gun in his hand exploded, but the barrel was angled upward by now and the bullet went into the ceiling without hurting anything. Conwell landed on the splintered tabletop. He gasped in pain, his back arched, and his boot heels beat a tattoo on the floor as death spasms wracked him.

      Then with a rattling sigh, the life went out of him and his body relaxed.