Stand Up and Die. William W. Johnstone

him up, pushed him against the wall, and let him have a left, right, right, left, and finally grabbed his shoulders with both hands and hurtled him across the room. He caught the closest table, slid over it, knocked down and busted a chair, and lay spread-eagled on the floor.

      After sucking his knuckles, Keegan went back to the railroad man and pulled out most of the money the thief had tried to steal. He did leave a few coins, chips, and greenbacks to help pay for the man’s doctor bill, and for damages, and a tip for a hell of a fun fight.

      He then went back to the poker table where the dealer raised his coffee cup while sucking on his cigarette, and smiled.

      “Nice fight, Keegan,” the dealer said.

      Keegan knocked him out of his chair. The man rolled over, his cigarette gone, his coffee spilt, and lifted himself up partly, leaning against a cold stove.

      “What the hell was that for?” the dealer demanded.

      Keegan gestured toward the unconscious railroad worker. “For not stopping him from lifting my winnings.” He stepped back to the table, and began getting the rest of his money, but kept his eye on the dealer.

      The batwing doors at the front of the Rio Lobo rattled, and Keegan recognized a familiar voice.

      “Sean, let’s take a walk to the calaboose, old friend.”

      Keegan laughed, shoved the winnings into his pocket, tossed a greenback at the dealer, and dumped some more money on the felt top of the table. “For damages,” he told the dealer, nodded good-bye, and walked to the old man waiting with the handcuffs.

      “Sergeant major,” Keegan told the old horse soldier from Fort Spalding.

      “It’s deputy marshal these days,” Titus Bedwell said. “Retired from the army a few months back.”

      “Buy you a drink, Titus?”

      “After you’ve served your time, Sean.”

      Keegan shook his head at the handcuffs. “You don’t need those, Sergeant major.”

      “That’s good to know. Let’s take a walk.” Bedwell pushed open one of the doors and nodded at the dealer standing in the back of the saloon. “I’ll let you know, George, if and when you need to testify. And when Millican comes around, have him get with Clark and figure out the damages. But don’t cheat Keegan after what he has paid you already.”

      Bedwell and Keegan walked down the street, Keegan admiring the stares from men and women alike, and laughing as others cleared off the boardwalk to let them pass. When they reached the city jail, Bedwell opened the door, and Keegan walked in and made his way toward his cell.

      “Not that one, Sean,” Bedwell said.

      Keegan stood at the iron door, grabbed the bars, and stared inside.

      “Get out of my face,” the dark figure on the bunk said bitterly.

      Keegan turned, and Bedwell grabbed a set of keys. “That’s Tom Benteen, Sean. We’re hanging him tomorrow.”

      Whirling, Keegan tried to get a good look at the man in the bunk. Tom Benteen. The Benteen brothers and their old uncle, Zach Lovely, and cousin Tom—who had taken the Benteen name after getting sick and tired of folks making jokes about being Tom Lovely or Lovely Tom—had been rampaging across Texas for four years, robbing banks, trains, killing two sheriff’s deputies, a judge, a jailer, four bank tellers, two railroad conductors, and one lawyer from San Angelo . . . but no one cared much about the lawyer.

      “How’d you catch him?” Keegan asked.

      “Jed Breen brought him in.”

      “Alive?” Keegan laughed and spit out blood. “Jed’s getting soft in his old age.” He turned around and shook his head. “I must have missed the trial.”

      “Didn’t last long,” Bedwell said.

      Keegan looked back at Tom Benteen. “Hey, Tom, what’re your cousins Bob and Hank gonna do without you?”

      The front door opened and a deep voice said, “Yeah, Tom. What exactly am I gonna do without you?” The metallic cocking of a revolver punctuated the end of that sentence.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Whoever named Deep Flood, Texas, had a sense of humor Jed Breen appreciated. He was willing to bet that the wells dug in this town reached two hundred feet, the nearest ground water had to be twenty miles away, and the last time this one-road town had experienced a flood occurred when a gent named Noah had built himself an ark. But it was a town, with a pretty decent café, a livery, a saloon, a barber shop, and a hotel with a soft mattress—plus it was on the way to Purgatory City. The hotel, café, livery, and saloon were what Jed Breen needed for the time being. He had boarded his horse for the rest of the day; he had gotten a bath, shave, and a haircut from the barber; had asked the waitress at the café if she could bring a steak, pot of coffee, potatoes, and that last slice of cake to his room; had treated himself to two whiskeys at the saloon; and was heading to that hotel. A good meal, a soft bed and . . .

      Deep Flood had a bank, too, Breen noticed for the first time, but not much of one. From the size of the town, he didn’t know how a banker could make any money, unless he charged outrageous interest, but it was indeed a bank. That’s what the sign said that was bending with the wind. Breen tugged down the brim of his hat and leaned against the wooden column in front of the general store—Deep Flood had one of those, too, but it was closed for some reason, likely the lack of business.

      What interested Jed Breen was the fellow swinging out of the saddle of a dun horse in front of the bank. He looked at Breen, who snapped his finger, and turned toward the door to the store. It didn’t open, of course, but he pulled the handle a couple of times, then cursed loudly, and stepped back and stared at the window, as though those lace-up Creedmoor shoes were exactly what his wife needed. Breen didn’t have a wife, but he rubbed his freshly shaved chin and focused on the reflection in the window.

      The man with the dun horse studied Breen’s back several seconds and then moved to his saddlebags. He pulled out a couple of sacks—wheat, grain, something like that—but one of them wouldn’t hold much meal. Holes had been cut out near the bottom. The man also unbuttoned his coat, looked at Breen again, and finally moved to the door of the bank.

      Breen turned, began whistling, and bounded down the boardwalk, crossed the dusty alley, climbed up the next boardwalk, whistling even louder, and pushed open the door to the hotel, letting the door slam, and stopped long enough to tell the hotel clerk, “There’s a gal from the diner bringing me some food upstairs. Don’t worry. She’s just dropping off my supper and then going back to work. I know a classy place like this would frown upon overnight visitors of the friendlier sex.” He made it to the stairs and said as he took the steps three in a bound. “Don’t mind the shooting you’ll likely hear in a few minutes from upstairs. If the girl makes it inside, tell her to take cover behind the stove there, and try not to spill my coffee. And if I were you, buster, I’d drop down behind that counter right now and stay there until the ruckus is over.”

      By the time he finished, he was at the top of the stairs, racing down the hallway, and kicking open the door to his room. He didn’t have time to wait for that bumbling clerk to find his key. He slid to his knees and quickly pulled the leather scabbard from under the bed, slipped out the .45-70 Sharps rifle—the one with the brass telescopic sight—and thumbed out four heavy cartridges from the holder on the scabbard. By the time Breen reached the window, the Sharps was loaded, and the other shells laid perfectly on the floor. He looked out the window, amazed at his luck.

      He’d stopped in Deep Flood because he didn’t want to bake in the sun any more, and it happened to be on the way to Purgatory City. On a whim, he’d decided he did not want to eat in the town’s café, and the waitress who doubled as cook decided that she could manage to bring him some supper to his hotel room as he had offered to add fifteen percent to the regular price for his order. He would tip her, of course.

      And,