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THE LAST GUNFIGHTER HELL TOWN
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
WITH J. A. JOHNSTONE
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 1
The kid was obstreperous. That was the way Johnny Collyer thought of him anyway, since Johnny had once been snowed in for the winter with nothing but a dictionary to read and he had gone through that sucker from cover to cover and memorized a lot of it.
But it would have been just as easy to say that the kid was an asshole, because that was true too.
Johnny moved the bar rag in circles over the mahogany, even though the wood already shone in the light from the oil chandeliers in the Silver Baron Saloon, and listened to the kid’s braying laughter. He’d been drunk already when he came into the Silver Baron half an hour earlier, and he hadn’t done anything since then except get drunker and more obnoxious. His friends, a couple of hard-faced hombres in range clothes, had tried to persuade him to control himself, but the kid wasn’t having any of it.
Now he stood over the table where Professor Burton had been nursing a drink and demanded in a loud, arrogant voice, “What the hell are you dressed up for, mister? Goin’ to a weddin’—or a funeral?”
The professor, who was always dapper in a suit, vest, and bowler hat, replied in his fluid, cultured voice, “This is my normal attire, sir.”
The kid laughed again. “Then you must be one o’ them strange fellas who don’t like women. That what you are, mister?”
Burton’s middle-aged face, usually tranquil, flushed with anger. “Even if that were the case—which it’s not, by the way—it would be none of your business. Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking your questions elsewhere…”
The kid drew himself up as straight as he could, not an easy task considering how drunk he was. “Are you tellin’ me to get the hell away from you?”
“In a more polite fashion…yes,” Burton snapped. Most of the time he was the mildest of souls, but even he could be riled and he was well on his way to that point now.
Behind the bar, Johnny Collyer hoped that the professor wouldn’t say anything else to annoy the kid. The youngster wore two guns, both in low-slung holsters, and clearly thought of himself as a badman. He might not be all that much of a shootist really, but he was more dangerous than the professor, that was for sure.
Johnny didn’t want to see Burton get hurt, and he didn’t want any gunfights in here. He hated scrubbing bloodstains off the floor, something he’d had to do several times in the past month, since the word had gotten out that the Lucky Lizard Mine had reopened. People started flooding into the former ghost town of Buckskin once they heard about the silver strike, eager as always to try to grab some of those riches for themselves.
And as always, more people meant more trouble.
The batwings swung open and Thomas Woodford stepped into the saloon. A thick-bodied man in overalls, flannel shirt, and battered old hat, Tip, as he was known to his friends, looked like a down-on-his-luck prospector. Nobody would guess from his appearance that he owned not only the Lucky Lizard, but also the Silver Baron Saloon. Tip had started the saloon with some of the money from his first strike, later sold it, then took it over again when the man he sold it to left town. Nearly everybody had deserted Buckskin at that point, because the silver veins had petered out and the boom was over.
Not long ago, though, Tip had found the vein again, and Buckskin had once again become a boomtown, with all the progress—and problems—that came with such a development, including this drunk, hotheaded, kid gunslinger who pounded a fist down on Professor Burton’s table and yelled, “Who the hell do you think I am, talkin’ to me like that?”
“An imbecile who doesn’t understand when a man wants to be left alone?” Burton responded in a cool voice that just infuriated the kid even more.
Tip Woodford backed out through the door and vanished into the night. Johnny muttered a curse. Looked like his boss was leaving him here to handle this mess alone.
Or maybe Tip was going for help. Johnny clung to that hope as he started to reach under the bar, to the shelf where he kept a sawed-off Greener. He couldn’t actually fire the scattergun in here—too many innocent people might be hurt if he did—but the threat of it might settle the kid down.
Before Johnny could touch the shotgun’s smooth stock, one of the kid’s pards shook his head and said, “Leave it be, drink juggler.”
Johnny swallowed hard. The kid’s companions were older and more experienced. They had the lean, cold look of true gunmen about them, and Johnny knew he would be committing suicide to cross them.
He had already narrowly avoided one death sentence in his life. He took his hand away from the Greener.
“Conwell’s just blowing off steam,” the other gunman said. “He won’t really hurt that old gent.”
Johnny wasn’t convinced of that.
The kid—Conwell—glowered at the professor and said, “On your feet, Fancy Pants. You and me are gonna settle this with lead.”
He backed away, his hands hovering over his holstered guns, ready to hook and draw.
Burton shook his head. “I’m unarmed, and even if I wasn’t, I don’t make it a practice to engage in duels.”
“This ain’t gonna be no duel,” Conwell said. “It’ll be a killin’, plain and simple. But you’ll have a fair chance.” He drew his left-hand gun and placed it on the table in front of the professor. “There you go. I’ll let you reach for it. Hell, I’ll even let you pick it up before I draw. What do you say to that, you—”
He unleashed a stream of vile invective that made Burton turn pale with rage. The professor’s hands were lying on the table. Johnny held his breath as he saw the right one twitch a little, like Burton was struggling not to grab at the butt of that gun.
“Don’t