Hate by Margaret P.

(With thanks to my betas Terri Derr and Suzanne Lyte) (2016 – Words: 1,674)

Chapter 3

As the gun smoke cleared, the patrons of the Silver Dollar peered at Johnny from behind tables, tasseled velvet and half-closed doors. No one moved, but the hairs on the back of his neck told him they were watching.

At first it seemed like only he was breathing—twice, before he heard voices from the bedrooms above.

"Let me see."

"Shit, he was fast."

Johnny glanced up and the whispers stopped.

A clunk and his eyes shot down again, gun ready.

But it was only the silver vesta case dropping from the gambler's breast pocket.

The fancy pearl-handled pistol was lying on the floor a few inches from his right hand. That poor-excuse-for-a-stepfather would never use his hands again—or his fists. Johnny felt a surge of satisfaction.

Then his stomach lurched.

Damn. Clamping his mouth shut, he swallowed hard. Breathe: in and out and in.

Gracias a Dios—it was working. "Tequila."

The barkeeper edged forward and unstopped a bottle, fumbling with the top. He poured two fingers quickly and retreated back to the scant cover of the shelves behind.

Johnny holstered his gun. For a second he closed his eyes. Don't hurry. You're a shootist in a dime novel. Don't let them see.

He sauntered to the bar and picked up his drink, massaging the glass with his thumb, making sure his stomach had settled enough before downing the tequila in one gulp. The liquor hit home with a jolt, but its warmth spread slowly.

Keep going.

Nodding at the barkeep, Johnny flicked a coin across the polished wood. The silver dollar rolled on its rim, teetered and toppled to rest near the opposite edge.

Breathe.

Adjusting his hat, Johnny turned.

He rested his hand on his gun and took four steps towards the door. Then he stopped and stared down. So that's where the bullet went. He'd felt it pass.

Looking back, he scanned the room. Nothing moved. The second cardsharp was half-hidden by a pillar, but he held his hands where Johnny could see them. Others crouched low or cowered upstairs behind barely open doors. This was not their fight. No one else wanted to die today.

Johnny's stepfather lay wide-eyed but unseeing in the sawdust. He was propped awkwardly on one side against the overturned table, surrounded by playing cards and cash, blood still draining from the single hole in his satin waistcoat.

Tomorrow, or the next day, the other cardsharp would take his place.

No one would mourn Thurstan Cole.

Johnny rammed his way through the batwings, out onto the boardwalk. "Rot in hell!"

No one answered—with luck no one heard—but the pressure in his chest eased with the curse. He paused and breathed again.

New eyes were watching. Two cowboys dodged behind a wagon outside the hardware store, and the shopkeeper backed into his doorway. The lace curtains above the hotel entrance twitched, shadows too small to worry about jostled at the corner of the saloon, and horses straining at a hitching post halfway down the street knocked rumps and snorted.

The batwings squeaked to a standstill behind him, but the street remained quiet. He stepped sideways to put clapboard between his back and the firearms inside. The good citizens of Santa Fe knew the meaning of two gun shots and silence. They were only watching; even the new sheriff. Johnny stared at the jailhouse door, but it stayed firmly shut, the outline of a man shading the far window. It seemed even the law didn't want to risk dying today.

Johnny kept his hand hovering over his Colt as he stepped toward Pícaro.

One-handed, he pulled the quick release knot free from the rail and heaved himself up into the saddle.

The batwings creaked.

He went for his gun.

Whoever it was fell back against the wall, and a woman hissed, "Is he gone?"

Nearly—Johnny turned the pinto's head southward, smiling as voices rose up in the saloon behind him. Whooee, there'd be customers and saloon girls scrambling for money on the floor, and men fighting over the gambler's boots and fancy doodads. They were welcome to them. Johnny wanted nothing from Thurstan Cole, not a red cent. Let the vultures pick the bastard clean.

Spitting into the dirt, Johnny spurred his horse to a canter. He had one more thing left to do. Then both parts of his promise would be kept; he could find work again and be free.

He slowed to a walk as he approached the bottleneck at the edge of town. Now there was a covered wagon blocking half the road; much as he liked the old wainwright, Pendleton sure did need a talking to.

"That's far enough, Madrid."

Johnny reined Pícaro to a standstill as the sheriff and then a deputy rode out in front of him. A rifle slipped its bolt only a few feet from his head. Silas Marks, a gunhawk from the other side of the range war, rested his boot on the tailgate of the covered wagon. He smirked like a tomcat eyeballing a cornered mouse. Another man, looking vaguely familiar, aimed a rifle from behind the sign on the roof of the blacksmith's shop, and twisting around, Johnny saw a third gunman blocking his retreat. Damn.

"Keep those hands where I can see them." With greatcoat hitched back behind his holster, the sheriff rested a hand on a well-oiled Colt and rode forward. Whoever Johnny had seen by the jailhouse window, it sure as hell weren't the man in charge.

The deputy stayed put, a shotgun pointed at Johnny's middle.

"I don't want no trouble, sheriff."

The lawman chuckled, but his eyes never left Johnny's. "You got a funny way of showing it, Madrid."

"He drew first."

"Yep, I'm guessing he did." The sheriff reined his mare to a standstill and shifted his weight in the saddle. "I saw you ride in—followed you in fact."

Shit. What did that mean?

The sheriff looked over toward the smithy and then back down the street towards the centre of town. "That gambler sure as hell didn't deserve no help from me. But just because I ain't one for getting between a man and his business, Madrid, don't mean you can murder a man in my town. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't make sure everything played out fair and square, now would I?"

"Well shoot, sheriff, I'm flattered you thought I'd be riding out."

"It was a fifty-fifty call." The sheriff scratched his chin and smiled. "I had the other possibility covered."

Johnny laughed. "I bet you did, sheriff. I bet you did."

"I'll tell you what we're going to do now." The sheriff moved his horse so close to Johnny that their legs touched. "You wait right here with Deputy Larsen and these fine volunteers while I do a little investigating. If you're telling the truth, you can go on your way."

"Yeah?" Johnny eyed the sheriff and then the other men. Larsen was a kid not a hell of a lot older than him. Looked like he could handle a gun though. The two further away he couldn't recognise, but Marks was a piece of shit. He'd been part of the run in Johnny had had the week before. "Are you sure they know that?"

"It's a chance we'll have to take." The sheriff rode back to Deputy Larsen and had a few words; then he raised his voice to the others. "Listen up. As long as he stays where he is, I want no shooting. Hear me, Marks? Harris?"

Shit and double shit, that was Lucifer Harris up there.

"Whatever you say, Sheriff Bilson." Marks tipped his hat, but the gleam in his eye when he looked at Johnny said something different. He hawked a spit wad into the dirt in front of Pícaro's left hoof, making the gelding shake his head. The horse tried to step back, and Johnny tightened the reins to hold him steady.

Bilson glared at Marks. He walked his horse over to the gunhawk and had a private word. Johnny couldn't hear what was said, but Marks sure didn't like it. Throwing his rifle down on top of a pile of rope, he bashed canvas and went to the other end of the wagon.

Sheriff Bilson nodded at Larsen and cantered off towards the saloon.

For a whole five minutes maybe, Johnny and the rest of them waited, only the blowing of horses breaking the silence.

Then Lucifer Harris slipped out from behind the sign above the blacksmith's shop. He stood on the roof black against the sky: legs spread, rifle resting across his arms.

The springs of the covered wagon creaked, and Silas Marks came back to the tailgate.

Unhurried, he picked up his rifle and aimed it at Johnny's chest.

"Put it down, Mr Marks. You heard what Sheriff Bilson said."

"Well, deputy, I guess I did, but what you have to understand is me and Madrid here have a score to settle."

"Put it down." Larsen still had a shotgun pointed at Johnny, but now he also had a revolver pointed straight at Marks's head.

The gunhawk pushed the tobacco he was chewing to one side with his tongue and studied the deputy for a second or two. Then he lowered his weapon. Raising his left hand, he propped the rifle up against the sideboard with his right and leaned back into the wire frame of the bonnet opposite, arms folded. "My mistake."

Another minute passed with eyes locked and no one speaking.

But when Larsen went to holster his Colt, Marks glanced across at the smithy and nodded at Harris.

"Watch out!" Johnny spurred Pícaro forward as Old Lucifer fired and Marks went for his Colt.

Winged in the shoulder, Larsen tried to shoot back at Harris and block Johnny's escape at the same time. The horses collided, neighing and biting. Marks fired. Larsen's horse reared, and Johnny jerked in the saddle as he rammed his way through.

Lead flew through the air and Pícaro bolted for open ground.