Read Online A Coffin Full Of Dollars by Joe Millard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joe Millard
Tags: Western
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operation was far away in some remote part of the country. He turned suddenly and caught a fierce scowl wrinkling the sheriff's low brow.
"These notices," he said, "they aren't exactly what you could call up-to-date. Where do you keep the current ones?"
"I don't."
The hunter's eyebrows climbed. "Don't what ?"
"Don't keep 'em. I burn 'em."
" Burn 'em? " The hunter put on an expression of bewilderment. "Now, why would you do that? I guess I'm a little slow, Sheriff. You'll have to spell it out for me."
The sheriff planted both big hands flat on the desk on each side and leaned forward as if he were about to spring over the cluttered top. His expression was openly hostile.
"I don't have to do anything for your kind, mister," he growled, "but I will so you won't make any mistakes. It's clear enough what your trade is. We used to hang every new reward notice, but all it did was attract bounty killers like you, getting drunk, starting fights, killing people they didn't even know. So I quit posting the notices that attracted them. We don't want your kind in Hangville, so move on. We've got a nice, quiet, peaceful town and I intend—"
He was interrupted by an outburst of loud, furious voices from a saloon directly across the street. The batwing doors burst open and a crowd of men poured out, diving frantically to the right or the left, out of line with the open door. A moment later two gunshots crashed out, almost as one, from inside the saloon.
"Congratulations, Sheriff," the bounty hunter said dryly, "on your nice, quiet, peaceful town."
The sheriff cursed him in a choked voice and charged out the door and across the street with the hunter at his heels. The saloon looked as if a tornado had gone through it. In the panicky haste to flee from stray bullets, customers had upset tables, chairs and glasses with wild abandon. The bar was covered with upset glass and puddles of spilled liquor. An uncorked whiskey bottle lay on its side, burping its contents into the litter.
Only two men were visible and one of them was no longer a customer. He was sprawled in the sawdust face-down, his gun a few inches from a dead hand. The other man stood a few feet from him. He looked up from reloading his gun as the two burst in.
"Howdy, Sheriff."
From somewhere below the bar a quavery voice called, "Is it safe yet?"
"Sure, Allie," the gunman called back. "You can all get up now. It's over."
"What happened here, Curley?" the sheriff demanded,
"He drawed on me , Sheriff. The stupid sonofabitch drawed on me. He was gettin' drunk an' quarrelsome an' when I tried to shush him, the damn fool grabbed for his iron."
"That the way it was?" the sheriff demanded of a moonfaced man in a bartender's apron behind the bar.
"Exactly the way, Sheriff," the moon-faced man said, bobbing his head.
The others who had taken refuge behind the bar all nodded confirmation and their nervous glances slid toward the killer. It seemed to the bounty hunter that they all seemed a bit too quick, too vehement and too nervous for credibility.
"All right, Curley," the sheriff said, shrugging. "You're in the clear. I'll send Oscar over to pick him up." He turned to the sea of faces beyond the batwings. "It's all right, boys. You can come back in and get to your drinking."
He pushed through the crowd, the bounty hunter at his heels. In the middle of the street he stopped so abruptly that the other almost bumped into him. He whirled, his face dark with anger, and snarled, "What the hell are you crowding my back for? I told you to move on and I meant it. If it's trouble you're looking for, try hanging around and you'll get it."
"Whatever you say, Sheriff. But it's kind of too bad you don't read those reward notices before you burn them. If you did you'd know your friend Curley Bick, in there, makes a habit of shooting people for any reason or none. In fact, he's worth three thousand dollars, dead or alive." He turned away with a casual half-salute. "Thanks for the
"These notices," he said, "they aren't exactly what you could call up-to-date. Where do you keep the current ones?"
"I don't."
The hunter's eyebrows climbed. "Don't what ?"
"Don't keep 'em. I burn 'em."
" Burn 'em? " The hunter put on an expression of bewilderment. "Now, why would you do that? I guess I'm a little slow, Sheriff. You'll have to spell it out for me."
The sheriff planted both big hands flat on the desk on each side and leaned forward as if he were about to spring over the cluttered top. His expression was openly hostile.
"I don't have to do anything for your kind, mister," he growled, "but I will so you won't make any mistakes. It's clear enough what your trade is. We used to hang every new reward notice, but all it did was attract bounty killers like you, getting drunk, starting fights, killing people they didn't even know. So I quit posting the notices that attracted them. We don't want your kind in Hangville, so move on. We've got a nice, quiet, peaceful town and I intend—"
He was interrupted by an outburst of loud, furious voices from a saloon directly across the street. The batwing doors burst open and a crowd of men poured out, diving frantically to the right or the left, out of line with the open door. A moment later two gunshots crashed out, almost as one, from inside the saloon.
"Congratulations, Sheriff," the bounty hunter said dryly, "on your nice, quiet, peaceful town."
The sheriff cursed him in a choked voice and charged out the door and across the street with the hunter at his heels. The saloon looked as if a tornado had gone through it. In the panicky haste to flee from stray bullets, customers had upset tables, chairs and glasses with wild abandon. The bar was covered with upset glass and puddles of spilled liquor. An uncorked whiskey bottle lay on its side, burping its contents into the litter.
Only two men were visible and one of them was no longer a customer. He was sprawled in the sawdust face-down, his gun a few inches from a dead hand. The other man stood a few feet from him. He looked up from reloading his gun as the two burst in.
"Howdy, Sheriff."
From somewhere below the bar a quavery voice called, "Is it safe yet?"
"Sure, Allie," the gunman called back. "You can all get up now. It's over."
"What happened here, Curley?" the sheriff demanded,
"He drawed on me , Sheriff. The stupid sonofabitch drawed on me. He was gettin' drunk an' quarrelsome an' when I tried to shush him, the damn fool grabbed for his iron."
"That the way it was?" the sheriff demanded of a moonfaced man in a bartender's apron behind the bar.
"Exactly the way, Sheriff," the moon-faced man said, bobbing his head.
The others who had taken refuge behind the bar all nodded confirmation and their nervous glances slid toward the killer. It seemed to the bounty hunter that they all seemed a bit too quick, too vehement and too nervous for credibility.
"All right, Curley," the sheriff said, shrugging. "You're in the clear. I'll send Oscar over to pick him up." He turned to the sea of faces beyond the batwings. "It's all right, boys. You can come back in and get to your drinking."
He pushed through the crowd, the bounty hunter at his heels. In the middle of the street he stopped so abruptly that the other almost bumped into him. He whirled, his face dark with anger, and snarled, "What the hell are you crowding my back for? I told you to move on and I meant it. If it's trouble you're looking for, try hanging around and you'll get it."
"Whatever you say, Sheriff. But it's kind of too bad you don't read those reward notices before you burn them. If you did you'd know your friend Curley Bick, in there, makes a habit of shooting people for any reason or none. In fact, he's worth three thousand dollars, dead or alive." He turned away with a casual half-salute. "Thanks for the
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