Read Online Gut-Shot by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online Page A

his pale skin and hair and joyless face. His fingers were long and thin and he played the violin quite well.
    â€œI can’t remember any poems, Pa.”
    â€œSure you can, boy,” McCord said. Then, his eyes slits, “Say us one. Now!”
    The youngster swallowed hard, then in a small trembling voice, said, “I rise from sleep and find the whole world gone. Vanished. Overnight. And I am left alone in darkness—”
    â€œHell, that ain’t poetry!” McCord said. “Poetry rhymes. Any fool knows that.”
    He shifted his attention to his foreman.
    â€œFrisco, say a poetry that rhymes.”
    â€œBoss, I—”
    â€œA poetry that rhymes, Frisco. That’s a damned order.”
    â€œAll right, boss. I remember one from my first time up the trail when I was a younker.”
    â€œThen let’s have at it,” McCord said. “Just so long as it rhymes.”
    Maddox coughed then said:

    Dirty Mary worked in a dairy,
Dick pulled out his big canary.
“Oh what a whopper,
Let’s do it proper.”

    Trace McCord slapped the arm of his chair and roared with laughter.
    â€œHear that, boy? It rhymes. Now that’s what I call real poetry.”
    Suddenly enraged, he drew back his arm and with all the strength that was in him threw his Irish crystal whiskey glass at his son’s head.
    The boy ducked and glass shattered against the wall.
    â€œWrite poetry! You damned simpering weakling you can’t even do that right. Get the hell out of my sight.”
    The youngster beat a hasty retreat out the door and into the hallway. His boots sounded on the stairway as he rushed to his room. Upstairs a door slammed shut.
    McCord shook his head. “Frisco, I’m young yet,” he said. “I must sire another son. This time his mother won’t be around to spoil him as Martha did Steve. She turned him into a girly boy, by God.”
    â€œGive the kid time, boss,” Maddox said. “He’s still learning to hold his own as a man.”
    â€œHe’ll never be a man,” McCord said. “I need a son who will grow to manhood, and quick.”
    â€œIt’s a pity Polly Mallory didn’t work out, boss,” Frisco said.
    â€œYeah. That ended badly. Bitch.”
    McCord sat in thought for a few moments, his face working.
    Then he said, “Once all this falderal over the girl’s murder dies down, we’ll move against Brendan O’Rourke and the Circle-O. I need that winter grass.”
    Maddox looked troubled. “O’Rourke is a stubborn old Irishman, boss. He won’t move without a fight.”
    â€œOf course he won’t. That’s why we’ll drive him out or kill him, whatever is the more convenient.”
    Maddox bit his lip. He liked the wiry, cantankerous old rancher, and his wife made the best bear sign and flapjacks this side of the Arkansas line.
    Frisco Maddox played for time. “You’re right, boss. We’ll let the fuss over Polly Mallory go away then make our move. The law is too riled up at the moment and we could attract unwelcome attention.”
    McCord accepted that at face value, then said, “What do you know about this Sam Flintlock ranny?”
    â€œRan with some hard cases in his time, including that Kid Antrim in the New Mexico Territory. Sells his gun. Raised by old mountain men and talks to the ghost of his grandfather.”
    â€œSo he’s crazy.”
    â€œYeah. Like a fox.”
    â€œWe have to see Jamie McPhee hung, Frisco,” McCord said. “Better for everybody. There’s too much restlessness around and it makes me uneasy.”
    â€œPity Sam Flintlock is in the way.”
    â€œCan you take him?”
    â€œHe’s tough and he’s fast.”
    â€œCan you take him?”
    â€œOn a good day, yeah.”
    â€œMake sure all your days are good days until Sam Flintlock is buried.”
    McCord picked up another glass and filled it