Read Online MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone - Free Book Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone
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only six others in the saloon, and that was counting the bartender. By now all conversation had stopped as the six men watched the interplay between Deputy Mosley and the stranger who had just come into town.
“Mister, seems to me like Deputy Mosley is offerin’ to do you a big favor, ridin’ out there to get your saddle for you. What you got against that?”
“I’ll tell you what he has against it,” Mosley said. “He don’t want me goin’ out there ’cause he knows there ain’t no saddle out there. There ain’t no saddle at all.” He looked directly at Kingsley. “He don’t have a horse, he never did have a horse, and he come into town with no other purpose than to steal one. Now, that’s the truth of it, ain’t it Mister?”
Kingsley didn’t answer.
“Ain’t you got nothin’ to say?” Mosley asked.
“Seems to me like you’re the one doin’ all the talkin’,” Kingsley replied. “Go on, if you think you got it all figured out.”
“I got it all figured out, all right. By the way you was lookin’ over them horses out front, I know you was plannin’ to. Which one was you goin’ to take? Calhoun’s horse? I seen the way you was a’ lookin’ at him.”
“My horse?” one of the men in the saloon said. “You son of a bitch! You was plannin’ on stealin’ my horse?”
“I ain’t stole no horse,” Kingsley insisted.
“Tell you what. Why don’t I just put you in jail? Then when the judge gets here next month, you can tell him that you wasn’t plannin’ on stealin’ a horse,” Deputy Mosley said.
“You ain’t puttin’ me in no jail.”
Kingsley started for his gun and, seeing him, Deputy Mosley made his own move. The lawman was exceptionally quick for his size, and his hand moved toward the long-barreled Colt as quickly as a striking rattlesnake.
Kingsley was almost caught by surprise. He hadn’t expected the deputy to be that fast. But as it turned out, the deputy wasn’t fast enough. Kingsley’s draw was smooth, and his practiced thumb came back on the hammer in one fluid motion. His finger put the slightest pressure on the hair trigger of his Colt. There was a blossom of white, followed by a booming thunderclap as the gun jumped in his hand. The deputy tried to continue his draw, but the .44 slug caught him in the heart. When the bullet came out through his back, it brought half the deputy’s shoulder blade with it, leaving an exit wound the size of a twenty-dollar gold piece.
“Son of a bitch! This feller just kilt Deputy Mosley!” Calhoun said.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kingsley saw the bartender reaching under the bar. Knowing that many bartenders kept shotguns under their bars, Kingsley swung his gun around and fired a second time. The bartender, with the unfired shotgun in his hand, fell back against the liquor shelf, bringing it down and causing a dozen or more bottles to come crashing to the floor.
Kingsley turned his gun toward the others in the saloon, but, with their hands up, they backed away.
“Don’t shoot, Mister!” Calhoun shouted. “We ain’t a’ plannin’ on stoppin’ you.”
Kingsley glared at them, then turned and ran out the front door. Mounting the horse the deputy had identified as Calhoun’s, he turned his pistol on the other two and shot them down, to slow down any immediate pursuit.
As Kingsley galloped out of town, he left heading west. But once out of town, he made a wide turn, then circled back to the east and south, pausing just long enough to light up a cigar. If a posse came after him, they would be looking for him in west Kansas, but he was planning to go to Missouri. He hadn’t been in Missouri since the war, and as far as he knew, nobody was looking for him there.
Chapter Six
Cheyenne
The Cheyenne Club on the corner of Seventeenth Street and Warren Avenue was established in 1880 by twelve Wyoming cattlemen. Equipped with two wine cellars, double parlors, a dining room, library, smoking room, and
“Mister, seems to me like Deputy Mosley is offerin’ to do you a big favor, ridin’ out there to get your saddle for you. What you got against that?”
“I’ll tell you what he has against it,” Mosley said. “He don’t want me goin’ out there ’cause he knows there ain’t no saddle out there. There ain’t no saddle at all.” He looked directly at Kingsley. “He don’t have a horse, he never did have a horse, and he come into town with no other purpose than to steal one. Now, that’s the truth of it, ain’t it Mister?”
Kingsley didn’t answer.
“Ain’t you got nothin’ to say?” Mosley asked.
“Seems to me like you’re the one doin’ all the talkin’,” Kingsley replied. “Go on, if you think you got it all figured out.”
“I got it all figured out, all right. By the way you was lookin’ over them horses out front, I know you was plannin’ to. Which one was you goin’ to take? Calhoun’s horse? I seen the way you was a’ lookin’ at him.”
“My horse?” one of the men in the saloon said. “You son of a bitch! You was plannin’ on stealin’ my horse?”
“I ain’t stole no horse,” Kingsley insisted.
“Tell you what. Why don’t I just put you in jail? Then when the judge gets here next month, you can tell him that you wasn’t plannin’ on stealin’ a horse,” Deputy Mosley said.
“You ain’t puttin’ me in no jail.”
Kingsley started for his gun and, seeing him, Deputy Mosley made his own move. The lawman was exceptionally quick for his size, and his hand moved toward the long-barreled Colt as quickly as a striking rattlesnake.
Kingsley was almost caught by surprise. He hadn’t expected the deputy to be that fast. But as it turned out, the deputy wasn’t fast enough. Kingsley’s draw was smooth, and his practiced thumb came back on the hammer in one fluid motion. His finger put the slightest pressure on the hair trigger of his Colt. There was a blossom of white, followed by a booming thunderclap as the gun jumped in his hand. The deputy tried to continue his draw, but the .44 slug caught him in the heart. When the bullet came out through his back, it brought half the deputy’s shoulder blade with it, leaving an exit wound the size of a twenty-dollar gold piece.
“Son of a bitch! This feller just kilt Deputy Mosley!” Calhoun said.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kingsley saw the bartender reaching under the bar. Knowing that many bartenders kept shotguns under their bars, Kingsley swung his gun around and fired a second time. The bartender, with the unfired shotgun in his hand, fell back against the liquor shelf, bringing it down and causing a dozen or more bottles to come crashing to the floor.
Kingsley turned his gun toward the others in the saloon, but, with their hands up, they backed away.
“Don’t shoot, Mister!” Calhoun shouted. “We ain’t a’ plannin’ on stoppin’ you.”
Kingsley glared at them, then turned and ran out the front door. Mounting the horse the deputy had identified as Calhoun’s, he turned his pistol on the other two and shot them down, to slow down any immediate pursuit.
As Kingsley galloped out of town, he left heading west. But once out of town, he made a wide turn, then circled back to the east and south, pausing just long enough to light up a cigar. If a posse came after him, they would be looking for him in west Kansas, but he was planning to go to Missouri. He hadn’t been in Missouri since the war, and as far as he knew, nobody was looking for him there.
Chapter Six
Cheyenne
The Cheyenne Club on the corner of Seventeenth Street and Warren Avenue was established in 1880 by twelve Wyoming cattlemen. Equipped with two wine cellars, double parlors, a dining room, library, smoking room, and
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