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Authors: Linda Lael Miller
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no little consternation, probably because Tristan had been there to collect the gelding not long before, and made a show of riding out of town. Shay enjoyed the bewildered looks and scratching of heads, though he knew the game couldn’t last. Prominence was too small for that.
It was shaping up to be a dull day, and Shay was beginning to wonder why he didn’t just hand in his badge and take to the trail when Billy Kyle came riding down the middle of the road, raising dust, flanked by four or five of his friends.
Shay walked out into the center of the street and waited.
Billy drew up at the last moment, his eyes as hard and cold as marbles. “Well,” he said, and Shay figured he’d earned some of the contempt he saw in that homely, pockmarked little face, “if it ain’t the marshal.”
Shay took hold of Billy’s horse’s bridle. “I believe I’ve mentioned that I don’t like you boys to run your horsesthrough town, especially at this time of the day. Somebody might get hurt.”
Billy’s thoughts were as plain as if his head had been made of glass; he weighed the pleasure of spitting in Shay’s face against the likelihood of getting his ass kicked right there in front of God and everybody, and wisely elected not to indulge his baser instincts. “You ought to keep that in mind, Marshal. That somebody might get hurt, I mean.”
Shay entertained a brief, sweet reverie of his own, in which he dragged Billy down off that horse, took the little runt apart limb by limb and stuffed the pieces into the appropriate orifice, but he was a patient man. He could wait.
He acknowledged Kyle’s henchmen with a cordial nod. “Billy and I have things to say to each other,” he said. “You boys go on about your business.”
A flush climbed Billy’s neck and pulsed behind his spindly beard. His eyes flashed with venom, and his hand made a fidgety move toward the hogleg shoved through his belt. When he spoke, his voice was tight with bravado and hatred. “Head on down to the Garter and make a place for me at the poker table,” he told the others. “I’ll be there shortly.”
With barely disguised relief, the riders guided their horses around Shay, moving at a cautious pace. Shay reached up, grabbed Billy by the shirtfront, and wrenched him out of the saddle. “Go ahead and draw,” he said, through his teeth, when Billy made an abortive move for his pistol. “Nothing would make me happier than shooting you.”
The kid’s hat flew off into the dust; he didn’t try to recover it or to break Shay’s hold on his shirt, but he looked mad enough to turn himself inside out. “My daddy ain’t gonna like this,” he said.
Shay backed him out of the street, leaving the gelding behind. “We’re not talking about your daddy,” hedrawled, hoisting Billy onto the balls of his feet and letting him dangle there like a scarecrow in a brisk wind. “I hear you took some hide off one of Jake’s girls yesterday evening. I don’t want to believe such a thing of a fine, upstanding citizen like you, Billy-boy. Say it isn’t true, so I can sleep nights.”
“This is about that whore?” Billy went from crimson to the bluish white of strained milk, but his eyes were hot as acid. “Hell, McQuillan, I paid good money for what I done to her.”
“You haven’t paid,” Shay answered. “Not yet.” He kicked Billy’s feet out from under him and watched as he sank into the slimy water of a horse trough out in front of the undertaker’s.
Billy’s temper, admirably restrained until then, finally gave way, and as he flailed in the water, splashing and spitting, he drew the hogleg and raised it, barrel dripping. Shay’s own pistol was already out and pressed into the indentation between Billy’s nose and upper lip. For a long moment, they just stared at each other, he and the Kyle brat, both of them a heartbeat, a hair’s breadth, from firing.
Shay was under no illusion that it made a difference, Billy’s gun being full
It was shaping up to be a dull day, and Shay was beginning to wonder why he didn’t just hand in his badge and take to the trail when Billy Kyle came riding down the middle of the road, raising dust, flanked by four or five of his friends.
Shay walked out into the center of the street and waited.
Billy drew up at the last moment, his eyes as hard and cold as marbles. “Well,” he said, and Shay figured he’d earned some of the contempt he saw in that homely, pockmarked little face, “if it ain’t the marshal.”
Shay took hold of Billy’s horse’s bridle. “I believe I’ve mentioned that I don’t like you boys to run your horsesthrough town, especially at this time of the day. Somebody might get hurt.”
Billy’s thoughts were as plain as if his head had been made of glass; he weighed the pleasure of spitting in Shay’s face against the likelihood of getting his ass kicked right there in front of God and everybody, and wisely elected not to indulge his baser instincts. “You ought to keep that in mind, Marshal. That somebody might get hurt, I mean.”
Shay entertained a brief, sweet reverie of his own, in which he dragged Billy down off that horse, took the little runt apart limb by limb and stuffed the pieces into the appropriate orifice, but he was a patient man. He could wait.
He acknowledged Kyle’s henchmen with a cordial nod. “Billy and I have things to say to each other,” he said. “You boys go on about your business.”
A flush climbed Billy’s neck and pulsed behind his spindly beard. His eyes flashed with venom, and his hand made a fidgety move toward the hogleg shoved through his belt. When he spoke, his voice was tight with bravado and hatred. “Head on down to the Garter and make a place for me at the poker table,” he told the others. “I’ll be there shortly.”
With barely disguised relief, the riders guided their horses around Shay, moving at a cautious pace. Shay reached up, grabbed Billy by the shirtfront, and wrenched him out of the saddle. “Go ahead and draw,” he said, through his teeth, when Billy made an abortive move for his pistol. “Nothing would make me happier than shooting you.”
The kid’s hat flew off into the dust; he didn’t try to recover it or to break Shay’s hold on his shirt, but he looked mad enough to turn himself inside out. “My daddy ain’t gonna like this,” he said.
Shay backed him out of the street, leaving the gelding behind. “We’re not talking about your daddy,” hedrawled, hoisting Billy onto the balls of his feet and letting him dangle there like a scarecrow in a brisk wind. “I hear you took some hide off one of Jake’s girls yesterday evening. I don’t want to believe such a thing of a fine, upstanding citizen like you, Billy-boy. Say it isn’t true, so I can sleep nights.”
“This is about that whore?” Billy went from crimson to the bluish white of strained milk, but his eyes were hot as acid. “Hell, McQuillan, I paid good money for what I done to her.”
“You haven’t paid,” Shay answered. “Not yet.” He kicked Billy’s feet out from under him and watched as he sank into the slimy water of a horse trough out in front of the undertaker’s.
Billy’s temper, admirably restrained until then, finally gave way, and as he flailed in the water, splashing and spitting, he drew the hogleg and raised it, barrel dripping. Shay’s own pistol was already out and pressed into the indentation between Billy’s nose and upper lip. For a long moment, they just stared at each other, he and the Kyle brat, both of them a heartbeat, a hair’s breadth, from firing.
Shay was under no illusion that it made a difference, Billy’s gun being full
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