The Gunman

Doc Beck Westerns Book 7

Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer

EXCERPT:

The inside of the saloon reeked with the stench of stale smoke, spilled beer, and tobacco spit. One could throw in the lingering scent of trail dust and horseflesh that clung to cowpokes lounging at the bar, and those at a table near the swinging doors. Cord Johnson stood holding the doors partly open as he calculated the position of every person in the room. 

He didn’t draw special attention, even dressed in his buckskin trousers, fringed jacket, and tan hat with its low crown and silver studded hatband. 

But it was the men at the back table playing poker that he paid the most attention to.

Cord Johnson pressed through the swinging doors and closed them softly behind him. He angled toward the bar, his gaze never leaving the six men in the back corner. Four of them looked like ordinary cowpokes just wasting their month’s pay. 

But if Cord was right—and his instincts told him he was—it was the other two men he was after.

Cord ran his hand along the polished bar as he moved down it. The bartender came toward him, wiping a shot glass clean, but Cord gave a low wave, eyes still on his quarry. The bartender halted, glancing between Cord and the back table. 

The man settled the shot glass on the bar, rag laying over it. His eyes flicked to something under the bar. 

Cord knew there would be a sawed-off shotgun there to head off trouble or break it up. But the bartender leaned forward and took note of the two ivory handled six-guns in Cord’s black holsters. 

The bartender took a large step back.

That threat alleviated, Cord positioned his back to the bar. He propped his palms behind him on the cool smoothness and rested one boot heel on the brass foot rail.

 The card dealer faced him, but the man hadn’t raised his head since Cord entered. The man didn’t need to. His hat was pushed back on his forehead, giving Cord a clear view of his face. He fit the description. Hector White.

Of the two cowpokes seated on either side of the man, one caught sight of Cord’s stare and leaned back slightly. He elbowed a cowpoke beside him and jutted his chin Cord’s direction. The man looked over his shoulder. Another unfamiliar face. 

But that set off a chain reaction around the green cloth covered table, and Hector White looked up. He met Cord’s steady gaze.

The man stopped dealing cards, his eyes darkening when he realized a challenge was coming his way. It was clear the man didn’t realize who Cord was. There was little reason he should. Other than the past few months, Cord hadn’t faced gunplay in fifteen years.

But Cord knew this was Hector White. And where he was, his partner was close by. Had to be the only man who hadn’t looked up, his face blocked by a cowpoke’s wide-brimmed hat.

Hector White, deck in one hand and loose card in the other, growled, “What are you looking at, mister?”

Cord didn’t move, hands still spread on the bar to keep them cool. 

“It depends. Are you partners with Buck Callaghan?”

The last man at the table jerked his head up and he leaned back in his chair to see around the wide-brimmed hat. The scar on the man’s throat left no doubt that this was Smiley Jones. He never smiled.

Hector flinched, showing he recognized the name Buck Callaghan. But he said roughly, “I asked what you’re looking at.”

“The answer depends on whether you ride with Buck Callaghan.” He paused, watching the four cowpokes. When they didn’t move, he added, “If you do, then I’m looking at two low-down, yellow-bellied cowards.”

The four cowpokes quickly pushed away from the table, stirring dust. They scrambled back, two of them half-hiding behind the end of the bar. The other two pressed against the side wall. They sidestepped down it until they reached the swinging doors.

Cord watched all four from the corners of his eyes, but his gaze remained on Hector White and Smiley Jones, both of whom sat stock-still at the table. 

When the cowpokes were clear, Cord dropped his tone to its greatest depths, the tone he used every time he faced death. 

“Where is my sister?”

A full three seconds ticked away. Then Hector White dropped the deck of cards. 

Cord ignored him as his right hand flashed down to one of his ivory handles. He drew and cocked the six-gun before Hector was on his feet. 

But Cord’s first bullet was for Smiley Jones. The man hadn’t attempted to stand. 

While the cowpokes were clearing away, Smiley had palmed a small pistol from his belt and had it aimed at Cord before Hector’s deck of cards hit the table.

 But today, Cord’s draw was faster; his aim truer. His bullet struck Smiley in the heart, killing him instantly. 

There was no other end for a man like that. At least, that was something Cord once believed.

 Hector’s gun was out but Cord had time to shoot him in the forearm, causing Hector to twist back over his chair. When he came around again, he held a gun in his left hand. Cord fired again, knocking Hector back into the wall. 

Smiley Jones was still in his chair, body slumped over the card table, his face turned forever away from Cord. He would just as soon have it that way.

Smoking gun in hand, Cord approached Hector. The man slid down the wall, his two useless arms dangling at his sides. He was bleeding bad.

Behind Cord, the bartender shouted for someone to get the sheriff and doctor. 

Cord holstered his gun. There wasn’t much time. He squatted in front of Hector Smith, who was seated awkwardly against the wall, gulping air. 

Cord rested his hands on his own knees, squeezing tight to keep from strangling this man. 

“I asked you a question, Hector. Where’s my sister? Where’s Ella?”

Precious seconds went by, seconds in which Hector might die or for the sheriff to come and prevent Cord from finding the answer he’d spent the last four weeks, two days, and nine hours searching for.

Hector drew in a raspy breath. “She…ran off. Couple of days ago. Plum…loco.”

Cord’s hands thrust out and grabbed the man’s collar. He twisted hard. 

Hector gasped, his words coming out as a gurgle. “She just…cooked for us, is all. I swear.”

Cord hardly recognized his own voice when he said, long and slow, “Where…is…my…sister?”

Hector’s eyelids fluttered, eyes going sightless. 

“She just…cooked. She was…a good cook.”